Embers of a Hidden Crown

By Kamal Elharde

For five years, Princess Lyanna has lived a lie buried in the depths of a mountain. Her crown is a memory, her royal name ash in the wind. Known only as Elara, she endures the backbreaking labor and watchful eyes of the usurper King Malakor's mine, clinging to a life of obscurity to survive. Her only inheritance is a dormant power in her blood—the legendary sacred fire of her lineage—a deadly secret that could see her burned as a witch if discovered.But when a catastrophic collapse traps her underground, a desperate act of survival ignites the flame within her, revealing her magic to the one person she cannot afford to trust. Exposed and hunted by the king's ruthless inquisitors, her fragile world shatters.Salvation comes from the most dangerous source imaginable: a rogue sorcerer named Silas, whose silver eyes hold centuries of secrets and a power as cold and brutal as hers is fierce and bright. He knows who she is. He knows what she can become. And he offers her an alliance forged in mutual need, not trust. He needs her fire to dismantle the very Shadow Army he helped create. She needs his knowledge to reclaim her throne.As they embark on a treacherous journey through a kingdom on the brink of annihilation, Lyanna must learn to control the raging fire inside her under the guidance of a man who is both her darkest enemy and her only hope. But Silas's past is a haunted tapestry of betrayal and unimaginable sin, and the mystery of his true motives may be the key to lighting the way to victory……or leading them both into a destruction far more absolute than any pyre.A thrilling epic fantasy of hidden royalty, forbidden magic, and an uneasy alliance that will decide the fate of a kingdom. Perfect for fans of epic world-building, complex characters, and stories where light and shadow must collide to survive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kamal Elharde
• Release date: Sep 14, 2025
• ISBN: 9798232098520

Book preview

Kamal Elharde

Embers of a Hidden Crown

Copyright © 2025 by Kamal Elharde

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

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Contents

1. Chapter 1

2. Chapter 2

3. Chapter 3

4. Chapter 4

5. Chapter 5

6. Chapter 6

7. Chapter 7

8. Chapter 8

9. Chapter 9

10. Chapter 10

11. Chapter 11

12. Chapter 12

One

Chapter 1

The Scent of Dust and Iron

The bell’s clang was a dull, leaden thing, echoing not through marble halls but down cramped, sweating rock tunnels. It was the sound of another dawn stolen, another day beginning in the deep, gut-wrenching dark. Elara breathed in the air, thick with the scent of crushed stone, iron ore, and the faint, ever-present tang of despair. For five long years, this had been her world. Her calloused fingers, stained dark with grime, closed around the wooden handle of her pickaxe. It was a familiar weight, a hated anchor. She hefted it onto her shoulder, the rough-spun wool of her tunic scratching against her neck, and fell into line with the other miners. Their faces were etched with a permanent exhaustion, a resignation to the mountain’s endless appetite for their strength. She kept her head down, her gaze fixed on the worn heels of the man in front of her, a silent mantra repeating in her mind. I am no one. I am dust. I am stone. The words were a shield, the only protection she had left.

The overseer, Vorik, stood at the tunnel’s mouth, his bulk blocking the weak morning light filtering down the main shaft. His eyes, small and piggish, scanned the line of workers with predatory disinterest. Move it, maggots! The King’s quota won’t fill itself! You there, Finn, take your crew to the west vein. It’s brittle there, should break easy for your weak swings. A meaty hand pointed, and a group of older men shuffled away. Vorik’s gaze then landed on Elara, lingering just a moment too long. A cold trickle of anxiety traced its way down her spine. She focused on the ground, on making herself small and unremarkable. Elara. Kael. Joren. Deep shaft. The Seam of Sorrows. Lord Malakor wants a progress report by midday. A collective, barely audible groan rippled through those nearby. The Seam was the deepest, most unstable part of the mine.

Kael, a broad-shouldered man with a quiet strength that belied his age, shot her a look of grim solidarity. Stay sharp down there, girl. The mountain’s been groaning all night. His voice was a low rumble, like the earth itself. Elara merely nodded, her throat too tight for words. The descent was a silent, treacherous journey. The wooden ladders groaned under their weight, shedding splinters into the abyss below. The air grew heavier, hotter, tasting of ancient rock and something else… something metallic and sharp that she could never quite name. It was a scent that, inexplicably, made the blood sing in her veins. She pushed the feeling away, a dangerous frivolity in this place of death. Her boots finally hit the uneven floor of the Seam, and the oppressive silence of the deep earth closed around them like a fist.

For hours, the only sounds were the rhythmic clink of picks biting into rock, the harsh rasps of their breathing, and the occasional ominous creak from the timber supports. Elara lost herself in the punishing labor, her muscles burning with a familiar, aching fire. Each swing was a rebellion, a act of defiance against the fate that had buried her here. She was Princess Lyanna, last scion of the house of Aethel, and this pickaxe was her scepter, this prison her kingdom. The bitter irony was a taste more acrid than the dust. Her thoughts drifted, as they often did, to the sun-drenched courtyards of the palace, to the scent of lemon trees and the sound of the silver-stringed lute. The memories were like paintings viewed through a dirty window, beautiful but impossibly distant.

A sudden, sharp crack shattered her reverie. It was not the sound of splitting rock. It was the sound of splintering wood. Time seemed to stretch, to warp. Elara turned her head, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. Above Joren, one of the massive central support beams, strained beyond its limit, sagged with a groan of tortured timber. Joren! Move! Kael’s roar was raw with panic. But