POV Selene
I stood in my old bedroom among furniture that was not mine. My things were gone, replaced by pieces chosen by strangers, yet the windows still faced the garden where my mother taught me flower names, and the walls kept the same dusk shadows.
I was twelve when I left this room for the last time. My parents had just died—murdered, though no one dared say it. Sudden illness, food poisoning, tragic accident, they claimed. My uncle seized the throne with haste. My brother Darian and I fled to relatives in the Eastern provinces, planning to return older and reclaim our birthright.
But Darian died young—“a hunting accident.” An arrow through the throat in woods controlled by Aldous’s men. Convenient. I married, made plans, then fell pregnant during the Night of Silent Lanterns and lost everything else.
A knock. Casimir entered and shut the door quietly.
“These were your rooms,” he said.
“Yes. He put me here deliberately. To remind me I don’t belong.”
“You don’t have to stay. I’ll demand other chambers—”
“No. It’s fitting.” I looked at ghosts only I could see. “I need to face what he took from us.”
“Tell me what happened. The truth, not rumor.”
I told him: my father, King Garrett Ardent, beloved reformer; my mother, Queen Celeste, wise and gentle; my brother Darian, a born king. And Aldous, the younger brother who resented being second, smiling at feasts while poisoning wine.
“He killed them at a harvest feast, made it look like bad meat. Darian and I were away, so we lived.” My voice echoed in the empty room. “When we returned a week later, Aldous was already king, confirmed by the Council. We were fifteen and twelve. What could children do against armed men and stamped decrees?”
“You could have fought.”
“We tried. Darian challenged the succession before the High Council, presented evidence of foul play.” I met his eyes. “Six months later he died in Aldous’s private hunting grounds. I was wise enough to stop fighting and accept exile instead of a tomb.”
Casimir’s jaw hardened. “He murdered your family.”
“Yes.”
“And you tell me now?”
“What could you do? It’s been seventeen years. The Council accepted him. Lysara is stable. Challenging him means war between our kingdoms.”
“It means justice.”
“I don’t care about justice,” I said. “I care about Ari—about finding dragon’s blood and bringing it home while he still lives.”
But fury kindled behind Casimir’s eyes. He was a man of law; a usurper sitting unpunished on my parents’ throne ate at him like acid.
The next two days blurred in preparation. Aldous’s men gathered climbing gear, hired mountain guides who swore they knew Cloudmount’s secrets, and secured supplies for a long expedition. Casimir studied maps with the guides: unstable rock faces, sudden storms, snow-hidden crevasses. And dragons, if they existed.
I wandered the palace like a ghost. Everywhere reminded me of my parents: the great hall where my father heard even the poorest petitions; the garden where my mother grew impossible roses; the library where I learned to read on my father’s lap. But everything had been remade in Aldous’s image—vulgar wealth where there had been elegant simplicity, gold leaf where there had been quiet grace.
One afternoon I reached the portrait gallery. My family’s paintings still hung there, centuries of Ardent kings and queens. My parents’ portraits, though, had been shoved into a dark corner behind a column. I stood before them—my father in green robes, crown on his dark hair; my mother in silver silk, caught mid-laugh. They were so young. So alive.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t avenge you,” I whispered. “I’m sorry I let him wear your crown.”
“You didn’t let anything happen,” said a voice.
Casimir stood in the doorway and came to my side. “You survived—with a child to protect. That’s victory enough.”
“Is it? He kept everything he stole. The throne. The palace. His life. Justice never came.”
“For now,” he said, voice grim. “Not forever.”
That afternoon I asked to visit the royal crypt. Aldous could not refuse without seeming cruel, so he agreed with false grace, assigning guards to watch me.
The crypt lay beneath the palace: cool corridors, marble tombs, the scent of stone and incense. I found my parents’ simple white sarcophagus, their names carved in elegant script my mother would have liked. I traced the letters. “I’m sorry I haven’t visited,” I whispered. “I’m sorry for everything after.”
