The messenger was young.
Too young.
No armor. No weapon.
Just a clean white cloak, and trembling fingers wrapped around a letter sealed with deep crimson wax.
He didn't kneel.
He bowed—shallow and silent—then handed Serena the scroll.
She opened it slowly, her gloved hands steady despite the tension slicing through the cold mountain air.
The script was precise. Elegant. Written by a hand that had ruled before, and expected to again.
To the Lady Serena Vale,
You were never made to kneel at the side of a man. That is not where your fire burns brightest.
Come to us.We will give you what he never will: your own court, your own rule, your own throne.
A queen should not share her power.
She should reign.
Serena read it once.
Then again.
And then she laughed.
Softly.
Without humor.
Damián found her moments later, standing by the war table, the scroll unrolled before her like an invitation to betrayal.
He said nothing at first.
Just read.
Then looked at her.
"I wondered," he said slowly, "how long it would take them to realize they can't kill you."
"And now they want to crown me instead."
"They think they can divide us."
She stepped closer.
"I told them once—I didn't survive to be a shadow."
She held the letter between two fingers, lifted it toward the nearest flame—
And let it burn.
The parchment curled in silence.
Ash floated through the air like snowfall.
"I don't want a crown," she whispered. "Not if it means losing the only person who ever saw me before they tried to own me."
He reached for her.
Took her wrist.
Held it between his palms like something sacred.
"You were never mine to own."
She looked up, and in his eyes, she saw it:
The weight he carried.The war he fought.The man beneath the crown.
"You're the first king I've ever met who looks stronger when he kneels."
And then—
She did.
Not in submission.
But in truth.
She knelt before him, took his hand in hers, and said:
"I'll never rule instead of you."
She stood.
Took his crown from the table.
And placed it on his head.
"I'll rule with you."
That night, when she rode out to the front lines to deliver the final battle command—
She wore no crown.
No collar.
Just the black of the royal guard.
And at her back, a kingdom that no longer whispered when she passed.
They watched.
They followed.
Because she was no longer the king's weapon.
She was their queen.