Bride of the Forgotten Throne

Chapter 21: Chapter Twenty-One: The Gathering Storm



The capital was not quiet. It never was—not truly—but since Kaelira's disappearance, Veyrhold hummed with something darker.

Suspicion.

Doubt.

Fear.

Dorian stood at the edge of the council chamber, fingers clenched around the balcony's stone railing, eyes fixed on the misted horizon. Somewhere beyond that line of fog was the Hollow. And somewhere in the Hollow was Kaelira. He hadn't dreamed of her for nights now. It scared him more than the dreams ever had.

Behind him, the High Council murmured among themselves. Their voices were like needles in his skull.

"We've given her too much leash." "A Queen who vanishes without a word? That's not governance. That's rebellion." "She consorts with the witch—what else must we tolerate?" "The Sixth Bride was never meant to rise."

Dorian turned slowly.

"Say it louder," he said, voice low but slicing. "Say it where I can hear it."

The murmurs stopped.

Chancellor Myrell stepped forward, her pearl-studded collar rustling like dry leaves. "Your Majesty. No one denies your loyalty. But Queen Kaelira's absence—her silence—it is dangerous. The people whisper."

Dorian stepped forward. "Let them whisper. But if any one of you dares move against her—"

"Is she your Queen," Myrell asked coolly, "or your mistress?"

Silence.

The chamber froze.

Dorian stared at her. "She is mine," he said at last, voice like thunder. "And if you think I would let this court strip her of what she has bled for, you forget who I was before I wore this crown."

He left them then—abrupt, furious. In the garden halls, he found only shadows. Kaelira's scent still lingered in the velvet roses. Her voice haunted the wind. He stopped beneath the arch where they had once kissed, months ago now, before betrayal and blood. His guards didn't follow. They knew better. He knelt by the fountain, hands curling against the marble.

"Come back," he whispered to no one.

"Please… come back."

That night, he stood alone at the war table. Rebellion markers littered the northern borders. Spies reported movement. Loyalist cities were fracturing. And in the Hollow?

Nothing.

Not a signal. Not a spark.

But when he closed his eyes, he felt something.

A pulse.

Faint—but hers.

Somewhere in the castle's western wing, a raven screamed. A servant dropped a tray. And a young seer-child whispered in her sleep:

"The bride returns with fire in her bones…"


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