CHAPTER 1 : WHISPERS IN THE WALL
The first light of dawn slipped gently over the stone spires of Maelric Keep, casting long, sleepy shadows across the ancient halls. Morning dew clung to the vines weaving through the palace walls, and the breeze carried the faint scent of lilac from the royal gardens. For most, it was a morning like any other—but for Ilyana Elenna, it was the beginning of something she had spent her entire life avoiding.
High in the western wing, beyond the servants' quarters and dusty libraries, Ilyana sat by her narrow window, her fingers tracing idle patterns in the fogged glass. She watched the sunrise bathe the kingdom of Avaran in gold, wondering for the thousandth time what the people below would say if they knew the truth of her blood. A princess, born in silence, hidden from the throne. Her reflection in the window stared back at her—dark-haired, thoughtful, and weary of a destiny she had never asked for.
The door creaked open. Marin, her loyal handmaid, entered with a tray of morning tea and an uncertain smile.
"You didn’t sleep again," Marin said softly.
Ilyana shook her head, offering a small, tired smile. "How can I sleep, knowing what today brings?"
Marin hesitated before placing the tray down. "They’ve summoned you. The High Judge has called for your presence in the Hall of Flame."
Those words settled like cold iron in Ilyana’s chest.
"The Hall of Flame?" she whispered.
Marin nodded gravely. "The Rite of Ascension has begun."
For years, the throne of Avaran had been empty, a kingdom without a sovereign. With the old king gone and no named heir, the ancient laws demanded the trials be held. Few knew that a hidden child of royal blood still lived. Fewer still believed she would dare answer the call.
But fate had found her, and it would not be ignored.
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The Hall of Flame stood at the heart of Maelric Keep, vast and solemn, carved from obsidian and lined with braziers of cold fire. At its center burned the ancient flame of Veritas—a fire said to reveal the truth of any soul who stood within its light.
Ilyana entered the hall alone, her steps echoing against the silent walls. Lords and nobles lined the balconies above, their faces shadowed by the morning haze. Whispers followed her like ghosts.
High Judge Torvell awaited her beside the flame, his dark robes rustling faintly as he turned.
"Ilyana of Elenna," his voice rang clear and low, "by right of blood and burden, do you stand ready to face the First Trial?"
Her voice, steady though quiet, answered: "I stand ready."
Torvell inclined his head. "Step into the flame. Let Veritas judge your truth."
The air thickened. Ilyana’s pulse thundered in her ears as she approached the cold fire. Every story she had ever heard spoke of what happened to liars who entered its light. Bones turned to ash. Secrets burned away.
She took a breath—and stepped in.
It was not heat that met her, but whispers.
"You are your mother’s daughter."
"You carry the silence of a kingdom."
"You doubt your worth."
The whispers coiled around her heart, tugging at every fear, every regret, every unspoken truth. She closed her eyes.
"I seek not power," she whispered into the flame, "but peace. I seek to restore what was broken."
The flame pulsed once, then settled into a soft white glow.
Torvell raised his staff. "The flame has spoken. She is true."
Gasps filled the hall.
And in the shadows above, Duke Renard Vael clenched his jaw.
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Renard was a man of sharp edges and sharper ambition. He had plotted for years to claim the throne himself, weaving alliances and threats in equal measure. Ilyana’s sudden emergence was a crack in his perfect plan.
"She cannot win," he growled to Suthan, his most trusted ally. "The trials will break her."
Suthan’s brow furrowed. "The people already murmur her name with hope. If she succeeds, the nobles may rally to her side."
"Then she must fail," Renard said coldly. "We will ensure it."
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That evening, as the halls quieted and the nobles retired to their chambers, Ilyana wandered the palace gardens. The moon cast silver light over the marble statues of past rulers, their faces weathered by time. She paused before the statue of Queen Alura, the last woman to rule Avaran before the wars.
"Were you as afraid as I am?" Ilyana whispered to the stone.
"Perhaps," a voice answered from the shadows. "But fear does not weaken the worthy."
Ilyana spun, startled. An elderly man stepped forward, his presence calm, his eyes kind.
"Who are you?" she asked.
"Othric," he said with a respectful bow. "Royal archivist. I have waited for you." He held out a scroll, sealed with the lion crest.
"What is this?"
"Your mother’s final words," he replied gently. "She knew this day would come."
With trembling fingers, Ilyana broke the seal.
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The next morning, the Second Trial awaited—the Trial of Sacrifice.
The chamber was smaller, colder. At its center, a stone platform and two cloaked figures stood silently.
Torvell spoke: "Before you are two souls. One has spoken for your claim. The other against it. You may save one. The other will be exiled beyond the Iron Border."
Her stomach twisted.
"I won’t make this choice," she said, voice shaking.
"Refusal is failure," Torvell replied.
She stared at the two figures. Neither pleaded. Neither revealed their face. The silence was worse than a cry for help.
She closed her eyes. Sometimes there is no right choice. Only the one you must live with.
With a trembling hand, she pointed to the figure on the left. "Spare them."
The spared figure was led away, the other dragged through the iron gate without a word.
Torvell lowered his staff. "The throne accepts your sacrifice."
But the victory tasted like ash.
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That night, she found no rest. Her mother’s scroll lay open on her desk. Among the faded words, a final warning: Beware the Broken Sun. It rises again.
As if summoned by the words, a knock sounded at her door.
Marin entered, pale. "Your Grace... A message was found outside your chamber."
Ilyana took the scroll. No seal. Only one chilling phrase:
"The trials will end, but the war will not."
Her fingers trembled as thunder rolled in the distance.
And somewhere beyond the palace walls, a rebellion stirred.
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