Not every war is fought with swords.
Some are fought with words you can never say aloud.
Late at night, Selene sat at her desk beneath flickering candlelight, crimson hair cascading over one shoulder. Her ink-stained fingers trembled slightly as she wrote, but not because of fear. Because of everything she could not speak.
The letter in front of her was not meant for any court or council.
It was meant for Lucien.
A letter she would never send.
Lucien,
If this fails, if we lose, remember this: I never wanted to fight the kingdom. Only the parts of it that told us we were wrong to love each other.
If they take me from you, burn this letter. Burn all of me. But don't let them bury the truth.
We were real. Even if the history books say otherwise.
Her pen hovered, unsure if she should write more.
Outside, the wind howled.
Selene folded the letter in silence and placed it inside a hidden compartment beneath her desk. She didn't burn it—not yet.
Across the city, Lucien did the same.
His letter was shorter.
Selene,
They think binding us was a mistake.
I think it's the only right thing I've ever done.
He sealed the parchment with no crest, no name. Just wax and silence.
The message would never reach her hands.
But in Aerthrial, intention had weight. Words left unsent sometimes carried more power than declarations shouted aloud.
Meanwhile, the rebellion's true groundwork unfolded.
Lira orchestrated secret meetings with mercenary clans in the southern provinces, slipping promises of land and recognition in exchange for loyalty. She used her name carefully—never fully aligning with Selene in writing, but always in spirit.
Alaric gathered the Shadow Guard, spreading them across key points in the capital. No assassinations yet, only observation. But tension laced his every step. He had made his choice, and he knew the consequences would come for him soon.
In the Eastern capital, Evelyne Greymoor summoned her most trusted scribe.
"Prepare the next edict," she whispered, eyes gleaming beneath candlelight.
Her scribe bowed low.
"What shall we declare, my lady?"
Evelyne's lips curved into something cold and elegant.
"Declare the lovers enemies of the crown. Not just theirs, but every crown in Aerthrial."
The scribe hesitated. "That will unite kingdoms against them."
Evelyne's gaze sharpened.
"Exactly."
By the time dawn reached the frost-covered roofs of the royal city, new posters lined the stone walls.
WANTED: Selene Valeburne and Lucien Aurelian.
Reward: 1,000,000 gold crowns.
Crimes: Treason. Forbidden Magic. The Binding of Souls Without Royal Permission.
For the first time in Aerthrial's history, love had become a political crime.
Selene tore one of the posters from the wall herself.
Her crimson eyes scanned the ink.
Then she smiled faintly, folding the paper and slipping it into her pocket.
A trophy, of sorts.
Proof that they had already changed the world.