Transmigrated as the Villainess Princess - Chapter 257

Chapter 257: A New Direction (21)

The Silver Accord, signed three years after Miraen sealed the final rift, had promised unity among the Five Realms. The ink had barely dried before cracks began to form beneath its gilded surface.

Peace, as it turned out, was not the absence of war—it was the constant tending of a fragile, living thing.

And Miraen, now twenty-one, stood at its heart.

She walked through the marble corridors of the Ember Citadel, the center of interrealm diplomacy, with quiet authority. Courtiers, diplomats, and scholars bowed respectfully as she passed, their gazes tinged with admiration, curiosity, and sometimes wariness.

She had grown taller, her features refined with the elegance of starborn blood and the warmth of a mortal upbringing. Her hair, once pure black, now shimmered with threads of gold under the sun. She wore no crown—only a silver circlet bearing the Flame-Void sigil, the twin swirls of light and dark coiled into unity.

At her side walked Elyon Thorne, her sworn shield—a former mercenary turned guardian, known for his sharp eyes, sharper tongue, and unwavering loyalty.

“You know,” he murmured as they entered the council chamber, “it wouldn’t kill you to let someone else argue with the Sylvarians today.”

Miraen glanced sideways, the faintest smile curling her lips. “It might kill them if I didn’t.”

Elyon chuckled under his breath. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

Inside the chamber, tension hung like fog. The representatives from Sylvaria and Varnhold had been at odds for months over border rights, mineral trade, and accusations of magical sabotage.

At the high dais, Miraen took her place in the central seat—not above, not below, but equal. She tapped her staff—the Flamepiercer—twice upon the floor, and the murmur quieted.

“Honored delegates,” she began, voice calm but firm, “we are gathered not to lay blame, but to lay down paths toward peace. Again.”

High Envoy Maera of Sylvaria scowled. “We have shown restraint long enough, Balancekeeper. Our borders were violated, our waters poisoned.”

“We deny that accusation,” Lord Galen of Varnhold snapped. “No such act was sanctioned by our crown.”

“No one is on trial,” Miraen interjected. “Truth first. Resolution second.”

She gestured, and a sphere of starlight blossomed between them, revealing moving images—memories woven from witness accounts and magical recordings. Over the next hour, the events were laid bare. Sabotage had indeed occurred, but not from either kingdom’s direct orders. A rogue sect, calling themselves the Sons of the Broken Flame, had orchestrated the attacks, hoping to stir another war.

“Who are they?” Maera demanded. “Why haven’t we heard of them before?”

“They are new,” Miraen said, her expression unreadable. “But their doctrine is old. They believe that only through destruction can the flame be reborn.”

Lord Galen frowned. “Do they follow Rohzivaan?”

“No,” Miraen replied. “They believe I am the mistake. That peace was the failure.”

The room went still.

“And what do you believe?” Maera asked quietly.

Miraen looked each of them in the eye.

“I believe peace is a blade we must learn to sharpen. Or we will bleed from its dullness.”

She stood. “I propose a joint investigation team between Sylvaria and Varnhold, led by one of my own emissaries. The Sons will be hunted. Their teachings dismantled. And both realms will rebuild the breach—together.”

Neither ruler looked pleased. But neither argued.

It was a victory.

A fragile one.

But a victory nonetheless.

⟡

Later, Miraen sat alone in her private study, eyes fixed on a scroll bearing the sigil of an old friend.

Fiorensia had written again.

After retiring from the Flame Council, Fiorensia had gone north to rebuild the ruined fortress of Veylspire, turning it into a haven for war orphans and displaced mages. Her letters were filled with warmth, frustration, and tales of unruly children learning to control the sparks in their fingers.

Miraen smiled as she read one particular line:

You’re doing well, even if you don’t believe it. Just remember, shadows always chase the brightest lights. That doesn’t make them stronger.

The parchment smelled faintly of wild roses.

She missed her.

But solitude had become necessary.

The older she grew, the more Miraen felt a distance forming—between her and those around her. Not just political. Spiritual. Elemental. Her power grew still. And with it, so did the weight of being the Balancekeeper.

Some nights, she dreamt of flames that whispered to her.

Others, of endless darkness stretching out like an ocean, and something ancient stirring beneath.

On one such night, she woke drenched in sweat, a single word burning on her lips.

“Elydrith.”

She wrote it down, uncertain why it haunted her.

The next morning, she found a note slipped under her door.

Come to the Starlight Archive. Quietly. — S.

S.

Only one person signed with that letter.

Sorin.

The archivist of forbidden names.

⟡

The Starlight Archive lay deep beneath the Ember Citadel, where time bent softly and even silence had an echo. Few entered without permission. Fewer left with their minds untouched.

Sorin awaited her at the gate—a tall figure in obsidian robes, his face half-shadowed by a hood, eyes glowing like lanterns in the dark.

“You dreamed the word,” he said without greeting.

She nodded.

“Then you’re ready to know it.”

They descended together, past vaults filled with relics sealed by the old flamebearers, past shelves of bone-scrolls and forgotten runes, until they reached a small chamber sealed by stardust wards.

Inside, on a pedestal of black stone, lay a book wrapped in voidsilk.

Sorin untied it with shaking fingers.

“It is called the Lexicon of Reversal,” he said. “Written in Rohzivaan’s final years. Not by his own hand, but by his twin.”

Miraen stared. “He had no twin.”

“None that survived,” Sorin said. “But Elydrith did. In another realm. One cut off during the first sundering. And she—she was worse.”

He turned a page, revealing a map.

Not of this world.

But a mirror of it.

Twisted.

Burned.

Bleeding stars.

Miraen’s fingers brushed the parchment, and she shivered.

“What does it mean?”

“It means there’s another world,” Sorin said. “Where Rohzivaan won. And Elydrith took his place.”

“And now?”

“The veil weakens. Dreams pass between.”

Miraen closed the book slowly.

“What if she comes through?”

Sorin met her gaze. “Then you’ll face not your father’s shadow—but your own.”