Rossenvale burned.
Vanella Ross's stomach churned as she stumbled through streets swallowed by fire. Smoke choked her lungs, and the cries of her people tore through the night. Soldiers of Raven Darward Acosta moved like a tide of iron, slitting throats, breaking arms, leaving the bodies of her friends, servants, and citizens lying cold on the cobblestones. She had watched the life drain from her parents' eyes. She had seen her loyal guards cut down where they stood. The kingdom she had been raised to protect was falling—every stone soaked in blood.
Her legs carried her blindly toward the cliff at the edge of the city. Every instinct screamed to flee, to vanish from the carnage and survive. But before she even considered it, she paused, chest heaving. Her reflection in a puddle caught her eye. Her hair singed and matted, her gown torn and filthy, her face streaked with soot and blood—not just others', her own.
No crown, no jewelry, no insignia remained. She tore off the last remnants of her royal attire and tucked them into the folds of her gown. She was a shadow now—a ghost of the princess she had been. Anyone seeing her would recognize only a stranger. She had to be invisible, even to her people.
From the cliff, she looked down at the carnage below. The cages. The broken bodies. The flames consuming everything she loved. Her people—her family—would not know her if she returned. And yet… she could not leave them behind.
Vanella descended carefully, gripping jagged rocks, hiding her face and her identity. When she reached the outskirts of the chaos, the soldiers barely noticed her among the smoke. The people in the cages shrank from the fire and the soldiers, their faces wet with tears. For a moment, their eyes flicked to hers—and then quickly looked away. She looked like a shadow, haggard and unrecognizable.
"When a kingdom falls in blood and ash, the last royal woman taken in chains shall either free the captives—or bring ruin to the Dragon Throne," the elders' words whispered through her mind. She had laughed at them once, but now the weight of the prophecy pressed against her chest.
As she moved closer to the cages, her fingers brushed the scorched ground. The familiar sting of blood and ash triggered something—flashes of memory, images of betrayal and slaughter, a palace bathed in torchlight. She stumbled, shaking it off. She could not let it distract her. She had to survive. She had to save her people. She had to survive Raven Darward Acosta—and make him answer for every life he had taken.
The night pressed down on her like a suffocating shroud. Shadows lingered where they should not. The wind whispered too sharply. Something in the world felt… off. She did not question it. Not yet.