Lucien had never screamed in a council chamber before.
Not when the rebel armies marched on the southern border.Not when his mother died and his father locked himself in grief.Not even when the plague devoured the eastern cities.
But that morning, with the report of Aurora's near-abduction in his hand, he roared like a betrayed man—not a sovereign.
"This was my decree!" he thundered, slamming the scroll onto the long marble table, its crack echoing through the vaulted chamber. "My seal. My authority. And someone dared to override it?"
The council sat frozen. Even the most seasoned of lords kept their eyes lowered.
Only Seraphina looked at him.
Unmoved. Regal. Untouchable.
"There must be a misunderstanding," she said smoothly, voice silk over steel. "The order did not come from this room."
"Then where?" Lucien demanded. "Did the gods whisper it? Did a priest write the signature?"
Seraphina's lips curled into a polite smile. "Perhaps the threat of rebellion has made some of your loyalists…overzealous."
He stared at her. Really looked.
And something clicked.
He had loved her once. Or believed he could.
But now she was draped in something more dangerous than fabric or power—conviction without compassion.
"Aurora could have been killed," he said, voice low.
"But she wasn't," Seraphina replied. "And perhaps next time she will know her place."
He rose slowly, rage honed into precision.
"Summon the Forum," he said.
Gasps filled the chamber.
"The people's Forum?" asked Lord Rheston. "That hasn't been convened in—"
"Decades," Lucien finished. "Yes. That ends now."
The Forum was once the jewel of the Empire's law.
An open-air arena where rulers and citizens could speak without barrier. It had been designed centuries ago as a place for judgment and justice—a holy space where truths were laid bare beneath the sky.
But it had not been used since Lucien's grandfather outlawed public assemblies.
Now, for the first time in thirty-six years, the chains on the Forum gates were unlatched.
Dust filled the air as laborers swept the marble benches. Weavers stitched new banners. Heralds blew horns announcing the coming event:
A Public Hearing of the Crown.
The city buzzed like it had swallowed a storm.
Aurora heard the news two days later.
She was in the highlands, inspecting a temporary shelter built for one of the new schools, when a boy on horseback arrived, his tunic soaked and dusty.
He handed her the invitation with trembling fingers.
You are called to speak at the Forum.In your voice, the Empire will be judged.
There was no signature.
But she knew who had sent it.
Mireille read over her shoulder. "He's serious."
Aurora folded the scroll. "Yes. He is."
"Are you going?"
"I'd be a coward not to."
The night before the Forum, the capital turned into a breathing, restless thing.
Taverns were packed. Ballads were sung. Poets stood on crates reciting their versions of the truth—some hailing Lucien as a reformer, others warning of collapse.
Children carved "AV" into walls.
Vendors sold ink-stamped papers that read: Let her speak.
And somewhere behind closed curtains, Seraphina met with her advisors.
"She'll humiliate us," said Lord Pavin. "You must act."
"I will," Seraphina said. "But not with swords."
She turned to her scribe.
"Prepare a sermon. One the people won't forget."
Aurora arrived at the Forum dressed in gray.
No crown. No makeup. No army.
Just parchment in one hand, and a leather satchel over her shoulder.
The arena, half-crumbling and sunlit, was packed. Nobles sat beside fishermen. Scribes beside street children. Priests beside thieves. The capital had never looked so… united.
Lucien stood at the podium in the center.
When he saw her, something in his shoulders loosened.
She walked to him without hesitation.
They didn't speak.
They simply nodded.
An unspoken truce—for now.
Then the bell tolled.
The Forum began.
Lucien spoke first.
"My people," he said, "I stand before you not as Emperor, but as a man who once believed silence was peace. I was wrong."
The crowd murmured.
He held up Aurora's decree.
"This document changed my vision. And today, its author will speak."
He stepped aside.
Aurora climbed the steps slowly.
She had spoken to dozens of schools, hundreds of girls.
But never like this.
She looked out across the arena.
And began.
"When I left the palace," she said, "many believed it was an act of rebellion. Some said it was betrayal. Others called it madness."
She held up her own hand.
"I call it survival."
The crowd held its breath.
"I did not leave because I hated the Empire. I left because I loved it enough to believe it could be more. I left because I wanted girls in mud villages to dream just as loudly as boys in marble halls. I left because I was never truly invited to stay—not as myself."
A pause.
Then:
"You call me radical. Dangerous. Unruly. But I am just a mirror. I reflect what you already see. In your daughters. In your wives. In yourselves."
Murmurs.
Tears in some eyes.
"I do not ask for thrones. I ask for choices."
She stepped back.
And the arena exploded in applause.
Not loud. But relentless.
Like waves against stone.
Then Seraphina stepped forward.
Robe flowing. Crown gleaming.
She raised both hands, calling for calm.
"My beloved people," she began, "how easily we are swayed by poetry."
Silence.
"But let us not mistake beautiful words for righteous cause. The Empire must have order. Harmony. Hierarchy. Without it, we are beasts."
She turned to Aurora.
"You abandoned your vow. You left the people's trust. And now you return with honeyed lines and empty promises."
Aurora didn't flinch.
"You speak of love, but sow discord."
The crowd shifted, uneasy.
"Tell me, Lady Vale," Seraphina said, voice sharp. "What happens when every girl decides she no longer wants to be a mother? When every wife abandons her husband? When every rule is a prison and every leader a villain?"
Aurora stepped forward again.
"I am not against mothers," she said. "I am a daughter. I honor the wombs that bore us. But to force a woman into one path is not order—it is oppression."
Seraphina's nostrils flared.
"You have no place in the Empire."
Lucien rose.
"She has more place than anyone here."
Silence fell like a sword dropped in water.
He descended the steps.
"I was blind. Now I see. And I would rather walk beside her in change than rule alone in ruin."
A stunned gasp rolled through the Forum.
The people looked at each other.
And then, slowly, one by one—
They began to stand.
First a baker.
Then a teacher.
Then a nobleman's daughter.
Hundreds rose in quiet defiance.
Lucien turned to Seraphina.
"It's over."
She stared back, pale, but composed.
"No," she said. "It's just begun."
That night, fire bloomed in the outer city.
The Free Daughters' northern press was torched.
A library in Tasselridge was looted.
Across the Empire, symbols of resistance were met with violence.
Not by the people.
But by those who feared losing power.
Aurora sat in a small chamber with Lucien as dawn broke.
They drank tea in silence.
Then he spoke.
"We're at war."
"No," she said. "We're at awakening."