The fire crackled low in the center of the clearing, but its warmth did nothing to dispel the chill growing in Aria’s bones.

She sat alone, staring into the flames as though they might burn away the image haunting her—the vision she had seen when she placed the crown on her head.

Not the vision of Mara. Not even of war.

But herself.

Or rather… the twisted version of herself. The one cloaked in silver and shadow, seated on a throne made of bone and ash. Her eyes had been sharp as ...