The fire no longer roared.
It hissed.
The night had quieted — not from peace, but from exhaustion. The manor that once gleamed like gold was now nothing but a skeleton of smoke and shadow.
Zelene stumbled through the ruins, dragging Elara by the arm. The little one's steps faltered every few feet, her breath ragged, her eyes glassy. They moved through the back halls — what was left of them — slipping between collapsed beams and bodies still smoldering.
"Stay low," Zelene whispered, her voice breaking. "Don't make a sound."
Elara nodded faintly, clutching Zelene's robe like a child clutching a dream.
The air reeked of iron and ash. Every creak of wood made Zelene's heart lurch.
She could hear them — footsteps, steel clinking against stone, the guttural voices of soldiers combing through the wreckage.
The enemies had already overrun the manor.
Their home was gone.
They crouched behind what used to be the servants' corridor. Zelene peeked around the corner — five men in black armor stood near the courtyard, torchlight reflecting off their blades.
"Where are the Evandelle heirs?" one barked.
"Search everywhere. The Duke and Duchess are dead, but the girl—"
"She's the real target," another hissed. "We can't let her reach Dravenhart."
Zelene's stomach dropped.
She turned back to Elara, whispering, "We need to move. Now."
Elara looked pale, eyes brimming. "Caelan… he—"
Zelene's breath hitched. "Don't. Not now."
"But he said—he said he'd catch up," Elara's voice cracked. "Zelene, he promised—"
"I know," Zelene snapped — too sharply, too loud. The word echoed like a slap.
Elara flinched, and guilt crashed into Zelene's chest. "Elara, I'm sorry. I—"
But there was no time.
The boots were closer.
Zelene grabbed her sister's hand again, pulling her toward the servant's exit — the back stairwell leading to the gardens. They slipped through the cracks of the dying manor, moving like shadows. Every flame was a threat. Every sound, a betrayal.
They reached the side door when a figure stumbled from the dark — a woman's silhouette, hair tied back, face streaked with soot.
"Lady Zelene—!"
Zelene froze. "Mara?"
The head maid. Loyal, gentle, brave. Her apron was torn, and blood trailed down her arm. Behind her, a man — one of the household guards — limped forward, sword drawn.
"My lady, this way!" Mara urged, voice trembling. "The stables are clear—we can escape through the woods—"
Zelene nodded numbly. "Elara's hurt—"
"Give her to me," the guard said, extending his arms. "I'll carry her."
They moved fast, slipping through a half-broken gate into the cold night. The air outside was merciless — heavy with smoke and winter.
The manor burned behind them, each collapsing tower reflected in Elara's wide, tear-glossed eyes.
They reached the outer gardens — just a few steps away from the woods.
Freedom.
And then—
A whistle split the air.
Too sharp. Too familiar.
Zelene turned.
The guard's eyes went wide as a blade pierced through his chest — clean and silent. Blood bloomed like ink across his tunic. He fell without a word.
"Mara—!" Zelene screamed.
The maid pushed Elara forward, shielding her. "Go, my lady, go—!"
The next arrow struck her in the throat.
Mara collapsed soundlessly into the frost.
Elara screamed. Zelene grabbed her and ran — bare feet slipping on blood and mud, tears stinging her eyes. "Don't look back—just run!"
But the sound of pursuit thundered behind them.
Steel. Boots. Shouts.
Zelene's legs trembled, her lungs raw. She could see the tree line — so close. Just a few more steps—
A sound cracked the air.
A crossbow string.
Then a scream — Elara's.
Zelene stopped.
Her sister's hand slipped from hers.
She turned — and the world broke again.
Elara stood frozen, her small form bathed in moonlight, an arrow lodged deep in her stomach. Blood spread across her white gown like a blooming flower. Her eyes widened — confused, pleading — before her knees buckled.
"No—no, no, no!" Zelene fell to her knees, catching her before she hit the ground. "Elara, stay with me, stay with me, please—"
Her hands pressed over the wound, but the blood wouldn't stop. It was warm. Too warm.
Elara's trembling fingers brushed Zelene's cheek. "I don't… want to go yet."
