Chapter 6
Unholy Coincidence
The air thrummed with residual magic, the aftermath of the Shadow Weaver's assault still lingering in the atmosphere like a haunting melody. Eric stood protectively before Cynthia, his gaze scanning the darkened woods, alert to any lingering threat.
Then, from the shadows, a new presence emerged.
A group of warriors stepped into view, clad in shimmering ice-blue armor. They moved with cold precision, each step deliberate, their expressions carved from frost.
"The Prince is ours," their leader declared, his voice a chilling echo of power and authority. "Return him to Aethelgard."
Eric's eyes widened. "Aethelgard?" he echoed, a flicker of memory stirring—a palace of frost, the sound of a woman's laugh, a crown of silver ice.
Clare stepped forward, her face creased with concern. "Eric, these are… these are your people. They've come to take you home."
"Home?" Eric scoffed, gesturing to Cynthia, who now stood at his side, her hand lightly resting on his arm. "This is my home. My memory is build on tryzo."
The Aethelgardian leader's expression remained unmoved. "The Prince has been compromised," he said, his cold eyes narrowing on Cynthia. "The Nature Princess is a threat to Aethelgard."
"She is not a threat!" Clare interjected, her voice rising with emotion. "She is… she is my friend."
Cynthia looked at Clare in surprise, her eyes wide. "Friend?"
Clare nodded, her voice softening. "Yes. Friend. And I will not let anyone harm her."
The Aethelgardians, however, showed no intention of standing down.
Without warning, they attacked.
Their blades, forged from enchanted ice, shimmered with deadly energy. The clearing erupted once more into chaos.
Eric and Cynthia fought in perfect unison, their powers blending seamlessly—ice and vine, frost and bloom. Eric's blasts of glacial force met the enchanted weapons with equal fury, while Cynthia's vines twisted around enemy limbs, buying Clare space to unleash her magical onslaught.
Clare moved differently now. She protected Cynthia at every turn—healing her wounds, shielding her from strikes, standing shoulder to shoulder with the very girl she'd once distrusted.
As the battle raged, flashes of memory surged through Eric's mind: snow-covered halls, a voice calling his name, a throne carved from ancient ice. Aethelgard. His past. His family. A destiny he'd long forgotten.
And yet, Cynthia was here. So was Clare. So was this life.
Eventually, the Aethelgardians retreated, their leader leaving behind a final, bitter warning. "The Prince will return to Aethelgard. It is his destiny."
"They didn't come in peace," Cynthia muttered, brushing snow from her shoulder.
"As always," Philip said grimly. "Something smells fishy."
Silence settled over the clearing. Ragged breaths filled the space once occupied by war. Clare turned to Cynthia, her eyes bright with sincerity.
"I meant what I said," she said gently. "I want to be your friend."
Cynthia's lips curled into a genuine smile, lighting up her face. "Thank you, Clare. I would like that very much."
Eric watched the exchange with a heart torn between two worlds. Aethelgard called to him—a past, a kingdom, a duty. But Tryzo was where his heart had awakened. With Cynthia. With this strange, chaotic love he hadn't expected.
Clare approached him slowly, her eyes filled with sorrow and hope. "Eric… we must return to Aethelgard. A war is coming. A darkness that threatens to swallow everything. We need you."
Eric looked at Cynthia, his expression conflicted. "I… I don't know what to do," he whispered.
Cynthia reached up and gently cupped his cheek. Her voice was soft, full of fierce love. "We'll decide together. Whatever path you choose, I'll be by your side."
Clare smiled—a bittersweet curve of the lips that carried both pain and peace. "Then let us go,"
she said, her voice resolute. "Let us return to Aethelgard