"You're finally awake," Fiona greeted sarcastically, her voice dripping with venom. She lounged on the sofa, legs crossed, looking as if she owned the place.
"You traitor!" Luren spat, glaring at her with eyes blazing.
Fiona smirked. "All I ever wanted was the Duke. But thanks to you, he started
doubting me… even had the nerve to investigate me."
Luren's hands clenched into fists. "So you tried to sleep with him, thinking you could
become the Duchess? Pathetic. Craige doesn't even remember touching you."
Her smirk faltered, replaced by a flash of anger. "That's because it didn't happen. The
Duke passed out after drinking the drug I slipped him, to trigger his rut. If you hadn't barged in like some self-righteous fool, we could've been in his bed for real when he returned to the North."
"You're disgusting," Luren growled
"And you're nothing but a meddlesome pest!" Fiona shot back, standing abruptly.
She stood over Luren, still bound to the bed, her shadow stretching across the dimly lit
cabin. A mocking smirk tugged at her lips, her eyes glittering with cruel satisfaction.
"Poor you," she drawled, each word a blade. "After Desmond is done using you, King Herald will make sure you're pregnant… again and again."
The words slithered into Luren's ears, leaving a cold, nauseating weight in his chest. He gritted his teeth, his breath coming faster, the sound of his own heartbeat
roaring in his ears. He twisted against the ropes, pulling with every ounce of strength, but the coarse fibers only bit deeper into his wrists and ankles. Warm blood began to bead where skin met rope.
She tilted her head, her lips curling into an insult disguised as a smile. "I'm certain
the Duke wouldn't want someone who's already been… used."
The sentence struck harder than any blade. Luren's vision burned, not just with fury, but with shame he refused to let show. She turned, skirts swishing, and the door creaked closed behind her with a hollow thud that seemed to seal him in his prison.
The air felt heavier now, suffocating. Alone in the silence, Luren's eyes darted to the tiny window, the faint moonlight spilling across the bed. He swallowed hard, vowing under his breath, I will not break.
---
Craige's mind was in turmoil. Every part of him screamed to ride to Velgarith, to hunt
down those who had taken Luren and cut them down without mercy. But if he left
now… the soldiers would lose heart. Their morale would shatter, and this battle would be lost, not just the East, but the whole of Seravelle would fall. His grip tightened around the hilt of his sword until his knuckles turned white.
"A thousand soldiers are approaching from the east!" a lookout shouted from the watchtower, peering through the dual-lens spyglass.
"General, get the archers ready!" Craige commanded sharply.
The General saluted and moved to carry out his orders. Borg stood nearby, watching the Duke with concern. He could see the storm behind Craige's eyes, the war in his heart
was harder than the one outside the walls.
"Your Grace," Borg said cautiously, "I'll send word to the North about the situation…and ask Roan to ride to Velgarith."
Craige shook his head firmly. "No. Roan is needed on the battlefield. Luren… he might
send Roan to help the soldiers, and Mara is already following him. Send a message to Kellen, tell him Luren has been taken, and have his mercenaries track where they're taking him."
His voice faltered for a fraction of a second before hardening again. I will end this war
as quickly as I can… so I can be by his side, and protect him and our unborn child, He thought.
The battlefield shook with the clash of steel and the roar of war cries. Seravelle's soldiers were locked in brutal combat, their numbers swallowed by the sheer mass of the Velgarith army, an enemy twice their size, pressing hard from every direction.
From the ridge above the fray, Craige stood with his cloak whipping in the wind, eyes
fixed on the chaos below. His voice rang over the din, sharp and commanding.
"Hold the left flank! Archers—cover the right!"
Below him, shields splintered under heavy strikes, and lines of men staggered as wave
after wave of Velgarith soldiers crashed into them. Arrows streaked through the smoky air, some thudding into enemy ranks, others finding Seravelle's own wounded.
Craige's gut twisted. He could see the center line buckling, the banners of Seravelle
swaying dangerously as men fell. Every moment the Velgarith pushed forward was
another drop of blood paid by his people.
If I send word to Cassian now, his forces from the south will take days to arrive, he thought grimly. We don't have days.
The cries of the injured carried up to him, mingling with the pounding of war drums. A
messenger rushed to his side, face pale and breathless.
"Our front is breaking, Your Grace!"
Craige's hands tightened around the hilt of his sword, not to fight, but to keep it from
trembling. He forced his voice to remain steady.
"Tell them to hold. No one retreats without my order."
But as he watched the blood-soaked field, the doubt gnawed at him: How much longer can we hold before Seravelle is lost?
A shattering cry tore through the battlefield as the Velgarith rammed against Seravelle's weakening front. Borg's booming voice could still be heard over the chaos, rallying the men, but Craige could see it, his friend was surrounded, fighting like a cornered wolf.
Another messenger stumbled up the hill, face streaked with sweat and ash.
"Your Grace, Borg can't hold the line! If it breaks, they'll sweep through to the
command post!"
Craige's decision came in an instant. He tore the cloak from his shoulders, ignoring the
sharp ache that flared in his bandaged side. Blood had already soaked through the wrappings from earlier wounds, but he shoved the pain aside.
"Sound the horn," he ordered, voice like steel. "Tell the men—the Duke of Seravelle fights with them."
The horn's deep bellow rolled over the field, cutting through the screams and clamor.
Heads turned as Craige descended the ridge, sword in hand, his armor catching
the dim light through the smoke. A cheer rose—hoarse, desperate, but filled with renewed fire.
He waded into the thick of the fight, steel meeting steel, his blade cleaving a path
toward Borg. Pain lanced through his ribs with every swing, but he didn't slow. Beside him, soldiers fought harder, spurred on by the sight of their commander bleeding and unyielding.
"Hold!" Craige roared, striking down another foe. "For Seravelle—hold!"
Borg caught sight of him, eyes wide. "Your Grace, you shouldn't—"
"I should," Craige cut in, parrying a blow that would have felled a young soldier. "We hold
here, or we die here!"