Moments later,
The cold, condemning stone of the Council Chamber was finally behind her. Lumira didn't just walk out; she stumbled, catching herself against the ancient, dark mahogany door frame.
The sheer, overwhelming wash of relief was a physical blow, a sudden draining of adrenaline that left her legs weak as water.
On the delicate inner skin of her left wrist, the silver crescent sigil pulsed, a low, steady luminescence that echoed the heavy, triumphant beat of her own heart.
It was a living breathing mark of ascension, afterall, she was the new High Arcanist of the Moon Seal. The sigil radiated not the agonizing memory of the fire but a deep humming warmth, like the first defiant ray of moonlight breaking through a centuries-long storm cloud.
She had endured the scrutiny of the High Council, swallowed the vile humiliation of her past, and faced the collective, sneering doubt of the entire noble society, and she had prevailed.
She was named the rightful heir, not just by blood, but by magic and decree, to the land that had been cruelly snatched from her House.
In her right hand, the Deed to the Wastelands was clutched so tightly the antique parchment threatened to crinkle.
It was a single sheet, thick and brittle with age, bound not by simple wax but by a complex, binding magi that felt icy-hot against her palm.
Silver filigree, like frozen vines, laced across its edges, and these lines glowed with a faint, spectral light, as if the ancient power of the earth itself recognized its new, hard-won bearer. Its weight was staggering - not just the physical substance of the paper, but the spiritual pressure of destiny fulfilled, of a deep-seated wrong finally righted.
This was the key to her family's recovery, the ultimate revenge against the betrayal that had nearly consumed her. For the first time since her fall from grace, since the shattering day Jaxon had left her for ruin, Lumira felt an undeniable, magnetic pull toward wholeness return to the hollow cave of her chest.
She smoothed the parchment with a trembling thumb, the slight friction a grounding force.
The corridors of the Chamber of Aethelred stretched away, a cavernous echoing tunnel lined with dark velvet banners, their woven sigils catching the dim, smoky torchlight.
The air was thick with the scent of aged stone, burnt incense, and the chilling, stale odor of centuries of political ambition. It was here, in this fortress of judgment, that she found her anchor.
Her best friend, Sera, hadn't bothered with poise or decorum.
The moment the great doors of the Chamber whispered shut with the solemn finality of a judge's gavel, Sera exploded from the shadows of a nearby alcove. Her long, golden hair, usually so meticulously pinned, flew around her shoulders as she darted forward, her plumpy frame colliding into Lumira's arms with a force that made her stagger and laugh all at once.
"You did it! Lumira, you did it!" Sera's voice was a joyous, breathless sound, high-pitched with relief that bordered on hysteria.
She clung to Lumira's silk purple robes, burying her face in her shoulder as if afraid Lumira might vanish into the cold stone walls.
"I knew you would. I never doubted you, not for a single second!"
A shaky, half-disbelieving laugh finally bubbled out of Lumira. It was a sound of absolute liberation.
"It… it wasn't easy," Lumira managed to say, her throat still rough from the dry, magic-infused air of the Trial.
The memories of the fire and the shadow and the crushing weight of all those watching eyes that had hungered for her failure, were still too fresh.
"But it's done. The past is finally, truly sealed."
Sera drew back, her baby blue eyes luminous, shimmering with a proud, happy sheen. She ran her hands down Lumira's arms, checking to make sure she was truly whole.
"Done and victorious! That forsaken land is yours again. Oh, Lumira, you have no idea how happy I am for House Duskbane."
Lumira felt a genuine, deep-seated smile finally settle on her face, though the edges of her lips still trembled slightly.
"I think I'm just beginning to."
For a precious, unhurried minute, they simply stood there, two young women bound by a fierce, tested friendship - one who felt reborn into a brutal new strength, and one who had remained unwavering through the storm.
Then, with a dramatic, exaggerated sniff, Sera brushed away a tear that had managed to escape.
"Right. Well, we can't just stand here breathing in the scent of stale power and old ambition," she declared, her practical side instantly snapping back into place. "We should be celebrating! But… you know I can't stay with you right this second. I need to get down to the Department of Records. My cousin, Abigail, just got that junior post there, and I promised her a quick greeting before the Council's official news hits the public ledgers. But don't you dare disappear on me, all right? Your grandmother told me to remind you to go straight to her office once you're done. I'll run down, say my quick hellos, and be back up to join you the moment I'm free. We have a future to plan."
Lumira nodded, her heart lighter and warmer than it had been in years. They shared one last, powerful squeeze of the hands, a silent promise of loyalty. Then, Sera, ever efficient, darted down a side corridor, her golden hair a bright streak against the gloom.
Lumira turned the opposite way, toward the spiraling passage that led to the private offices reserved for the oldest, highest-ranking families of the realm, relying on the original Lumira's memories to locate her grandma's office.
The walk was the longest of her life, and though the passage was steeped in solemn history, her steps felt extraordinarily buoyant, light as a feather. She moved with a confidence she hadn't possessed since before her world crumbled.
All along the stone-flagged path, the nobles and officials who had spent the last several weeks whispering behind their gilded fans, mocking her fall from grace, and sneering at her public humiliation were still present. But now, their demeanor was entirely altered.
As she passed, the conversations died.
A cluster of officials from the Ministry of Taxation, who had been openly discussing her ruinous debts just yesterday, froze in their tracks, their faces instantly blank.
They didn't just look at her; they studied her, their eyes flicking from the deed in her hand to the undeniable, throbbing silver mark on her wrist. The looks were a complicated mix of respect, but with overwhelmingly wariness and cold fear.
Lord Veridian, a man whose family had profited directly from Lumira's disgrace, quickly inclined his head. The motion was stiff and unwilling, but it was a bow of submission all the same.
Others, even more brazen in their past cruelty, actively stepped back, murmuring in tones that were now tinged with a reluctant awe.
They were seeing not the abandoned bride, not the broken girl left to rot in betrayal, but Crown Princess Lumira of House Duskbane, the White Witch who had walked into the High Council's lion's den and emerged not only intact but bearing a Deed signed in silver fire and ratified by the will of the Ancestors.
'This is it', she thought, a slow, intoxicating sense of power coiling in her belly.
'This is the difference. They don't respect the name I carry. They respect the storm I survived... and I'm just getting started!'