The forest shifted first.
Not loudly. Not violently.
Just enough to be noticed by those who knew better.
Simon felt it before he saw it—the way the air thickened, the way the frost beneath his boots no longer cracked the same way. His hand tightened around the hilt of his sword, instinct sharpened by years of war.
Around them, the soldiers slowed.
Too quiet.
Thessaly stopped walking.
"This is where she wants us," she said softly.
Simon did not turn. "Then this is where we stand."
The trees leaned inward, their branches arching like ribs over the narrow clearing. Frost slid from bark without wind. Shadows stretched where sunlight should have broken them apart.
A soldier shifted behind Simon.
Then froze.
"General—" the man began, voice faltering.
Simon turned sharply. "Speak."
The soldier's eyes were unfocused, pupils blown wide as if staring at something only he could see. His hand trembled on his spear.
"She's—" He swallowed. "She's whispering."
Thessaly was already moving.
"Do not listen," she commanded, voice cutting through the air like steel. "Do not answer her. Anchor yourselves. Names. Memories. Pain if you must."
The soldier gasped as Thessaly pressed two fingers to his temple, murmuring under her breath. The frost around his boots cracked sharply, spreading outward like a broken mirror.
He collapsed to one knee, breathing hard—but alive.
Simon scanned the forest.
"Show yourself," he said calmly, his voice carrying without effort. "If you intend to play games, do it properly."
Laughter answered him.
Not from one direction—but many.
It slid between the trees, soft and amused, layered in a dozen echoes that didn't quite align.
"You bring iron and certainty into my woods," the voice said. "How brave of you, King of Vishendor."
Thessaly's eyes hardened. "She knows you."
Simon stepped forward, unflinching. "And you know better than to test me from the shadows."
A shape formed between the trees.
Not fully solid. Not fully illusion.
A woman—tall, pale, her dark hair woven with frost and bone. Her eyes glimmered like moonlight on ice, ancient and curious.
"You call me a witch," she said lightly. "As if that explains anything."
"You slaughtered my men," Simon replied. "That explains enough."
The witch tilted her head. "Slaughter? No. I merely… listened. They doubted. They feared. I helped them understand how small they were."
Her gaze slid to Thessaly.
"And you," she murmured. "You see too much."
Thessaly did not flinch. "And you hide because you cannot face discipline."
The witch smiled wider.
"Ah. A sage who remembers how power used to feel."
The forest reacted.
Roots burst from the ground without warning, snapping upward like grasping hands. Two soldiers were thrown back as shadows thickened, swallowing sound.
Simon moved.
His sword left its sheath in one smooth motion, silver flashing as he cut through a lunging root. The blade hummed—warded, reinforced, prepared.
"Hold formation!" he barked. "Do not chase. Do not separate."
The witch's laughter faded into something sharper.
"You are not like the others," she said, voice closer now—too close. "But even kings hesitate when they begin to see the truth."
The world tilted.
For a fraction of a second, Simon was no longer in the forest.
He stood in a throne room—empty. Blood stained the marble. A crown lay shattered at his feet.
His breath stilled.
Then Thessaly slammed her staff into the ground.
The vision shattered like glass.
"Enough," she snapped. "You will not take him."
The witch recoiled slightly, eyes narrowing.
"Interesting," she murmured. "You protect him."
Simon exhaled once—slow, controlled.
"Is that all?" he asked coldly. "Illusions and whispers?"
The witch studied him for a long moment.
"No," she said at last. "This was curiosity."
Her form began to unravel, frost lifting into the air like ash.
"But now I know how to hurt you."
The forest stilled.
Then she was gone.
Silence crashed back into place, heavy and absolute.
The soldiers stood frozen, shaken but intact.
Simon did not lower his sword.
"She was testing us," Thessaly said quietly. "Not attacking. Measuring."
Simon stared into the trees where the witch had stood.
"Then she's made her mistake."
He turned to his men, voice iron-clad.
"We reinforce the wards. Double the perimeter. No one walks alone. No one sleeps without protection."
His gaze hardened.
"She wanted fear," he continued. "She will get discipline instead."
As the soldiers moved to obey, Thessaly lingered beside him.
"She will strike again," she said. "Soon. And next time—she will not come alone."
Simon nodded once.
"Neither will we."
The forest watched them.
And somewhere far deeper within it, something else stirred—something older, sharper, and far more dangerous than the witch had intended to reveal.