I told them about Ari and Casimir, about the life I’d built from exile, and the quest ahead into legendary mountains. “I don’t know if dragon’s blood is real,” I said. “But I have to try—for my son, your grandson. I wish you could have met him. He has Father’s gray eyes and Mother’s kindness.” My voice trembled. “He’s everything you would have loved.”
I sat before the tomb and wept until the years loosened their grip. Casimir stood guard at the entrance, offering privacy and vigilance.
When I rose, eyes red but spine steady, I felt lighter. I had said goodbye. I had made what peace I could with ghosts.
“Ready?” Casimir asked.
“Yes. Let’s find a dragon.”
That evening Aldous hosted a feast in Casimir’s honor. The hall filled with Lysaran nobles curious about the visiting king and the disgraced princess under his protection. I sat beside Casimir at the high table. Aldous presided from my father’s chair, playing the gracious host. His wife Queen Maren and son Prince Torin flanked him like ornaments.
Midway through, Aldous stood with a goblet. “To King Casimir. May his quest in Cloudmount be safe. I confess I’m curious what drives a king to our modest mountains in winter.”
Casimir set his cup down carefully. “My son is ill. I seek a cure recorded in ancient texts.”
“Ah. The boy.” Aldous’s tone dripped sympathy, his eyes winter-cold. “Selene’s bastard. A shame about his condition. Blood disorders run in families. Perhaps it would be best if…” He let the thought hang.
I went rigid. Casimir’s hand on mine kept me seated.
“Best if what?” he asked softly.
“Nothing,” Aldous said. “Only that some bloodlines are troubled, tainted. Best to let nature take its course rather than fight what’s meant to be.”
He was suggesting Ari should be allowed to die, that my family’s blood was defective and should end.
Casimir rose slowly. The hall hushed.
“Let me be clear, King Aldous,” he said. “My son is heir to Vespera. His bloodline is impeccable, joining the best of both our houses. Any man who suggests otherwise answers to me.”
Aldous paled. “Your Majesty, I meant no offense—”
“You meant exactly the offense you gave. As you did seventeen years ago when you poisoned your brother and his wife to steal a throne that was not yours.”
Gasps rippled. Aldous blanched, then flushed with fury.
“How dare you—”
“How dare I?” Casimir’s eyes burned like ice. “I dare as a king who values justice over convenience, facing a usurper who values only power. When I return from Cloudmount with my son’s cure, we will discuss your crimes: the murder of King Garrett, the assassination of Prince Darian, the exile and abuse of Princess Selene, rightful heir.”
“You have no proof for such wild charges—”
“I have enough,” Casimir said. “And the military might of Vespera: twenty thousand trained soldiers.” He turned to the nobles. “If you wish to see justice restored to Lysara, remember this moment. Your rightful queen sits before you, and she will reclaim what was stolen.”
He offered me his arm. “We leave at dawn.”
I took it, and we walked out together, leaving an uproar behind.
That night, as we readied for sleep, a folded paper slid under our door. I picked it up, hands shaking, and read the cramped script:
Beware the king’s treachery. He plans to have you killed on the mountain. Guides have been bribed. Trust no one from Lysara.
I showed it to Casimir. He read it twice, face hardening.
“We bring only our own men,” he said. “No Lysaran guides.”
“We need someone who knows the mountain—”
“Then we find someone else. Anyone Aldous recommends is a springing trap.”
I studied the note again, wondering who had written it—who in this palace of thieves still had a conscience strong enough to warn us.
We would climb Cloudmount alone, or not at all.
Before dawn the palace slept, but I lay awake listening to wind drag along the shutters, counting heartbeats like steps on a narrow ledge. I pictured Ari’s small hand in mine, the way he tucks his chin when trying to be brave, and let that image harden into resolve.
Cloudmount would be stone and storm and teeth, met step by step, rope by knot, breath by burning breath. If dragons still guarded their secrets, I would ask with humility—or tear them from the ice with everything I had, and nothing less. For Ari, for my parents, I would not falter ever.