The night was deep, and thunder rolled across the sky like a roaring beast-reminding the world that the storm was coming.
Rain lashed against the remnants of their camp, soaking torn canvas and shattered gear. The fire had long since died, leaving only embers and smoke. The wreckage was all that remained of the ambush-blood on the stones, arrows snapped in half, and silence heavy as death.
Lucan knelt beside Elira.
She lay on a bed of cloaks and damp straw, her breath shallow, her skin pale, her body trembling beneath the weight of pain. Blood soaked through the bandages at her side-too much, too fast.
His own back still bled, the wound reopened with every movement. But he didn't care.
"She needs help," he growled.
One of Duke Rensic Albrecht's men approached, breathless, soaked to the bone. "Your Majesty, we tried to find a healer," he said. "But we failed."
Lucan's jaw clenched.
The soldier hesitated. "The nearby village said there's a healer in the next settlement... but it's three and a half days away."
Lucan's eyes flared.
"Damn it!" he snapped, pacing the mud-slick ground, boots sinking into the earth. His thoughts spiraled-too many, too fast. Then he stopped. His gaze locked onto Elira, her chest rising in uneven rhythm, her lips parted in gasps.
He stepped closer, voice low and urgent. "Get me a dagger. Alcohol. Bandages. Now."
The soldier rushed off into the storm.
Lucan scooped Elira into his arms, cradling her fragile form against his chest. She groaned, twitching from the pain as he carried her toward the carriage. He laid her inside gently, shielding her from the rain.
Her fever was climbing.
Lucan knelt beside her again, brushing damp strands of hair from her forehead. Her pulse fluttered like a dying flame. Her clothes were soaked through, clinging to her skin.
"You're not dying," he whispered. "Not here. Not now."
Moments later, the supplies arrived-wrapped in cloth, handed over with trembling hands.
Lucan rolled up his sleeves, blood still drying on his palms.
"Bring me dry clothes," he ordered. "And don't come inside unless I call for you."
The men bowed and stepped away.
Lucan closed the curtains, sealing them in darkness.
He reached for Elira's upper garments, carefully peeling them away. She groaned faintly, a protest buried in pain. Lucan didn't hesitate. He had no choice.
He grabbed a torch from the wreckage, poured alcohol over the dagger, and held the blade to the flame until it glowed faintly red.
He looked down at her again, voice barely audible.
"This will hurt," he murmured. "But it'll be temporary."
Then he pressed the dagger to her wound.
She screamed.
A raw, piercing cry that cut through the storm.
Lucan didn't flinch.
He held her down, jaw clenched, eyes burning with resolve. Her body arched, then collapsed. Her scream faded into silence.
She went limp.
Lucan froze, breath caught in his throat.
But the bleeding had stopped.
He dropped the dagger, hands shaking, and pressed fresh bandages to the wound. Her pulse was faint-but steady.
"She's alive," he whispered, more to himself than anyone else.
The camp was quiet now.
Only the sound of her breathing remained.
Lucan sat beside her, blood on his hands, rain soaking through his cloak. Then he reached for the dry clothes left outside and dressed her carefully-eyes closed, hands cautious, avoiding every touch that wasn't necessary.
He hated doing it.
But he hated the idea of asking someone else even more.
And he knew-once Elira found out-she'd throw him a sarcastic remark about how rude he was.
When he finished, he opened his eyes and sighed in relief.
That was harder than tending the wound, he thought.
He stared at her.
He had fought battles.
He had slain traitors.
But this-this was the war he couldn't afford to lose.
He had nearly lost the Saintess he'd been searching for.
Yes, he wanted to kill her.
But not like this.
Not by someone else's hand.
It was his privilege to end her life-his burden, his justice.
He clenched his fist, and everything came rushing back.
The ambush.
The assassins-silent, skilled, precise.
They hadn't stumbled upon their camp by chance. They knew the terrain. Knew the timing. Knew he was alive.
Someone was watching them.
Someone had been watching for a long time.
Lucan's eyes gleamed with fire.
Who sent them?
Who knew?
Who wants me dead-again?
He rose slowly from her side, blood still drying on his hands. His gaze sharpened, no longer clouded by panic or grief.
This wasn't just betrayal.
It was orchestration.
Names clouded his thoughts.
Halric was the obvious one.
But Lucan's instincts whispered otherwise.
Halric didn't have the reach. Not like this.
