The fire's embers glowed like fallen stars in the hush that followed the roar's vanishing echo. In the center of the sparse camp, Dorothy knelt on a bedroll of furs, cradling Leo Nerona in her arms. His eyes fluttered closed, and sweat beaded on his forehead. With gentle fingers, she brushed damp hair from his brow, murmuring soothing words in the old tongue of her forest. Each breath he drew was shallow, as though the very act of inhaling cost him blood and bone.
Behind them, Zeno moved with quiet efficiency, staking canvas and hauling water from a nearby stream. The half-elf's daggers lay sheathed, but his hands never stilled—his vigil was unbroken. Liv stood a few paces away, arms folded, bow slung across her back. Her usual spark was dimmed; worry softened her sharp features into an expression of profound sorrow.
"Is he…?" she began, voice barely above a whisper. Dorothy shook her head.
"He must sleep. The mark burns with power, and only rest can settle it." Dorothy's green-gold eyes never left Leo's pale face. Liv drew in a trembling breath, remembering all the weight he carried: two swords, two blood debts, and now this inexplicable agony born of the diamond-shaped birthmark on his belly.
She turned away, unable to bear the sight. In the wavering glow of the campfire, memories surged—a flashback she could neither banish nor welcome.
⸻
Flashback—Hidden Village, Years Ago
The training yard was ringed by cedar trees, their needles soft underfoot. Young Leo, barely thirteen, danced across the clearing with twin wooden swords, each strike precise and precise. Opposite him stood Liv, barely a year younger, her longbow unlaced at her side and a wooden sword but her eyes bright with challenge.
"Again," Leo said between breaths, voice steady despite the cut on his forearm. Liv nodded and advanced, sparring sword in hand.
They clashed: Leo's twin wooden swords carved gentle arcs, parrying Liv's thrusts and sidesteps. She pressed forward with fierce determination, her brow glistening with sweat.
"Not bad," Leo teased, deflecting a thrust to his ribs. "But you're too predictable."
Liv narrowed her eyes. "Then learn to catch me." She faked left, spun right, and lunged. Leo sidestepped, tapping her sword flat with the tip of his blade.
"Ha!" he laughed, effortlessly disarming her in one fluid motion.
Liv dropped to one knee, scowling. "Again!"
They sparred until dusk, until the sky bled orange. When they finally rested, Liv exhaled, lowering her bow.
"Leo," she said, voice soft and urgent, "I—" She hesitated, rose on a shaky breath. "I like you, you know that right?. More than… more than a friend."
Leo looked away, gaze fixed on the forest's edge. "Liv," he said gently, "you're like a sister to me. I—I can't… I'm sorry."
Her chest tightened. She swallowed, eyes bright with unshed tears. "I know," she whispered, forcing a smile. "Just thought you should know."
And so they parted that evening: Leo carrying his swords back to the forge, and Liv retreating into the blossoming night, heart heavy but faithful.
⸻
Return to Camp, Present
Liv exhaled, shaking out the remnants of memory. She nodded to Zeno. "Need a hand?"
Zeno accepted the water skin with a curt nod. "Thank you."
Together, they finished setting the simple camp: blankets spread, kettle hung over smoldering coals, and a makeshift lean-to for Dorothy's herbs and elixirs.
At length, the camp settled into a fragile peace. Dorothy curled up beside Leo, her soft anthem of lullabies weaving between the crackle of flames and the distant hoot of an owl. Liv, unable to watch any longer, retreated beyond the ring of firelight, where Zeno found her.
"Will he live?" she asked, voice raw.
Zeno's pale eyes flicked to the sleeping Leo. "He's a survivor. But whatever magic sleeps behind that birthmark has awoken. We must be ready for what comes next."
Liv nodded, shoulders squared. "Then I'll stand ready."
