Part I – Isolde's Doubt
The forbidden books lay hidden beneath Isolde's bedchamber floor, tucked behind loose stones she had pried free with trembling fingers. She had not slept since finding them.
Each time she closed her eyes, she saw the Eye's warnings burning in the ancient script:
It devours. It waits. It bows to no master.
And worse—she saw Flagg's name carved into the history of Deline like a wound. Banished once, yet standing now at her father's side as though he had always belonged.
The dawn bells had rung, the palace stirring with life. But Isolde still sat upon her window ledge, knees drawn to her chest, staring over the awakening kingdom.
Deline gleamed in the light, its silver roofs catching the rising sun, its fountains sparkling in the courtyards. To any other eye, it was paradise. To hers, it was a jewel in a serpent's mouth.
She pressed her hand against the cool glass. What do I do?
Her father's laughter echoed faintly from the gardens below. He walked with Flagg, leaning upon him, speaking as though to a friend. Watching them, Isolde's throat tightened.
If I speak, he will not believe me. If I remain silent, Flagg will consume him… and all of us with him.
Her reflection in the glass startled her. The girl who gazed back was pale, eyes ringed in shadow, her mouth drawn tight with worry. A princess, yes—but one cornered.
A knock startled her.
"Enter," she called, forcing calm into her voice.
It was her maid, Ellyn, bearing fresh linens. But her eyes lingered on Isolde's face with concern. "Your Highness… you look unwell."
Isolde summoned a smile that did not reach her eyes. "Only tired."
Ellyn bowed. "Perhaps you should rest."
Rest. If only she could.
When the maid left, Isolde's mask crumbled. She reached for the books again, heart hammering. The words seemed to pulse against her skin. She felt as though the Eye itself had written them, warning her across the ages.
And somewhere, in the shadows of her chamber, she almost thought she heard the faint whisper again:
Curiosity is a dangerous hunger, princess.
She clenched her fists. Fear was poison. Doubt was chains. She would not let Flagg bind her.
Not Isolde of Deline.
Part II – Lucan's Resolve
The war council had ended, but its echoes still rattled inside Prince Lucan's skull.
He had kept his silence during most of it, his hands folded neatly before him as Flagg's silken voice dripped poison into every ear in the chamber. Yet every word was a tightening noose.
"Eryndor gathers strength."
"Deline must answer with decisive force."
"Only swift action will preserve the crown."
His father had nodded along, weary eyes flickering like a candle in the wind, while the nobles muttered among themselves, half in fear, half in awe. Flagg played them like a harp.
Lucan had wanted to shout, to strike his fist against the table and declare the truth—that Deline's power was not in reckless swords but in its people, its honor, its memory. But he had held his tongue.
Now, pacing the length of his chamber, he ground his teeth. Every word he speaks drags us closer to war—and Father cannot see it.
He stopped before the window, staring down at the palace grounds. Knights sparred in the training yard, their blades ringing against shields. Gardeners tended the marble paths. Children of courtiers laughed as they played by the fountains.
All of it—fragile, precious, and so easily destroyed.
Lucan's jaw tightened. If no one else would protect Deline, he must.
There were allies still, he told himself. Those not yet blinded by Flagg's spell. He thought of Lord Brynden of House Calloran, who had once whispered his doubts about the king's adviser. Of Lady Mera of the Silver Tower, who distrusted sorcery in all its forms. Even Captain Aurelian of the palace guard—loyal, sharp-eyed—who had always treated Lucan not as a boy but as a man.
Yes. Threads of resistance remained.
He would gather them. Quietly. Carefully.
Because to strike at Flagg openly was folly. The man's influence was a web—and even the king danced within it. One wrong move, and Lucan would be the traitor, branded and broken.
The thought chilled him, but it did not turn him aside.
He placed a hand over his sword hilt, feeling the steady weight of steel. Not for battle yet—but for courage.
"For you, Deline," he murmured to the night air. "And for you, Isolde. Whatever comes, I will not let him win."
