---
Serenya stirred restlessly by the fire as the group packed up their gear. The forest still whispered around them, but the air was lighter now—less ominous than the days before. Still bound by suspicion, she made no attempt to escape. Not after Darius's arrival confirmed everything she had claimed.
She sat quietly, watching the group move in loose harmony. Tarn barked instructions, Valron readied the horses, Cain knelt over a patch of dirt inspecting prints, and Mira wrapped a cloth over her shoulder wound. Asteria stood nearby, sharpening his blade, eyes occasionally drifting toward her. She didn't miss it.
"I want to go home," Serenya said suddenly. Her voice held neither pride nor demand—just weariness.
Darius looked over at her. "We can't return until we reach the village. This forest has no safe path backward. Only forward."
Mira stepped forward, rubbing her temples. "You should've stayed in the palace. This is no place for pampered royals."
Serenya shot her a glare but said nothing.
Darius turned toward the others. "Where exactly are we headed?"
Tarn answered. "Sanctuary. A neutral village where all tribes are welcome. That's where we were headed—me, Asteria, and Valron. Mira wasn't part of the plan. We just picked her up along the way."
Mira rolled her eyes. "Picked up? You begged for my help."
"You threatened to drown us if we didn't take you," Asteria added with a smirk.
Darius narrowed his eyes. "And you believe this place—this Sanctuary—can keep her safe?"
Cain finally spoke. "For a while. It's off the grid, unaligned. A place to rest, gather supplies, and plan."
They pressed on.
---
The days that followed were grueling. The deeper they traveled, the less Serenya resembled a princess. Her once-fine dress was in tatters, now hidden under a rough cloak. Her hair, once braided and jeweled, now hung in messy waves. Her boots were caked with mud, her cheeks sunburnt and scratched. Still, she walked.
When she stumbled, Asteria helped her up.
When she was quiet too long, he offered small jokes.
And slowly, her glare softened. But only with him.
She rarely answered Mira. Ignored Tarn. Tolerated Valron. She treated Cain with distant curiosity. But with Asteria—her tone shifted. Subtle smiles. Quiet thank-yous. Questions asked just loud enough for him to hear.
It didn't go unnoticed.
The campfire crackled low that night, casting long amber shadows across the clearing. The group had just finished a modest dinner—roasted mushrooms, dried meat, and Mira's rather under-seasoned root stew—and everyone sat in quiet exhaustion.
Asteria leaned against a rock, sharpening his blade under the moonlight. The sound of steel rasping against stone filled the silence, broken only by the chirp of night insects.
Serenya strolled over, her once-gilded royal cloak now faded and patched. She crouched beside him with a soft, tired sigh. Her hands, gloved in worn leather, folded neatly on her lap.
"You know," she said lightly, watching the sword, "you sharpen that blade more than you actually use it."
Asteria smirked, not looking up. "Maybe that's why it's never failed me."
Serenya leaned closer, her tone playful. "Or maybe you just like looking dramatic."
That earned a chuckle from him. "Coming from someone who introduced herself with a monologue."
She gasped mockingly. "That was not a monologue! It was a formal declaration."
"Oh, forgive me, Your Royal Verbosity."
Serenya laughed—a genuine, melodic sound that turned several heads around the camp. Even Cain's fingers paused over his blade. Mira, who had been rinsing her cup in the nearby stream, stiffened slightly, her eyes flicking toward them.
Tarn raised a brow but said nothing.
Valron watched the interaction, his face unreadable.
Asteria sheathed his sword and leaned back. "So… the princess does laugh. I was beginning to think your jaw would snap from all that scowling."
Serenya rolled her eyes, brushing back a strand of tangled hair. "And I was beginning to think you were just another arrogant fire brat with a death wish."
"Guilty," he grinned. "But stubborn enough to still be alive."
There was a beat of silence between them. Then she nudged his arm with her elbow—light, casual, almost familiar.
"You know, for someone born in the dirt, you're surprisingly tolerable."
"And for someone born on silk sheets, you're surprisingly human."
Serenya smirked, then stood. "Careful, Asteria. You keep talking like that, and I might start trusting you."
He looked up at her, eyebrow raised. "That's the most dangerous thing you've said all week."
She smiled down at him and walked off toward her tent, her steps lighter than they had been in days.
As she disappeared behind the canvas, Mira approached slowly, holding her cup. "You two seem... cozy."
Asteria shrugged, not missing the slight edge in her voice. "She's different when she's not shouting."
