A horse tore across the barren road—hooves striking the earth in a frantic rhythm.
The rider clung to its mane, cloak snapping behind him, breath ragged.
The living spy.
He did not stop. Not for air. Not for fear.
Not even for the memories chasing him—flames, screams, Velmara's cold triumph.
By the time the palace gates rose into view, his horse was frothing, its legs trembling.
Still, he drove it forward.
"Open the gates!" the spy roared, voice cracking with terror and urgency.
The guards rushed forward immediately, swords drawn, points gleaming in the moonlight.
"Who goes there? Identify yourself!" one barked, stepping forward.
The spy pulled back his hood—revealing his face, ash-streaked, eyes wide with horror.
Recognition flashed through the guards instantly.
"It's him," one whispered.
"The one sent to the human regions…"
The swords lowered at once.
"I must speak to the king—now!" the spy demanded, voice trembling but loud enough to echo against the stone walls.
No one argued.
Two guards seized his arms—not to restrain, but to steady him—and hurried him inside.
His legs barely carried him; the long ride and the terror twisting in his chest made every breath a struggle.
The palace corridors blurred past him in streaks of gold torchlight and polished stone.
Servants stepped aside.
Nobles turned.
Whispers rose like wind through tall grass.
"The spy has returned—"
"He was supposed to infiltrate the southern line—"
"Has the witch Velmara moved?"
The spy did not look at anyone.
His mind replayed only one thing:
the burning… the cheering… the betrayal.
At the towering doors of the throne room, the guards pushed them open with a heavy rumble.
The spy stumbled inside, falling to one knee on the obsidian floor.
"My king…" he gasped, breath shaking.
"I bring grave news from the human lands."
King Mortifer, seated upon the obsidian throne, was a figure of chilling authority.
The dim torchlight reflected off the dark metal of his crown, casting thin lines of shadow across his stern features.
Although he looked sick, his eyes ringed with dark shadows, King Mortifer still sat upon the throne with a presence that commanded fear. Even weakened, he looked great—dangerous, powerful, impossible to underestimate.
His gaze lifted slowly as the spy was pushed to his knees.
The room fell silent.
"Speak," Mortifer commanded, his voice low, carrying the weight of someone used to obedience. "You arrive unannounced… and in distress."
The spy swallowed hard, his entire body trembling.
"My king… something has occurred. Something grave."
He lifted his eyes, fear burning inside them.
"The humans — guided by the witch Velmara — are slowly claiming the southern region. They have taken prisoners. Dark creatures… our own people."
Mortifer's expression did not shift, but the air itself seemed to pull tighter.
"And?" he asked, his voice calm — the kind of calm that was far more dangerous than fury.
"They—" the spy swallowed, breath unsteady.
"They executed them publicly… as a warning."
A faint tap echoed:
The king's fingers drumming once on the arm of his throne.
"And the witch?" Mortifer asked.
"She led it, my king," the spy whispered.
"With pride.
They now control both the eastern and southern region."
Silence fell — thick, crushing, a tension that clung to the walls of the throne room.
King Mortifer leaned forward slightly, the shadows around him seeming to gather closer.
"Then the humans have declared their intent," he murmured.
"And Velmara… has crossed a line."
He lifted one hand.
"Guards. Notify the council. This must be addressed — at once."
The spy lowered his head, breath trembling, knowing the news he carried would shift the balance of their world.
------------------------------
Aurelia's body shifted before her eyes even opened — a small, uneven jerk of her shoulder, then a slow tightening of her fingers around the bedsheets as though she were trying to grip the world back into place.
Her breath dragged in, thin and shaky. She lifted her hand, but her arm trembled so violently that her fingertips barely managed to brush her forehead before falling back for a moment.
She tried again.
This time her fingers reached her temple, pressing lightly, as if steadying her own skull. Her eyelids fluttered, then peeled open inch by inch.
The dim torchlight bled into her vision, blurring into streaks of gold and shadow. She blinked several times, trying to force the room to settle.
Her mouth parted.
The name escaped before she could stop it — soft, cracked, almost unconscious:
"Kaelen…"
Calvus stiffened.
He had been standing near the doorway, arms crossed, posture rigid in the way of someone trying very hard not to think. But the moment that name left her lips, his arms fell to his sides. The muscles in his jaw tightened. His boots scraped the stone floor as he stepped forward—just one step, but sharp enough to echo.
She still didn't look at him. Her gaze drifted along the ceiling as if she were searching for someone who wasn't him.
Calvus's hands curled into fists.
Aurelia inhaled again, her chest rising unevenly. She pushed herself up onto her elbows, but her arms buckled. She winced and dropped back down, breath punching from her lungs.
Calvus moved before he could stop himself. His hand shot out, hovering above her shoulder—close enough to catch her if she fell again.
He observed her, eyes narrowed, expression caught somewhere between anger and something he would never name out loud.
For years he had searched for her.
For years he had imagined Aurelia as a ghost.
He thought she was dead, a shadow tied to the ruins of his past.
And when he finally found her—alive, breathing, nothing like the person he expected—he had no idea what to do with the truth.
I loved her when she was smaller; maybe as time goes by, people always change.
But she's mine, the depths of her stupid parents.
"Kaelen," he heard the name spill from her lips again.
It struck him with more force than any accusation.
She has really changed, perhaps even more foolish.
I wish I had killed her a long time ago.
Calvus thought burned with fire and anger as he looked at her. She had changed, and he wasn't happy with what he was seeing.
Aurelia lifted her head a few inches, her hair sliding over her shoulders in tangled strands. Her breathing rasped.
She didn't even notice Calvus standing there, watching her every struggling movement.
Another attempt. She pressed her palms against the mattress, pushing again. Her arms shook under her own weight. Sweat gathered near her hairline.
Calvus's voice broke through the silence, low but edged.
"Aurelia," he said, stepping closer. "Stop forcing yourself."
She flinched at the sound, shrinking slightly before she recognized him. Her eyes, glassy and unfocused, tried to settle on his shape.
"It's Calvus," he added, standing at her bedside now. His posture was tight, shoulders squared, as if bracing himself against something he couldn't fight.
"I'm here. Not Kaelen. Not anyone else."
----------------------------
To be continued...