Queen Seraphina Heartfilia felt the death before she was told of it.
She sat upon the black-gold throne of the capital's inner sanctum, fingers resting lightly against the armrest carved from demon-bone, when something snapped deep within her chest. Not pain—she was far beyond pain—but an abrupt, nauseating absence.
A contract had been severed.
Seraphina inhaled sharply, her breath fogging the air despite the ever-burning braziers that lined the chamber. The crown upon her head pulsed, its embedded gem flickering like a dying star.
"…Which one?" she murmured.
The shadows behind the throne twisted.
A figure emerged—robed, faceless, voice layered with many throats.
"An intermediary," it said. "A priest. Devoted. Replaceable."
Seraphina's lips curled.
"But how?" she asked softly. "The sigils were correct. The circle was protected.
The shadow hesitated.
"That is the concern."
Seraphina rose.
The throne room was vast and cathedral-like, its ceiling lost in darkness, its walls carved with reliefs depicting a rewritten history: Seraphina crowned by divine light, the Heartfilia line redeemed through her wisdom, demons kneeling not as masters—but as allies.
Lies etched into stone.
She walked to the great window overlooking the capital. The city glittered—orderly, obedient, prosperous. Markets thrived.
Temples overflowed. Taxes flowed cleanly into coffers.
The people were happy.
They always were, when fed the right story.
"A girl," Seraphina said. "Did it involve a girl?"
The shadow stiffened.
"Yes."
Seraphina closed her eyes.
The memory surfaced unbidden—blood on marble, a child screaming, sigils shattering when they should have bound.
You should have died.
Her fingers tightened against the glass.
"Find her," Seraphina said, her voice calm and absolute. "Confirm."
The shadow bowed and dissolved.
She stood alone for a moment longer, listening to the distant bells of the capital.
Then she laughed.
Softly.
"So," she whispered. "You lived."
The Dawnwardens gathered before sunrise.
They knelt in the Hall of Radiance—white stone, golden
banners, sunlight refracted through stained glass depicting their victories. At the center stood Captain Aurellion, helm
removed, jaw clenched so tightly his teeth ached.
Three of his men were dead.
Not fallen in glorious battle.
Broken.
Discarded.
And worse—humiliated.
"She killed a consecrated priest," Aurellion said, his voice echoing. "Not with demon magic. Not with godly sanction."
Murmurs spread.
"That shouldn't be possible."
"She deflected a divine spear."
"That's heresy."
Aurellion raised his hand.
"She spoke a name," he continued. "Her name. And the crowd listened."
Silence followed.
False heroes lived and died on belief. On being needed.
Lemma Heartfilia threatened that.
"She is not a demon," Aurellion said slowly. "She is worse. She is a reminder."
He drew his blade and drove it into the marble floor.
"We will hunt her," he declared. "Not for the gods. Not for the queen."
His eyes burned.
"But because if she lives—everything we are becomes a lie."
A chorus of blades rang as they struck the floor in unison.
The Dawnwardens rose obsessed.
The rebellion began with bread.
Lemma did not plan it. She did not announce herself or call banners. She bled in alleyways, slept in abandoned lofts, and moved through the city like a rumor.
And rumors fed the hungry.
In the southern district, a baker left loaves where guards would not see. In the docks, a dockhand passed word through hand signals learned as a child. In the slums, a former knight
whispered truths he had sworn never to speak.
"She killed a priest," they said.
"She defied the Dawnwardens."
"She said the queen serves demons."
Most laughed.
Some listened.
A few remembered.
Lemma felt them before she saw them—the ones who watched her not with fear, but with something like fragile hope. A woman whose son had vanished.
A man whose farm had been seized for "ritual tithe." A girl with burn scars shaped like sigils she didn't understand.
They followed at a distance.
Lemma confronted one of them eventually—a man in a patched cloak who trailed her through three streets.
"You're bad at hiding," Lemma said without turning.
He froze.
"…I'm not here to hurt you."
"Neither am I," Lemma replied. "But I will if I have to."
The man swallowed.
"They took my sister," he said. "The Dawnwardens. Said she was chosen. She never came back."
Lemma turned then.
Her eyes were tired. Older than they should have been.
"I can't promise to save her," she said honestly. "I might already be too late."
The man nodded. "I know."
"Then why follow me?"
He met her gaze.
"Because you didn't look away."
That night, there were five of them.
The next night, twelve.
They met beneath the city—old storm tunnels, forgotten catacombs, places faith had abandoned. Lemma spoke little.
She listened.
And when she spoke, it was never grand.
"She is lying," she said of the queen.
"They are killing for power."
"I don't need you to worship me."
Just: "Help me stop it."
The Demon Kings watched with interest.
She builds without us, one observed.
That won't last, sneered another.
Let her try, murmured a third. This makes it sweeter.
Lemma felt their eyes and ignored them.
For now.
The first assassination attempt came at dawn.
Lemma sensed it an instant before the arrow flew—air tightening, intent sharpening.
She twisted aside as the shaft buried itself in stone where her throat had been.
She ran.
The Dawnwardens pursued with disciplined fury, cornering her in a narrow street lined with shuttered homes. Aurellion himself stepped forward, blade gleaming.
"You should have stayed dead," he said.
Lemma raised her hands—not in surrender, but to steady herself.
"You don't have to do this."
Aurellion laughed bitterly.
"I do," he said. "If you live, people will ask questions. If they ask questions, they'll see what we've become."
He advanced.
Lemma braced.
The air thickened.
Steel rang.
They clashed—not evenly. Aurellion was faster, stronger, trained for war. Lemma stumbled, barely deflecting blows, blood blooming along her ribs.
But each strike slowed near her.
Each step he took toward her felt heavier.
"What are you?" Aurellion snarled, muscles straining.
Lemma's voice shook.
"Someone who won't disappear."
She shoved.
Not hard.
Not magically.
But with all the weight she had learned to carry.
Aurellion flew backward, crashing through a cart, gasping in disbelief.
The Dawnwardens froze.
Lemma fled before they could recover.
By nightfall, the story had spread.
She could not be killed easily.
She made gods bleed.
She broke heroes.
Seraphina listened as reports piled high.
And for the first time in years, she dismissed her shadows.
She stood alone before the throne and placed a hand over her heart—where something now throbbed uneasily.
"…So you chose to walk," she said softly. "Very well."
Her smile was sharp.
"I taught you that much, at least."
Far below, in tunnels thick with whispered oaths and candle smoke, Lemma Heartfilia sat among commoners and exiles, binding wounds and listening to plans that were barely plans at all.
The rebellion did not have a banner yet.
But it had a name.
And it was spoken carefully.
In fear.
In hope.
In blood.