Chapter Twelve: The Throne and the Ghost

After the Nest flared, Azrayel had told her to go back. He hadn't explained, just said it softly, his face tight with something she couldn't quite read—concern? Guilt? Fear?

There had been a flicker in his eyes that made her pause, but not protest. Whatever it meant, she left without another word.

The walk back to her rooms felt heavier than before. Not just physically—every step seemed to echo with the memory of the Nest's burning glow, the sharp pulse of rejection she had felt deep in her bones.

It followed her down the halls, like a shadow stitched to her skin.

She couldn't stop thinking about the Nest. The way the mana cores had flared—blazing brighter and angrier the closer she came.

That wasn't a welcome. That wasn't warmth. It felt like a warning.

Like something inside that sacred place had sensed her presence and recoiled.

To be honest, it hurt.

It wasn't just the heat—it was the pressure. The air had thickened, the energy had shifted. As if the very blood in her veins didn't match the resonance of the stones. As if the legacy that should've recognized her as kin was instead rejecting her like an intruder.

She thought of the prophecy again.

Different fire.

She had always assumed it meant something poetic. A metaphor for divergence. But what if it wasn't? What if it was literal? What if she carried something… incompatible?

Was that why she'd been hidden?

"No," she whispered aloud, voice hoarse. "No."

But the doubt had already rooted itself in her chest, spreading like frost across glass.

She barely slept that night. The sheets were too fine, the silence too wide. Her thoughts churned until they knotted themselves into a restless mess. By dawn, she was still awake, staring at the ceiling, wishing the palace would burn around her just so something would make sense again.

A knock came at the door.

She opened it, expecting perhaps a servant or one of the other girls. Instead, an imperial attendant stood waiting, his head bowed, posture rigid with formality. The livery he wore bore the unmistakable crest of the emperor—an open crown encased in flame.

"Lady Velista Alwyn," he said, voice low but clear. "His Imperial Majesty requests your presence."

Her heart gave a single, solid thud in her chest.

She didn't ask why. She nodded once and followed.

They passed through corridor after corridor, deeper into the palace than she had ever been allowed before. The walls shifted from red stone to silver-veined marble.

Flame-crystal sconces flickered along the path, and at every turn, more guards stood motionless, watching with unreadable expressions.

Eventually, two grand doors opened before her, revealing the throne room.

It was vast, cold, and quiet except for two figures inside.

Azrayel stood tall beside the throne.

And slouched on the gilded seat, pale and sunken, was their father.

Her feet slowed.

She stared. This was not the towering, brutal king from her mother's stories. This man looked... diminished. His skin had the sickly tint of someone fighting a long illness. His posture sagged. His hands gripped the arms of the throne not like a ruler, but like someone trying to stay upright.

So this was the king.

This was her father.

Azrayel turned to her and smiled. He stepped forward, took her hand, and brushed his lips lightly over her knuckles.

She stiffened. The gesture was public, deliberate. Symbolic. It wasn't affection—it was a claim.

She wanted to pull her hand back. Her instincts screamed at her to do it. But she didn't.

She let him.

She turned to the throne and bowed.

"Your Majesty," she said, keeping her voice steady. "I am Velista Alwyn of Dethryd. It is an honor to be received."

When she rose and met his eyes, her heart crumpled.

The Emperor's mouth curved faintly. "Welcome to the capital," he rasped. His voice was aged gravel and dry wind. "I trust your stay has been... enlightening."

"Yes, Your Majesty," she said, carefully polite.

"I'm told you assisted my son in retrieving a particular volume from the academy," he went on. "That book played a part in dismantling the latest uprising. You may have helped secure our border."

She lowered her head. "I only carried it, Your Majesty. Prince Azrayel knew what he needed."

He studied her then. A long, quiet moment.

"You carried it across fire," he said. "That is no small thing."

She didn't know what to say.

She expected something to stir in her—some kind of pride, or perhaps a buried longing, a tremor of connection. But there was only a strange emptiness inside her chest.

There was no warmth. No sense of homecoming.

Just a hollow ache where recognition should have bloomed.

And instead of affection, all she felt was pity.

Pity for the man who had once ruled flame and now seemed swallowed by smoke. For the king who had become a ghost on his own throne.

The Emperor shifted slightly, as if the very act of sitting upright required effort.

"I heard," he said slowly, "that someone broke protocol and entered the Dragon Nest."

Azrayel's jaw tensed. "Father—"

"I know," the king said, lifting a frail hand to stop him. His voice carried no anger—only fatigue. "I know, Azrayel. But we still don't understand why it reacted that way."

Metheea stepped forward. "If I've committed a breach, Your Majesty, I ask forgiveness."

The Emperor's eyes, dull but not unkind, turned to her. "It's all right," he said softly. Then he looked at Azrayel again, and something passed between them.

A look, one of understanding. Not command. Not judgment.

It was… almost caring.

She stood still, watching them, feeling slightly off-balance.

That look—so small, so easy to miss—was one she had never seen exchanged between herself and her mother.

She had never thought of these men as anything more than war mongers, violent. But now, in that quiet space between glances, they looked like family.

She bowed her head again. "If there is nothing else, Your Majesty, may I take my leave?"

The Emperor nodded. "Yes. You may go."

She turned to leave.

But then his voice stopped her. "Have we met before?"

She froze, heart suddenly thudding in her chest.

Turning halfway, she said calmly, "No, Your Majesty. I have not had the honor."

The Emperor squinted slightly, studying her face with faint recognition—or something like it. But after a beat, he simply nodded.

"You may go," he said again, softer.

And this time, she did.