The clash of steel echoed across the northern hills like thunder.
Morve's soldiers pushed forward through the fog-covered valley, their crimson banners whipping violently in the wind. Across the battlefield, the dark brown standards of Velthoria rose like a wall of defiance.
War had finally reached the border.
Prince Alexander Valerian of Morve, heir to the throne, rode at the front line beside the man who had trained him since childhood—Sir Thomas Reed.
Alexander was twenty-two, tall and broad-shouldered, his silver armor gleaming beneath the pale morning light. Yet despite the crown waiting for him, he still fought like a soldier rather than a prince.
Sir Thomas rode beside him like a shadow.
Older now. Harder. Scarred by years of battle.
But his sword still moved like lightning.
"Stay behind the line, Your Highness," Thomas warned, parrying a Velthorian blade with brutal precision.
Alexander smirked slightly.
"You taught me to fight, old man. Don't complain when I actually do."
A Velthorian soldier lunged.
Alexander's sword cut through the man's guard in a swift arc. Alexander moved through the battlefield like a living storm. His sword flashed in swift, precise arcs, each strike clean, each movement controlled with the discipline of a man trained since childhood for war.
Velthorian soldiers hesitated the moment they recognized the golden lion crest on his silver armor—the mark of Morve's crown prince. Some tried to surround him, others lunged recklessly, yet one by one they fell beneath his blade. The rumor that Alexander Valerian fought like hundreds men was no exaggeration; wherever he rode, Morve's line surged forward while Velthoria's ranks broke in uneasy retreat.
Fear spread quickly among the enemy soldiers. And when fear could not defeat him, they turned to something less honorable—sending a hidden assassin through the chaos of battle, armed not with skill alone, but with a blade darkened by poison.
Dusk came, and war was chaos.
And chaos always hid danger.
A soldier dressed in darker armor slipped between the clash of bodies.
Too quiet.
Too fast.
The blade struck Alexander beneath the arm where the armor joined.
A shallow wound—
But the metal was blackened.
Poison.
Alexander staggered in the saddle.
Sir Thomas saw it instantly.
"Alexander!"
He cut down the attacker with a single brutal swing before grabbing the prince's horse.
"Listen to me," Thomas growled, gripping Alexander's armor.
"I'm fine—"
"You're poisoned."
The prince's vision blurred.
The battlefield seemed to tilt.
"Ride north," Thomas ordered. "Into the forest. Now."
"I'm not leaving my army."
"You are leaving because Morve cannot lose its heir today."
Alexander's breathing grew shallow.
Sir Thomas leaned closer.
His voice turned deadly serious.
"Go. I'll hold them here."
More Velthorian soldiers surged forward.
Thomas shoved Alexander's horse toward the tree line.
"Ride!"
Alexander clenched the reins and kicked the horse forward. A few men were following him behind.
On the spot, Sir Thomas raised his sword and charged into the enemy ranks.
The forest swallowed the prince within moments.
But the poison was already spreading through his veins.
***
Back in Grey Hollow, Clara Whitford watched Elera with thinly veiled irritation.
The market had gone well again.
Too well.
Elera returned with a small pouch of coins earned from selling dried herbs and medicinal roots.
"Look at her," Clara scoffed loudly. "Playing healer like she's some noble lady."
Marlene Whitford barely glanced up from the table with a basket of apples.
"As long as she brings money, let her play."
Clara stepped closer to Elera, crossing her arms.
"You think people respect you."
"I never said that," Elera replied calmly.
"You walk around like you're special."
"I don't."
Clara snatched her basket, took her money, and one of the herb bundles from the basket and tossed it into the dirt.
"You're just a servant who forgot her place."
Elera bent down quietly and picked it up.
But Clara stepped on her hand. Elera winced in pain, but she held her scream, anger, or tears when she remembered Agnes's words.
"Don't hurt her hand, Sweetheart. Who will cook and clean this house if she is sick?" A mocking tone came out of her stepmother's mouth.
"Yes, Mom," Clara smirked.
.
.
.
When the night showed up, Elera grabbed her cloak and torch and slipped out the door.
The forest welcomed her like an old friend.
Deep between the pine trees stood the one place that belonged entirely to her.
A small glass greenhouse built from scrap frames and salvaged windows.
Her sanctuary.
Her secret.
She had built it slowly over years with the coins she earned at the market.
Inside, rows of herbs grew in careful order.
Lavender.
Yarrow.
Feverfew.
Belladonna locked safely behind a wooden divider.
Books lay stacked on a small wooden desk beside jars of dried roots.
Here, Elera could breathe.
Here, she could be herself.
She knelt beside a planter, carefully trimming fresh leaves when something shifted in the underbrush outside.
A branch snapped.
Elera froze.
Slowly, she reached for the small shank knife tucked in her belt.
"Who's there?"
No answer.
Then a body collapsed against the greenhouse door.
A man.
Tall.
Armored.
Bleeding.
His face pale beneath tangled dark hair.
And when Elera saw the blackened wound beneath his armor—
Her healer's instincts flared instantly.
Poison.
***
Far away in Ashbourne, Lady Eleanor Hartwell lay dying.
The once-powerful matriarch of Morve's richest merchant family now looked fragile beneath silk blankets.
Isabella sat beside the bed, gripping her mother's hand.
"Mother, please rest."
Eleanor's breathing was shallow.
But her eyes were clear.
"There's something... you must know."
Isabella frowned.
"What is it?"
Eleanor's fingers tightened weakly.
"The child."
Isabella froze.
The room suddenly felt colder.
"My child... died," she whispered.
Eleanor shook her head slowly.
"No."
Tears filled her eyes.
"I couldn't let them kill her."
Isabella's heart stopped.
"What... did you say?"
"I followed the midwife that night," Eleanor confessed weakly. "I saw her take the baby away."
Her voice trembled.
"She smiled, Isabella. Your daughter smiled at me."
Isabella felt the world tilt.
"Mother..."
"I told Agnes to take her far away," Eleanor continued. "I sent gold every month so she would be safe."
The duchess's hands began to shake.
"You mean... she lives?"
Eleanor nodded faintly.
"Somewhere in the north."
A tear slid down Isabella's cheek.
For eighteen years she had mourned a ghost.
Now hope—dangerous, impossible hope—burned in her chest.
But Eleanor's strength was fading.
"Find her," the old woman whispered. Then her hand went still.
And across the Kingdom of Morve.
A wounded prince lay unconscious in a hidden greenhouse.
Unaware that the girl about to save his life was the lost daughter of a duchess.
And the war between Morve and Velthoria had only just begun.
To be continued...