PART 1 — THE NAME THAT WAS BURNED

The betrayed general erased my name from the kingdom records.

He did it with fire, ink, and fear.

By midnight, every royal scribe in the palace had signed a false declaration stating that Princess Elara Thornvik, only daughter of the dead king, had perished seven years earlier from winter fever. My birth page was burned. My mother’s letters were sealed away. My portrait was removed from the west hall and replaced with a black banner.

Then General Magnus Varric stood before the council wearing my father’s red war chain and said, “There is no heir.”

No one challenged him.

Not the priests who blessed my cradle.

Not the guards who once lowered their swords when I passed.

Not the nobles who had smiled at my father’s table while secretly waiting to see which side would survive.

So I let them believe I was dead.

For seven years, I lived beyond the Frost Gate under a borrowed name, carrying only one

thing from my old life: my father’s iron ring, carved with the crown, the wolf, and the flame.

On the seventh anniversary of his death, I returned.

The palace archive beneath the ruined east wing was already burning when I entered. Smoke curled around ancient stone shelves. Royal record books lay scattered across the floor. Magnus stood in black armor beside the marble wall where my name had been hacked away.

He turned at the sound of my footsteps.

For one second, fear crossed his face.

Then he smiled.

“Ghosts should stay buried.”

I stepped into the torchlight and placed my father’s ring on the archive table.

“I didn’t come to be remembered by you,” I said. “I came for the sealed decree.”

The chains around the old iron case began to move.

And the general’s smile disappeared.