"Your Highness, the first fleeting naval from Tartagalia has been down. There are still three more, holding near their waters," Captain Rhys reported as he kept stride with Zuleika down the echoing halls.
It had already been two months since the war began.
Zuleika's jaw tightened, her steps sharp and unyielding. "Stand by. Do not engage until they move. We need to hold the waters until every last citizen has evacuated to the mountains."
"Yes, Your Highness." Rhys bowed deeply before hurrying away.
Zuleika's pace did not falter. Her destination was clear—the stables. The scent of hay and steel filled her senses as she entered, finding a servant already tightening the saddle straps.
"Your Highness." The servant bowed low, eyes flickering at her appearance. No longer the pristine heir of Nexus, Zuleika carried herself like a warrior carved by necessity. A sword sheathed at her hip, bandages wound tightly around her palms, light armor hugging her frame. The aura she gave off was not of a sheltered princess, but of someone ready to bleed for her kingdom.
"Is it ready?" she asked curtly.
The servant nodded quickly.
Zuleika swung onto the horse in one smooth motion. Without hesitation, she rode out, hooves striking against stone until the kingdom's barricade gave way to the town.
Her grip tightened on the reins as she pressed forward.
Passing through the town, her crimson eyes burned at the sight—streets half-empty, homes abandoned, stalls overturned. The laughter and bustle that once defined Nexus had been stripped away, leaving only fear, silence, and hurried footsteps of those being driven to the mountains.
And she knew. Once Tartagalia struck in full force, Nexus itself would become the battlefield.
The Peris Empire had extended a hand, but theirs was a reluctant one. Food, medicine, shelters—yes. But soldiers? Knights? No. They feared the cost, feared their own losses.
And Feltogora—
Zuleika's throat closed. Her hands tightened so fiercely on the reins her knuckles blanched white.
Not a word. Not a letter. Not a banner raised. Nothing.
Ever since she left…
The thought seared her like a blade through the ribs. She forced her gaze ahead, to the endless waves stretching toward Tartagalia's fleet.
But in the shadow of her armor, beneath the weight of her crown, Zuleika carried more than just her people's survival. She carried a silence that gnawed deeper than the threat of war itself.
A silence shaped like Aquila.
Zuleika arrived at the camp near the coastal shore, her boots sinking into the dirt as she dismounted. Every knight she passed lowered their head in respect, their eyes filled with both hope and exhaustion. Without acknowledging the gestures, she moved swiftly toward the largest tent.
Inside, Stel was already hunched over the map table with the other Knight Commanders, their voices low but tense. The moment Stel met her gaze, the room fell silent. Zuleika shook her head faintly. No reinforcements. No strength left to borrow.
Stel's jaw tightened, her knuckles pressing against the map, but she only gave a firm nod. There was nothing left to say.
Zuleika left the tent, her gaze drawn immediately to the horizon. Out there, three massive Tartagalian ships loomed—silent predators on the water. They did not move, did not attack. They only waited. She knew their game: to watch Nexus bleed itself dry, to strike when desperation made them weakest.
Her crimson eyes shifted from the sea to the wounded lined up in the open tents. Rows of knights, some groaning, some unconscious, all of them broken pieces of the kingdom she swore to protect.
Her teeth ground together. Enough.
Rolling up her sleeves, she strode into the medic's tent.
"Your Highness—" one of the healers started, but she cut them short with a look.
"Hand me the bandages."
At first, the medics hesitated. A princess had no place here, not among blood and dirt. But Zuleika had long abandoned the softness of silk gloves and gilded gowns. When the healer obeyed, she knelt beside the nearest knight—a boy no older than eighteen, his arm mangled by a splintered spear. His breathing was shallow, lips pale.
"Stay with me," Zuleika murmured as she pressed linen to his wound, her hands steady though her heart ached. "You'll live to swing a sword again."
The boy's eyes fluttered, and he gave the faintest of nods.
From there, she moved without rest. One knight after another. She poured water to parched lips, steadied shaking hands, and tied tourniquets until her own fingers were raw from pulling the cloth tight.
When one soldier cried out from the sting of disinfectant, she whispered encouragement. When another wept quietly for a brother lost in the skirmish, she pressed her hand firmly on his shoulder, sharing her strength without words.
Hours slipped away.
The campfires dimmed, torches burned low, and still she remained. Her armor was splattered with blood—not from battle, but from the wounds she tended. Her hair clung damply to her neck.
She hadn't eaten, hadn't drunk more than a sip of water. Yet she moved as if the weight of every knight's life depended on her refusal to falter.
By the time the moon had reached its peak, silence had settled across the camp. The injured finally rested, breathing steady. The medics slumped in exhaustion.
And Zuleika, bandaging the last wound of the night, exhaled deeply. Her eyes stung, her body ached, but she did not allow herself to crumble.
Stepping outside the tent, she tilted her head toward the endless dark sea. The Tartagalian ships still waited, their lanterns glowing faintly in the distance.
