By Victor Simdrix
Chapter 11 – Shadows Move in Silence
The night wrapped Emberfall's encampment in uneasy stillness. Not even owls dared to stir; the only sound was the low hiss of the wind across blackened earth. Nyra pulled her cloak tighter, though the fire inside her chest made her warmer than any fabric could.
The road had been long, haunted by the remnants of villages left smoldering in Malakar's wake. She hated how the smoke clung to her, how it made her feel tainted—like part of the destruction he had wrought.
A sudden crunch of gravel behind her made her whirl. Sparks leapt to her fingertips, ready to ignite.
"Easy," came a familiar voice.
Aric Dawnshield emerged from the shadows, silvered by moonlight. His hand rested casually on his sword, though his eyes carried the same sharpness as steel.
"You move like a ghost," Nyra muttered.
"You burn like a beacon," he replied. "Any scout within a mile would've seen your sparks."
She wanted to snap back, but he wasn't wrong.
Together, they approached the royal command tent. Soldiers bowed to Aric but cast sideways glances at her. The whispers hadn't stopped since Emberfall's square: witch, cursed, Malakar's kin. Nyra kept her chin high, though each word pressed heavier against her ribs.
Inside the tent, Prince Kaelith Stormspire stood over a map stretched across an oak table. Candles cast him in shifting gold, and his armor gleamed with runic fire. His jaw tightened when he saw her.
"You're late," he said coldly.
"The road was crawling with shadows. Unless you wanted me delivered in chains, you should thank me for arriving at all."
Aric stepped between them, tension thick in his voice. "We found tracks. Malakar's scouts are circling the western ridge. They know about our supply route."
Kaelith's eyes narrowed. His gaze slid from Aric… to Nyra.
"And how," he said slowly, "would my brother know of routes only discussed within these walls?"
The silence was sharp as broken glass. Nyra's pulse hammered in her throat.
"You think it's me?" she hissed, fists trembling. "I bled for your people. I burned for them. Ask the villagers I saved!"
Kaelith's fist slammed against the table, rattling pieces of carved stone. "You wield the same flame he does. Shadows answer to his call. Tell me, girl, why should I trust you when even the gods remain silent about what you are?"
The tent filled with the weight of accusation. Aric's hand hovered near his sword—not at Nyra, but in case Kaelith pressed too far.
Nyra's ember flared, aching to erupt, to silence the doubt with fire. But another voice whispered within her—Malakar's voice, smooth as poisoned silk.
"Little sister of flame. They will never trust you. Not until you stand with me."
For the first time, Nyra wondered if he was right.
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