Read Chapter 32: The Two Rings

The twin rings lay in Anya’s palm, cold against her fevered skin. One was warm from her father’s grip—the King’s ring, broad and heavy, its band engraved with the royal crest of intertwined serpents. The other, smaller and finer, was the twin to the shattered locket Elara had pieced together, its surface etched with the same delicate filigree that had circled her mother’s throat.

They hummed together, a faint vibration that Anya felt in her teeth.

“We have to find Elara,” Kael said, his hand already on the door of the King’s study. Behind them, the King lay slumped against his desk, breath shallow but steady. “Before midnight. Before you forget.”

Anya tore her gaze from the rings and forced herself to look at her father’s face. The guilt that had carved lines into his features was deeper than she had ever seen. He had bound her. Willingly. Believing the worst of her mother.

“He’ll wake soon,” she said. “And when he does, he’ll want these back.”

“He gave them to you.”

“He gave them to me because he couldn’t bear to hold them. That’s not the same as trusting me with them.” Anya closed her fist around the rings and moved past Kael into the corridor. The palace was quiet—too quiet. The kind of silence that preceded a storm.

They found Elara in the library, hunched over a table covered in scattered papers and half-burned candles. The healer looked up as they entered, and her eyes went immediately to Anya’s clenched fist.

“You have them.” Elara’s voice was barely above a whisper. She crossed the room in three strides and reached for Anya’s hand. “Both of them.”

Anya opened her palm. The rings caught the candlelight, glinting like twin eyes.

Elara’s breath caught. She traced the air above them without touching, her fingers trembling. “The curse was bound with two anchors—one tied to your flesh, one tied to your bloodline. The locket was your mother’s piece. The ring was your father’s. Separated, they sustained the curse. United—” She looked up, and for the first time, Anya saw something like hope in the healer’s face. “United, they can be unmade.”

“How?” Kael asked.

“They must be melted down together. The metal was forged with a single spell—a lock. The same metal, fused in the same vessel, becomes a key.” Elara moved to a cabinet and pulled out a small clay crucible, its interior blackened with old residue. “The forge in the south tower still burns. We can—”

A tremor ran through the floor.

Anya staggered, catching herself on the edge of the table. Books rattled on their shelves. The candles guttered and danced, throwing wild shadows across the walls.

“He’s here,” Kael said. His sword was already in his hand, though Anya had not seen him draw it.

Elara’s face went pale. “He should have died with the Queen. That was the pact—his life for hers, the curse sustained by her blood.”

“He didn’t die,” Anya said, the rings burning against her palm. “He’s been waiting for these.”

The tremor came again, stronger this time. Somewhere in the palace, a window shattered. A servant screamed, and the sound cut off abruptly.

Kael moved to the door. “We need to reach the forge before he finds us. Elara, is there another way?”

“The servants’ passages,” Elara said, already gathering her skirts. “They run beneath the west wing. We can emerge near the south tower’s base.”

Anya tucked the rings into the inner pocket of her bodice, pressing them flat against her ribs. They were cold, so cold, as if they drank the warmth from her skin.

“He’ll know where we’re going,” she said. “If he bound the curse, he knows what the rings can do. He’ll come for the forge.”

“Then we don’t give him time,” Kael said. He met Anya’s eyes. “Trust me.”

The words hung between them. The ledger warning—Do not trust—flashed through her mind. She had written it in a moment of doubt. She still didn’t know which name it belonged to. Her father, who had betrayed her. Elara, who hesitated to speak the sorcerer’s name. Kael—

Kael, who had lied to her for weeks. Who had come to her under false pretenses. Who had confessed his crime with tears in his eyes.

But he was here. And he was holding the door.

Another tremor, closer now. Dust shook from the rafters. Elara pulled at Anya’s sleeve. “Now, Your Highness. We must go.”

Anya moved. She followed Elara into a narrow passage hidden behind a false bookshelf, Kael bringing up the rear with his sword drawn. The corridor was dark and close, the air thick with the smell of old stone and rat droppings. Anya counted her steps, feeling the rings pulse against her heart.

The passage sloped downward, then rose again. Through cracks in the stone, she heard shouting, the clash of metal, the unmistakable sound of magic—a crackling, wet sound that made her skin crawl.

“He’s brought things with him,” Kael said quietly. “Shadows. I saw them gathering in the courtyard before I found you.”

“Shadow-constructs,” Elara hissed. “He feeds them on fear. They’ll hunt anyone who runs.”

Anya stopped. “The servants. The guards. He’ll kill them all looking for me.”

“He’ll kill them regardless if we don’t break the curse,” Elara said. “The rings are the only way. If he reclaims them, he becomes unstoppable.”

Anya wanted to argue. To turn back. To fight.

But the cold weight against her chest reminded her of what was at stake. Her mother’s memory. Her father’s guilt. The story she couldn’t remember but had spent every night of her life trying to reclaim.

She kept walking.

The passage ended at a rusted iron door. Kael pushed it open, and they emerged into the base of the south tower. The forge was above them, a circular chamber open to the sky, its furnace fed by a natural chimney that drew fire from deep beneath the earth. Anya could feel the heat even from here.

They climbed the spiral stairs. The steps were worn smooth, aged by centuries of smiths and their apprentices. The rings grew warmer against her skin.

“The forge itself was built for the binding ritual,” Elara said, breathless. “It was never meant for weapons. The fire is primal—older than the castle. It can unmake what was made.”

Anya reached the top of the stairs and stepped onto the forge’s floor. The furnace roared before her, flames of blue and gold licking at the air. Tools hung from the walls. A massive anvil dominated the center of the room, its surface scarred by countless hammer strikes.

She pulled the rings from her bodice. They gleamed in the firelight.

“We melt them together,” she said. “That’s all?”

“That’s all,” Elara confirmed. “But the process requires a steady hand and a clear mind. The metal will resist. It wants to remain bound.”

Kael moved to stand guard at the top of the stairs. “Do it. I’ll hold the door.”

Anya approached the furnace. The heat was immense, pressing against her like a living thing. She placed one ring in the crucible, then the other. They lay there, nestled together, twin circles catching the fire’s glow.

“Now what?”

“Wait,” Elara said. “And watch.”

The rings began to glow. At first, a soft amber, then brighter—until Anya had to shield her eyes. The metal softened, then flowed, merging into a single molten stream within the crucible.

And then the tower shook.

Not a tremor this time, but a blow. The windows shattered. The furnace roared, sending sparks spiraling into the dark sky above. And the flames themselves—the primal flames of the forge—began to gutter and dim.

“No,” Elara whispered. “He’s here. He’s reaching for them.”

Anya stared at the crucible. The molten metal was cooling, hardening, refusing to complete its transformation.

And from the darkness below the tower, a voice rose up—deep, resonant, familiar in a way that made her blood run cold.

“Princess. You’ve brought my rings home.”