The morning air was crisp, carrying the metallic tang of steel and the faint scent of frost-tinged grass. The training grounds were alive with the rhythm of drills—soldiers moving with precision, blades slicing through the air, hooves striking the earth in measured cadence. Yet amidst the order, a quiet tension lingered, almost imperceptible, like a shadow stretching longer than the light itself.
Ariel approached, her boots crunching softly on the frozen earth. Her eyes instinctively searched for Theron, her brother, the one who had always been her anchor during training. But today, the spark she remembered—the teasing glint, the playful challenge—was absent. In its place, a weight pressed upon him, heavy and uncompromising.
He stood at the center of the training yard, commanding the soldiers with precise words and deliberate gestures. His jaw was tight, shoulders rigid, eyes scanning every movement with a meticulous sharpness that was almost painful to watch. Ariel's chest tightened; she hadn't realized just how much the title of acting general had changed him.
"Good, reposition the archers!" Theron called, his voice calm but carrying an edge of strain. "Kael, adjust your formation! Coren, hold the eastern flank steady!"
A subtle hesitation in his order made Ariel's heart twist. She knew that pause—it was the weight of responsibility pressing down on him. He wasn't careless, but the uncertainty of command, the fear of making the wrong decision, lingered beneath his composed exterior.
She stepped closer, quietly observing. Theron's eyes flicked in her direction, just briefly, as if seeking reassurance. The gesture was small, almost imperceptible, but it made her heart thrum. She shook her head, dismissing it. He's tired. Busy. Nothing more.
Kael, as usual, was quick to challenge. "Are you sure about this, General? I've seen this formation fail before—"
Theron's gaze sharpened, and for a heartbeat, his old playful temper flickered. But it was gone almost immediately, replaced by the controlled authority of a man who could not afford mistakes. "We adapt. We adjust. Follow orders and learn from observation." His words were firm, precise, leaving no room for argument.
Ariel swallowed, a quiet admiration rising in her chest. He was still her brother, still the Theron who had trained tirelessly with her in the past, but now his strength was tempered with caution, weighed by duty. She remembered the days when he had laughed at her mistakes, teased her for missing a strike, or held her hand steady through fear. That lightheartedness was gone—replaced by discipline and tension—but the essence remained, buried beneath the burden of command.
Coren stepped in quietly, giving a subtle nod toward Kael. "We adapt, Kael. General's orders are sound. Observe and learn, that's all."
A flicker of relief crossed Kael's face, though his pride bristled. Ariel noticed the dynamic—Theron's struggle to assert authority without alienating the soldiers, Coren's silent support, and Kael's constant need to prove himself. It was a delicate balance, and her brother was navigating it alone.
Theron moved toward the training dummy, adjusting the soldiers' positions with precise, deliberate motions. Ariel followed, keeping her distance but close enough to observe. He gave a faint, tired smile as he passed her, a flash of the brother she remembered. She returned it gently, though her chest ached at how different he seemed.
"You're… different," she said softly, more to herself than him. "The old Theron would have laughed at Kael by now."
He glanced briefly at her, lips pressing into a thin line, eyes flicking away before she could see too much. "The old Theron had time to waste," he said quietly. "Now, there's too much to consider."
Ariel nodded, brushing the thought aside. He's just busy. He's focused. Nothing more.
The drills continued, the air filled with the crisp clang of steel and the disciplined rhythm of soldiers moving in unison. Ariel observed, her eyes constantly flicking to her brother, noting the subtle strain in his movements, the brief sighs he didn't bother hiding from her alone, the way his gaze lingered on her just a fraction too long.
Yet even in his struggle, even in the weight pressing down upon him, he remained steady, resolute, commanding without arrogance. Ariel's chest swelled with pride and a quiet, unspoken worry. He was not the playful boy she had grown up with, but he was still her brother—the protector, the anchor, the one who had always believed in her when no one else did.
As the sun dipped low, painting long shadows across the training yard, Ariel stepped back, letting Theron move among his soldiers, correcting, guiding, teaching. She watched, silently taking note of every small change, every subtle gesture, every moment of strain and quiet strength.
And she told herself once more, quietly, firmly: He's just tired. He's busy. That's all.
Yet as she turned to leave, a tiny part of her heart ached for the lighthearted brother she had known—the one who had once laughed at her mistakes, teased her relentlessly, and held her steady through fear. That brother was still there, buried beneath the weight of duty, waiting for the moment when the world would allow him to be free of it.