The battlefield was quiet—too quiet.
No clashing steel. No war horns. Only the mournful sigh of the wind through the jagged rocks of the Hollow Vale. Snowflakes drifted from the pale sky like feathers from a fallen angel.
Lucien stood at the front lines, wrapped in black and silver, his armor as dark as night. Around him, his soldiers shifted anxiously. The Ravencroft banner—midnight blue with the silver raven—fluttered against the wind, refusing to bow.
Across the valley, the banners of the royal army stood proud in gold and crimson. And at their helm, astride a white stallion, sat Crown Prince Eiran.
His presence was fire incarnate—his golden hair, polished armor, and narrowed eyes making him look every bit the hero he was written to be. The cold did not touch him. The tension, however, did.
Lucien raised a hand, signaling his men to hold their ground. Then, slowly, deliberately, he stepped forward into the no-man's-land.
To his surprise, Eiran did the same.
They met at the center, the snow crunching softly under their boots. No guards followed. No archers raised their bows.
Just them.
"You forged a letter," Eiran said flatly. "In your own hand. Promising my execution."
Lucien shook his head. "I didn't. It was planted—by someone who wants this war to happen. Someone manipulating the script."
Eiran's expression darkened. "And the courier who delivered it? Dead. His blood is on Ravencroft blades."
"Which I never ordered."
The prince's hand tightened around the hilt of his sword. "Why should I believe you?"
"Because you looked into my eyes once and saw I wasn't your enemy," Lucien whispered. "That hasn't changed."
Eiran said nothing. His eyes searched Lucien's face—desperate for a lie, perhaps, or for a truth he could live with.
Lucien stepped closer. "The Storykeeper. He's real. He wants this war. He feeds on it. We're his puppets. But I refuse to dance."
"And what do you propose instead?" Eiran asked, voice laced with weary skepticism.
"Join forces. Pretend the war is real. Let the world believe we're at each other's throats. But behind the curtain, we unravel the real enemy. Together."
Eiran laughed—a harsh, bitter sound. "And what of our soldiers? What of the blood that will spill while we play this game?"
Lucien's jaw tightened. "I'll handle my side. No lives lost without reason. Only staged battles."
Eiran looked away, the wind tugging at his cloak. "You ask me to betray everything I've sworn to uphold."
Lucien's voice broke. "No. I'm asking you to save it."
Silence stretched.
Then Eiran drew his sword—and offered the hilt.
Lucien stared. "What—"
"A pact," Eiran said. "We fight together. But if you betray me—if this is all some clever ruse—this blade will be the last thing you see."
Lucien took the sword and placed the edge against his palm. With a single, swift movement, he sliced his skin. Blood welled up and dripped into the snow.
"On my life," he said. "I will not betray you."
Eiran mirrored the action. "Then let the script shatter."
They clasped hands—bloody palms sealing the most dangerous alliance in the kingdom.
---
That night, in Lucien's war tent, maps were spread across the table. Pins marked regions of unrest, villages swallowed by shadow, and strange disappearances near ancient ruins.
Selene stood watch by the entrance, her daggers gleaming. Across from Lucien, Eiran studied the markings.
"These places," Eiran murmured. "They correspond to the old magic zones. Places where reality frays."
Lucien nodded. "And the Storykeeper moves through them. He's not bound by our laws. He watches. He… adjusts."
"How do you fight a being made of story?" Selene asked.
"You become more than a character," Lucien replied. "You become real."
Eiran looked up. "And how do you do that?"
Lucien hesitated. "By defying the script. By doing what the villain never would."
He turned to Eiran. "You trust me now?"
Eiran's answer was slow. "I trust you more than the world that wrote us."
---
Days passed. Then weeks.
A staged skirmish erupted near Hollow Vale. Ravencroft and royal soldiers clashed under strict orders—no deaths, only noise. Bloodless arrows. Dull blades.
But to the world, it looked like war.
Meanwhile, Lucien and Eiran tracked the Storykeeper's path. Disguised, they entered corrupted villages—places where people forgot their names, where time twisted, where ink leaked from the sky.
They saw what meddling with fate did.
And they knew it would only get worse.
In the burned remains of the town called Sablehollow, they found it—a sigil etched into the earth. A summoning circle not for demons, but for the Keeper himself.
Lucien knelt beside it. "It's unfinished. We can lure him here."
"How?" Eiran asked.
Lucien looked up, eyes grim. "By offering him a rewrite."
---
The trap was set.
Under the blood moon, Lucien stood alone in the circle, reciting the Storykeeper's invocation.
The wind stilled.
Then, with a hiss like tearing parchment, the air split open.
The Storykeeper emerged—tall, faceless, cloaked in fluttering pages. His voice was a thousand whispers.
"You summoned me to bargain."
Lucien faced him, spine straight. "I want to change the story."
"You already have. The threads scream. The pages bleed."
"Then rewrite it. Let this world have freedom."
"Why? So the villain can kiss the hero? So fate becomes farce?"
Lucien flinched.
Then Eiran stepped out of the shadows.
"No," he said. "So people can choose who they become."
The Storykeeper tilted his head. "Choice. A dangerous myth."
Lucien stepped forward. "Then kill me. End the story. But know this—if we fall, others will rise. Readers. Dreamers. Rebels."
The Keeper raised a hand.
Power surged.
Then—
Eiran stepped in front of Lucien.
"Then take me too," he said.
The Storykeeper paused.
Two enemies. One fate.
A crack split the air.
The summoning circle shone—and the world trembled.
And somewhere in the ether of creation, the story... changed.
---
To be continued...
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