📖 Bound by Fate, Tied by Love
🌹 Chapter 32: Fractures in the Pack
The bells tolled at dawn.
Slow, heavy, mournful—each chime a weight upon the heart of House Valemont. Smoke still lingered over the courtyard, carrying the acrid scent of burned bandages and singed leather. The wounded lay in rows along the stone walkways, their groans echoing through the halls. Every corner smelled of blood and ash.
Adrian stood at the center of the yard, still armored, though the metal was streaked with rust-colored stains. He had not slept. His storm-gray eyes were ringed with shadows, his jaw clenched until it ached. He had fought wars before, but never had he returned with so many empty saddles.
Captain Rourke's axe had been recovered, but not his body. Men spoke of it in hushed tones, of his last laugh, his final roar. It should have been a tale of valor, but all Adrian heard in their whispers was loss.
Isabella moved among the wounded, her cloak dark with dried blood, her hands raw from endless hours of stitching, binding, soothing. She forced herself to smile when eyes turned to her, to speak softly though her voice trembled from exhaustion. She knew her strength was not in the sword but in the comfort she brought—but the weight of their stares pressed harder than ever.
"She clouds his judgment."
"She'll be the ruin of him."
The whispers had not died with the battle. They had grown.
---
By midmorning, the council gathered in the great hall. The war table bore fresh scars from Adrian's fist, struck in anger when the news of Rourke's death was delivered. The banners hung limp, as though mourning with the men.
Lord Harrington was the first to speak, his tone sharp as a dagger. "We cannot endure this, Prince. Another defeat, another graveyard of sons. Chloe strangles us with each move, and still you insist on riding into her snares."
Adrian's gaze snapped to him, storm-gray eyes cold. "Would you rather we cower behind these walls until she burns them down around us?"
"Better walls than open graves!" Harrington spat. His jeweled rings flashed as he slammed his palm against the table. "We bleed ourselves dry while she laughs. This war is lost, and every man here knows it—even if you will not admit it."
Murmurs rippled through the chamber. Heads lowered, eyes averted. Adrian felt the weight of their doubt pressing in, heavier than any blade.
Captain Dorne's words echoed from the dungeons below: The serpent is already inside your walls.
Adrian straightened, his voice sharp. "If any here believe Chloe cannot be beaten, then say it plainly. Speak, and I will strip you of title and honor both, for what use is a lord who surrenders before the fight is done?"
The hall fell silent. But the silence was not loyalty—it was fear.
---
When the council dismissed, Isabella lingered at the edge of the hall. She had spoken little, her presence already too sharp a thorn in Harrington's side. But she had watched Adrian closely, the rigid set of his shoulders, the weight dragging at his eyes.
She followed him into the corridor. "Adrian—"
He stopped, but did not turn. "Do not tell me I did well," he said, voice raw. "Do not tell me the men believe in me. I hear their whispers as clearly as you do."
Isabella swallowed. "They are afraid. Fear makes cowards of the bravest hearts. But you—"
"Am I still brave?" He turned at last, his expression a mask of grief and fury. "I led them into a trap, Isabella. Rourke is dead. Half our men lie in graves or on cots, too broken to rise. And Chloe—" His voice faltered. "Chloe laughs."
Her chest ached at the anguish in his words. She reached for his hand, gripping it tight. "You are not broken. Not yet. And while you stand, so will they."
For a heartbeat, the storm in his eyes eased. But it was fleeting. He pulled away, his voice dropping to a whisper. "And if I fall?"
She had no answer.
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.