Creese

Three days before the wedding, Seraphina Vale thought she was living a fairytale.

Julian’s penthouse smelled like citrus and cedarwood, the kind of scent you could bottle and name Success. He stood by the kitchen island in sweatpants and no shirt, hair still damp from the gym, smiling at her like she was the prize he never had to chase.

“You’re staring,” he teased.

Sera smirked over her coffee. “I’m just trying to remember why I said yes.”

Julian crossed the room in three long strides, wrapped an arm around her waist, and kissed her like a man who always got what he wanted. “Because I’m devastatingly handsome and your mother loves me.”

“Mm, two things I may soon regret.”

She laughed, but it caught somewhere in her chest.

Everything about her life looked perfect from the outside—magazine-worthy engagement, New York socialite status, a fiancé with flawless teeth and a startup about to go public. Her wedding hashtag had trended for two days straight.

But something in Julian had changed in the last few months. He was still charming, still doted on her in public, still gave her everything she asked for.

Everything except... presence.

His kisses landed like rehearsed lines. His touches didn’t linger.

And worst of all—he was always texting.

Constantly. Smiling at his phone when he thought she wasn’t looking. Swiping it away too fast when she was.

Sera asked once, lightly, “Who’s got you so entertained?”

Julian had smiled and said, “Work, babe. You know how it is.”

And she did. She wanted to believe him. She needed to.

Because the alternative was a truth too ugly to say out loud.


---

That afternoon, she met Madeline for dress fittings.

Madeline had been her best friend since prep school—the kind of friend who held your hair back while you puked and swore she’d take your secrets to the grave. She was tall, magnetic, unapologetically wild. If Sera was the grace, Madeline was the chaos.

“You’re glowing,” Madeline said, adjusting the bust of her lavender bridesmaid dress in the mirror. “You’re going to ruin every woman’s self-esteem on Saturday.”

Sera looked at herself. The silk gown shimmered like a dream. But all she could see was a girl pretending not to notice how fast her world was unraveling.

Madeline leaned in, voice low and teasing. “You sure you’re ready for monogamy? One man for the rest of your life? No more flirty brunch waiters or sultry European getaways?”

Sera raised an eyebrow. “Who said anything about giving up flirty brunch waiters?”

They both laughed, but Sera caught the flicker in Madeline’s eyes. A flash of guilt? Or just her own imagination turning shadows into monsters?

She told herself not to be paranoid. She had no reason to be.

Madeline had been there through everything—every broken heart, every public failure, every bottle of rosé drunk at 2 a.m. in their twenties while crying over boys who didn’t deserve them.

Julian was hers. Madeline was her best friend.

What could possibly go wrong?


---

Later that night, lying in bed with Julian’s arm thrown over her waist like a lazy anchor, Seraphina stared at the ceiling and whispered, “You still love me, right?”

Julian didn’t move. “Of course.”

“No hesitation?”

He chuckled, half-asleep. “You’re just having wedding nerves, babe. It’s normal.”

She wanted to ask about the texts. About the long nights at the office. About why he kept turning away from her in bed.

Instead, she closed her eyes.

And dreamed of waves crashing and silk burning.

Seraphina Vale

The hour before dawn carried a silence so profound it felt like the world had paused to breathe.

Ravenhold slumbered, or pretended to. Its towers, battered and smoke-smeared, pierced the bruised sky. The wind carried no birdsong, only the hiss of distant embers and the low groan of settling stone. But within its deepest halls—beneath the Great Chapel, where the last sacred altar stood unbroken—Seraphina moved like fire given flesh.

Torches flickered along the walls, casting her shadow in jagged fragments. Her boots struck the stone in steady cadence. Her hands were no longer trembling. Her eyes no longer searched the air for a whisper of Valen. She walked like a queen without a crown but with a purpose sharp enough to cut empires.

Mira trailed behind, silent and watchful. The bond between them was tested, frayed by doubt and heartbreak, but not broken. Not yet.

Seraphina reached the altar and placed her hand on its cracked surface. Once, her ancestors had knelt here to beg for protection. She did not kneel.

"It's time," she said. "To light the pyres."

Mira stepped forward, her voice low. "The Council will resist. The old bloods still fear the prophecy."

With a single motion, Seraphina pulled the vial from beneath her cloak—glass etched with runes, filled with shimmering crimson liquid. Dragon's ichor. Forbidden. Sacred. Lethal.

She poured it into the altar's heart.

The flame that erupted wasn't golden or gentle. It was blood-red, roaring to the vaulted ceiling, devouring the shadows like a living scream. The runes ignited, spinning in wild orbit. Stone trembled beneath their feet.

The wards protecting Ravenhold—ancient, dormant, loyal to the royal bloodline—shuddered. Awakened.

Seraphina turned, backlit by the inferno, and looked directly at Mira.

"Prepare the ravens. We march by nightfall."

Meanwhile – Valen's POV

The creature before him coiled through darkness like a god unmade. Its eyes shimmered with galaxies collapsed. Its voice, when it spoke, echoed not through the air, but through Valen's bones.

"You severed the bond. You come seeking power to make war against destiny."

Valen's blade was drawn, though it felt like paper in his grip.

The entity laughed—not cruelly, but with the sound of inevitability.

A cup rose from the ground, sculpted from obsidian, filled with liquid silver. It pulsed with memory, with pain. To drink would mean knowing all the truths hidden in the curse, in Seraphina, in himself.

Back in Ravenhold – Seraphina's POV

Night fell like judgment. The ravens flew.

Seraphina stood atop the Black Spire, armored not in steel, but in woven shadows and firelight. The war banners unfurled below her, their insignias repainted, redefined. Not the sigil of the broken House Vale, but a phoenix wreathed in thorns.

Mira joined her, helm tucked under one arm.

"The scouts report movement in the east. The Nightborn are watching."

Seraphina smiled, a cruel, beautiful thing.

In the distance, a horn sounded. The old war call.

And from her throat, Seraphina screamed.

Not a scream of pain, but of power. Of declaration.

Crimson Reckoning