Ophelia could barely walk.
The corridor stretched endlessly before her, its polished floors reflecting the trembling weakness of her steps. Servants parted silently. Guards lowered their gazes. Even the palace — once filled with warmth and laughter — seemed subdued by the weight of distant tragedy.
Her tears would not stop.
They fell endlessly, as though grief itself had claimed ownership of her heart.
"My sister…"
Her voice cracked again.
Soft.
Shattered.
"…Selara…"
The attendants guided her gently, careful, cautious — as if she might break beneath the slightest pressure.
Because she looked as though she already had.
Inside her chambers, the doors closed with a muted hush.
And there—
Waiting like a perfectly placed shadow—
Merideth.
"Oh, Ophelia!"
Merideth rushed forward instantly, eyes glistening with beautifully crafted concern. "I heard the news… I came as soon as I could."
Ophelia collapsed into her embrace without hesitation.
Without thought.
Because grief seeks comfort.
Even when comfort wears deception.
"She has lost everything…"
Ophelia sobbed violently, fingers clutching Merideth's gown.
"Aren…"
"My poor sister…"
Merideth held her tightly, expression flawless in its sorrow.
"How cruel fate can be…"
Her voice trembled just enough.
Just right.
Ophelia's shoulders shook uncontrollably.
"She loved him…"
"She finally found happiness…"
Merideth slowly guided her toward the bed.
Movements gentle.
Calculated.
"War devours everything, Ophelia," she murmured softly.
"It spares no one."
"Not love…"
"Not dreams…"
"Not even hope."
Each word sank deeper.
Each word pressed heavier.
Each word fed the storm inside Ophelia's fragile heart.
"I fear what this will do to Selara…"
Ophelia whispered through broken sobs.
"She has endured too much…"
Merideth's fingers tightened slightly.
Barely noticeable.
"Even the strongest hearts can shatter."
And beneath lowered lashes—
A fleeting, invisible satisfaction flickered.
Gone before it could be seen.
Far away—
Where grief did not whisper…
But roared—
Selara awoke.
Her eyes opened sharply.
Breath ragged.
Body tense.
For one fleeting moment—
There was silence.
Then memory returned.
Rain.
Blood.
Aren's fading warmth.
Aren's final breath.
Pain tore through her chest like a blade.
But something else rose with it now.
Something darker.
Something alive.
Selara sat up abruptly.
Eyes burning.
Not with tears.
But with something far more dangerous.
Resolve.
Outside her tent, soldiers moved slowly, exhaustion dragging heavily upon every step. The air was thick with tension, uncertainty, whispered speculation.
Then—
The war horn sounded.
Sharp.
Commanding.
Unforgiving.
Every soldier froze.
Because that horn…
Belonged to only one person.
Selara emerged.
Armor black as a stormcloud.
Hair dark as night.
Presence suffocating.
Thousands of eyes locked onto her.
And for the first time—
They did not see grief.
They saw something terrifying.
Selara stepped forward.
Voice steady.
Cold.
Absolute.
"The enemy commander has fallen."
Silence slammed across the battlefield.
Breathless.
Electric.
Murmurs rippled like distant thunder.
Disbelief.
Shock.
Hope.
Selara's gaze hardened.
"By my hands."
The air itself seemed to fracture.
Because soldiers had heard rumors.
Whispers.
Legends forming in frightened tones.
But hearing it from her lips…
Was something else entirely.
"They have no command."
"No structure."
"No shield."
Her voice carried across the ranks like steel drawn slowly from its sheath.
"They bleed."
The soldiers' breathing grew heavier.
Eyes blazing.
"And we…"
A pause.
Sharp.
Deadly.
"…will advance into their territory."
A wave of stunned silence.
Then—
A soldier stepped forward.
Helmet removed.
Voice burning with fury.
"For Aren!"
Another voice rose.
"For Aren!"
Then another.
Then dozens.
Then hundreds.
"For Aren!!"
The battlefield erupted.
Not in chaos.
But in rage.
In loyalty.
In shared vengeance.
Selara stood unmoving.
Watching.
Accepting.
Because grief was no longer drowning her.
It was commanding armies.
"They took our future."
"They took our hope."
"They took my Aren ."
Her voice dropped.
Lower.
More dangerous.
"We will take everything."
The roar that followed shook the earth.
Weapons raised.
Voices blazing.
Eyes ignited with savage purpose.
Selara turned slightly.
Wind tugging at her cloak.
"Prepare."
"We march at dawn."
No hesitation.
No fear.
No doubt.
Because their general had not merely survived grief.
She had weaponized it.
And somewhere beyond palace walls…
Beyond battlefields…
Beyond schemes yet unseen…
Fate watched silently.
Smiling.
Because legends are not born in glory.
They are born in loss.