Someone else was pulling the strings.
He needed to return to the palace.
Fast.
Lucan stepped out of the carriage. The rain had stopped, leaving the air heavy and cold.
"Your Majesty," one of the guards said, standing beside the carriage. "What are your orders?"
Lucan scanned the camp.
Bodies lay motionless across the mud-some of them Duke Rensic's men.
"We don't delay," Lucan said, voice low and lethal. "We head to the palace immediately. Someone is behind this assassination attempt, and I intend to confirm who."
"Pardon, Your Majesty," another soldier approached, urgency in his voice. "One of the assassins survived. He's barely breathing. What should we do?"
"We don't delay," Lucan said, voice low and lethal. "We head to the palace immediately. Someone is behind this assassination attempt, and I intend to confirm who."
"Pardon the interruption, Your Majesty," a soldier approached, urgency tightening his voice. "One of the assassins survived. He's barely breathing."
Lucan's eyes narrowed.
Without a word, he strode through the wreckage-boots crunching over broken arrows and blood-soaked earth. The remaining soldiers bowed their heads as he passed.
The assassin lay sprawled on the ground, hands bound tightly behind his back, his body twisted in pain. His breath came in ragged gasps, blood pooling beneath him. He was young-too young to be this skilled. But his eyes, half-lidded and dark, held no fear.
Lucan's hand hovered near his sword hilt.
He could end it with a single blow.
But he didn't.
He needed answers.
He needed this man.
"Your Majesty," one of the soldiers asked quietly, "what shall we do with him?"
Lucan's voice was cold. "Let him live. Do everything you can to keep him breathing. We need him for interrogation."
He turned, cloak whipping behind him, but paused before leaving.
"Gather the remaining soldiers," he ordered. "We move before sunset."
"As you wish, Your Majesty."
The soldier bowed and hurried off.
Lucan stood for a moment, staring into the dying light. The storm had passed, but the air still felt heavy-charged with something unseen.
He glanced back at the assassin.
Something was wrong.
Too clean. Too precise. Too familiar.
Lucan's thoughts churned.
Who trained him?
Who sent him?
Who knew exactly where we'd be?
This wasn't a random strike.
It was a message.
And Lucan intended to answer it-with fire.
As the remaining soldiers gathered in line, the last of their fallen comrades were laid to rest beneath the wet earth. The scent of rain and blood lingered in the air-heavy, unforgiving.
Lucan stood at the center of the camp, silent, watching them.
Six warriors.
Six lives lost under his command.
His jaw tightened.
When the final shovel struck the soil, he stepped forward.
"Today," he said, voice cutting through the quiet like steel, "we head straight to the capital. The hostage comes with us-alive."
He scanned their faces, each one marked by exhaustion, grief, and grim resolve.
"Stay alert. We don't know what awaits us. Someone is watching. Someone knows our movements. And they won't hesitate to strike again."
Then he turned to one of the younger soldiers, his tone sharp but steady.
"You. You'll carry the wounded Saintess to Duke Rensic's mansion. Tell them to tend to her. That is my command."
The soldier bowed his head. "As you wish, Your Majesty."
Lucan nodded once, then turned toward his horse.
He climbed into the lead saddle, rain still dripping from his cloak. He guided the horse to face the gathered men and spoke with quiet authority.
"Prepare yourselves. We ride now."
The soldiers mounted their horses, forming ranks behind him. The carriage rolled into motion, guarded on all sides.
Lucan led his horse alongside the carriage, casting a glance at the covered window where Elira lay.
Then, without another word, he turned forward and led the way.
*******
The palace hall shimmered with gold and arrogance.
Nobles flocked around Lord Halric, their laughter echoing off marble columns, their voices thick with praise. Goblets clinked. Perfumed courtiers leaned in close, congratulating him with smiles too wide, too rehearsed.
Halric basked in it.
The most favored to become king.
The man who rose from whispers and shadows to stand beneath the throne's light.
From the edge of the hall, Tiana watched him.
Her grip on the wine cup was tight, knuckles white against crystal. The liquid trembled, threatening to spill. Her eyes didn't blink. Didn't soften.
Hatred simmered behind them.
Halric caught her gaze.
He excused himself from his audience with a charming smile and strolled toward her, his cloak trailing like a banner of triumph.
