‎📖 Bound by Fate, Tied by Love
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‎🌹 Chapter 22: Blades in the Night
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‎The rain had come at last. It drummed against the estate's stone walls and pattered on the tiled roofs, washing away the day's dust but leaving the air thick and heavy. Torches hissed in the downpour, their flames struggling to hold against the storm.
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‎Isabella stood by the window of her chamber, watching rivulets of water race down the glass. She should have been exhausted, but the warning note still burned in her mind: They will not stop until you are gone.
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‎She turned when the door opened. Adrian stepped inside, his cloak damp, his expression grim. "The guards doubled the patrols," he said. "But shadows slip through iron bars as easily as smoke. I don't like it."
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‎"Neither do I," Isabella murmured. "But fear is what they want. If we cower behind locked doors, Chloe wins before a blade is ever drawn."
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‎Adrian's jaw tightened. He crossed the room, pulling her into his arms, the storm echoing around them. "You've grown braver than I ever imagined," he whispered against her hair. "But bravery draws blades."
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‎She leaned into him, her heart steady despite his words. "Then let them draw. I will not break."
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‎The storm raged deep into the night. By midnight, most of the estate lay asleep, lulled by the rain's constant rhythm. But in the shadows of the garden walls, cloaked figures moved—silent as ghosts, their blades slick with oil to avoid glinting in the torchlight.
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‎The serpent faction had returned.
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‎Inside, Isabella stirred from restless sleep. Something had pulled her from her dreams—a shift in the air, a whisper too soft to be wind. She sat up, listening. The rain masked sound, but her heart told her danger lurked near.
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‎A flicker of movement. A shadow across the balcony.
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‎Her breath caught. "Adrian," she hissed, shaking him awake.
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‎He was alert in an instant, his hand on his sword. The balcony doors creaked as they swung open, and three dark-clad assassins slipped inside. Their faces were hidden, their movements precise, like snakes striking from tall grass.
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‎Adrian met them head-on, his blade singing as steel clashed in the dim light. Sparks flew, shadows danced, and the storm outside howled like a chorus of unseen gods.
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‎Isabella backed toward the dresser, her hands scrambling for anything she could use. Her fingers closed around a dagger Adrian had gifted her weeks ago, its hilt cool and familiar. Her pulse raced, but she forced herself to breathe, to steady.
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‎One assassin broke from Adrian's duel, lunging for her.
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‎Isabella raised the dagger. Their blades met, the shock vibrating through her arm. Fear clawed at her, but she remembered her words in the council chamber: Pawns fall. I did not.
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‎With a fierce cry, she twisted, slashing across the assassin's arm. He hissed, staggering back.
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‎Adrian cut down another, his blade merciless in the confined space. But more shadows poured through the balcony, five, six, perhaps more. The room became a storm of steel and thunder, Isabella's breath ragged as she fought to keep pace.
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‎The clash spilled into the corridor. Guards rushed toward the sound, steel ringing against steel. Harrington himself appeared, sword in hand, his voice booming commands as loyal men joined the fray.
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‎Yet even with numbers, the serpent assassins moved with unnerving coordination. They struck not only with blades but with distraction, slipping past defenses, aiming always for Isabella.
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‎"Protect her!" Adrian roared, cutting down another foe.
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‎But Isabella refused to be a shielded prize. She ducked under a slash, driving her dagger into the attacker's side. His eyes widened in shock before he collapsed, blood dark against the stone floor. Her hand trembled, but she held firm, forcing herself to meet Adrian's gaze.
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‎"I will not hide," she whispered fiercely.
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‎Something in his eyes shifted then—not fear, but pride.
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‎By the time the last assassin fell, the storm outside had begun to ease. Rain dripped steadily from the eaves, mingling with the blood that stained the marble floors. Bodies lay scattered, their black garb soaked through, their serpent insignias faint but visible at the hems.
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‎Harrington wiped his blade clean, his breathing heavy. "This was no simple strike. This was meant to end you both."
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‎Adrian's face was hard, unreadable. "And they failed."
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‎But Isabella knew the truth: this was not failure for the serpent faction. This was a message. A reminder that even within stone walls and doubled guards, death could find them.
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‎She stared down at the assassin she had slain, the weight of her actions pressing into her chest. Her hand still shook, though she clenched it into a fist to hide the tremor.
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‎Adrian touched her shoulder gently. "You fought like fire," he said softly.
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‎She lifted her eyes to his, searching for any flicker of doubt or regret. But there was none. Only fierce pride, and something deeper—something that tethered them together more tightly than ever before.
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‎Later, as the bodies were cleared and the halls scrubbed of blood, Isabella sat by the hearth, her dagger still in hand. She turned it slowly, watching the firelight glint off the blade.
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‎Adrian knelt before her. "You should rest."
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‎"I don't think I can," she admitted. "Not after tonight. Every shadow will feel like a threat. Every silence will feel like waiting."
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‎He took her hand, steadying it. "Then we turn fear into resolve. Tonight, they learned you will not cower. That blade in your hand is proof of it. You are no pawn, Isabella. You are the queen on the board—and queens are the most dangerous piece."
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‎Her throat tightened at his words, at the raw conviction in them. "And you?" she asked softly. "What does that make you?"
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‎His lips curved in a faint, wry smile. "The king who would burn the world before letting the queen fall."
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‎Tears pricked her eyes, not from fear this time, but from something fiercer. She leaned forward, their foreheads meeting, the fire crackling between them.
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‎For the first time, she believed it fully: together, they could withstand anything.
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‎But deep in the estate's shadows, Chloe listened as a servant recounted the night's events. Her smile did not falter.
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‎"Let them fight," she murmured. "Let them bleed and burn. Every blade they dodge, every victory they clutch, only makes the fall sweeter when it comes."
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‎And in her hand, she held a parchment sealed with her father's crest—an alliance forged not in whispers, but in blood.
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‎The serpent faction's game was far from over. It had only begun.
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