The next morning, the sun had yet to rise high when the forces of the Mordune Kingdom began to surround Glimfell from all directions.
The sound of hooves pounding the ground, banners flapping, and the clinking of steel created an oppressive atmosphere. A thin morning mist blanketed the land, but the enemy's formation was clearly visible in the distance, stretching like a sea of iron ready to swallow everything whole.
Inside the city, warning bells had already rung. Fully armed defenders stood atop the walls and behind barricades, their eyes tense but prepared. Ethan Rathsture had organized the defensive formations and assigned guard posts strategically. Every field captain had received their orders, and arrows had already been nocked to bows.
Aiden Rathsture stood tall on the city's main bastion. His cloak billowed in the morning wind, and his eyes scanned the battlefield ahead. He showed no fear—only tightly controlled tension behind his cold gaze. And when he saw a lone rider advancing slowly from the Mordune ranks, he recognized him at once.
A young man, about twenty-five years old, rode a black horse. His hair was jet black, his skin olive-toned, and his emerald eyes gleamed with sharp confidence. His face was stern, like a marble sculpture carved for kingship.
"Dilan Mordune…" Aiden muttered under his breath, the words almost a hiss laced with fury.
Prince Dilan Mordune, second prince of the Mordune Kingdom, now stood as the commander of the invading army aiming to seize Iskandria's territories. He held no weapon in his hand—only wore light battle attire that reflected his utter confidence. He pulled his horse to a stop and raised his gaze to the high walls where Aiden stood.
"Aiden Rathsture!" he shouted. His voice echoed across the valley and the city's stone walls.
"Surrender Glimfell now. Open the gates and kneel before the Mordune Kingdom. Or watch the ones you love most die before your very eyes."
At first, Aiden laughed. His laughter rang out, loud and mocking, though his stare remained sharp and unflinching.
"You think I'll bow to such empty threats?" he called back from atop the wall.
But his laughter ended abruptly when Dilan raised a hand and gestured.
From behind the Mordune lines, several soldiers wheeled out a large horse-drawn cart into the open. The cart, pulled by two black horses and guarded by mounted soldiers, bore an iron cage—thick, reinforced, and bound in heavy chains.
Aiden narrowed his eyes.
And in an instant, his blood turned cold.
Inside that cage... were Sally, Lyanna, Daphne, Riven, and Melly.
They were huddled together like war prisoners, their faces tired and bruised, their clothes dusty and torn. Sally stared forward without flinching. Lyanna bit her lip, her body trembling with rage. Daphne and Melly looked defeated. Riven sat still, his gaze teetering on the edge of ruin and madness.
Aiden clenched his jaw. He spoke no further, but every muscle in his body went rigid.
Just yesterday, he had personally scouted the forest path his family would take to reach the fortress. He had ensured it was secure. He had even gone alone without guards, just to be certain. But still... they were captured. Somehow, the enemy had been a step ahead.
Veins bulged across his neck and arms. His fist, gripping the edge of the wall, trembled with restrained fury. His eyes locked onto Prince Dilan with a burning hatred that could set the skies aflame.
The morning wind picked up again, carrying with it the scent of blood and the foreboding of war.
And atop Glimfell's walls, Aiden no longer smiled.
.
.
.
Glimfell fell without a fight.
No explosions. No arrows loosed. No cries of death ringing through the air.
After seeing his family caged before him by the enemy, Aiden Rathsture descended from the walls without drawing his blade. Before the stunned eyes of his soldiers and the people of his city, he walked into the open field and surrendered. He bowed his head before Prince Dilan Mordune, speaking words no one else could hear.
But one thing was clear: he had made a deal. His sole condition for surrender was that no harm would come to his family, or to the people of Glimfell.
For Aiden, it was no easy choice. As a noble, as the appointed lord of a strategic stronghold, he had been commanded to hold Glimfell to the last man. He knew surrendering was a betrayal of his oath and crown. He knew Queen Ashtoria would never forgive him. But none of that mattered more than his wife and children.
He would rather face execution… than witness their deaths.
With Glimfell fallen, Mordune's forces swiftly occupied the city. The red banner of the Iskandrite Kingdom that once flew proudly over the city hall was torn down. In its place rose a new flag: the sigil of the Mordune Kingdom—a skeletal eagle clutching a broken crown, billowing like a curse over a conquered land.
Inside the city, chaos did not erupt. Ethan and the Iskandrite soldiers followed Aiden's orders not to resist. They laid down arms to spare the lives of the citizens.
Elsewhere, Riven and Melly were still in chains when they were brought into an old stone building repurposed as a prison. The corridors were cold and damp, dimly lit by flickering lanterns hanging from the ceiling.
Two burly men escorted them from behind, with Count Yilesh trailing close. The middle-aged man with deep blue hair walked with calm precision, making sure Riven and Melly didn't escape.
At one of the cells, the guards removed their shackles and shoved them inside. The iron door shut behind them with a sharp, metallic click.
Count Yilesh stood outside, observing them briefly. Then, in a voice devoid of warmth, he said, "Wait here, and don't cause trouble."
Without waiting for a response, he turned to leave. But just before walking away, his eyes flicked toward the far corner of the cell.
Someone else was already inside.
A figure lay on the floor, turned away from them, wrapped in a tattered blanket that nearly covered their entire body. Count Yilesh squinted slightly. A glint of pale gold peeked from beneath the fabric.
Golden hair.
The color made his thoughts immediately leap to a single name: Pendragon.
But he quickly dismissed the notion. Impossible, he told himself. The person must've dyed their hair. He was too tired to care, so he simply gave a nod to the nearby guard to stay alert and left.
Silence settled inside the cell.
Riven and Melly sat quietly on the cold stone floor, saying nothing. Exhaustion, pain, and numbness pressed down on them like an unbearable weight.
Then slowly, Melly glanced toward the corner of the cell. Riven followed her gaze.
The figure stirred.
They pulled down the blanket slightly and turned over to face them.
Eyes half-lidded, the person looked at Riven and Melly with an expression of tired disinterest, unaffected by the bleakness surrounding them. There was no surprise, no warmth—only the vacant stare of someone who no longer cared about anything at all.