Part I – Morning in Deline
The sun rose over Deline in a blaze of gold, washing the marble towers with brilliance. Bells rang from the palace spires, calling servants and courtiers to life.
Yet within the palace walls, the mood was far from serene.
Isolde sat at the high table for breakfast, her silver goblet untouched, her food cooling on its plate. Across from her, Dorian chattered happily about his lessons in falconry, waving his hands with boyish excitement.
But Isolde's gaze was fixed on their father.
King Philip leaned heavily toward Flagg, who sat beside him like a shadow. The king laughed too loudly at some jest whispered into his ear. His crown slipped slightly askew, but he did not notice, nor did anyone dare to adjust it.
Every laugh was a knife in Isolde's chest. How blind he is… how deep Flagg's hold runs.
Lucan caught her eye from further down the table. His expression was guarded, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his knife as though it steadied him. Their pact from the night before hung between them like an unspoken vow.
Ellyn, serving bread, brushed discreetly by Isolde's chair. The maid's subtle squeeze of her arm was enough: I am with you. Small comforts, but precious.
The court buzzed with talk of Eryndor's movements. Messengers had brought tidings at dawn—raiding parties at the borderlands, villages burned, refugees flooding into Deline's outposts. Fear spread like fire.
And Flagg, of course, stoked it.
"Majesty," he purred, his voice carrying easily, "these are but the first sparks. Unless quenched swiftly, the fire will consume us all."
The king nodded solemnly. "Then we must act."
A murmur of agreement rippled through the nobles. Some muttered prayers; others clenched their goblets tighter.
Lucan's jaw tightened. Isolde's stomach twisted.
Breakfast ended with a proclamation: a council would convene that very afternoon to decide Deline's answer.
As the courtiers dispersed, Flagg's gaze swept across the hall. His eyes lingered on Isolde and Lucan just long enough to chill their blood. Then he smiled, as if he already knew their secrets.
---
Part II – Secrets in the Garden
The gardens of Deline bloomed in dazzling splendor. Roses climbed trellises, lilies floated in marble pools, and doves cooed from gilded cages. Yet for Isolde, beauty could not smother unease.
She walked the path between hedges, Lucan at her side. The noise of the palace seemed distant here, muffled by the rustle of leaves.
"You saw it too," she said at last. "How he twists Father's words, bends them like reeds."
Lucan nodded grimly. "Every council becomes his stage. And the lords follow him like hounds."
Isolde clutched her cloak tighter. "The Eye… I think it stirs. Last night, I felt it watching."
He frowned. "Watching? What do you mean?"
She hesitated. How could she describe the sense of being pierced, weighed, judged by something not human? But her brother's steady gaze urged her on.
"It showed me… fragments," she whispered. "Flashes of ruin. A battlefield. Fire. Chains. And always… Flagg."
Lucan's hand tightened on the hilt of his sword. "Then it is true. The thing he seeks is bound to that Eye."
"Yes," she breathed. "And if he takes it—"
"Deline falls."
They stood in silence, the fountains trickling softly around them.
Then Lucan straightened. "We cannot fight him openly. But we can prepare. I will speak with Aurelian. And perhaps with Lady Mera—her hatred of sorcery may serve us well."
Isolde nodded. "And I will keep searching the histories. There must be something the council has hidden that we can use."
Their pact deepened in the quiet of the garden. Two against the darkness.
But in the branches above, unseen, a raven perched. Its eyes glowed faintly gold before it took flight, winging back toward the tower where Flagg kept his watch.
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Part III – Flagg and the King
That afternoon, the council chamber filled with lords and ladies, their silks whispering like restless waves. Maps sprawled across the great table. Candles flickered, casting long shadows.
King Philip entered, flanked by Flagg. The king's shoulders drooped, his crown seeming heavier than ever. Yet Flagg's staff gleamed faintly as though bearing some unseen burden for him.
"My lords," Flagg began, his tone smooth, commanding. "The wolves of Eryndor snap at our gates. What shall we do? Will Deline cower behind its walls, or will it strike as the eagle strikes—swift, fierce, unyielding?"
Cheers rose from several lords. Others murmured agreement.
Lucan watched in silence, his fists clenched beneath the table. Isolde sat still, her eyes lowered, though her mind raced.
Flagg pressed on, his voice swelling with false fervor. "I say we march. Gather the banners, raise the swords, and let the fire of Deline burn away our foes!"
The chamber thundered with approval. King Philip, flushed and bewildered, nodded as though the decision had been his own.
But then—
"Majesty."
Lucan stood. His voice cut through the clamor like steel. "With respect, to march blindly into war is to invite ruin. Deline's strength lies not in reckless fury, but in unity, in wisdom. If we rush, we risk not only defeat, but the kingdom itself."
The room stilled. All eyes turned to him.
Flagg's smile did not falter, but his eyes glittered with cold amusement.
"And what would you propose, Prince?" he asked softly.
Lucan held his ground. "We fortify our borders. Protect the people first. Send envoys to learn Eryndor's true intent. If war is inevitable, let us enter it with clear sight, not blinded by haste."
Murmurs rippled through the lords. Some frowned, considering. Others shifted uneasily, unwilling to oppose Flagg.
King Philip rubbed his temple, uncertain. "Perhaps… perhaps there is wisdom in caution…"
Flagg's eyes flashed. The candle flames guttered as though in a sudden wind. For a moment, the chamber itself seemed to bow to him.
"Majesty," he purred, "caution is but another word for cowardice."
The nobles stirred, whispers growing. The tide was turning back to him.
Isolde's heart hammered. She saw her father faltering, Flagg tightening the leash. If Lucan lost this moment, his voice would never rise again.
She stood.
"Majesty," she said clearly, her voice ringing across the hall. "Lucan speaks not of cowardice, but of prudence. Deline is not a flame to be thrown into the wind—it is a jewel to be guarded. Would you throw your people's lives away for haste?"
A hush fell.
King Philip blinked at her, startled. His daughter rarely spoke in council. Her words seemed to shake him more than Lucan's had.
For a heartbeat, Flagg's composure cracked. His smile stiffened, his gaze darkened.
But he recovered, bowing slightly. "The princess speaks with passion. Perhaps a balance may be struck. Let us ready the banners—but hold them at the border until the moment demands."
The lords murmured agreement. The king nodded, relieved.
Lucan met Isolde's eyes across the table. A spark of triumph passed between them. Small, fragile—but real.
Flagg's smile returned. Yet behind it, his mind seethed. So… the lambs bare their teeth. Very well. Let us see how sharp they are.
---
Part IV – The Eye's Whisper
That night, the palace slept.
But deep below, in its hidden chamber, the Eye stirred once more.
Its iris narrowed, gold flaring. Visions swirled faster than thought.
Lucan standing defiant.
Isolde holding forbidden books.
A raven's wings beating against the moonlight.
A throne cracked in two.
And always—Flagg's shadow, stretching across it all.
The Eye pulsed, its glow spilling across the chamber, as though tasting the threads of fate itself.
In the silence, a whisper rose. Neither human nor divine, but something older, colder.
The choice is coming. Blood or fire. Hope or shadow. And the kingdom shall tremble…
The iron gate rattled once, then stilled. The glow faded.
Above, Isolde stirred in her sleep, her brow furrowed by dreams she could not escape. Lucan, awake in his chamber, sharpened his sword by candlelight. Flagg, in his tower, gazed at the stars with hungry eyes.
And far to the north, in the dark lands of Eryndor, horns sounded in the night.