The hall of judgment stood heavy with silence, lit only by thin shafts of sunlight that filtered through the tall windows. A hush fell as the messenger's seal was broken and the parchment unrolled before the gathered lords. The scribe's voice carried clearly across the chamber.
"From the Kingdom of Deyra, to the throne of Elareth… Your princess, Evelyn, struck our envoy, a royal courier of peace, when we offered a hand of alliance through marriage. We said nothing. We swallowed the insult. But now, your king has seized land that has long belonged to us. This, we cannot overlook. Elareth will return the land that is ours—or prepare for war."
The words echoed like steel clashing.
Magnus's chair scraped back with a screech. He surged to his feet, his hand clenching until the veins stood out like cords. Then, with a sudden roar, his fist slammed down on the table. The oak shuddered, goblets tipped, and the lords startled.
"Deyra dares?" His voice carried through the chamber like a whip crack. "They dare threaten Elareth? Over a strip of earth? Over some pitiful envoy who was beaten?"
His breath came hard, his chest rising like a man ready for battle in that very moment.
At the king's right hand, Queen Isadora's smile was thin and knowing. She did not rise; she did not need to. Her words slipped into the air like a blade sliding between ribs.
"They seek to test your strength, Your Majesty. They want to see if Elareth still has claws. Show them it does."
Her eyes glittered with satisfaction when Magnus's jaw tightened.
Across the table, Lord Hale's lined face shifted with unease. He leaned forward, voice careful but firm. "Your Majesty, the truth must be faced. That land is not ours. Never has been. If Deyra claims it, perhaps it would be wise to—"
Magnus's head snapped toward him, eyes burning. "Wise? To yield? You speak like a coward, Hale."
The words stung, and a few younger lords shifted uncomfortably, but Hale did not falter.
Lord Fenn, older still, tried to intercede, his tone patient as though soothing a storm. "Your Majesty, strength is not always in holding. Sometimes it is in returning what was taken. Deyra has grown powerful, and a war now… it will bleed us dry."
Magnus's laugh was sharp, bitter. "A king who yields is no king at all. What my hand seized, it will keep. No wolf gives up meat once his jaws have closed."
Lord Brennor, ever the voice of pride, struck the table with his palm in approval. "The king is right. Elareth takes, Elareth keeps. Let them come with their threats. They will learn that our steel is sharper than their tongues."
The chamber stirred—some nodding with Brennor's fire, others pale with Fenn's warnings.
Magnus leaned forward, both hands braced on the table, his voice booming with finality.
"War, then. Let them march if they dare. We will crush Deyra, grind them to dust, and claim not just the land but their pride. No one—no one—insults Elareth and lives to boast."
Isadora's smile deepened as though she had been waiting for those very words.
"So it shall be. Deyra sought to rattle Elareth, but they have awakened a storm instead. Let them choke on it."
The lords erupted—some cheering their king's defiance, others whispering uneasily. The chamber had become a forge of pride and fear, sparks flying with every word.
And through it all, Iridessa sat still.
Her face was unreadable, her hands folded in her lap, her dark eyes fixed on the parchment that lay crumpled on the table. She did not cheer, nor did she argue. She listened. She watched.
Inside, her thoughts moved like shadows. She thought of the villagers already scraping bark for food, of women who would soon weep for husbands dragged into battle, of children who would cry for fathers who never returned. She thought of how easily Magnus had chosen blood over reason—how quickly his mother had fed the fire.
But she gave no sign. To reveal her thoughts here would be folly. Her gaze lifted once to Magnus, proud and blazing, and then to Isadora, smiling like a spider who had caught her prey.
Elareth is not ready for another war, she thought. But Magnus will lead us to it.
The council had already descended into bickering and boasts, but Magnus's will was law. The letter from Deyra, its words heavy with warning, lay ignored upon the table.
A storm had been promised, and Magnus had chosen to meet it head-on.
VELMORA KINGDOM
The courtyard was silent; it was late afternoon. Aldric, flanked by his soldiers and guards, was walking down the corridor. Evelyn, coming from the other end, saw him approaching. Her heart skipped a beat. She quickly smoothed her gown and hair and walked with her head held high toward him.
She stopped a few inches from him and bowed. "Good day, Your Majesty."
"Evelyn, why do you walk alone?" Aldric asked, his voice calm, even.
Evelyn hesitated. "Hmm, I thought to walk alone, Your Majesty."
"Very well, carry on," Aldric replied, his face unreadable.
Evelyn bowed again, then, with a sudden motion, let her body tilt forward, as if losing her balance, expecting him to catch her.
Aldric did nothing. He did not reach for her. He only stepped aside.
