The moon hung high over Arkenfall, a silver sentinel watching the dark corridors of the royal keep. In the depths of the Storm Lord's chamber, the heavy oak door to the study was closed, its brass handle gleaming faintly under the candlelight.
Damon sat behind a large desk cluttered with scrolls and letters, though none held his attention. The ink in his quill had long dried. His thoughts wandered—to the woman now resting in his bed. His wife.
Neriah.
The name pulsed through his chest like a heartbeat. Gods, what had she done to him? Damon had known beauty before. He had touched it, kissed it, tasted it, even buried it. But none of them held his gaze like she did. Neriah had waltzed into his life cloaked in apprehension, yet somehow she had cracked something open in him.
It was those red curls. Like fire, like defiance. Like a promise.
He pushed away from the desk with a growl, raking a hand through his hair. Sleep would not come. Neither would focus. His blood simmered with an ache that had nothing to do with lust—or perhaps everything. Neriah was unlike anything he'd ever encountered. She was elegance and hesitation. She was warmth and fragility. And she was in his bed, sleeping like a fragile bloom.
And he wanted to protect her. Fiercely.
A faint sound broke through his thoughts. Damon froze.
Footsteps. Too light to be a guard. Too deliberate to be harmless.
He rose swiftly and silently, a shadow among shadows. Years of brutal training kicked in like muscle memory. He slipped out of the study and into the sleeping chamber. His eyes immediately found Neriah, curled beneath the fur blanket, breathing softly.
Safe.
The noise came again. A soft scuff. Damon turned his head.
His eyes narrowed. He crossed the chamber to the wall where his weapons were mounted. His hand closed around the handle of his axe—his favorite. Its blade gleamed like the moonlight, deadly.
He slipped from the room like smoke, careful not to make a sound. The moment he stepped into the outer corridor, his boot hit something soft.
A body.
One of the guards. Unconscious. Another lay sprawled against the wall, a third slumped by the window.
Damon exhaled sharply through his nose.
The corridor shifted—a flicker of movement.
The assassin came out of nowhere, all blades and speed, lunging from the shadows with lethal precision.
Damon pivoted, met the attack with a vicious upward swing of his axe. Steel met steel with a clash that rang through the corridor. Sparks flew. The assassin rolled, fast, agile.
Another appeared from the far end. Then another.
Three.
Damon's jaw clenched.
They came at him all at once. Blades singing, feet silent. But Damon was not a man—he was a storm.
He ducked the first strike, spun and drove his axe into the second assassin's chest. Blood sprayed. A gurgling scream echoed before silence swallowed it whole.
The third leapt from behind. Damon twisted, his elbow slamming into their jaw, cracking bone. The assassin crumpled.
But more came. Five now. No, six.
Damon's eyes burned with fury. His voice was low and dangerous.
"I just married. And you fools think to wake my wife from her sleep?"
He cracked his neck, lifted his axe.
"For that alone, I will butcher every last one of you."
They rushed him.
Damon didn't fight. He executed.
He moved like war incarnate. The axe arced through the air in wide, powerful sweeps, severing limbs and lives. Blood splattered the marble walls. He dodged one blade, caught the attacker by the neck, and threw him so hard his skull cracked against the stone.
A dagger grazed his arm. He didn't feel it.
One tried to run.
Damon hurled his axe.
It split the man in half.
Silence fell again. Broken bodies littered the corridor. Damon stood amidst them, blood dripping from his fingers, chest heaving. His eyes remained on the door to the bedchamber.
Still closed.
Still safe.
He retrieved his axe and wiped the blade clean with a discarded cloak.
And then, with the calm of a man who had just trimmed his roses instead of slaughtered assassins, he returned to the door.
Inside, Neriah slept on. Unaware. Untouched.
Damon stood at the threshold for a long moment, watching the gentle rise and fall of her breathing.
********************
The early morning light crept softly across the cold stone floors of the Queen's Chamber. Pale streaks of gold slipped through the high arched windows, brushing the silken sheets and casting faint patterns on the marble walls. The castle still slept—only the soft murmur of shifting guards and distant footsteps could be heard in the hush of dawn.
Neriah stirred awake, her lashes fluttering as her eyes adjusted to the dimness. The first thing she noticed was the chill of the bed.
The second was the absence of Damon.
She sat up slowly, her fingers curling around the fur blanket. The Storm Lord's side of the bed was untouched. Her gaze flicked toward the entrance of the chamber, half-expecting to see him standing there—tall, dashing, cloaked in sarcasm. But the room remained still.
Where had he gone?
She bit her lower lip. A hundred thoughts flooded her mind at once—had she done something wrong? Was he angry? Had she offended him somehow by being too quiet, too awkward, too nervous?
No, she told herself. He had been kind. Patient.
Gentle.
She exhaled softly and pushed off the bed, her bare feet finding the soft rug. The gown she wore was still wrinkled from sleep, her long red hair a wild cascade down her back. She needed to leave before the maids arrived.
