The council chamber erupted the moment Seraphina crossed its threshold.
Whispers exploded into sharp voices, alliances snapping like brittle glass under pressure. Lords rose from their seats, expressions ranging from outrage to barely concealed satisfaction. The air was thick with magic, old blood humming angrily beneath the marble floor as if sensing impending violence.
At the center of it all stood House Veyrath.
Their heir was composed—too composed. Hands folded neatly, spine straight, eyes calm with the confidence of someone who believed the outcome was already decided.
Seraphina took it all in with icy clarity.
So this was their counterstrike.
"Order," Damien's voice cut through the chaos, sharp with authority. "The council will come to order."
Reluctantly, the chamber quieted.
The Veyrath heir stepped forward, robes whispering softly against the stone. "Your Highness," they said smoothly, inclining their head. "We bring grave concerns before this council—concerns that threaten the integrity of our governance and the sanctity of these halls."
Seraphina did not move. Did not speak. She let them talk.
"A manipulator has infiltrated the council," the heir continued. "Someone who used blood magic and deception to incite chaos, fracture alliances, and disgrace noble houses—under false pretenses of justice."
Gasps rippled through the chamber.
"And," the heir added calmly, "that manipulator stands before you now."
Every gaze snapped at Seraphina.
She felt it—the weight of centuries-old power pressing down, the instinctive suspicion of the old houses toward anything they could not control. Blood magic alone was enough to condemn her in the eyes of many.
Damien's jaw tightened.
Seraphina lifted her chin.
"Bold words," she said coolly. "From a house caught whispering treason in sealed corridors."
The Veyrath heir smiled faintly. "Baseless accusations from a woman who does not even belong here."
That landed.
Murmurs surged again.
Damien's eyes flicked to Seraphina—warning, tension, something else unspoken.
"Identify yourself," a senior lord demanded. "By blood and house."
Silence stretched.
Seraphina could feel the moment tightening around her throat. This was the fulcrum point—the one she had avoided for ten years. Names had power. Bloodlines even more so.
She met Damien's gaze.
And made her decision.
"My name," she said clearly, her voice echoing through the chamber, "is Seraphina Nightborne."
The room froze.
For half a heartbeat, there was nothing—no sound, no movement—just shock.
Then chaos.
"That house was eradicated!"
"Impossible—there were no survivors!"
"Nightborne blood was extinguished!"
The Veyrath heir stiffened.
Seraphina felt something shift—fear, sharp and sudden, leaking through their carefully controlled composure.
Good.
"I watched my family die," Seraphina continued, her voice steady as steel. "I watched trusted allies turn blades against my blood. And I have spent the last ten years learning exactly how betrayal festers in silence."
She turned slowly, letting her gaze sweep the council.
"You accuse me of manipulation," she said. "But you fear me because I expose the truth without permission."
A lord slammed a fist against the armrest. "You dare stand in this hall after using blood magic within sacred grounds?"
"Yes," Seraphina replied simply. "Because I was attacked. Within your walls. By assassins bearing House Veyrath's sigils."
Gasps again—louder this time.
The Veyrath heir snapped, "Lies!"
Damien stepped forward.
"Enough," he said coldly. "There were bodies. I witnessed the attack."
All eyes turned to him.
"As future king," Damien continued, "I confirm that Seraphina Nightborne acted in self-defense."
The chamber erupted.
The Veyrath heir's calm finally fractured. "Your Highness," they said tightly, "you allow personal sentiment to cloud judgment."
Damien's eyes hardened. "Choose your next words carefully."
Seraphina felt it then—the shift beneath the politics. This was no longer just about revenge.
This was about power.
A senior member of council rose slowly. "If Seraphina Nightborne truly lives," she said, "then her claim is not insignificant. The Nightborne was not merely a house. They were a pillar."
Seraphina's pulse quickened.
The Veyrath heir saw it too—and struck fast.
"Then let her be tested," they said sharply. "By ancient law. Let her blood be proven. Let her magic be bound and examined."
Binding.
The word echoed like a blade.
Damien turned toward her instantly. "No."
But Seraphina was already stepping forward.
"I accept," she said.
Damien's head snapped toward her. "Seraphina—"
"I accept," she repeated, louder now. "Let my blood speak."
A ripple of shock moved through the chamber.
This was dangerous. Ancient magic tests were invasive—humiliating at best, lethal at worst. They stripped control, exposed truths buried deep.
The Veyrath heir smiled thinly.
"Then let it be done."
The circle was prepared quickly—too quickly. Seraphina noticed the eagerness, the way certain sigils glowed brighter than they should have.
A trap within a test.
She stepped into the circle anyway.
Chains of magic rose, coiling around her wrists, her ankles—cold, biting. Her blood magic reacted violently, straining against restraint.
She focused. Controlled it.
The sigils flared.
Pain lanced through her veins as the magic reached inward, probing, testing, dragging memory and power toward the surface.
She clenched her jaw.
Images flashed—fire, blood, Lysander's face as he fell.
Her power surged.
The chamber shook.
Gasps turned to shouts as Nightborne magic erupted—ancient, dominant, unmistakable. The sigils strained, cracking under the force.
"She's destabilizing the circle!" someone shouted.
"No," Damien said grimly. "She's overpowering it."
The Veyrath heir's eyes widened in real fear.
The chains shattered.
Seraphina staggered—but did not fall.
The sigils burned themselves into the stone, permanently altered.
The council starred.
"There is your proof," Seraphina said hoarsely. "Nightborne blood. Untainted. Unbroken."
Silence.
Then—
A blade flashed.
Seraphina barely had time to react as one of the Veyrath guards lunged from the crowd, dagger aimed straight at her heart.
Damien moved.
Steel rang.
The assassin fell.
And at that instant—before the body even hit the floor—Seraphina understood.
House Veyrath had crossed the final line.
This was no longer politics.
This was war.
Damien grabbed her wrist, pulling her close, his voice low and lethal. "They will not stop now."
She met his gaze, power still humming violently beneath her skin.
"Good," she said softly. "Neither will I."
And as the council descended into chaos once more, one truth rang clearer than any accusation:
The Nightborne had returned.
And the kingdom would bleed for what it had done.