The words steadied him. Resolve hardened in his chest like stone.
Tomorrow, the weaving would begin.
Part III – Flagg's Shadow Work
The council chamber had long since emptied. The torches along the walls guttered low, throwing the vaulted ceiling into shadow.
Flagg remained.
He stood at the great map table where the fate of kingdoms had been debated hours earlier. His hand rested lightly on the carved rivers and mountains, his long fingers tracing Deline's heartlands as though they were veins under skin.
"Strong, yes," he whispered to himself, his smile thin. "But even the strongest heart may be stopped… with the right poison."
His eyes flickered gold in the dim light.
From within his robe, he drew a small object—a shard of crystal, dark as obsidian yet glowing faintly from within. The shard pulsed, answering some rhythm beyond mortal ears.
Flagg placed it upon the table.
The air thickened. Shadows stirred.
He began to chant—not loudly, but in a low murmur that crawled through the stone of the palace itself. The words were older than Deline, older than Eryndor, older even than the spires of the forgotten ruins in the northern wastes.
The crystal responded, swelling with light, until its glow spilled across the map. Silver rivers gleamed. Mountains burned gold. And over the heart of Deline, the light curdled black.
Flagg's smile deepened.
Yes… it stirs. The Eye awakens.
For a heartbeat, his thoughts pierced beyond stone and walls. He felt the Eye of the Eagle, locked away in its hidden chamber deep within the palace. He felt its watchfulness, its hunger, its endless turning gaze.
He whispered to it like a lover in the dark.
"Not long now. You will be mine. Through you, I will see not only kingdoms—but the threads of fate itself."
The shadows thickened. Figures flickered at the edges of his vision—whispers of those who had bargained with him long ago. The price of such power was not small. But Flagg had paid. Oh yes, he had paid in blood, in oaths, in names best left forgotten.
And still he would pay more.
For dominion was not given—it was taken.
The crystal dimmed, its work done. The map returned to stillness.
Flagg gathered the shard and tucked it away, the folds of his robe swallowing its glow. He straightened, adjusting his staff.
By the time the last torch sputtered out, leaving the chamber in darkness, he was gone.
Part IV – The Eye Stirs
Deep beneath the palace, where no guard patrolled and no torch burned, lay a corridor few remembered. Its walls were smooth, older than the palace itself, carved not by mortal masons but by hands that no longer walked the earth.
At its end, behind a gate of wrought iron shaped like unfurled wings, the Eye of the Eagle waited.
It hovered above a pedestal of white stone, as though gravity dared not touch it. Perfectly round, clear as crystal—yet alive. Its iris shimmered in shifting hues of gold and silver, never still, always turning.
The chamber was silent. And yet… not.
For tonight, the Eye stirred.
Flagg's whisper had reached it. The shard's echo had brushed its prison walls, and the Eye awakened like a beast sensing blood.
The silver mist within churned violently. Fragments of vision flickered across its depths—shadows of futures, slivers of pasts, reflections of desires.
A battlefield, drenched in fire.
A woman cloaked in blue, reaching toward it with trembling hands.
A sword shattered in two.
A crown falling, tumbling, swallowed by darkness.
The visions spun faster, clashing against one another, until the chamber itself seemed to groan with the weight of them.
And then—clarity.
For a fleeting instant, the Eye revealed its own watcher: Isolde.
She stood in her chamber above, pale and restless, hands clutching forbidden pages. The Eye fixed on her as though drawn, its iris tightening. The air in the chamber thickened, humming like a heartbeat.
It knew her.
The glow swelled until the iron gate rattled against its hinges. Dust fell from the ceiling. The pedestal cracked.
But then… silence.
The glow dimmed. The visions stilled. The Eye returned to its patient watch, a predator biding its time.
Only the faintest whisper lingered in the dark:
Soon.
---
Part V – Isolde & Lucan's Crossing Paths
The palace slept.
Servants' footsteps faded, the corridors dimmed, and the grand halls of Deline grew quiet beneath the silver wash of moonlight. Yet neither Isolde nor Lucan found rest.
