The moon rode high above the silvered rooftops of Bethel Keep, its pale light spilling through latticed windows and pooling like liquid across tapestried halls. A hush lay over the fortress, broken only by the distant toll of the night bell and the soft rustle of silk as guards paced their posts. Even the howling wind seemed to hold its breath, as though waiting for the night's true business to begin.
In Princess Madison's chamber, candlelight flickered over anxious faces. Captain Roland Darrow perched on the edge of a carved oak bench, armored gauntlet set aside. Beside him, Mason Bethel adjusted the fit of his tunic, knuckles whitening as he gripped the velvet cushion. Annie Cole, cloaked and alert, pressed a finger to her lips, while Zelda—the late queen's devoted attendant—gazed at Madison with pleading eyes.
"We must leave," Roland urged, voice low. "There's no time. The corridors grow deadly with betrayal." He reached out, hand poised to draw his sword if needed. Mason stepped forward, eager. Annie nodded in agreement, cloak shifting like a shadow. Even Zelda's silver-streaked hair gleamed with determination. All awaited Madison's consent.
But the princess shook her head, auburn braid shimmering in candlelight. "I will not flee," she said quietly, yet firmly. "My mother—no, my stepmother—hatches her schemes behind my back, and I will stand in her path. Let her send assassins; I will confront her in the throne room, where truth may yet hold sway."
Roland's jaw clenched. "You cannot face her alone, my lady. She wields poison and dark alliances." He cast a worried glance at Annie—blood of his sister's house—and Zelda, whose loyalties ran as deep as the royal vaults. Then he turned back to Madison. "If you stay, we stay with you. But know that the castle stirs with lethal intent."
Madison's pulse fluttered like a captive bird. She stepped to the window, gazing out at the black expanse of the northern courtyard. "I would rather die with sword in hand," she whispered, "than cower behind secret passages. Cynthia will learn that the blood of Isolde Bethel still runs strong."
⸻
Far above, in the sanctum of the royal bedchamber, Queen Cynthia Bethel stood over her sleeping husband. King John lay draped in silken sheets, chest rising and falling in gentle rhythms. His dark hair fanned the pillow, and his armored breastplate gleamed beneath the moonlight. Cynthia's fingers curled around the hilt of a slender dagger, silver runes carved into its blade.
She watched him for a long moment, nostrils flaring. "When I married you," the king murmured in his sleep, voice low as a tremor, "I knew you were poison." His eyes flickered open, catching hers. For a heartbeat, he lay still—then sighed. "You were beautiful poison."
Cynthia's lips curled in a venomous smile. "I have grown accustomed to the taste," she replied, soft as silk. Lifting her hand, she snapped her slender fingers. From the shadows beside her ebony throne, two figures detached themselves: a tall assassin in hooded black, and a lithe silhouette cloaked in midnight velvet. Neither spoke; their movements were as fluid as smoke.
Before John could rise, the taller figure lunged, dagger aimed at his throat. The king threw off his covers with a snarl—so swift that Cynthia's throat tightened in anticipation. But then, wielding a mastery born of cold calculation, she stepped forward. "Stop," she commanded, voice resonant with regal authority.
The assassins froze. John, chest heaving, stared at his wife—realization dawning. "You were… a step ahead of me," he rasped.
Cynthia inclined her head, dagger pointed to his breast. "I will take the throne for Eren, John. Even if it means striking down the man I call my husband."
⸻
In her subterranean chamber of incense and arcane tomes, Madame Frida's candles guttered as though the very air feared to breathe. The crystal grail on its pedestal pulsed beneath her trembling hands. She had prophesied doom for Bethel's heirs, a curse of shadows and blood—but now, as the night's treacheries unfolded in vivid betrayal, she knew she had misread the signs.
Her breath hitched. With a strangled cry, she sank to her knees before the grail, fingers clawing at the runes etched around its rim. "I was wrong," she gasped, voice hoarse with terror and shame. "This is but a royal squabble—poison in the veins of the court, not the coming of the world's end."
The crystal's glow dimmed momentarily, as if heedless of her confession, then flickered back. The seer pressed her forehead to the cold stone, tears mingling with the incense haze. "The woman in red… not ruin, but redemption in time's distant path," she whispered. "Forgive me, spirits of the flame." In the hush that followed, Frida vowed to watch anew—lesser threats first, greater darkness later.
⸻
Miles away, down the winding road to the west, the Ashen Blades rode under a tapestry of stars. Leo Nerona led the column, twin swords sheathed at his back, cloak stirring like ink on parchment. Dorothy sat beside him in the lead carriage, face pale but composed, hands clasped in her lap. Behind them, Liv cracked jokes to Zeno, who grunted between gulps of brandy, they rode in close formation, their vigil unbroken.
It was a quiet journey—until Dorothy paused midsentence, brow knitting. "Do you feel it?" she murmured, voice hushed.
Liv glanced up, arrowhead glinting in the moonlight. "The air's too calm," she said, tone suspicious. "Like a beast holding its breath."
Leo slowed his horse, chest tightening. From the dust-choked road behind them to the distant line of forest, all was silent. He looked east—toward home—and saw only darkness pressed against the horizon.
"Something's wrong," he said. "South of the Carstone River, the skies shift first."
Dorothy rose, stepping onto the carriage's footboard. "We should see it coming," she agreed. Her cloak whipped around her like a banner, and she pointed at the empty sky. "Watch."
Moments ticked by in tense stillness, until a low rumble—muffled at first—drifted across the plains. The horses skittered beneath them; Zeno cursed as he slapped his mount's flank. The rumble grew in volume, a rolling thunder not of storm but of vast, clamoring power—an animal roar that shook the very earth.
Liv seized the reins, pulling her horse to a skidding halt. "By the old gods," she breathed. "What in the realms—?"
Zeno's eyes glowed, reflecting the distant flash as if lightning split the sky. He dismounted, drawing his two daggers in one smooth motion. Dorothy leapt from the carriage, boots landing softly on the road, face turned westward.
Leo, heart pounding like war drums, strode to the crest of a small rise. He shielded his eyes with one black gloved hand and stared into the darkness beyond the road. The roar came again, louder and more feral, as though a million beasts were trampling the lands. Then Leo's knees buckled; he clutched his belly, a gasp ripping from his lips.
"What—Leo?" Dorothy cried, rushing to his side as he collapsed to one knee.
He looked up, eyes wild with pain, mouth open in a silent scream. And there, on the pale skin of his belly, over the old diamond-shaped birthmark, a pale blue light pulsed like a heartbeat. It spilled across his torso in winking arcs, illuminating the dust around him.
"What—" Leo rasped, voice ragged. "What is going on?"
⸻
Behind them, the night sky trembled with the echo of that ancient roar—a sound that would be whispered in terror from Neros's western woods to the eastern sea. The quiet shattered, and in its wake lay the promise of a darkness far greater than palace intrigues, a reckoning that would demand every blade, every heart, every soul aligned against the gathering storm. And at its center stood Leo Nerona—marked by fate, inseparable from the dawn that would follow.