The flames had died, but the fire remained—in the hearts of those who had risen with her, and those who had watched from the ashes.
It had been months since the fall of Virelle.
The palace, once a prison of bone and deceit, had been torn down brick by brick. In its place, a sanctuary grew: not for kings or queens, but for the free. For the people. And standing at the heart of it was Seina—not draped in velvet or gold, but in truth.
She had refused the crown the moment it was offered. “The world doesn’t need another ruler,” she had said. “It needs a keeper.”
So she became exactly that.
Children ran through the cobbled streets with phoenix sigils sewn onto their sleeves, not out of fear, but pride. The once-muted city of Virelle pulsed with music, markets, and laughter. And yet—echoes of the past never fully left.
Every stone in the new square bore the names of the fallen. Miro’s name was there, carved with reverence. He had given his life the night of the final charge, shielding Seina from the last arrow meant to kill her. His sacrifice had not gone unanswered.
Kaydence Drankworth had taken up a quieter post beside her—less a general, more a guardian. He rarely smiled, but when he did, it was for her.
Their bond had been forged in fire, stitched together by loss, betrayal, and a love that neither of them had the luxury to name until it was nearly lost. Now, when their hands found each other, they held fast.
Annora’s memory, too, lingered like mist. Some cursed her. Others mourned her. But Seina—Seina forgave her. Because she understood what it meant to be lost. To want something so deeply it consumes you. In the quiet corners of her mind, Seina still spoke to her.
The Triangle had scattered—some remnants seeking peace, others vanishing into shadows. But none dared rise again under the banner of the Vultures.
One day, as Seina walked the ridge above the new sanctuary with Kaydence, he asked,
“Would you do it all again?”
She didn’t answer immediately. The wind tugged at her cloak.
“I think I had to become her to become me,” she finally said.
He didn’t ask who she meant—Scarlet, Seina, Veil. All of them.
As dusk painted the sky in bruised red and silver, a group of children gathered near the edge of the old citadel ruins.
“Tell us the story again!” one shouted. “Tell us about the girl with fire in her veins!”
Seina crouched down, brushing soot from one boy’s cheek. “The one who wore no crown?”
He nodded eagerly. “Yes! But she was still a queen!”
“No,” Seina whispered, touching his heart. “She was something more.”
The boy beamed. “Scarlet Veil!”
And with that, the tale lived on.
Author’s Note:
And here we are, at the end. Or maybe, the beginning of something new.
“Scarlet Veil” has been more than just a novel—it’s been a reckoning. Of identity, power, grief, and love. Writing Seina’s journey—from a hidden heir to a flame that refused to be extinguished—has been one of the most cathartic experiences I’ve ever had. She bled, she broke, but she never bowed. And that strength… I hope it echoes with every reader who’s ever felt like they had to wear a different name just to survive.
To those who stayed through every twist, every betrayal, every kiss and every death—thank you. You breathed life into these pages. You gave this world meaning. This story may end here, but the fire it sparked? That’s yours to carry now.
With all my love, "But even as peace bloomed in the ashes, far beyond the light of Virelle... something darker had already begun to stir."
— C.V. Rose 🥀
"But even as peace bloomed in the ashes, far beyond the light of Virelle... something darker had already begun to stir."
Far beyond the ruins of Virelle, deep in the storm-battered isles of the east, a candle flickered inside a cold, forgotten tower.
A figure stood at the window—cloaked in shadow, watching the stars realign.
“She’s risen,” came a voice from the darkness behind him. “The girl with fire in her veins.”
The cloaked figure turned, revealing a face hidden behind an obsidian mask etched with the ancient crest of the First Circle—the one even the Vultures feared.
“Then the game begins again,” he said. “Let the heir build her kingdom. We will burn it from beneath.”
A second voice, soft and serpentine, joined the first.
“The bloodline isn’t finished. Not yet. There’s another…”
A knife was set on the map of the continent—its tip pointing not to Virelle, but to the Shadowlands, where old gods still whispered.
The masked man smiled.
“Scarlet Veil may wear the fire,” he said, “but we still hold the spark.”