************
Why did you choose me?" she whispered, breath caught in her throat.
He didn't answer right away. His hand brushed hers, gentle, almost trembling.
"Because... when everything else turned to ash, you were the one thing that felt real."
***********
The air in Ashengar was poison.
Not the kind that killed with a taste — but the kind that laced every stone, every broken statue, every whisper of wind. Dren Talovar knew that stepping into the ruined court was a mistake, but it was also necessary. If the answers weren't here, they didn't exist.
He moved cautiously, sword drawn, the weight of centuries pressing down on the collapsed spires around him. Beside him, Serenya was pale but composed, eyes darting with the precision of someone who had walked this path in dreams before.
"It's bleeding magic," she murmured, running her hand along a scorched bannister. "Something was torn out of this place... recently."
Dren didn't respond. His focus had shifted — not to the architecture, but to a statue at the far end of the throne room. It was cracked and crumbled, but unmistakably carved in the likeness of Eris Nightvale, the former Queen of Ashengar... and Serenya's mother.
Serenya's voice faltered. "She's watching us."
"No," Dren said coldly. "She's judging us."
They found it in the crypt beneath the court — a silver circlet, warped by fire, pulsing with latent power. Serenya reached for it instinctively, but Dren grabbed her wrist.
"Don't touch it."
"It's hers," Serenya hissed. "It belonged to my bloodline!"
"And it was corrupted," he said, stepping between her and the artifact. "Don't let your past drown you."
The tension between them sparked again, that same maddening electricity. She moved closer, not backing down. "Why do you keep trying to protect me from my own legacy?"
Dren's jaw tightened. "Because I've seen what legacy does to people. It burns them alive."
Their eyes locked, and for a moment, the crypt was silent — the power between them no longer just magical, but personal. Intimate. Dangerous.
He brushed her hair back gently, his voice lower now. "You're not your mother."
"And you're not my knight," she whispered, eyes gleaming.
But her voice trembled as she said it.
When the circlet shattered on the altar, releasing a pulse of ash and memory into the air, Serenya collapsed — screaming. The visions poured into her mind: her mother's death, the betrayal of the High Priests, the night the court fell.
And one final image: a familiar figure watching the palace burn, sword in hand — cloaked in the sigil of the very Order Dren once served.
"Dren…" she gasped. "You were there."
His silence was louder than a confession.
She pushed away from him, hurt and rage building in her chest. "Tell me it wasn't you."
"I can't," he said quietly.
Serenya's eyes filled with tears as she backed toward the exit, power crackling at her fingertips. "Then you were never protecting me. You were atoning."
Dren didn't follow her.
He only turned back to the statue of Eris and whispered, "She'll hate me now. But at least she knows the truth."