⚠️Content Advisory:
This story contains mature themes, including emotional manipulation, palace intrigue, and complex power dynamics. No explicit content, but intense emotional situations and morally gray relationships are present. Recommended age: 16+
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"A woman with nothing to lose is more dangerous than a queen with a throne."
The scent of burnt paper still lingered on the silk of her sleeves.
Aurelia Vaelthorn stood at the edge of the hall—no, the battlefield. A place once carved for courtly games and whispered ambitions now reeked of something else: finality.
Candles flickered in fear of her presence, their golden light unable to touch the cold in her gaze.
She was dressed in mourning, though no one had died—yet.
The nobles shifted nervously, layered in velvet and cowardice. Even the most silver-tongued among them kept their silence. At the far end of the chamber stood the Crown Prince, serene in his golden robe, hands folded as if this were a prayer.
"Aurelia," he said at last, his voice dipped in feigned gentleness. "You understand why this is necessary."
You. Not Lady Aurelia, not Duchess, not Fiancée to the throne. Just a name, stripped bare.
She smiled, sharp enough to draw blood.
"Of course, Your Highness," she said, her voice silk over steel. "I understand betrayal very well."
A hushed murmur slithered through the chamber. Even the marble seemed to flinch.
Prince Serion's eyes did not waver. "It is for the kingdom's future. For stability. You have always claimed to love the empire."
Aurelia took a slow step forward, her heels echoing like war drums.
"And you've always claimed to love me," she said, every word precise. "Shall we measure both lies and see which one weighs more?"
Someone gasped. A servant dropped a tray. The silence that followed felt like a held breath before a storm.
"I release you from our engagement," he announced, lifting his chin. "May the gods grant you peace, Lady Vaelthorn."
The formal words rang hollow in the space where love had once been promised.
Aurelia bowed, perfectly measured. "And may the gods grant you a crown worth the ash you'll inherit."
Then she turned, her ruby cloak billowing behind her like blood unfurling in water.
The court parted like reeds before fire.
Let them see her now—broken, dismissed, humiliated.
Let them believe the Crown Prince had won.
Because Aurelia Vaelthorn was no longer playing to win a throne.
She was preparing to burn it.
[To Be Continued in Chapter 2 – The Knight's Oath]