Isolde, clutching her cloak tight about her shoulders, slipped into the passage that led toward the library. The forbidden texts weighed heavy against her chest, hidden beneath the folds of fabric. Her thoughts churned too violently to remain alone. She needed answers—and perhaps someone she could trust.
Lucan, meanwhile, had left his chamber with a purpose of his own. He moved silently, keeping to the shadows as he sought the guards' quarters. Captain Aurelian would hear him out, he told himself. If anyone could be convinced that Flagg's counsel was dangerous, it would be the captain.
It was fate—or perhaps the Eye's unseen hand—that brought them together in the narrow crossing of the eastern corridor.
Lucan nearly collided with her, halting just in time. "Isolde?"
Her breath caught. For a moment she looked guilty, as though caught stealing. But then she exhaled sharply, relief softening her face. "Lucan."
He studied her. Even in the pale torchlight, she seemed drawn, shadows beneath her eyes, her grip clutching the bundle beneath her cloak. "You shouldn't be wandering so late."
She gave a humorless laugh. "Nor should you."
Silence stretched between them, filled with things unsaid. Finally, Isolde spoke in a low, urgent voice. "I know what Flagg is, Lucan. I've seen the proof."
His pulse quickened. "What do you mean?"
She glanced up and down the hall before pulling him into a recessed alcove, away from prying eyes. From her cloak, she drew one of the tomes—its leather cracked, its runes faded. "The histories the council hides. Flagg was banished once, for sorcery too foul to name. And now he stands at Father's right hand as if none of it ever happened."
Lucan stared at the book, his mind racing. Proof. The very thing he had longed for. Yet seeing it in her hands filled him not with triumph, but dread.
"You should not carry this," he whispered. "If anyone knew—"
"I don't care." Her eyes burned with fierce resolve. "I will not let him destroy us."
Their gazes locked. For the first time, Lucan saw not only his sister the princess, but Isolde the woman—unyielding, courageous, trembling yet unbroken.
He reached and gently closed her hands around the book. "Then you are not alone. Whatever path you walk… I walk it with you."
Her breath caught. For a moment, the burdens on her shoulders lightened.
The sound of armored footsteps echoed down the hall. Both froze.
Lucan pressed a finger to his lips. They retreated deeper into the alcove as a pair of guards passed, their lantern casting fleeting light. Neither Isolde nor Lucan dared to breathe until the men vanished.
When silence returned, Isolde whispered, almost a prayer: "We must be careful. The Eye sees more than we think."
Lucan frowned. "The Eye?"
But she shook her head. "Later. For now, we trust no one but each other."
He nodded once. It was enough.
Together, in the silence of the sleeping palace, a pact was born.
---
Part VI – Flagg Overhears
High above the corridor, in a balcony cloaked in gloom, a figure lingered.
Flagg.
He had not needed to stalk them. The Eye's stirring had already whispered its warning, tugging him toward the hall like a hound to scent. Now, from his vantage, he watched the siblings retreat into the shadows, their whispered words carried faintly by the stone.
"…You are not alone."
"…The Eye sees more than we think."
The tiniest curl of a smile touched his lips.
"How quaint," he murmured to himself, voice a snake's hiss. "The lambs believe they can conspire beneath the hawk's gaze."
His staff pulsed once, faint light gleaming in the carved head. He raised it to his ear, as though listening. Whispers swarmed within—echoes of the Eye's visions, fragments of their pact.
Yes. He had heard enough.
Flagg let the shadows cloak him once more, retreating without a sound. But his mind was already moving, weaving, plotting.
The siblings thought themselves clever. Bold. United.
Good. Let them struggle. Let them rise. For nothing was more delicious than hope snuffed out at its brightest.
By the time the last echo of their footsteps faded, the corridor was empty once more. Only silence remained—silence, and the faint, watchful weight of the Eye somewhere deep below, pulsing in its dark chamber like a heart that never ceased.