Zelene's tears fell freely, hot and endless. "You won't. I'll save you. I'll—"
"You came home," Elara whispered faintly. "I'm glad you came home."
"Don't—" Zelene's voice broke. "Don't say goodbye. Please—"
Elara's lips parted — a breath, a ghost of a smile. "Tell Cael… I wasn't scared."
Then her hand fell.
And Zelene screamed.
It wasn't a cry. It was grief turned to sound — raw, feral, unholy. It ripped through the night, through the smoke, through everything she'd ever been.
She clutched Elara's body to her chest, rocking back and forth, her tears mixing with blood. Her vision blurred. Her lungs burned.
She had nothing left.
Not her mother.
Not her father.
Not Caelan.
Not Elara.
Nothing.
Footsteps surrounded her.
Five of them. Black armor. Cold eyes.
They dragged her up by her arms, her body limp, her voice gone. The sword fell from her fingers with a dull clang.
They threw her into the courtyard — the one that once held her family's festivals, her father's speeches, her mother's laughter.
Now it was only ash and ruin.
She knelt on the cold stone, blood-soaked and trembling, the night pressing down on her.
And then — a shadow fell over her.
Boots, polished. Cloak, royal. A voice — smooth, controlled, venom wrapped in velvet.
"Enough."
The soldiers froze.
Even the fire seemed to still.
Zelene lifted her head slowly, her breath catching in the back of her throat.
The man who stepped into the moonlight was draped in a cloak the color of midnight silk, trimmed with threads of gold that shimmered like faint lightning. The air around him seemed to bend — not from magic, but from authority, from the sheer gravity of his presence.
His boots clicked softly against the cobblestone as he approached, unhurried, precise — every movement deliberate, practiced, like a man who had never once needed to run.
The moonlight found him first — and the world seemed to draw its breath.
A face carved from elegance and cruelty both: sharp jawline, lips pressed in calm indifference, and eyes — gods, those eyes — blue as diamonds, reflecting no warmth at all. They were the kind of eyes that saw everything, judged everything, and pitied nothing.
A crest gleamed over his chestplate — the royal insignia of the Royal Family, gold and flawless, untainted by the soot that blackened everything else. Not a scratch on him. Not a fleck of blood. As if the destruction he caused had never touched him.
The Crown Prince.
He carried no weapon in hand. He didn't need one. His presence alone silenced the courtyard. The soldiers bowed instinctively, heads lowered — not out of respect, but fear.
He looked at Zelene the way one might study a dying flame — detached curiosity, faint amusement.
So this was the man the people once called "His Radiant Highness."
Radiant. How ironic.
Alive.
And standing before her.
Her heart twisted — a violent, molten thing. Anger. Horror. Betrayal.
"You…" she whispered, voice shredded.
He regarded her quietly, head tilting. "So it's true," he murmured. "The Evandelle heir survived."
She spat blood onto the ground. "You did this."
The corner of his mouth twitched — not guilt, not denial. Amusement.
"I warned your father what would happen if he opposed me."
Zelene's breath shook. "He was loyal to the crown—"
"Loyalty," the prince interrupted, "means obedience."
He crouched before her, the torchlight reflecting in his eyes. "You should've stayed hidden, little dove. You would've lived longer."
"Tell me," he said softly, "was it worth it? Coming back here?"
Her breath caught. The words struck deep — straight through the guilt that had been festering in her chest since the night began.
Her vision blurred.
He seemed to read her silence. His smile widened — almost pitying.
"You see it now, don't you? The cost of sentiment."
She stared back — trembling, hollow, but burning inside. "Then kill me."
He smiled faintly. "Oh, I will. But not yet."
He stood, turning to his men. "Leave her. Let her see what remains of her world."
The soldiers hesitated.
"But, Your Highness—"
"That's an order."
And with that, he turned — cloak sweeping through the smoke — and walked away.
Zelene stayed there, kneeling, her mind unraveling. The night hummed. The fire dimmed.
Everything she'd loved was gone.
For a moment, she thought this was it — the end.
And then—
A faint sound behind her.
A crunch of boots against stone.
She barely had time to lift her head before a shadow slipped into the courtyard — tall, cloaked, silent as death itself.
Then — a voice.
Low. Familiar.
"Hold on."