"What kind of congratulations is that, Lady Tiana?" he said, voice smooth as silk. His smile was sharp-too sharp. "No toast? No smile? Not even a polite nod?"
He leaned in, his breath warm against her ear.
"If I were you," he whispered, "I'd start acting accordingly. Now that I'm to be crowned as the new king."
Tiana narrowed her eyes.
She didn't flinch.
Didn't step back.
Instead, she tilted her head slightly, her voice calm and cutting.
"Kings are crowned, Lord Halric. Not declared by their own tongue."
Halric's smile twitched.
"You'll see," he said. "The court has already chosen. The people follow. And the throne-"
"Still belongs to Lucan," she interrupted.
Halric's eyes darkened.
Tiana took a slow sip of her wine, never breaking eye contact.
"You may have fooled the nobles," she said. "But you forget who Lucan is. He doesn't die quietly. And he doesn't stay buried."
Halric stepped closer, his smile now brittle.
"You speak boldly for someone whose house depends on my favor."
Tiana set her cup down, her voice low and steady.
"My house depends on truth. And truth has a way of walking back through palace gates when you least expect it."
Suddenly, Halric grabbed her arm-quick, quiet, hidden from the crowd.
His voice dropped to a hiss.
"Do you think your plan will win? Your precious majesty is dead. He's not coming back. He won't rise from the grave just to make you his queen."
His grip tightened.
"I know you. I know your father. Just like me, you hunger for power. We're the same."
Then he released her, smoothing his cloak, his expression composed once more.
"When ambition meets ambition," he said with a smile, "shouldn't they become one?"
Tiana smiled.
But it wasn't real.
It was the kind of smile that warned of storms.
"I'm not going to side with you," she said, her voice firm, final. "And if you think I ever would, then you don't know me at all."
Halric's smile faltered.
Before he could reply, the great doors of the hall groaned open.
"Duke Rensic Albrecht is now entering," the guard announced, his voice echoing through the marble chamber.
The crowd stirred.
Whispers rippled like wind through silk.
All eyes turned to the man stepping into the hall.
Duke Rensic Albrecht-tall, composed, wrapped in a cloak of midnight black and deep blue. Embroidered silver lined his sleeves, and the crest of his house gleamed at his shoulder. His boots struck the floor with quiet authority, and his gaze swept the room like a blade.
He walked with purpose.
With weight.
With the kind of presence that made nobles straighten their backs and servants hold their breath.
"You are finally here, Duke Rensic," Lord Halric said, stepping forward with a practiced smile. "We've been waiting."
Rensic stopped a few paces away, his expression unreadable.
"I came as soon as I received word," he said. His voice was calm, but beneath it lay something colder. "Though I must admit, I didn't expect a celebration."
Halric chuckled, gesturing to the hall. "The people rejoice. They see stability. A future."
Rensic's eyes flicked to the crimson and silver banners hanging from the pillars.
"Toasting a future built on a grave," he said quietly.
Halric's smile thinned.
Tiana watched the exchange, her heart steady, her mind racing. Rensic's arrival shifted the air. He was no pawn. And Halric knew it.
"Come," Halric said, recovering. "Join us. The court will soon convene to finalize the coronation."
Rensic didn't move. Instead he looked at to Tiana who is beside Lord Halric.
"Lady Tiana," he said, voice softer now, "it's been some time. I'm glad to see you."
Tiana inclined her head, her posture regal, her expression composed.
"Duke Rensic," she replied. "You arrived just in time."
His eyes searched hers, noting the tension in her shoulders, the fire behind her calm.
"I trust you've endured this circus with grace," he said.
"I've endured worse," she said, her tone dry. "But I'm glad you're here. The hall needed someone who still remembers what loyalty looks like."
Rensic's lips curved faintly-not quite a smile, but something close.
He extended his hand toward her. "May I have this dance, milady?"
Tiana hesitated only a moment before placing her hand in his. "I suppose I can spare a moment."
Left alone, Lord Halric watched them with furrowed brows, his smile fading into something colder.
They moved to the center of the hall as the music resumed-soft, elegant, and uncertain. The nobles turned their heads, curiosity veiled behind polite smiles and jeweled fans. Whispers fluttered like silk in the air.
More than a few young ladies looked on with envy.
The aloof Duke of the North-renowned for his icy reserve and unapproachable stature-had chosen Lady Tiana. And not just for a dance, but for something that stirred beneath the surface. Something deliberate. Something dangerous.
