The Hall of Names did not exist on any map — only in stories whispered by dying queens and sealed archivists. It was said to lie beneath the roots of the oldest tree in the kingdom, its gates carved from bones that remembered betrayal.
Elira and Lucien stood before its entrance at dawn. Mist curled around them like wary spirits.
Lucien glanced at the seal on the stone archway. "This is made from royal blood."
"It responds only to one who remembers every forgotten name," Elira murmured.
She pressed the scroll Cael had left into the stone.
The seal blinked red, then dissolved.
Inside, the hall was vast and empty—no walls, only mist and statues of every heir who had ever ruled, each bearing a title and a choice. Some wore crowns, others chains. All were silent.
A voice echoed—neither male nor female, old nor young.
"Elira Virelle. You are the last of the line. What do you seek?"
"I seek to choose love, not be cursed by it."
The mists stirred. The statues lit one by one, showing the memory of each ancestor's choice.
One chose power and lost her mind.One chose love and lost her kingdom.One chose silence and lost her name.
"You must choose what none have dared," the voice said.
A sigil flared before her—a blade and a crown, bound by fire.
"To end the curse, you must cut the thread. That which binds you… will be no more."
Lucien's eyes widened. "It means your bloodline. Your title. Everything."
Elira nodded. "I know."
She stepped forward.
The blade rose from the floor—cold fire crackling along its edge. The crown hovered above it, bleeding drops of light.
Elira placed one hand over the crown, the other on the blade's hilt.
Memories surged:
Her father's execution.
Cael's fading gaze.
Lucien's voice whispering her name in the dark.
The night she first realized she didn't want to be queen—she wanted to be free.
She struck.
The crown shattered.
The blade dissolved.
And the mists screamed.
Lucien caught her as she fell to her knees.
Her sigil flickered, then faded. No longer cursed. No longer heir.
She was just… Elira.
The voice whispered one final time.
"You have chosen. May your soul finally be yours."
Outside the Hall, sunlight broke through.
Elira opened her eyes, breathing hard.
Lucien smiled. "You're free."
She reached up, cupping his face.
"So are you."
And then, in the golden morning light, she kissed him—not as the heir, not as the cursed, not as the queen.
Just as Elira. And Lucien.
Two people who chose each other.