Bride of the Forgotten Throne

The campfire burned low in the Vale of Hollowridge.

No banners. No songs.

Only blades and breath.

And whispers.

"She's back."

"The Hollow changed her."

"She's not Kaelira. She's something else."

"Then we burn her before she burns us."

The rebel encampment had grown—twice its size since spring. Ragged soldiers. Dissenting nobles. Broken mages. Those who had once fought for justice, now living off stolen grain and memory.

At the center sat a tent—black and weather-worn. And inside it: Captain Roen Vale. Roen had bled for the rebellion since the Queen vanished. He never hated her. He hated what power did to women like her.

But now?

Now she had returned with eyes like wildfire and walked hand-in-hand with a King Roen had sworn to overthrow.

"She's not ours anymore," Roen muttered, sharpening his blade. "If she ever was."

A soldier entered, breathless.

"Captain. We have a visitor. Says he brings a message from the Sixth Throne."

Roen looked up sharply.

"Name?"

The soldier hesitated.

"He calls himself… Elarin's Flame."

Roen's eyes narrowed.

Elarin was a myth among the rebels—half traitor, half goddess. And if this man bore her name...

He stepped outside. The messenger stood cloaked in grey, holding a sealed scroll.

"Queen Kaelira offers parley. One envoy. No blades. The Hollow as neutral ground."

Roen stared at him.

"Parley?"

The messenger nodded.

"Or war."

That night, the rebellion gathered.

Around fires.

Inside tents.

In secret.

Some called for surrender.

Some called for blood.

And some called for Kaelira's execution to finish what history had failed to. In the shadows, a young rebel healer named Thesa whispered to her sister:

"If she truly came back from the Hollow… maybe she's what we need."

Her sister spat.

"Or maybe she's the reason the gods abandoned us in the first place."

Far from the palace, far from Dorian's hands or Kaelira's eyes…

The rebellion began to divide. Between those who feared her. And those who might just follow her.