Their steps were measured, graceful, but the tension between them was unmistakable.
This was no courtly flirtation.
It was a signal.
And the hall, for all its gold and arrogance, had begun to feel the shift.
As they turned gracefully across the marble floor, Rensic leaned in, his voice low.
"He's alive," he said.
Tiana's eyes flicked to his, steady and unreadable. "I know. You said you'd send me a letter. Thanks to my one and only source, I found out."
"I'm sorry," Rensic replied. "I tried. Something went wrong-the letter never reached you. He's coming today. But not with fanfare. Not yet. He wants to see who bows before Halric. Who betrays him openly."
Tiana's grip tightened slightly. "He's watching the court unravel."
Rensic nodded. "He's giving them rope. Enough to hang themselves."
They turned again, gliding past nobles who smiled too wide and bowed too low.
"Halric's schemes run deep," Tiana murmured. "He's bought half the council. The other half are too frightened to speak."
"Lucan knows," Rensic said. "He's already seized the treasury routes. The northern garrisons are loyal. And the intelligence ward intercepted Halric's letters."
Tiana's lips parted slightly. "Then it's already begun."
Rensic's gaze sharpened. "Lucan wants trials. Public ones. He wants the court to see the rot before he burns it out."
Tiana exhaled slowly. "And Halric?"
"He'll be the last to fall," Rensic said. "Lucan wants him to watch everything he built collapse."
They danced in silence for a moment longer, the music swelling around them.
Then Tiana spoke, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Tell him I'm ready."
Rensic met her eyes.
"I already did."
The final notes of the music faded, and Rensic gently released her hand.
They bowed to one another, a gesture of mutual respect more than formality.
Tiana turned, her gown sweeping behind her, and walked back toward the edge of the hall-her posture regal, her mind already racing.
Rensic remained a moment longer, watching her go.
Then he turned toward the crowd.
The nobles had resumed their chatter, but their eyes still flicked toward the pair who had danced in defiance of Halric's celebration.
The storm was coming.
And they had just heard its first whisper.
While the palace hall glittered with false celebration, Lucan's allies were already in motion.
Above, chandeliers bathed the revelers in golden light. Nobles laughed too loudly, their goblets overflowing with wine and self-assurance. Crimson and silver banners-Halric's colors-draped the walls like a declaration. Musicians played, dancers twirled, and the court pretended not to feel the tremor beneath their feet.
But beneath the marble floors, in the veins of the palace, the tide had begun to shift.
---
⚔️ In the Intelligence Ward
Scrolls were being copied. Seals broken. Letters intercepted.
The spymaster, cloaked in gray, moved through shadowed corridors like a ghost. His agents slipped through servant doors and hidden passages, their footsteps silent, their eyes sharp. Every noble who had pledged loyalty to Halric was being watched. Every coin trail traced. Every whisper recorded.
A single word-Ash-had begun to appear in coded messages.
Lucan was not dead.
He was listening.
---
In the Northern Barracks
Rensic's men had begun to arrive-quietly, without banners.
Trusted captains disguised as merchants passed through the city gates, carrying orders sealed with Lucan's crest. They spoke little, but their eyes scanned everything. The garrisons loyal to the crown were being reactivated. Swords sharpened. Horses fed. Maps redrawn.
The North was no longer silent.
It was waiting.
---
In the Treasury Vaults
Lucan's command had reached the royal treasurers.
Halric's access was revoked. Gold shipments rerouted. Vaults sealed. The flow of coin-the lifeblood of influence-was now under Lucan's control. Nobles who had sold their loyalty found their purses suddenly light. Promised bribes vanished. Debts surfaced.
The silence of gold was louder than any trumpet.
---
In the Temple of the Flame
The High Priestess, once silent, had begun to speak.
She claimed to have received a vision-a king cloaked in ash, returning from death. Her words spread like wildfire through the faithful. Candles were lit in Lucan's name. Prayers whispered. The Saintess, though wounded, was alive.
And her survival was no accident.
---
In the Council Chambers
Two lords who had once toasted Halric now sat in silence.
One had received a letter with no signature-only a single phrase: I remember your oath.
The other had found his estate surrounded by silent riders at dawn. No threats. No blood. Just presence. Just memory.
Votes were withdrawn.
Loyalties reconsidered.
