◈Moments Later◈
Zorvath, the royal healer, swept into the chamber, her flowing robes swirling around her like a storm. She bent over Vashti with practiced care, her eyes sharp and steady as she studied the Queen. Without hesitation, she reached into her satchel and drew out bundles of herbs, crushing and blending them into a sharp, bitter-scented draught.
Low chants slipped from her lips, ancient syllables threaded with power, and for a fleeting instant the air shimmered faintly with enchantment.
"She will recover," Zorvath declared at last, lifting her gaze to Ethan. "What she requires now is rest, and care for the child taking root within her."
"Child?" Ethan froze, his voice unsteady as disbelief flickered across his face. "You mean..."
A gentle smile softened Zorvath's features. "Yes, Your Majesty. The Queen carries life."
A rush of emotion struck Ethan like a wave, overwhelming in its force. His gaze shifted from the healer to the bed, and at that moment Vashti's eyes fluttered open. Though weary, they shone with a quiet light as they found his.
Zorvath gathered her tools once more and inclined her head deeply. "Should my services be required again, send for me without delay." With that, she slipped quietly from the chamber.
Ethan moved closer, his knees sinking to the floor beside Vashti's bed. His trembling fingers curled around her hand, grounding him as he looked into her weary gaze.
"We are going to be parents," he whispered, his voice raw with wonder. He reached for her hand, lifting it gently before pressing a reverent kiss against the back of it.
******
✦IN VANILOR✦
◈That Night◈
The doors of Torin's chamber swung open, and Ermac entered with steady steps. Behind him came Draven, flanked by two guards.
They halted halfway into the chamber and bowed in unison. At Torin's subtle nod, Ermac and the guards withdrew, leaving Draven standing alone in the vast room.
Torin turned fully, his piercing blue eyes settling on Draven with deliberate slowness. A chill rippled over Draven's skin under the weight of that gaze.
Their eyes met. No words passed between them, yet the air thickened with unspoken tension.
"What a sight you are," Torin murmured, his tone velvet-smooth, yet threaded with hunger as his gaze traced the lines of Draven's body.
Draven remained silent, trapped in the intensity of that stare.
Torin advanced, one step, then another, until he stood directly before him.
Draven resisted the urge to retreat, his heart hammering against his ribs.
"Come now, boy," Torin said, his voice low and commanding. "I do not bite."
Draven arched a brow despite himself.
Torin's hand lifted, pressing firmly against Draven's chest before sliding lower, tracing the shape of his body until slipping beneath the waistband of his trousers. His fingers gripped the curve of Draven's rear, and Draven's eyes dropped, unwilling yet compelled to follow the movement of that touch. Torin pressed further, his finger gliding along the cleft until it paused at the tight ring of muscle.
A deep, guttural sound escaped Torin's throat. He leaned in, closing his eyes as he inhaled sharply, savoring Draven's scent.
Draven's chest rose and fell quickly, every breath revealing his inner conflict.
"I will make it slow, and I will make it sweet," Torin whispered, his voice both chilling and intoxicating as his grip at Draven's waist tightened possessively. He drew him closer until their foreheads nearly touched.
"From the moment I first laid eyes on you, I have been unable to cast you from my mind," he breathed, his words brushing against Draven's lips.
Draven's heartbeat thundered so loudly that Torin could hear it, and his mouth curved with satisfaction.
Suddenly, the door creaked open. Torin stepped back with unhurried grace, turning toward the intruder. It was Victor.
Torin moved toward the window, his posture distant, as though the chamber held no one else.
"Leave," he commanded Draven sharply.
Draven obeyed, though his eyes lingered on Victor as he passed him and slipped out through the door.
"Father?" Victor's voice wavered in disbelief.
"How dare you," Torin growled, dragging out each word with chilling authority. His gaze turned on his son, cold as carved ice.
******
◈Weeks Later◈
The gates of the palace groaned as they swung open. Within the great hall, the council sat in solemn ranks, King Torin presiding from his throne, a figure of cold authority at the heart of the chamber.