"Right," Mira said flatly. "And wildcats are cuddly when they're not biting."
Mira smirked. "She's all gentle and grateful when you're around. She even said the fish stew you made yesterday was 'tolerable.' That's basically marriage."
He chuckled. "She's just not used to being treated like everyone else."
Mira's smirk faded. "Maybe. Or maybe she's used to getting what she wants. And right now… she wants your attention."
He looked at her closely. "Jealous?"
Mira stood, tossing the stick into the fire. "I'm just stating facts. Royals don't travel without reason. And she hasn't told us everything."
She walked away, leaving him to stare into the flickering flames.
---
Far from the forest, back in the capital city of Eldros, Queen Ayelara stood in the War Hall.
Her dress shimmered like woven blood and steel. Crimson light spilled through the stained-glass windows, bathing her in power.
A hooded figure knelt before her.
"Report," she said.
"The scouts confirmed it. The princess has joined with a group traveling toward Sanctuary. They are avoiding the main roads. One of them is a swordsman of unnatural speed. Another is... untraceable. Like the wind."
Ayelara's lips twitched. "She still lives."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
"Send the Crimson Fang. Quietly. Bring her back—alive if possible. Kill the rest if needed."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
As the figure vanished into the shadows, Ayelara turned toward the tall statue of King Alvaryn at the end of the hall.
"You always said she had your fire," she whispered. "Let's see if it burns as bright."
The throne hall of Eldros was cloaked in silence.
Braziers lined the obsidian walls, their violet flames flickering like the breath of dragons, casting tall, dancing shadows that twisted against polished stone. The air felt thick, as though the room itself held its breath.
At the head of the crescent-shaped war table sat Queen Ayelara, draped in flowing black and crimson silk, her crown like sharpened silver thorns. Her eyes—cold, calculating—scanned the room, daring anyone to speak first.
Twelve high-ranking nobles, generals, and elemental masters lined the table. Even the most battle-hardened among them shifted uncomfortably under the weight of her gaze.
Ayelara finally spoke, her voice smooth as cut glass.
"They have confirmed it."
The room stirred. A few looked toward each other. The Queen continued.
"She is traveling with the one who unleashed the lightning."
A beat.
Silence.
Then murmurs.
Lightning—true lightning—was a power unseen since the time of the First Prime. Its awakening meant more than prophecy—it meant peril. Chaos. War.
"I have already sent a response," the Queen said, leaning slightly forward. "The same emissary I dispatched after the Oracle's visions began. Sevrik the blade of silence."
Gasps followed her words. Some noblemen rose halfway from their chairs, stunned.
"But—" Lord Caelor, the silver-bearded master of House Vyrden, shook his head slowly. "Sevrik was exiled from every known court. He has killed more kings than famine. He—Your Majesty, with all respect… you sent him?"
Ayelara tilted her head, almost amused.
"Yes."
"You're releasing a butcher into our lands."
"No," she said coolly. "I am aiming a weapon."
Caelor's jaw clenched. "He is madness bound to flesh. His allegiance is to blood, not to crown. If he reaches that boy—and if what we've heard is true—he won't just stop with the boy."
Ayelara's expression didn't change.
He took one step closer. "My Queen… you risk setting fire to every corner of the realm."
A pause.
Then Ayelara slowly stood.
The violet flames flared in response, reacting to her will.
Caelor faltered.
"I have ruled longer than you've been alive, Lord Vyrden," she said. "I have torn down kings for less arrogance than yours."
"You would silence concern with death?" he barked. "Is your throne built so high you cannot see the ruin coming?"
In one sharp motion, Ayelara raised her hand.
A pulse of air snapped through the chamber.
Caelor's body twisted unnaturally—lifted off the ground, suspended midair. His mouth opened to scream, but no sound escaped.
With a flick of her fingers—
Snap.
A twisted crack rang out, and his body crumpled to the marble floor—limp, lifeless, eyes wide in shock.
Blood spread beneath his head like spilled ink.
The silence that followed was absolute.
Ayelara looked around, calm and unshaken. "Does anyone else wish to offer… objections?"
No one moved.
Not a cough. Not a whisper. Not a breath.
She sat back down, smoothing the fabric of her gown.
"Then prepare the southern scouts. If the emissary fails, we will move to retrieve the girl by force—and eliminate the boy. With or without prophecy."
The chamber remained frozen as the flames crackled louder.
Ayelara's voice fell to a whisper, though everyone heard it clear as thunder:
"Let the world burn before I kneel to fate."
---