Chapter Three: The Monster King Kaelen

The Court did not sleep.

It watched, whispered, waited.

Kaelen stood in the chamber of mirrors—one of the oldest rooms in the castle, one the others feared to enter. Not because of what it showed, but what it refused to hide. In the center of the room, a pool of black water rippled without wind, reflecting nothing but the future.

It never gave him the one he wanted.

Tonight, it showed her.

Elira.

Kneeling in the moonlit chamber, breath caught in awe. Her fingers brushed the glass pool. Her face, lit like prophecy. Something ancient stirred around her—a hum in the walls, the bones of the castle vibrating in time with her heartbeat.

Not her, the water whispered. More than her.

Kaelen clenched his jaw and turned away.

She was supposed to be a pawn.

A cursed girl with no moonmark. A cast-off royal bred for politics and pity. He had agreed to the alliance out of necessity—to keep the border from shattering, to buy time against the Hollow King's rise. The stories whispered she was nothing.

But the moment she stepped into his Court, the Veil bent toward her.

And now the shadows wouldn't shut up about it.

"Fate's flame," murmured a voice behind him. "You smell it too."

Kaelen didn't need to turn. He knew that voice. Kareth—his shadowbinder and oldest surviving general—stood at the threshold like a lingering curse.

"She glows," Kareth said. "When she sleeps. The same way your mother did."

Kaelen stilled. "Don't speak of her."

"Why not?" Kareth stepped forward. "The dead are the only ones who ever tell the truth in this place."

Kaelen exhaled slowly. The memories came sharp and cold—his mother's final days, lost to the madness of prophecy, whispering about the moon turning inside out, about a girl with no name who wears every fate at once. Everyone thought it was just the blood rot—until she slit her own throat beneath a new moon and called it an offering.

He'd buried her himself.

But now… now Elira was here. And the prophecy echoed like a wound that never healed.

"She's dangerous," Kaelen said. "Even the walls listen when she speaks."

"Exactly," Kareth said. "You're not afraid of her, Kaelen. You're afraid of what she might unlock."

Kaelen didn't respond.

Because the truth scraped against his bones like a blade.

He was afraid.

Not of her power. Not even of the prophecy.

But of the way she looked at him—without flinching. Without shrinking.

Like she saw the monster and wasn't horrified.

Like she might become one, too.

He found her in the moon chamber again.

No guards. No spells. Just her—barefoot on the cold marble, tracing her reflection across the mirrored pool. The ghost of a silver mark shimmered on her wrist now, pulsing with quiet defiance.

"You're not supposed to be here alone," he said.

She didn't turn. "No one ever really stays, do they?"

He crossed the space slowly. "This room is cursed."

"So am I."

Kaelen stopped behind her, close enough to catch the scent of her skin—night jasmine and something warmer, copper-sweet.

"Do you know what this room was built for?" he asked.

She glanced at him. "A tomb?"

He smiled, sharp and cold. "A test. This pool reflects only what you will become. Not what you want. Not what you fear. Only what you'll be."

"And what do you see when you look in it?"

Kaelen stared into the pool.

A crown of thorns. Blood on his hands. Fire swallowing the Court. A broken throne. And her—always her—standing at the center of it all.

"I see the end," he said.

Elira studied his face. "You think I'll be the one to destroy you."

"No," Kaelen whispered. "I think you'll make me want to be saved."

And that was the true danger.

He could fight monsters. Slay gods. Raise armies.

But he didn't know how to want something without trying to break it first.

Later that night, the first omen came.

A crack split across the western tower—clean and silent. No tremor. No force. Just fracture. Kaelen arrived to find the air heavy with ash and salt, the sigils that protected the border wards flickering like dying stars.

"The Hollow King," Kareth muttered, dragging his fingers along the stone. "He's reaching through."

"He shouldn't be able to," Kaelen snapped. "Not with the blood ward intact."

"The blood has faded."

Kaelen stilled. "Whose?"

"The Queen's," Kareth said. "Your mother's line."

His heart sank.

That line was supposed to last centuries.

Unless…

He turned sharply. "What about Elira?"

Kareth blinked. "What about her?"

"She carries Lysarian royal blood. Half moon-blessed, half… something else. The Veil responds to her. What if the Hollow King isn't just waking because of her?"

"What if he's waking for her?" Kareth whispered.

Kaelen didn't wait for a reply. He vanished in a blur of shadow and rage, racing through the castle corridors like a storm.

He reached her chambers just as she opened the door.

"Elira," he said, out of breath. "You need to—"

But she was already gasping.

Her hands trembled. Her eyes glowed faintly silver.

And on her wrist, the mark had fully formed—elegant, ancient, burning with moonlight.

"I felt something," she said. "It called my name."

Kaelen grabbed her hand, ignoring the jolt of magic that surged between them. The mark flared under his touch, brighter than any he'd seen before.

"Gods," he whispered. "You're not moonless."

She stared at him. "Then what am I?"

He met her gaze, and this time, there was no mask. No walls. Just truth.

"You're the weapon the Hollow King has been searching.