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Chapter 5 - God’s Spear

The chamber air hung heavy, thick with wax smoke and the faint iron tang of ink.

Lucarion's eyes lifted. "Speak."

The intelligence officer cleared his throat. "My prince," he said, voice clipped. "Reports as ordered. On the human general."

He skimmed the parchment with precise care. "Her name is Eva Asgeirn. Born to a warrior lineage—her family has fought in every human rebellion for the last four centuries. Father recently succumbed to illness. Mother disappeared during the Black Hunt."

Lucarion's eyes narrowed, a flicker of recognition passing over his face at the name—God's Spear.

The officer hesitated, glancing once toward Kael before continuing. "She has three older brothers. The eldest was taken in the last Lycan raids—twenty years past. The records claimed him lost as chattel, but… my sources now suggest otherwise."

Lucarion straightened slowly, his nails still against the map. He waited.

The officer's voice dropped, almost reluctant. "He was not kept as a slave. He was… selected. For breeding."

Kael swore under his breath, but Lucarion only stilled, the faintest ripple of interest flashing across his features. "Breeding?" he echoed, voice soft as silk, though the air seemed to tighten around him.

"Yes, my lord. They desired human stock of strong warrior blood. And her line has always bred true." The officer's throat bobbed. "If the reports are accurate, her brother may yet live. The whelps of that union would be… formidable."

Silence spread across the table.

The officer bowed, extending the parchment toward Kael. "You will find more details within, my lord."

Lucarion's gaze lingered on him a moment longer, unreadable. Then, with a languid motion, he plucked the documents from Kael's grasp and flicked his fingers in dismissal. The officer bowed again and withdrew; the door shut behind him with a hollow thud.

Lucarion unrolled the parchment, his eyes skimming the lines with swift precision. A muscle ticked in his jaw, though his voice remained steady when he spoke. "If the brother still lives—and the wolves truly bred him into their ranks…" His gaze narrowed, thoughtful. "Then he may well be fighting alongside them now."

He set the parchment down, fingers drumming once against the wood before reaching for a fresh sheet of vellum. Ink bled swiftly beneath his hand, words flowing in tight, elegant script.

"This," he murmured as he wrote, "is not for every ear. My father must know. If human warriors march with wolves, I want their names and family trees."

When the letter was sealed in black wax, he held it out—not to a servant, but to Kael himself. "You will deliver it yourself." His voice cut the air. "No other hand, no other mouth. For the King alone."

Kael accepted the seal with a curt nod, though his dark brows knit in concern. "Do you believe she knows of her brother's fate?"

Lucarion's lips curved—an expression too sharp to be called a smile. "If she does, I will uncover it. And if she does not… perhaps it is better that we decide when she learns."

A knock sounded at the door. Sharp. Measured.

Lucarion and Kael exchanged a glance before the crown prince called, "Enter."

The healer slipped inside, long frame bent beneath the lintel. His gray eyes lit faintly when they found Lucarion, though he did not waste time with pleasantries. He bowed, hands folded neatly behind his back. "Your Grace. The human has woken."

Lucarion's gaze sharpened. The faint trace of her blood clung to him—subtle, but unmistakable.

"Her state?" he asked, voice low, controlled.

"She breathes, though shallowly. The throat wound was perilous—she punctured the trachea itself. Even now, her voice is but a rasp. I have stitched and bound it, but healing will be slow. Too soon a strain, and she will tear it open again."

The healer's tone was calm, almost proud, as though discussing a delicate craft. "Both wrists were broken when she struggled against her bonds. They will mend, but not quickly. She suffers fever as well, from blood loss and strain. I have dosed her against infection. In time, she will recover—if she wills herself to."

He paused, lowering his head slightly, voice dropping. "She still fights, even in weakness. Her spirit does not bend."

Lucarion leaned back, steepling his fingers, expression unreadable. "Continue to monitor her. Make sure she doesn't find a way to cripple herself again. Leave us."

The healer bowed deeply, almost reverently, before retreating. The heavy door shut behind him with a hollow thud.

Only then did Kael speak, his voice low, edged like steel. "My prince. She is too great a risk. A general, from a lineage of warriors, with a brother among wolves. If word spreads, the humans will rally to her name. The wolves may claim her as kin. She is a fuse waiting for a spark."

Lucarion regarded him coolly, tapping a nail once against the map. "So you counsel what, Kael? Execution? Disposal of livestock too stubborn to be tamed?"

Kael did not flinch. "It is the surest course. Kill her, and the danger ends."

The crown prince's lips curved, amusement threading through the motion. "Kill her? When she has shown me more spirit than a hundred of her kind? When her bloodline already breeds legends for my enemies?" His voice dropped; silk wrapped steel. "No. She is not a risk. She is a prize. And prizes are not discarded—they are claimed."

Kael's jaw tightened, but he bowed his head. "As you command."

A week bled by in restless maneuvers and reports. Caravans shifted along the eastern routes as Lucarion had commanded, and skirmish reports flickered across the maps. Yet it was not the humans' movements that drew his attention when the courier arrived, boots muddied from days of hard riding.

The seal was black, pressed deep into the wax with the sigil of the crown. Lucarion broke it with a swift flick of his nail, eyes sweeping the lines with practiced precision. When he reached the end, the parchment curled slightly in his grip.

Kael, standing at his side, studied the prince's expression. "What word, Highness?"

Lucarion's lips curved slowly, the glint of amusement returning to his eyes. "My father does not answer with ink. He commands." He pressed the parchment flat against the table, letting the words gleam in candlelight:

Guard the Spear with your life.

She is not to be lost, broken, or slain.

Bring her—unharmed—to the capital when next we speak.

Kael's jaw tightened. "The Spear…" His voice was low. "So he knows."

Lucarion turned toward him, satisfaction written across every line of his face. "Of course he knows. Nothing escapes his eye." His nail tapped once against the order—guard with your life.

Then he leaned back, amethyst eyes bright with a cruel glimmer. "Tell me, Kael—what would you have had me do? Dispose of her? Snuff out the one piece my father now declares beyond price?"

Kael inclined his head; the admission was silent but heavy.

Lucarion's smile sharpened. "No. My instincts were correct. She is not vermin to be culled. She is a prize to be claimed. And now my father himself has spoken it."

His gaze lingered on the black-sealed order until the wax caught the candlelight like obsidian glass. His father had spoken, and now every move was set upon the board. Eva Asgeirn was no longer a curiosity in chains—she was the keystone in a design not yet revealed.

He tapped a nail against the wax—sharp, deliberate—and held the silence like a blade. If she lived she would serve; if she died she would shame him. Either way, the choice was his. He would see for himself what remained of her.

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