The throne room still felt too large for him. The banners of his house hung heavy and silent, as though waiting to judge whether he truly belonged beneath them. Alistair stood at the foot of the dais, reviewing the speech for his coronation—again—trying to ignore the pressure sitting like a blade behind his ribs.

The doors slammed open.

His advisor, Lord Renwick, stumbled inside, pale as parchment and clutching a stack of scrolls that shook in his hands. “Your Highness—there is a… a matter of grave concern.”

Alistair didn’t like that tone. “Speak.”

Renwick swallowed. “The nobles who oppose your ascension… they have discovered a woman. A claimant. By blood.” He hesitated, voice cracking. “She is of House Serakir. A forgotten branch. Her lineage predates even your grandfather.”

Alistair’s jaw tightened. “Impossible. That line died out a century ago.”

“Apparently… not entirely.”

Before he could demand more, the side doors opened again—slow this time, intentional, almost ceremonial.

A cluster of nobles entered, smugness dripping from them like perfume. And among them—

Her.

Alistair’s breath caught, not out of admiration but pure astonishment.

The woman walking between them looked like someone torn out of a different world entirely. Her clothing was nothing like the gowns of the court: a dark, midnight-blue dress that clung to her form, slit high along her leg, adorned with intricate embroidery and strange metal rings. Lace gloves clung to her wrists, and tall black boots hugged her legs, held in place by straps he didn’t even know how to name.

But what struck him most were the inked patterns across her skin—flowers and winged shapes curling across her shoulders, arms, even her collarbones. Tattoos. He had read about them in old travel records, but never once had he seen one. In his world, noblewomen wore untouched skin like a badge of purity. By comparison, she looked… unrestrained. Rebellious. Wild.

Her hair fell in loose black waves down her back, framing a face that was both delicate and dangerously unreadable. Dark eyes swept across the throne room with a mixture of caution and defiance—eyes that didn’t lower to anyone.

His heart beat too fast. He hated that.

The leading noble bowed mockingly. “Your Highness,” he said, “may we present Lady Selene Serakir—rightful heir by blood to the throne you intend to claim.”

The woman—Selene—did not bow.

She simply met Alistair’s gaze, chin tilted slightly upward, as if she were studying him the same way he studied her. There was no fear in her expression. Only curiosity. Maybe irritation. Maybe confusion at being dragged before a man in ceremonial white and gold who stared at her as though she were some kind of apparition.

Alistair forced his voice steady. “You bring me an unknown woman wearing… that”—his words slipped sharper than intended—“and expect me to acknowledge her as a legitimate rival to the crown?”

One of the nobles smirked. “Her attire is customary where she was raised. Her lineage, however, is irrefutable.”