The grand coronation feast stretched long into the night, echoing with clinking goblets, hollow laughter, and the heavy perfume of politics. Nobles toasted to the new queen with lips curved into smiles that never touched their eyes. Servants scurried with trays of wine, bread, and roasted meat. Behind their practiced bows lingered curiosity—who was this woman who had returned from the brink of death to claim the throne?
Serenya sat rigid on the obsidian throne, its cold back biting into her spine. She sipped her wine slowly, tasting for poison that never came. Her heart was calm, her expression serene, but her mind was a storm of plans and old wounds.
When she leaned slightly forward, the hall hushed. Her gaze swept over them—the very council that had once voted for her execution, the dukes and duchesses who had sneered at her, the courtiers who had sold her secrets for gold. Their jeweled collars glittered in the firelight, but to her they were nothing more than chains around her enemies' throats.
"Your Majesty," a minister dared to speak, his voice trembling, "may the heavens bless this reign with prosperity."
Serenya's lips curved, but her eyes were cold. "Prosperity… for the loyal, yes. And ruin for the traitors."
The hall froze. Some coughed politely, others looked away. None dared challenge her.
Inside, she felt something stir. It was faint, like a whisper just beyond hearing, a shadow curling in her veins. She had felt it once before—on the execution platform, moments before death, when the blade had hovered above her neck. Back then, she had thought it madness. Now, it pulsed within her like a secret heartbeat.
A voice brushed against her thoughts. When they begged for your blood, I awakened. When you return for vengeance, I will rise.
Her fingers tightened around her goblet. She almost dropped it, but forced her hand still. She would not reveal weakness here, not tonight.
Later that night, when the feast ended and the nobles slithered back to their estates, Serenya retired to her private chamber. The walls were draped in velvet, the floor covered with furs. On the dressing table, candles flickered low, their flames bowing as if to her.
She dismissed her maids with a single glance. Alone at last, she locked the door and collapsed onto the bed.
The whisper returned, clearer this time. You are not who you were. You are more.
Her reflection in the mirror wavered. For a heartbeat, she did not see the queen's face she had presented to the court. Instead, she saw eyes glowing faintly silver, hair shimmering as though moonlight wove through every strand.
Serenya's breath caught. She raised her hand, and the flame of a nearby candle trembled violently. With a thought, she willed it higher. The flame obeyed.
Her lips parted in shock, then curved into a dangerous smile.
Power.
It was true. Death had not simply rebirthed her; it had reforged her. She was no longer just Selene, the betrayed queen. She was something greater.
"Good," she whispered. "Now I will not only take back what is mine—I will burn away what they tried to build on my ashes."
The following morning, she began to test her strength in secrecy.
When a servant spilled tea on her gown, Serenya waved her hand ever so slightly. The steam rose and coiled into words visible only to her eyes: Patience.
When the captain of the guard knelt before her with reports of border unrest, she could hear his unspoken fear echoing faintly in her mind. If the queen is weak, the dukes will rebel.
She smiled at him, and his heart stuttered, for he could see in her gaze that weakness was the last thing she possessed.
But vengeance required patience.
That evening, the Council of Nobles convened. The air was thick with tension. Some bowed too low, others not low enough. She noted everything.
"My queen," Duke Harland began, his voice smooth as oil, "in these uncertain times, we beg you to appoint regents—strong men to guide you in matters of war and trade."
Serenya's nails dug into the armrest of her throne. Harland. The same man who had once raised the motion for her trial. The same man whose daughter had mocked her in public, calling her a powerless consort.
Her smile was sharp. "A fine suggestion. Tell me, Duke Harland, do you offer yourself as one of these regents?"
The duke puffed up, smug. "If it pleases Your Majesty."
She leaned forward. "It doesn't."
The hall rippled with shock.
Serenya rose from her throne, her gown sweeping like midnight waves. "Hear me well," she said, her voice cutting through the chamber. "I need no regents. I need no puppeteers to pull strings above my head. This throne is mine by blood, by fire, and by survival. I will rule, not as your puppet, but as your sovereign."
A hush fell. No one breathed.
And then—though none could see—it happened again. Her power surged, invisible yet undeniable. The torches lining the hall flared as if bowing to her will. Every noble shivered though the air was warm.
Serenya smiled slowly. "And those who cannot accept that… will not live to see another season."
That night, whispers spread across the empire. Some called her ruthless, others called her blessed. The priests muttered of omens. The soldiers spoke of loyalty born from fear.
But Serenya, lying in her chamber, stared at the moonlit ceiling and thought of the promise she had made on the scaffold.
When I return, you will beg me for death.
The first step had been taken.
And her enemies did not yet realize—they had crowned not a queen, but a storm.