She padded across the room, quietly opening the large door that led into the corridor. The hallway outside was empty, the flames in the sconces still flickering low from the night shift. The guards at the far end stood at attention, unmoving—but if they noticed her, they said nothing.
Neriah kept her eyes down and hurried through the corridor, the sound of her steps muffled by the carpet beneath her. She clutched the edges of her robe closer as she turned corners and passed quiet statues that loomed like sentinels.
The entire castle felt suspended—caught between sleep and waking. It wasn't cold, but the stillness wrapped around her like frost.
At last, she reached the door to her own chambers.
She slipped inside, softly closing the door behind her, and pressed her back against it for a moment—heart racing for reasons she couldn't quite explain. Her bed stood before her, pristine and untouched.
She crossed to it and crawled under the covers, burying herself in the warmth and soft comfort she hadn't realized she needed. Her mind, however, was far from still.
Where had he gone?
And why did it bother her this much?
With her cheek against the pillow and her thoughts tangled like her hair, Neriah stared out the window toward the pale morning sky.
She did not yet know that the King hadn't slept a single hour that night.
****************
The morning sun had climbed high, but the War Room of Arkenfall Castle remained shrouded in muted light. Heavy tapestries covered the stone walls—depictions of ancient battles, dragons vanquished, kings crowned. A long oak table sat in the center, strewn with maps, seal-stamped letters, and iron markers shaped like war horses and swords.
Damon Dragarth, King of the BannerLands, sat behind a large desk, brooding over a lot of war maps—broad-shouldered, eyes sharp with cold focus. He was in his usual dark tunic lined with steel thread, a cloak hung across one arm like a shadow waiting to be thrown.
Ethan stood to the right, flipping through a scroll, his brow tight. Neither had spoken for some time—not since the morning assembly, where the council members buzzed around problems of grain routes and border tensions like flies on meat. Damon had responded with clipped decisions. Efficient. Swift. Brutal when needed.
But now... now it was time to deal with what truly mattered.
"Send for Leon," Damon said.
Ethan gave a nod and dispatched a nearby steward without a word.
Moments passed. Then the door opened.
Leon entered, his frame tense but upright. He bowed sharply.
"My King," he said.
Damon didn't look up at first. He was rolling a black iron dagger between his fingers—a blade taken from one of the masked assassins the night before. The steel was stained at the hilt. Damon's jaw ticked.
"Four guards," he said at last. "Four bodies dragged out and burned before dawn. Do you know how many of them I recognized?"
Leon stayed silent.
"None," Damon answered for him, voice like steel dragged across gravel. "Not a single face. Not one I've trained with. Not one I've bled beside."
Leon's mouth tightened. "They were new recruits, Your Majesty. I—"
"I did not ask who they were," Damon cut in, his voice rising like a distant rumble of thunder. "I asked why they were stationed at the royal wing. At my doors."
Leon shifted slightly. "They came in through the last rotation batch. Their petition was approved… by Lord Gareth. While you were away in Edravon."
At that, Damon finally looked up.
His stare could've cracked stone.
"Gareth?" he repeated.
Leon nodded. "You were out on campaign. He signed off in your stead. I passed him the scroll."
Damon's eyes narrowed—but then, a pause. A slow breath.
"I trust Gareth," he muttered, more to himself than to Leon. "He has sense."
Then, turning his attention back: "But that doesn't excuse the lapse. Those guards were fresh—unseasoned. And now their blood is mopped from my floors."
Leon dropped his head slightly. "The blame is mine. I should've informed you. I take full responsibility."
"You well should," Damon said, though his voice had softened just a touch. "The guards of this castle are not ornamental, Leon. They are not statues to be sliced through by every knife-wielding maniac that slithers in. They are protectors. Sentinels. They stand for me. And if they fall like wheat in a storm—"
He stopped himself.
Silence stretched between them. Only the low crackle of the fire filled the room.
Then Damon spoke again—quietly, but with iron in every syllable:
"They're not just shields for me. They have wives. Children. Mothers who'll wait by the door and never see them return. And I won't have that blood on my conscience because we were careless."
Leon nodded, swallowing hard. "It won't happen again."
"It better not," Damon said. "I want retraining sessions every third week. They'll train alongside my army if I must make it so. Harder. Smarter. No more fresh recruits at the King's Wing without my word."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
Damon's expression was hard, shadowed—but not cruel.
A moment passed.
Then, his tone shifted ever so slightly.
"You've done well, Leon," Damon said, eyes softening. "Truly. But I cannot have this again. Do better."
"I will," he said, his voice firm now.
He bowed again—deeper this time—and turned to leave.
Just as he reached the door, Damon called out:
"Oh, and Leon?"
The commander turned.
Damon gave the faintest hint of a smirk. "Next time someone's sneaking around my halls with a blade, don't let me find them first."
Leon chuckled softly, bowed once more, and left.