Seren Valinea walks forward with unshakable resolve. Each step is heavy, deliberate. When she blocks the carriages, the square turns to stone. Her armored soldiers close around the central coach without a word.
Her eyes are tired, but they do not waver. Her chest lifts; her voice rings, clear as iron.
"Alvaren Deyros. Step out."
The gilt door creaks. A gray-haired man climbs down—well dressed, all confidence and smile.
"Ah… Seren Valinea," he says, amused. "I was beginning to wonder when you'd finally visit."
Seren's voice carries to every window. "Corruption. Attempted marriage to a child. Tax evasion. Conspiracy with assassins. Slavery. You are under arrest."
Alvaren chuckles. "From a piece of parchment? What else do you have?"
"A raven already reached my brother, King Arthur," she answers, stepping closer. "Royal forces are en route. Come willingly, or be dragged. You do not have a choice."
His smile thins. He whips a bronze horn from his satchel and blows.
Silence breaks.
From roofs, alleys, and carts, cloaked killers erupt.
"Kill them all!" Alvaren snaps, hurling himself back into the coach.
"Defense ring!" Seren's command cuts the panic. "Triple spear-wall—now!"
Shields ground into cobble. First rank kneels, second rank levels spears, third rank slides to form an archer line. The square becomes a fortress in the span of a breath.
Three assassins slam the shields; spears lance through the gaps. Others leap—and meet an upward forest of points. A flanking wave finds a second wall waiting and dies there.
From the crowd's edge, a boy with ash on his face lights cloth fuses on stoppered oil flasks and hurls them into the choke points. Fire blossoms in narrow lanes; smoke blinds; shadows stab shadows by mistake. Nujah breathes once, steady, and reaches for another flask.
A hand grips his arm. A small bow presses into his palm.
"Here, big bro," a boy whispers. "It's all I have."
Nujah blinks. "Who—?"
"Not now." The boy—Erian—jerks a thumb toward the back. "I came through the rear passage. No one saw me. I'll explain later."
"Hide," Nujah says. "Stay low. Don't be seen."
Erian vanishes. Nujah nocks an arrow and turns back to the roar.
An assassin threads through chaos and rushes Seren. Her dagger leaves her hand like a vow. The man crumples.
On the left, a seam opens. Seren sprints, braces a shield with both hands while the soldier behind drives his spear. "Hold!" she says, and they do.
A last wave tries to flee the flame, only to meet reinforcements closing from the rear. One slips the net—then jerks and falls as a young soldier's spear rises from a crouch.
A figure ghosting the smoke lunges for Seren. The white-plumed general dives, takes the blade in his back, and turns the strike into a killing sweep.
Then, suddenly, quiet. Just the crackle of fire. Bodies cooling. No cheers—only breath.
"Fall back!" the enemy commander snarls from the haze, one hand clamped to a bleeding shoulder. "Everyone, fall back!"
The killers run.
Nujah does not. He scans the square. "Erian!" he calls. "Where are you?"
"I'm here!" a pale face peeks from brush. "Brother!"
"Where's Lyra?"
"She tried to run," Erian pants. "They caught her. She's locked in her room."
Nujah's fist tightens and opens. "Stay hidden. I'll come back."
He crosses to Seren at a run.
She looks up—and for one unguarded heartbeat she is not a commander but a sister relieved a friend still lives. "There you are," she says, laughing once, light breaking through smoke. "You did well."
The general nods. "We would have lost too many without him."
"They have Lyra," Nujah says. "In the house. We need to move. Now."
Seren's focus snaps into place.
"Sixty with me," the general orders. "The rest guard Her Highness. Four with the child when we extract her—Nujah, you're with us."
Seren hesitates one second, then nods. The choice is a blade; she takes it.
"The tunnel's still there," Nujah says. "I used it to sneak out."
They weave through scorched alleys to the estate's rear wall. Smoke clings to stone. Nujah fits his fingers to a seam; a hidden block grinds back.
"Here."
Two soldiers slip in first. The rest follow, bent under low stone. Wet earth. Stale air. Footfalls like thunder in their own skulls.
"Second block on the right," Nujah whispers. "Stairs behind it."
They rise into dim hallways that pretend to be quiet. A guard's step approaches. The general lifts two fingers. A bowstring whispers; the body folds without a cry.
Lyra's door stands shut.
"Brother…?" comes a small voice, thin through wood.
"It's me," Nujah says. "Open."
"Break it," the general says.
Two hits. The door splinters. Lyra is on her knees, eyes wide and wet. Nujah gathers her up, breathes into her hair. "I'm here. I came for you."
"Move," the general says. "Quiet, fast."
Footfalls. Another squad pours in from the far wing. A short, brutal clash. A soldier stumbles wounded; the line closes around him; they fall back down the stair and into the tunnel's throat.
Dawn is breaking when they emerge. Orange skims the roofs. Far off, horns sound.
Arthur's army is coming.
Seren sees the glint of standards at the horizon's lip and lets herself smile, small and real, for the first time today.
Then a soldier ahead screams and vanishes. The ground opens—no, a trapdoor—no, the tunnel's other mouth. Something waits below.
Zirelda rises like a knife unsheathed. No mask. Just a face built for endings. One breath, three strikes; two soldiers tumble. She is already moving when she meets Seren's eyes.
Assassins ghost in the fog behind her. Seren's body refuses her—just for a heartbeat—refuses to run, refuses to scream.
