Chapter 30 - Chapter 29

‎📖 Bound by Fate, Tied by Love

‎

‎🌹 Chapter 29: Ashes of Resolve

‎

‎The great hall of House Valemont had never felt so heavy.

‎

‎The night after the battle stretched endless, broken only by the cries of the wounded echoing through stone corridors. The hearths burned low, yet the chill of grief seeped into every corner. The banners of crimson and silver still hung proudly, but their colors seemed muted, dulled beneath the weight of loss.

‎

‎Adrian stood at the far end of the war table, his armor stripped away and replaced by a black undertunic damp with sweat and blood not all his own. The map lay before him, its parchment torn where his fist had struck it earlier. Red markers marked Chloe's raids across the valley—an ever-tightening circle closing in around Valemont lands. Black markers—his men—were fewer with each passing dawn.

‎

‎He pressed his palms flat to the table, shoulders bowed, storm-gray eyes smoldering with exhaustion and fury.

‎

‎How many more graves must I fill before this ends?

‎

‎The door opened softly, and Isabella stepped inside. She carried no torch, yet the air seemed brighter as she entered. Her cloak brushed the floor, her hands still faintly stained with herbs from tending the wounded. She paused, her eyes softening at the sight of him, but her steps were steady as she crossed the hall.

‎

‎"Adrian," she said, her voice gentle yet firm—the kind of voice that could bend steel without breaking.

‎

‎He did not lift his head. "Tell me how many."

‎

‎She faltered. "How many—?"

‎

‎"Dead." His voice cracked like brittle ice. "How many men did I lead to their graves today?"

‎

‎Isabella's lips pressed together. The truth was a blade she wished she did not have to wield. "Twenty-seven," she whispered at last. "And more than twice as many wounded."

‎

‎The silence that followed was suffocating.

‎

‎Adrian's fists tightened until his knuckles went white. "All because I rode into her snare."

‎

‎"You rode because you had no choice," Isabella countered, stepping closer. "Had you stayed, she would have burned another village. Slaughtered another family. You spared them."

‎

‎His head lifted, storm-gray eyes flashing with anguish. "And what of the families of the twenty-seven? What comfort do they find in my choice?"

‎

‎She laid her hand over his clenched fist, her touch steady. "The comfort that their sons did not fall in vain. That they held the line. That their sacrifice means House Valemont still stands."

‎

‎His breath shuddered. The storm inside him did not vanish, but beneath her words, it quieted. For a heartbeat, his armor of command cracked, and the man beneath it—tired, wounded, human—was laid bare.

‎

‎

‎---

‎

‎By dawn, whispers had spread like smoke through the estate.

‎

‎The Alpha Prince leads us into slaughter.

‎Chloe cannot be stopped.

‎Even our captains betray us.

‎

‎Suspicion clung to every glance, every muttered word. Captain Dorne's mocking laughter still echoed in their minds, a reminder that betrayal wore familiar faces.

‎

‎In the training yard, swords rang against shields, but the rhythm was broken—hesitant, mistrustful. Men sparred with one eye on their opponent and the other on the shadows around them.

‎

‎From the ramparts, Isabella watched, her cloak drawn tightly against the biting wind. The cold stung her cheeks, but it was not the chill that unsettled her. It was the silence that followed each clash of steel, the way fear bled into even the strongest hearts.

‎

‎She descended and moved among them, as she often did. She bound cuts, adjusted grips, offered quiet words. Some men straightened under her gaze, drawing strength from her presence. But as she turned to leave, she caught the low voices of two soldiers nearby.

‎

‎"She clouds his judgment," one muttered.

‎"She'll be the ruin of him," the other spat.

‎

‎Isabella froze.

‎

‎A weakness. That was how they saw her. Not a shield, not a strength, but a crack in Adrian's armor.

‎

‎She forced herself to walk on, her face calm though the words had cut deep. Inside, the echo lingered like poison. Am I truly what they see? A weakness, rather than the strength I long to be?

‎

That night, the estate held a vigil for the fallen. Candles lined the courtyard, each flame a fragile light against the darkness. Names were read aloud, one by one, the silence between them heavy as stone.

When Rourke's name was spoken, a ripple passed through the gathered men. Some bowed their heads, others clenched their fists. Adrian stood rigid, his expression carved from stone, though inside his chest the grief clawed like a beast.

Isabella watched him from across the courtyard. She wanted to go to him, to hold him, to tell him he was not alone—but the eyes upon her were sharp, accusing. To move to his side now would only sharpen the whispers.

So she stayed where she was, her own candle trembling in her hand.

---

Beneath the vigil, in the dungeons, Captain Dorne laughed.

The guard flinched, candlelight throwing twisted shadows across the traitor's face.

"They grieve," Dorne rasped. "They doubt. They whisper. And soon, they will turn on him. The serpent does not strike from without—it coils within. Tell me, guard… have you wondered who among your lords feasts while you starve? Who whispers poison at your Prince's table?"

The guard said nothing, but his grip on his sword tightened.

Dorne's grin widened. "You should wonder. Because the knife that kills him will not come from Chloe's hand. It will come from one you trust."

His laughter followed the guard up the stairs, coiling like smoke.

---

In the days that followed, tension seeped through every hall of House Valemont.

Men trained with less vigor, their eyes hollow. The wounded moaned through sleepless nights. Supplies dwindled. Whispers grew.

Lord Harrington gathered quiet knots of lords in the corners of chambers, speaking in low voices. Adrian noticed. Adrian heard. But without proof, he could not move against him. To strike without cause would be to fracture what little unity remained.

And still, suspicion festered.

One evening, as Adrian stood on the ramparts, Isabella joined him. The wind tugged at her cloak, the chill biting. Below them, the valley stretched wide and dark, its shadows long.

"She wins without lifting a blade," Isabella murmured.

Adrian's jaw tightened. "Fear is her weapon. Betrayal, her blade. And it cuts deeper than steel."

He turned, his eyes heavy but resolute. "We must root her out. If there is a serpent in these halls, I will drag it into the light—even if it means tearing down the walls stone by stone."

His words sent a shiver down Isabella's spine. For she believed him. But she feared the cost.