Evelyn fell face-first to the ground.
Embarrassment washed over her in a hot wave. She looked up at Aldric. He was staring down at her, his face unreadable.
She scrambled to her feet, dusting her skirt with trembling hands. "Y-your Majesty," she stammered, cheeks burning. "I—I felt dizzy. Forgive me!"
Aldric glanced at her briefly, his eyes cool and unyielding. Then, without another word, he continued his walk, soldiers parting around him like a river flowing around a stone.
Evelyn's stomach twisted. She stood frozen for a moment, her heartbeat hammering in her ears. How could he—how dared he let her fall, let her be humiliated like that?
Her thoughts turned dark, burning hotter with every step he took away from her.
Aurora, she thought, fists clenching at her sides. His Majesty adores her, right?
And soon… soon she would be dead. And so would his other queens. Then he would have no one but me. He will come to me—he must come to me.
Her cheeks flamed, but not from embarrassment alone. A cold, simmering rage took root, mixing with envy and fear. She turned sharply and stalked down the corridor in a swirl of silk.
-
Hooves thundered into Velmora Palace, banners snapping in the wind. King Roderic of Tharvane alighted from his horse, his face hard, eyes blazing. The courtyard fell silent at his arrival, soldiers stiffening as he strode forward.
The court chamber filled quickly. Aldric sat upon his high-backed throne, his lords gathered around, all alert. The doors slammed open, and King Roderic's presence dominated the chamber.
"I have long heard of Aldric's fame," Roderic's voice rang harsh, echoing off the stone walls. "And now I have come to challenge him in battle."
Aldric's lips curved into a faint smirk. "Then be careful, Your Majesty," he said calmly. "For what quarrel does my kingdom hold with your kingdom? Why risk your life for folly?"
Roderic laughed, sharp and bitter. "Folly? No, I seek war! I shall crush you, take all you hold dear—your wives, your mother, your children—everything. Velmora will kneel before Tharvane!"
The court gasped. Aldric's hands flexed lightly on the throne's arms, but his expression never changed.
"Prepare for war, Aldric." Roderic smirked.
With a final sneer, he turned, banners fluttering behind him as he departed.
Rumors rippled through the palace like wildfire; servants whispered, lords exchanged grim glances, and a hush fell over the corridors.
One of Aurora's maids burst into her chambers, breathless. "Your Ladyship! The King of Thornvale—he came to Velmora! He threatened His Majesty! He swore to take everything His Majesty holds dear—"
Aurora's eyes narrowed, fingers tightening around the folds of her gown. How dare he threaten my husband? she thought, teeth clenched.
Without another word, she dismissed her maids with a wave, bolted the door, and began chanting softly. Symbols and words flickered like fire along her palms. With a sudden burst, she vanished, laughter like wind through the trees trailing behind her.
Far in the forests, Roderic rode back toward his kingdom, satisfaction in his chest, certain he had challenged the unchallenged king.
Then, from the shadows, Aurora appeared before him, her presence impossible and commanding. "You will lose," she said, voice cold and sharp. "How dare you threaten my Aldric?"
Roderic's eyes widened. He raised a hand, calling his soldiers to seize her—but she vanished, laughter dark and wicked echoing through the trees.
Fear clawed at his chest, but his pride would not yield. He pressed on, calling for war.
The war happened, armies clashed in open field, steel ringing against steel, dust rising like smoke over the valley.
Aurora moved unseen through the chaos, hands weaving spells that froze, stunned, and scattered Thornvale's soldiers. Roderic himself faltered, paralyzed mid-command, unable to move or strike.
Then Aldric struck, calm and precise. With a final push, the battle ended. Thornvale lay in disarray; Roderic, defeated and humiliated, could do nothing.
The war had lasted hours, yet felt like minutes. The easiest war Aldric had ever fought.
He knew, without question, that this victory had been possible only through Aurora's aid.
He and his soldiers rode back to Velmora, banners snapping, armor glinting in the late sun. Along the road, they had plundered Thornvale, leaving little for the defeated king to claim. All the while, Aldric's thoughts churned with questions. What exactly happened? How did she move so?
Cheers erupted as they approached the palace gates, voices lifting in triumph. The people of Velmora celebrated their king's return, lining the streets with laughter and song.
Aldric, however, barely heard them. He spurred straight to his chambers, hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
"Kael!" he called once inside. "Fetch Aurora. Bring her here at once!"
Kael bowed and left silently, leaving Aldric alone in the quiet of the chamber.
And then—without warning—a force struck him from behind. He barely had time to draw his breath before the world spun, darkness flashing across his vision. Strong arms gripped him, lifting him with inhuman speed.
Before he could call out, he was gone.