The air was heavy with morning mist. Condensed water droplets clung stubbornly to the trees and bushes, coating every leaf and blade of grass in a fine, glistening sheen. Dark clouds swirled ominously in the sky above, blotting out any hint of sunlight. Though it was morning, the world was shrouded in dim, steel-grey light.
The landscape stretched out in eerie silence, covered in lush green grass, dotted here and there with the occasional, skeletal tree. There was no birdsong, no rustle of creatures. Only the distant rumble of a storm, muffled beneath the cloud-heavy sky.
The air smelled of damp soil and iron—thick and metallic. The scent of a storm brewing. Or blood, about to be spilled.
Aiden took a slow, deep breath, inhaling the chill that pricked against his lungs. His horse, sensing something, slowed its pace until it came to a halt. Aiden pulled the reins gently, dismounting with practiced ease. Every motion he made was deliberate, laced with a stillness that came not from calm, but from cold, trained focus.
He had known it was a trap.
And he had come anyway.
The grass was soft beneath his boots, the earth beneath it damp and pliable. It was an isolated clearing near the borders—tucked privately between the nearest village and the frontlines. A forgotten little space carved by time and war, sheltered from view. He'd ordered the knights he had brought along to stay back—hidden in the thick foliage just beyond the clearing, their presence obscured by shadow and silence.
They'd argued against this, of course. Pleaded, even. But he hadn't listened.
Stupid.
He would like to say he was relaxed—that some part of him still believed this might not be a trap. But that would be a lie. How relaxed could a man be when his fingers never left the hilt of his sword?
"I, Aiden Rosethorne, have arrived. Show yourself," he said loudly, voice steady and commanding as it echoed through the silent trees.
Not a single leaf stirred in answer. The clearing remained utterly still, like the world itself had gone breathless. The letters had promised answers. But the silence promised death.
His grip on the sword tightened, fingers flexing and twitching with anticipation. The knights remained out of sight—his best, his most loyal. Trained killers, all of them. They would be waiting for his signal.
Outwardly, he showed no emotion. His mouth was pressed into a hard line, his gaze sharp and fixed ahead. Every inch of his body was coiled like a spring, eyes scanning the shadows for the slightest movement.
A voice drifted out of the mist. "Prince Aiden."
He stilled.
A figure stepped forward from the edge of the treeline—tall, cloaked, face obscured by a heavy hood that shadowed all but the lower part of her face.
Aiden didn't move to meet her. His stance remained rooted, but his eyes narrowed like drawn blades.
"Are you the one who sent the letters?" he asked.
"Why, yes," the cloaked figure replied, amusement curling in her voice. It was a woman's voice—aged, perhaps in her forties. There was something strangely calm about her tone, as if they were meeting for tea instead of in a battlefield dressed as a parley. "You finally come seeking the answers your precious emperor worked so hard to bury. He is a Lancaster through and through, is he not? Just like his father."
Aiden's jaw clenched. Fury simmered beneath his skin.
"Elliott is not like his father," he growled.
He may have been angry with the emperor—gods knew there were reasons—but he'd never allow anyone else to slander Elliott. Not like that.
The woman chuckled, low and mocking. "I see what they say about you is true. Such a... protective little creature. Can't handle someone insulting your beloved emperor, even while he lies through his teeth to you."
Aiden's grip on his sword twitched. His blood surged with the desire to drive his blade through her throat. But he didn't move. Not yet.
"I didn't come to hear your ramblings about Elliott," he said tightly. "Give me the answers. The ones you promised in your letters."
"Answers, you say?" she drawled, clearly entertained. "Adorable. You don't want answers, Prince Rosethorne. What you want is confirmation. You already know the truth—you've just never had the spine to say it aloud."
"I seek answers," Aiden snapped. His patience was hanging by a thread, fraying with every heartbeat. "What happened during the Rosethorne massacre?"
The woman laughed again—a brittle, jarring sound that seemed to echo too long. And then, slowly, her hands moved. She pushed back her hood.
Her face was pale, almost ghostly. Jet-black hair fell in waves around her shoulders, and her eyes—dark and sharp—were unfamiliar. Foreign. Not of these lands. And then he saw it.
The outfit beneath the cloak. Green and red—armor and cloth marked unmistakably with the insignia of the southern soldiers.
Aiden's body stiffened. He had expected betrayal. He had even prepared for it. And yet, he stood frozen for a beat longer than he should have.
His hardened gaze sharpened into one of unfiltered rage.
"You're not who I came to meet."
The woman smirked. "No. But I am the one you were meant to find."
Behind her, the mist stirred.
Rustling. Footsteps.
Figures began to emerge—dozens at first, then more. Soldiers. Swords drawn. Bows raised. Armor glinting.
Aiden's pulse thundered in his ears.
He had brought fifteen knights. The enemy had at least a hundred.
He exhaled through his teeth.
Of course.
His sword came free with a metallic whisper just as the first arrow whistled through the air—missing his face by inches. It embedded in the tree behind him with a deadly thunk. Had he not moved, it would've gone straight through his eye socket.
"Now!" he barked.
The trees came alive with movement. His knights surged forward from their hiding places, steel gleaming as they clashed with the enemy head-on.
The battle erupted like a thunderclap—steel met steel in a cacophony of screams, shouts, and splintering shields. Arrows whistled past. Bodies slammed against one another. The clearing, once silent, now roared with chaos.
Aiden moved like a storm. Swift. Brutal. Unrelenting. His blade plunged into flesh before his enemies could even react.
The first man lunged, aiming straight for Aiden's throat. Aiden sidestepped, parried, and in one fluid motion, slashed across the man's neck. Blood sprayed in a high arc. The soldier collapsed before he could scream.
An axe came swinging from behind. Aiden twisted on his heel, raising his arm. His clawed hand-blades—a local weapon worn like tiger's claws—slashed across the man's gut, spilling blood and viscera. He was already turning before the man hit the ground.
A third came at him. Then a fourth. A fifth. He ducked, rolled, and countered with vicious precision. Every movement was honed, purposeful. There was no panic, only cold fury.
Around him, his knights fought with equal valor. They gave no ground, despite being outnumbered nearly seven to one.
But numbers mattered. And as the skirmish raged, Aiden saw the tide beginning to turn.
To his left, Sir Joric fell with a spear driven through his ribs. To his right, Lady Elma took an arrow to her shoulder, her sword arm faltering as blood soaked her armor.
Bodies littered the ground now—not just enemies, but his own.
Aiden's breath came fast, burning his lungs. Every motion became more difficult, more desperate. But still, he kept moving—his sword an extension of his will. He didn't stop. He couldn't.
And suddenly, the world seemed to slow.
Every face that fell to the dirt, every scream, every flash of a dying knight's eyes—they registered. All of them.
He'd led them here.
'Idiot,' whispered a voice in his mind. Cold and damning. 'You walked right into this. Led your knights into slaughter.'