"I won't let it happen again!" a voice rips through the air.
Nujah hits Zirelda from the blind side. The sword skitters. He pins her, wrists to stone, all weight and will.
The general and A-Division crash through the ambushers. He yanks Seren behind the shield wall.
Cassar steps from the smoke. The spear goes in under Nujah's shoulder blade, deep enough to steal breath. "The price of betrayal," he says softly, "is death."
Nujah drops to one knee. He turns his head, searching past blur for Seren. Blood beads his lip. His chest works like a bellows with a hole.
"A-Group!" the general roars. "Protect Her Highness and the children! The rest—on me!"
Cassar hews down three in his path. Zirelda surges for one last lunge—but shieldbearers encircle, counting as they close.
"Three… two… one!"
"Now!"
Spears drive through narrow slots. Zirelda chokes, drops, and is still.
Cassar advances—until the general steps into his line.
"You die by my hand," the general says.
Cassar's spear scythes. The general slips it, answers with steel that kisses the arm. Cassar slams him into stone; the general rides the impact, sweeps low; Cassar stumbles. A kick to the knee. A pivot inside the shaft's reach. Stone, breath, ending. One clean thrust. Silence.
Smoke thins. The field hushes. The general looks once at the fallen, then turns to Seren and the boy on the stones.
Seren runs. She drops, gathers Nujah, his head in her lap, fingers shaking as she wipes his cheek.
"Stay with me," she whispers, voice breaking. "Please."
He coughs, a harsh sound, and tries to smile. "Your voice," he manages, thin as thread. "Still… the best sound I know."
His cold hand finds her face; she presses his palm to her skin. Tears fall and fall.
"Could've used… more time," he breathes.
"We had enough," she says through tears. "Because it was us."
A huff of a laugh, almost a cough. His gaze sharpens for one last beat—mischief, defiance—then softens.
"Those two maniacs… they're yours now, Princess," he whispers. "I trust you."
His body slackens.
Seren does not scream. She does not move. She holds him while the street listens to fire.
---
Deep in the forest, Alvaren stumbles, rage dragging him faster than his ruined leg allows. "That cursed woman," he mutters. "She took everything."
A coachman waits by a horse. Alvaren slashes the carriage door and shoves the man inside. "Drive, or die."
A voice like a smile arrives behind him. "We were to share a drink later, Alvaren. Where are you off to?"
A coin spins through air, lands at his feet—King Arthur's face in bright relief.
The dagger lands next—in his good leg. He screams. Soldiers pour from shadow. Chains bite.
King Arthur steps from the trees. "Like a rat, you ran for the dark," he says, amused. "Touch my sister and think you can leave?"
Steel kisses Alvaren's throat. Pride breaks. "My king—mercy—"
"You'll beg her," Arthur says. "Not me."
A runner leans in. "Your Majesty—the Princess lives. Shaken, not harmed. Our losses are light."
Arthur nods once. "Take him to the capital. His trial belongs to my sister. Prepare my horse."
Another soldier salutes. "Most districts are secured. The castle awaits you."
Arthur glances down at the bound lord and lets the smile remain. Then he turns his horse toward the smoke on the horizon.
---
The gates open to shouts: "The King has arrived!"
Inside: fire, fear, and order reasserting its hand. Arthur rides to the square of ash where his commander—Erymas—waits, blood on his coat, standing firm.
"What's the situation?" Arthur asks, anger banked but hot.
"Grave," Erymas says. "Let me brief you inside."
They move. Words compress into a blade: ambush, rescue, a boy, a promise.
Arthur's fist tightens. "I have no words."
"I failed—" Erymas begins.
"You protected her," Arthur cuts in. "That is why you are her shield. Don't wear guilt that belongs to criminals."
He exhales. "We move people to the capital. All who will come."
"My king, that will cause—"
"Then it will cause it," Arthur says, eyes hard. "A boy named Nujah saved his sister and destroyed a nest of rot. He died trying to protect my sister. I will not ignore that."
He grips Erymas's shoulder. "Prepare the people. Leave behind those who burn too hot. You will judge. Go."
"As you command."
---
Hours later, Seren still sits with Nujah. Dawn becomes morning. Arthur approaches, plants his sword in earth, and lowers himself beside her.
"All criminals are in chains," he says quietly. "Alvaren will face your judgment. We're taking the people with us."
"Thank you," she says, and the words tremble. "At least you came."
"I'm here," Arthur answers. "Can you stand?"
"I'll endure," she says. "Even if I have to break to do it."
"You must let him go," Arthur says.
She surges up with a cry. "No!"
"If we wait," he says gently, "we dishonor him. He deserves a funeral beneath a statue I will carve myself."
"Look at me, sister."
She lifts tear-blurred eyes. A pinprick at her neck; exhaustion closes its hand. "Forgive me," Arthur whispers as she sags into his arms. "I cannot carry both your grief and this city."
"Bring a carriage," he calls. "Careful with the boy."
Seren lies beside him at the front. Nujah's body rests behind, wrapped with care. Arthur looks once at the castle and sets his jaw.
"We return to the capital," he tells the driver. "Now."
The wheels turn. The sun climbs. Calvenhold shrinks behind them.
And when Seren wakes, a kingdom will be waiting—along with a promise written in smoke and blood:
Justice—or mercy. Which will she choose?