The council chamber had emptied in a storm of voices, guards, and threats.
But Clara barely noticed.
She stood in the center, heart hammering against her ribs, her uncle's words echoing louder than any scream.
The heir to the covenant…
Alaric's hand was on her back now, grounding her.
"Tell us everything," he said to Rhys, who stood calm despite the storm he'd unleashed.
Rhys's gaze was heavy. "You were never told what truly killed your father, were you, Alaric?"
Alaric's jaw clenched. "They said it was an accident. A hunting trip gone wrong."
Rhys nodded slowly. "That's what they wanted you to believe. Just as they tried to bury Evelyn's truth. But the First Crown has always demanded blood."
Clara frowned. "What do you mean?"
Rhys moved to the table, unrolling another scroll—aged, edges frayed, but the ink still dark.
"This is the Covenant of the First Crown. It was created centuries ago when the founding rulers, mages and monarchs alike, forged a pact to keep the realm from falling into chaos. But there was a cost."
Clara stepped forward. "What cost?"
"The blood of a Whitmore," Rhys said, meeting her eyes. "Every generation, one woman of our bloodline was bound to the Crown—to protect it, to temper its power. Your mother was the last."
Alaric's voice was low. "She died protecting it, didn't she?"
Rhys nodded. "The balance began to shift. Someone in the court tried to claim the Crown's deeper magic—its ability to bind not just loyalty, but fate. Evelyn intervened. She died sealing that power again."
Clara whispered, "And now… because I'm her daughter…"
"You are the next in line," Rhys confirmed. "The Crown knows. That's why it's drawing you in. Why the court fears you. They don't want the power restored. They want it controlled."
Alaric looked toward the throne. "And if it falls into the wrong hands?"
Rhys's voice dropped. "Then the realm falls. Because without a Whitmore to balance it… the First Crown corrupts."
Clara's mind raced. Her entire life, she'd felt like a shadow in someone else's story. But now—now the story had always been hers.
"I don't want a throne," she said quietly.
"But you already carry its weight," Alaric murmured.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Rhys stepped forward again, placing something in Clara's hand. A pendant—simple, silver, shaped like an old crown, cold to the touch.
"This belonged to your mother. She said when the time came, you'd know what to do."
Clara clutched it tightly, and for the first time, she felt the faintest pulse beneath her skin. Power. Old. Sleeping.
Alaric turned to her, eyes serious. "Clara… I won't let them use you. But if we do this—if we challenge the court—we do it together."
She looked up, and for a moment, the storm in her heart settled.
"Yes," she said. "Together."
But far away, deep in the shadows of the royal archives, someone else stirred.
A woman with eyes like frost, watching through a mirror of old glass.
"The girl awakens," she whispered, lips curling. "Let's see if she survives what her mother couldn't."
[ To be continued…]