⸻
Bethel Keep, Same Night
Moonlight lay like lace over the deserted courtyards of Bethel Keep. Inside the twisting halls, the hush of midnight was broken only by quick, light footsteps. Annie Cole moved with purpose through the tapestry-lined corridors, her heart pounding like a war drum. At her side, Princess Madison's dark silhouette trailed hesitantly, and Mason, eyes bright with both fear and resolve, followed close behind. Zelda brought up the rear, face etched with concern.
Annie paused before a heavy door marking the guardhouse. She glanced at Madison. "Once we're outside, Kenan and Lex will be waiting. They'll lead us north—to the hidden road through the Ashen Woods. Trust them."
Madison swallowed. "I do," she said quietly. "But my heart aches for confrontation. Cynthia—she must see her children stand against her cruelty." Her voice trembled.
Mason placed a hand on her shoulder. "We'll rise again—when we're alive."
Annie touched his cheek. "Alive is the only option."
At a silent signal, she picked the door's lock. It swung inward without a sound. Roland Darrow, clad in guard's leather, stepped out, face grim.
"Move quickly," he whispered. "I have men posted every corridor. We'll slip past the western stairwell."
Together, the five slipped into the night, hearts pounding in their ears as the fortress behind them breathed its secrets.
⸻
Within the council chamber, Queen Cynthia stirred in her satin gown, eyelids fluttering open. The torches' dying light cast long shapes across ancient tomes and the stone floor. King John lay in his chair, chest rising with even breaths—miraculously alive after Cynthia's own order had failed. The queen's eyes blazed.
"They've fled," she muttered, rising like a spider from its web. Chancellor Varric and Lord Resol snapped to their feet.
"They couldn't have gone far," Varric said. "We have word that the Ashen blades are aiding them. Not to worry though, Leo is not among them. It is Kenan and Lex, still formidable but now they are nowhere to be found."
Lord Resol's veins stood out on his temples. "They've taken the twins." He spat the words like acid.
Cynthia's laugh was cold as ice. "Then hunt them down." She swept through her conspirators like a north wind. "I want every road patrolled. No rest until Prince Mason and Princess Madison are returned… or dead."
Soldiers burst in to receive orders. The queen stood at the chamber's center, a statue of vengeance, as the castle's silent halls came alive with the clatter of armor and the barked commands of pursuit.
⸻
Deep in the Highlands of Neros
A pale dawn light crept across the Highlands, kissing each crest with soft gold. On a jagged outcropping above a roaring river—its waters swollen from the night's tremors—stood a woman of middle years. Her hair dark as night itself, streaked with silver, whipped in the cold breeze. She wore the mantle of a leader: deep green wool clasped with a dragon-shaped brooch, boots of soft leather rising to her knees.
Meredith Neros gazed down at the water, its rapid currents churning like a beast awakened. A guard in light armour, clearly in his 20's, scrambled up the rocks, breathless.
"Matriarch!" he called, voice echoing. "They say the earth shook all the way to the city gates!"
She turned, eyes glinting with fierce pride. "Good." She placed a hand on the guards shoulder, her gaze returning to the river. "The dragons have awakened."
The guard's eyes widened. "What of Leo? Is he safe?"
Meredith's lips curved in a proud, knowing smile. "He is marked by that birth—he will be ready." She crouched to meet his gaze. "You—go gather the clan. We ride at first light to meet him."
The guard saluted, eyes shining with excitement, and skittered off like a sparrow. Alone on the rock, Meredith drew in a deep breath of wind-laden air, letting the roar of waters fill her soul.
"Yes," she whispered to the river's chant, "I hope you are ready, Leo my son. The world we built in hiding must rise now—shields and swords alike."
⸻
As dawn's rosy fingers crept over the horizon, the kingdom of Neros braced for the consequences of that fateful roar. In scattered camps and silent halls, destinies converged: the Ashen Blades bound for uncertain roads, a royal family torn between horror and vengeance, and a hidden village preparing to rise behind the banner of a mother's faith. Leagues away, a sleeping warrior twitched, marked by destiny's light—and the first chord of a war that would reshape all the realms.