Borg and Craige fought fiercely to defend the eastern region of Seravelle, the largest
and most vital of the four domains. It was the heart of the kingdom, home to the grand capital and the royal palace, directly governed by King Carl himself. The East pulsed with life, power, and politics, making it a crucial stronghold in times of war.
To the North, the cold and mountainous lands were under the command of the steadfast Duke Craige, whose loyalty to the crown was as unshakable as the stone
fortresses he guarded. The West belonged to the cunning and strategic Duke Cassian, whose influence extended far beyond his borders.
Meanwhile, the South had fallen into chaos. Once governed by the once-respected Duke
Armond, the region suffered under his greed and cruelty. His abuses had grown so severe that even the King could no longer ignore them. Power was quietly stripped from his hands and passed to his son. Now, Marquis Cedric oversaw the South, his rule tense and watched closely by the crown.
Despite the divided domains, all lords still served under the rule of King Carl, whose
throne in the East stood as a symbol of unity… and the fragile balance of power.
"Your Grace, Prince Cleven has sent food supplies and a messenger," Borg announced as he stepped into the tent.
Craige sat still, gritting his teeth as the doctor wrapped a bandage tightly around his
bleeding side, fresh from the brutal clash against the Generals of Velgarith.
"Let him in," Craige said, his voice steady despite the pain.
The flap of the tent opened, and the messenger bowed low. "Greetings, Your Grace. Prince Cleven sends word that Duke Cassian has begun cleansing the South. Several enemy soldiers have been captured, while the rest fled to Velgarith, including
Marquis Cedric. Deposed Duke Armand is dead. The Capital is now secure, and Prince Cleven has started searching for evidence to root out the traitors within the Noble Council."
Craige took a slow, deep breath, the pain in his side flaring with the motion. He gave a
firm nod. "Alright."
The messenger bowed once more and exited, leaving the tent heavy with the scent of blood, sweat, and quiet determination.
"Our scout reported that a thousand soldiers are marching toward us… We might be
outnumbered," Borg said grimly, his voice laced with concern.
Craige glanced around the tent. The atmosphere was heavy, filled with the groans of wounded men. Blood-stained bandages and tired, pale faces surrounded him—his
own side was badly injured from the last battle. Even he could barely stand straight from the wound on his side. They desperately needed reinforcements…
but every last soldier had already been dispatched to the front lines.
"Where are all these Velgarith soldiers coming from?" the General of the East muttered, his brow furrowed. "Their numbers only seem to grow."
"They've been conquering small kingdoms for the past decade," Borg answered, his fists clenched. "They must be forcing the citizens to train and fight. Some of them
still tremble in battle… but even fear doesn't stop them from charging forward. They just keep coming."
"But their king is still sitting comfortably on his throne," the General said bitterly,
frustration clear in his voice.
"He keeps sending wave after wave of soldiers… If he truly wanted to conquer Seravelle, he should be out here, leading the war himself!" Another soldier spat on the
ground. "Yet we haven't even seen a glimpse of his shadow. What is he planning?"
---
"I know you're awake, Luren," Desmond whispered against his ear.
Luren flinched as a wave of disgust crawled through his body. A cold shiver ran down
his spine when Desmond's tongue dragged along his earlobe before he bit it sharply, drawing a wince from him. Luren turned his head away in revulsion, but he couldn't escape, the ropes binding his wrists above his head bit into his skin, and his ankles were tied to the corners of the bed, leaving him
completely vulnerable.
"Why are you doing this, Desmond?" Luren spat, fury burning in his eyes. "You betrayed
Seravelle… You're the Archbishop, damn it!"
Desmond only chuckled darkly, his breath warm and foul against Luren's cheek.
"I couldn't care less about this kingdom," he said, voice dripping with twisted pleasure.
"I only do what I want. And you know what I want right now?" His smirk deepened, his eyes glinting with sick lust. "You, Luren."
Without waiting for a response, Desmond grabbed Luren's face in a harsh grip, forcing
him to look into his eyes. Then he slammed his mouth against Luren's in a brutal, possessive kiss, teeth clashing, lips forced apart.
Luren growled and bit down hard on Desmond's lower lip, drawing blood.
Desmond jerked back slightly, a wicked grin forming even through the pain, while Luren
glared at him with blazing hatred.
"Haa!" Desmond wiped the blood from his lips and grinned. "Feasty," he muttered
darkly, then stood. "You'll be mine soon." With that, he turned and walked out of the cabin.
Luren's breath trembled as he stared at the ceiling, his hands bound tightly above his
head, raw from struggling against the ropes. His body ached, but it was the terror in his heart that hurt most.
"Craige…" he whispered brokenly, his voice shaking with fear and desperation. Tears
slipped down his cheeks. He couldn't move, couldn't protect himself, couldn't protect the tiny life growing inside him.
"Please… I'm scared… come for me… our baby needs you…" he choked out, fear sinking deeper into his bones as silence closed in around him.
---
"Whooootttt!"
The blaring horn tore through the night air, and everyone inside the tent froze. The air
thickened with unease, eyes darting toward the entrance.
"Are they… already here?" a soldier asked, his voice trembling.
"Borg, tell the soldiers to get into position!" Craige commanded, fastening his cloak with
quick, deliberate movements.
"You should stay here, Your Grace—your wound might open," Borg urged, his tone heavy with concern.
"I'm fine," Craige said, though his voice carried the weight of unspoken pain. Without
hesitation, he pushed past Borg toward the tent's exit.
As they stepped outside, the cold night air struck their faces like icy blades. The
wind carried the metallic tang of blood, mingled with the foul stench of rotting flesh from the battlefield. Every breath was thick with the promise of death, and in the distance, the low rumble of marching feet drew closer.
"Fairy?!" Borg muttered when he saw the white bird with a red ribbon darting toward them at great speed. It swooped down and landed neatly on Craige's shoulder.
"Why are you here?" Craige asked sharply, snatching the bird and untying the rolled
letter from its feet.
The moment his eyes scanned the words, Craige's body froze. His expression shifted, first disbelief, then a storm of rage. His jaw tightened, and his fist clenched so hard it seemed the skin might split and draw blood.
The letter slipped from his grip without him realizing. Borg caught it before it touched
the ground. As he read, his own face hardened, shock twisting into the same
fury that burned in the Duke's eyes.
Borg's mind raced in turmoil. What will His Grace do? Leaving the Eastern domain now to pursue the Duchess into Velgarith would be madness, especially with the enemy's
army pressing in. The soldiers' morale was already hanging by a thread after spotting the thousand Velgarith troops. If the Duke abandoned them now, that fragile resolve would shatter entirely. Yet the thought of doing nothing while the Duchess was in danger gnawed at him like a blade in the gut. His heart pounded with anger at the enemy, but worry for the fate of both their ruler and
their land choked him just as fiercely.