Serena had never liked thrones.
Too high. Too cold. Too easy to fall from.
But as she stood before the Royal Strategy Chamber—a room once barred to women, former prisoners, and anyone who didn't carry a title—she realized something important.
She didn't need a throne to rule.
She needed fear.
And she already had that.
The guards didn't stop her.
They opened the door in silence.
Inside, a semicircle of military advisors, council spies, and Damián's personal strategists stared at her like she'd stepped out of a nightmare.
Which, to be fair, she had.
She wore black.
No lace. No gold.
Just the collar.
And a blade strapped visibly to her thigh.
"I'm here to speak," she said simply.
One advisor—a general with a nose that had clearly broken more than once—snorted.
"By what right?"
She smiled.
Not sweetly.
Sharp.
"I was hunted by this court. Jailed for truth. Resurrected by power. And I now sleep beside the crown you swore loyalty to. Is that enough right for you?"
No one laughed.
No one moved.
She walked to the center table.
Unrolled a parchment.
On it: a list of names. Dots. Symbols.
Connections only a former rebel would know how to trace.
"Serren isn't just moving for political gain," she said. "He's building something underground. Communication lines. Paid smugglers. Loyal servants inside the West Wing kitchens."
Damián entered then, silent as a shadow, and stood at her back.
Watching.
Not leading.
Letting her lead.
"Tonight," Serena continued, "they'll try to leak fabricated letters to the press. Letters that claim Damián orchestrated my release as part of a plot to kill the former king. They'll present this as justification for his removal."
She paused.
"They expect me to remain silent. To hide behind him. To wear his collar and nothing more."
She looked up, fire burning in her eyes.
"But I didn't survive a cell to become a shadow."
Damián stepped forward now, voice low.
"Every move she's outlined has been verified. We are at war."
He turned to Serena.
"And she just became my commander."
Hours later, Serena met Elara in the garden.
The young princess looked pale, guilt clinging to her like dew.
"I didn't know," Elara whispered. "I thought I was helping."
"You did," Serena replied gently. "You helped me see that trusting blindly is how queens die."
She touched Elara's hand. "But you're not one of them. Not yet."
"Then what am I?"
Serena smiled.
"The only person left in this palace with the power to stand in the middle and choose a side."
That night, Serena donned her black cloak.
Damián waited at the chamber door.
He said nothing.
He just held out his arm.
She took it.
And together, they walked into the war.