All heads turned as two armored guards strode in behind Ermac, dragging a young man clad in a weathered cloak of grey. His face was shadowed by tangled hair, his body forced forward with ruthless precision until he crashed to his knees before the throne. His forehead nearly brushed the polished stone floor, both hands pressed flat against it.
A heavy silence enveloped the chamber, every breath held in suspense. Torin's gaze swept the prisoner with an icy detachment that seemed carved from stone.
He studied the figure for a moment before his attention shifted to Ermac. His voice cut through the hush like thunder across a battlefield.
"Ermac?"
"My King," Ermac replied with a sharp bow. "This man was apprehended at the city's outer gates. He carried peculiar writings concealed upon his person, and he would not speak his true name. He claims to be a merchant, yet his tale is riddled with contradictions. We believe him to be a spy."
Gasps rippled through the council, followed by hushed mutters that stirred the still air.
Ermac's jaw hardened. "The writings contained cryptic markings, arranged in a cipher none of our scribes could unravel. His presence near the walls was no coincidence."
The tension thickened, coiling in the air like a storm on the verge of breaking.
Torin rose from his throne, each step echoing with deliberate weight. He halted before the kneeling figure, his shadow stretching over him.
"Reveal yourself," Torin commanded, his tone sharp and merciless, the voice of a god of war.
The young man lifted his head slowly. Emerald eyes blazed up at the king, unyielding and defiant, framed by dark, tousled hair that fell in careless waves across his striking features.
A flicker of recognition flashed in Lord Marcellus's gaze. Aiden… Queen Lyra's devoted assassin. The thought chilled him as he studied the prisoner more closely.
Torin regarded him in silence, then turned back and seated himself once more upon the throne, his bearing radiating a presence that seemed almost divine.
"Who are you?" Torin growled.
The captive's lips curved faintly, as though amusement danced behind his calm facade. "Lucian," he said smoothly, the lie rolling from his tongue like silk.
"I am nothing more than a merchant," he added aloud, his voice quivering under fatigue. "I hail from the Crimson Isles, seeking only trade."
"Falsehoods!" Lord William thundered. "Even his eyes betray him. He is no merchant; he is a spy, a viper sent to unravel us from within!"
Torin's piercing gaze lingered on the prisoner. At last, he leaned back in his throne and gave a single, unyielding order.
"Imprison him."
The decree rang out like a hammer striking iron, final and merciless.
As the guards seized him once more, Torin's eyes remained fixed on the captive, unblinking, unwavering, until the doors shut behind them with a resounding boom.
A cold weight pressed into Marcellus's chest as he watched the young man dragged away. This was no mere arrest. It was a calculated move, a blade hidden within a game of power. If Aiden had indeed been caught in Vanilor, it could only mean one thing.
The Queen is ready to play her next piece.
******
The clang of iron echoed as two guards dragged Aiden down the narrow passage, torchlight flickering against the damp stone walls. Their steps halted before a barred cell, and with a rough shove they hurled him inside. The door clanged shut behind him as the lock turned, sealing him in. He stumbled forward, landing near the shadowed figures of Sean and Draven.
Sean stirred from his uneasy slumber. His eyes opened slowly, heavy with exhaustion, as though every breath he drew cost him strength he no longer possessed. He blinked at Aiden, his gaze dull and worn, while Draven, crouched silently in the corner, observed with unreadable calm.
The guards turned to leave, but their steps faltered. From one of the darker cells, a girl's voice drifted to them, soft and mocking. A figure moved into the glow of firelight, no older than twenty-four, her lips curving into a sly smile. Her name was Lilith.
One guard spun toward her, startled to see her standing so close to the bars, only for the space to suddenly be empty. His heart jolted as she reappeared behind them, her presence uncanny and cold. With a panicked motion, he slashed his sword through the air, but the blade cut nothing.
Lilith laughed, the sound ringing sharp in the suffocating silence. She tilted her head, eyes narrowing like a predator watching prey.
"Tell your king," she said, her voice carrying an unnatural weight, "the war is near. And when it begins, his darkness will be the first to fall."