---
And in the Shadows of the Throne Room
A servant girl passed a note beneath a goblet.
A steward locked the doors earlier than usual.
A knight adjusted his armor-not for ceremony, but for war.
The throne stood untouched.
But the air around it had changed.
---
Lucan's allies were not loud.
They did not shout.
They moved like the tide-slow, relentless, and ready to drown the false king.
And somewhere beyond the palace walls, cloaked in ash and fury, the true king rode toward the gates. His arrival was silent, but the air shifted with it. He was met by the loyal garrison of Duke Rensic-men who had not bent, not broken, not forgotten.
They bowed as one.
Not to a myth.
Not to a memory.
But to their king.
Returned.
******
Elira stirred.
Her breath caught violently in her throat, as if the dream still had its hands around her neck.
Flashes of fire.
Screams swallowed by smoke.
A blade slicing through the air-aimed for her.
And Lucan's eyes.
Not the king's eyes.
The storm's.
Fury. Grief. Something deeper. Something ancient. Something that looked at her like she was both salvation and curse.
She gasped and bolted upright, heart hammering against her ribs like it wanted out.
Her skin was slick with sweat. Her fingers trembled. The room spun.
She reached for her side-pain bloomed instantly. Bandages. Blood. Memory.
She was alive.
But barely.
The dream clung to her like smoke, whispering in her ear, refusing to let go.
She looked around.
Not a battlefield.
Not a prison.
A room.
Lavish. Quiet. Draped in velvet and gold. The scent of herbs and candle wax lingered in the air. The bed beneath her was too soft, too clean. The linens were embroidered with a crest-one she recognized but couldn't place.
Her gaze darted to the window.
Outside, the sky was bruised with dusk. The city stretched beyond the hills, rooftops glowing amber in the fading light.
Is this the palace? she thought.
But no-the architecture was older, colder. The stonework whispered of northern bloodlines and quiet power.
This should be the palace...
She tried to stand, but her legs buckled beneath her. Pain flared-sharp, but not fatal. Someone had tended to her wounds.
The door creaked open.
A maid entered, startled to see her awake. "My lady! You shouldn't be up."
Elira's voice was hoarse, barely more than a breath. "Where am I?"
"You're at the Duke's Mansion," the maid said gently. "Before the attack, the king ordered you placed under Duke Rensic's protection."
Elira's breath caught-not from pain, but from memory.
Lucan.
The battlefield.
His arms around her.
His fury unleashed like a god betrayed.
"What day is it?" she asked, her voice strained behind the ache in her ribs.
"If you're asking, my lady... you've slept for three days straight."
Elira blinked. "Three?"
The maid nodded solemnly. "Your wound was deep. You nearly died. Thankfully, the healer here is one of the finest in the kingdom."
Elira sank back against the pillows, her thoughts spinning.
Three days.
What had Lucan done in that time?
She closed her eyes, trying to silence the storm still roaring in her chest.
"I'll call the healer," the maid said gently before slipping out of the room.
The door clicked shut.
Elira's hand trembled as she reached for the cup of water on the bedside table. Her fingers barely managed to grip it, but she brought it to her lips and drank greedily.
The water was cool, sharp against her parched throat.
She emptied the cup in seconds.
Still thirsty.
She opened her mouth to call for more-but the maid was already gone.
Silence settled around her like a second skin.
She stared at the empty cup, her breath shallow, her body aching. The thirst was more than physical-it clawed at her from within. A hunger for answers. For safety. For Lucan.
Her eyes drifted to the door.
And then she felt it.
The weight of his gaze.
Heavy. Unspoken. Familiar.
Before she could turn, before she could breathe, the darkness pulled her under once more.
The door opened.
Boots stepped across the polished floor.
Duke Rensic Albrecht entered, his cloak trailing behind him like shadow. He paused at the edge of the bed, eyes narrowing as he took in her pale face, the trembling fingers still curled around the empty cup.
"She woke?" he asked quietly.
The maid, returning just behind him, nodded. "Only for a moment. She asked where she was. Then... she slipped again."
Rensic stepped closer, gaze lingering on the bandages, the bruises, the quiet strength still etched into her features even in sleep.
"She's stronger than they think," he murmured. "But she's not ready to face what waits outside."
He turned to the maid. "Send word to the king. Tell him she stirred."
The maid bowed and hurried out.
Rensic remained.
Silent.
Watching.
Guarding.