Her crimson eyes narrowed.
"If you want Nexus," she whispered, voice hoarse, "you'll have to break me first."
The night carried her vow like steel across the shore.
Far from the ocean, within the walls of the Feltogora Empire, unrest gnawed from within.
Two months ago, Aquila's marriage had been arranged, every detail prepared to secure yet another political chain around her neck. But before the ceremony could take place, chaos erupted. The rebels—brave or foolish—had seized the first street of the Noble District. The attack forced the Emperor to postpone the wedding.
A month later, the unthinkable happened. The rebels had not only held their ground, but pushed forward, claiming the entire street as if guided by an invisible hand. Aquila knew what the Emperor and his council refused to admit: someone from inside the Empire was feeding the rebels their strategies.
The throne room bore the brunt of that failure.
The Emperor's fist crashed against Matthew's face, sending the crown prince sprawling to the polished marble floor. Blood trickled from his lip, his eyes wide with shock.
"YOU USELESS IMBECILE!" the Emperor's voice thundered, echoing off the towering pillars. Rage twisted his features, the weight of a crumbling empire turning into raw violence.
He swung his burning gaze to the second son. "Althurd. You will take command of the knights from now on."
"Yes, Father." Althurd bowed deeply, but as his head lowered, his lips curled into a fleeting smirk. Watching his elder brother humiliated was a victory sweeter than any won in battle.
The brothers were dismissed. The heavy doors closed, and silence returned to the chamber.
But Aquila had been there. She had seen everything.
She already suspected the truth—that the rebellion's steady advance was no mere coincidence. Someone within their walls wanted this Empire to bleed. Whether it was Althurd, Matthew, or someone even closer to the throne, Aquila had no illusions left. When the time came, she would confront one of her brothers herself.
Yet her thoughts did not linger long on internal treachery.
Her mind returned, again and again, to the faraway sea.
Word had reached her ears: Tartagalia's fleets moved against Nexus. The kingdom was holding for now, but Feltogora had offered no aid. Not a single ship, not a single sword. The Emperor had turned a blind eye, letting Nexus stand alone.
Her hands clenched at her sides. Once, she might have remained silent, obedient, pretending indifference. But now… not when someone she loved was in the crosshairs of war.
Her breath trembled as she whispered the name only her heart carried.
Zuleika.
The weight of helplessness bore down on her. She furrowed her brows, teeth tugging at her fingertip as she paced. "What can I do?" she muttered, frustration searing her chest.
Every scenario she ran through ended in despair. She was a princess bound by her father's will, watched at every turn, silenced by duty. But every day that passed, Tartagalia's noose tightened. Sooner or later, their fleets would strike in full, and Nexus—the Wall of the Sea—would collapse.
And if that happened, Zuleika…
Aquila pressed her palms against her face, her eyes burning with tears she refused to shed.
No. She could not let that happen. Somehow, some way, she had to reach her.
Aquila needed to make a move. But would the knights even follow her when the Empire itself was unraveling from within?
The timing gnawed at her. How was it that the rebels rose within Feltogora at the same time Tartagalia pressed its attack on Nexus? It was too perfect—too deliberate. As if orchestrated by unseen hands. And if that was true, then by whom? And for what purpose? To bring both kingdoms to their knees?
That night, sleep eluded her. Restless, she wandered the silent palace halls until her feet carried her to the hidden wing she and her mother used to frequent.
"Mother…" her voice was barely a whisper, brittle with exhaustion. "What should I do?"
Hopelessness wrapped around her like chains. She was so tired—tired of being shackled, tired of being powerless. What could she do? What could a helpless, caged princess truly change?
A faint sound reached her ears then, breaking the stillness. Her brows furrowed. No one was supposed to be here. Quietly, she moved toward the last chamber at the end of the corridor.
The noise persisted, soft but distinct. Without giving herself time to hesitate, Aquila pushed the door open.
But it wasn't the intruders who were most shocked—it was her.
Inside, standing as though they belonged there, were two figures: the infamous rebel leader Hans, clad in his white coat, blindfold still covering his eyes… and beside him, her own brother, Zejidiah, watching her with a lazy, detached expression.
Her body stiffened, breath caught in her throat. She took a step back instinctively, but Hans was faster than her eyes could follow. In an instant he was at her back, his palm covering her lips before a sound could escape. The door closed behind them with a quiet thud as his boot nudged it shut.
Aquila's eyes widened, fury and betrayal crashing through her veins. Her gaze darted back to Zejidiah.
Her brother's lips parted, then closed again. His mismatched eyes studied her without warmth, a dead, soulless glint within them.
Slowly, Hans withdrew his hand from her mouth and stepped back a pace.
"Y-you…" Aquila's lips trembled, her voice breaking.
Her eyes stayed locked on Zejidiah—her brother, her blood—who only stared back with chilling indifference.