‎📖 Bound by Fate, Tied by Love
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‎🌹 Chapter 31: The Serpent's Snare
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‎The valley was alive with fire.
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‎Arrows hissed from the shadows, their tips blazing as they streaked across the night sky. Flames licked the edges of Chloe's false supply camp, the light revealing the truth—empty barrels, hollow crates, nothing but bait. From the ridges above, her soldiers poured down like a tide of wolves, their armor glinting, their war cries shattering the night's fragile stillness.
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‎Adrian's sword flashed from its scabbard in one smooth motion. His voice thundered above the chaos, sharp as a war horn.
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‎"Shields! Form the line!"
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‎The Valemont riders snapped to, years of drilled discipline surging through their panic. Shields locked together with a clang, a wall of iron against the storm. The first volley of arrows hammered against it, sparks bursting in the night. Horses screamed, men cursed, but the line held.
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‎At Adrian's side, Isabella gripped her reins with trembling hands. She had ridden to heal, not to fight—but the battlefield made no room for fear. Already, men were falling. Already, the scent of blood filled her lungs. She tore strips from her cloak, binding wounds as fast as they were made, her hands steady though her heart pounded like a drum.
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‎"Push forward!" Adrian roared. His storm-gray eyes blazed, the fury of his Alpha blood igniting with every clash of steel. He moved like the storm itself—striking, parrying, cutting through Chloe's soldiers with brutal precision.
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‎But for every man he felled, two more seemed to rise.
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‎From the ridge, Chloe watched, her raven-black hair streaming in the wind. Her lips curved into a smile that never reached her eyes.
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‎"Dance for me, Prince," she murmured. "Bleed for me."
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‎Beside her, a hooded figure leaned close, whispering in her ear. The firelight caught the glint of a ring on the figure's hand—gold, heavy, unmistakably noble.
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‎"Soon," Chloe said, her gaze never leaving Adrian. "When the wolf is cornered, then we strike the heart."
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‎The battlefield churned with chaos.
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‎Captain Rourke led the left flank, his axe cleaving through men like kindling. His roar carried above the din, rallying his soldiers even as blood drenched his leathers.
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‎On the right, Lord Harrington shouted commands with theatrical flourish, though his blade work was clumsy. More than once, Isabella caught his men shielding him from certain death. Still, he kept them moving, if only by sheer stubborn will.
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‎Adrian fought at the center, the keystone of their defense. Every strike of his blade was measured, every command precise. His presence alone held the line from breaking. But Isabella could see the toll in the set of his jaw, the strain in his shoulders. He could not carry them forever.
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‎"Adrian!" she cried, her voice piercing the din. "They're circling—behind us!"
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‎He turned just in time to see Chloe's riders sweeping down the rear slope, cutting off retreat. The snare was closing, the wolf's throat tightening in the serpent's coils.
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‎For a heartbeat, Isabella saw despair flicker in the men's eyes. Then Adrian raised his sword high, the steel catching firelight, gleaming like a star.
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‎"Valemont!" His voice cracked the night like thunder. "Tonight we bleed, but so will she! Hold the line, and we carve our way through!"
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‎The roar that answered was not strong—it was raw, ragged, born of desperation. But it was enough. The men braced, their shields rising once more.
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‎The clash was brutal.
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‎Steel rang against steel, sparks flying. The air thickened with smoke and screams. Horses reared, trampling men beneath their hooves. Isabella worked with frantic speed, her fingers slick with blood as she bound wounds, pressed cloth to gashes, whispered words of courage into dying ears.
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‎She did not notice the shadow until it was almost upon her.
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‎A soldier broke through the line, his blade raised high. Isabella froze, her breath caught—then Adrian was there, his sword cleaving the attacker down. Blood spattered across her cloak.
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‎His eyes met hers, fierce and unyielding. "Stay behind me."
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‎But she shook her head, her voice trembling but firm. "No. Beside you."
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‎And she did not falter.
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‎Hours seemed to stretch in the space of minutes. The battlefield shifted, lines bending, breaking, reforming.
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‎Adrian's plan—burn the stores and vanish—was in ashes. There were no stores, only fire and slaughter. And yet, piece by bloody piece, he carved openings where none should exist.
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‎"Left flank! With me!" he bellowed, leading a surge that cut through Chloe's riders. "Rourke, drive them to the ridge!"
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‎Rourke's laughter boomed, savage and wild, as he swung his axe with renewed fury. "Aye, Prince! Let's feed the crows!"
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‎Bit by bit, they forced Chloe's men to yield ground. Not enough for victory, but enough to breathe. Enough to live another hour.
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‎But Chloe was not done.
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‎From the ridge, she raised her hand. A horn sounded, deep and resonant.
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‎And the night answered.
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‎Reinforcements poured in from the east, fresh riders flooding the valley. Their banners bore the serpent sigil, their armor gleamed untouched by battle. They were rested, relentless—and far too many.
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‎Isabella's heart clenched. "Adrian—"
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‎He saw it too. His jaw tightened. For the first time that night, his shoulders sagged, the storm inside him faltering.
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‎They could not win. Not here. Not now.
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‎"Signal the retreat!" he barked, his voice raw.
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‎The horn sounded once more, this time from their own ranks. The men began to pull back, step by agonizing step, shields raised to guard their retreat. But Chloe's riders pressed hard, scenting blood.
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‎The valley became a slaughterhouse.
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‎Adrian fought like a man possessed, cutting a path through the press. Isabella stayed at his side, her cloak torn, her hands bloodied, refusing to yield even as exhaustion clawed at her bones.
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‎But then—a cry pierced the night.
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‎Captain Rourke fell, an arrow through his chest. He staggered, his axe slipping from his grasp. Adrian shouted, lunging toward him, but the tide of battle pulled them apart.
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‎"Go!" Rourke roared, blood bubbling from his lips. "Go, damn you! Live to kill her another day!"
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‎His final laugh echoed as he swung his axe one last time, dragging three men down with him before he collapsed.
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‎Adrian's roar shook the night, grief and fury entwined. But he did not stop. He could not. He drove forward, dragging his men with him, Isabella at his side.
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‎They broke through at last, the remnants of Valemont's force fleeing into the trees, swallowed by darkness. Behind them, Chloe's laughter followed, sweet and venomous.
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‎"Run, little wolf," she called. "The serpent is patient. And shadows stretch far."
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‎By dawn, what remained of Valemont's company limped back to the estate. Of fifty riders, barely half returned.
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‎The courtyard was heavy with silence as they stumbled through the gates, bloodied and broken. The men's eyes were hollow, their steps dragging. The whispers began before the gates had even closed.
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‎"Another slaughter."
‎"She cannot be beaten."
‎"He leads us into ruin."
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‎Adrian stood in the courtyard, his sword still dripping crimson. His storm-gray eyes swept over his men, over their wounds, their despair. His jaw was set, but Isabella saw the crack in his armor—the guilt, the grief, the weight of every man left behind.
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‎He turned, his gaze finding her. For a heartbeat, neither spoke.
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‎Then he whispered, so low only she could hear.
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‎"This war will break us before it breaks her."
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‎And for the first time, Isabella feared he might be right.
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