The dawn broke gray and cold, as if the heavens themselves mourned. Emma stood at the castle's eastern balcony, the chill seeping into her bones. Smoke lingered in the distance, curling upward in thin, accusing fingers. A village at the border had been burned in the night. Dozens of lives—families, children, farmers—reduced to ash.
Her chest tightened. She had known loss before, in her first life. Betrayal had gutted her, but this… this was different. These were innocents who had placed their faith in Franck's banner, believing his protection would shelter them. And now their faith lay buried beneath blackened ruins.
A heavy silence stretched until Franck's voice broke it.
"They struck deeper this time," he said, his tone low, measured, though Emma could hear the storm beneath his words. His cloak was still damp with rain, his boots caked with mud from riding through the night to bring survivors back. His eyes were rimmed red, not from sleep, but from rage.
Emma turned toward him, her own voice trembling with restrained fury. "They want us to feel helpless. They want you to doubt yourself. But we cannot let their ashes weigh us down."
Franck's gaze met hers. "Easy to say. Harder to carry."
She stepped closer, her hand brushing against his arm, grounding him. "Then let me carry it with you."
For a moment, the prince's mask cracked. He let out a breath that was less a sigh and more a confession of exhaustion. Yet even then, his shoulders squared, his strength returning. He could not allow weakness, not with traitors watching for the smallest falter.
---
The council convened that afternoon, cloaked in grim murmurs. Some nobles wrung their hands with exaggerated sympathy; others whispered accusations of negligence. Lady Veyra, as bold as ever, raised her voice.
"If villages fall so easily," she said, her tone sharp, "then perhaps new leadership is required. Leadership that understands the cost of hesitation."
Franck's eyes darkened, but before he could respond, Emma rose.
"The cost of hesitation?" she repeated, her voice calm yet cutting. "And what of the cost of treachery? Of whispers in shadows that weaken our borders more than any raider could?"
The chamber stilled. Emma's gaze swept the nobles, daring them to meet her eyes. Most faltered. Lady Veyra did not. Her smirk curved like a blade.
"How convenient," Veyra said softly, "to accuse without proof."
"Proof," Emma said, her voice like steel, "is gathering as surely as the smoke that blackens our skies. And when the time comes, it will not be me you'll answer to—it will be the people whose homes you've bartered away."
A tense silence followed. Emma sat, her heartbeat hammering. She had spoken boldly, perhaps too boldly, but silence was no longer an option.
Franck's glance toward her carried a mix of pride and worry. Together, they held the chamber in check—for now.
---
That night, Franck summoned Emma to his private study. The firelight danced across maps strewn across the desk, ink staining his fingers.
"You were fearless today," he said, not looking up.
Emma folded her hands before her. "Fearless, or reckless?"
His lips twitched faintly. "Both. But necessary." He finally looked at her, his eyes softened. "They're testing us. You—me. They want cracks to show. But instead, you stood beside me."
"I always will," Emma said quietly. The words slipped out before she could stop them, and for a heartbeat, silence wrapped around them.
Franck studied her, his expression unreadable. Then he returned to the maps, though his voice carried something unspoken. "The ashes weigh heavy. But your voice… it lightens them."
Emma's chest warmed. She said nothing, but in her heart, the bond between them rooted deeper.
---
Two days later, scouts brought word: the raiders had moved west, targeting supply lines meant for the duchy's soldiers. Franck ordered a rapid response, but Emma urged caution.
"They want you to chase them," she said as they rode together at dawn. "If you leave the castle unguarded, they'll strike here. This is a game of shadows—they attack where we aren't."
Franck tightened his grip on the reins. "And if we do nothing, more villages burn."
Emma's heart clenched. This was the weight she had spoken of—the weight of ashes pressing from every side, forcing impossible choices. In her past life, she had been powerless against fate. Not this time.
"Then we split our strength," she said firmly. "You ride west. I will remain. Let me guard the castle in your stead. If they move against us here, I will see it coming."
Franck turned to her sharply. "No. You would be their first target."
"And yet I am the one they least expect to outmaneuver them." Her eyes held his. "Trust me, Franck."
For a long moment, he hesitated. Then, slowly, he nodded. "Very well. But if anything happens to you—"
Emma interrupted softly, "Then I will rise again. That is what rebirth has given me."
He stared at her, puzzled by the strange certainty in her tone, but he did not press further. Perhaps some part of him already believed she was more than she appeared.
---
As Franck rode with his knights into the west, Emma took her place within the castle. She walked the halls not as a guest, but as a guardian. She spoke with servants, listened to whispers, watched for eyes that lingered too long.
And it came.
On the second night, a fire broke out in the stables, flames consuming hay and wood in a roar of heat. Guards rushed to quench it, but amid the chaos, Emma noticed figures slipping through the shadows toward the inner gate.
Her heart thundered. This was the true strike.
Without hesitation, she grabbed a torch and raised the alarm, her voice ringing across the courtyard. "To arms! The enemy is within the walls!"
Knights clashed steel against steel, shouts and screams piercing the night. Emma fought not with sword but with wit, directing guards to flank the infiltrators, cutting off escape routes. Her quick mind turned the tide.
By dawn, the infiltrators lay bound, their faces revealed: mercenaries paid in gold stamped with the sigil of Lady Veyra's province.
The evidence they needed.
---
When Franck returned at dusk, weary but victorious, he found Emma waiting at the gates. Ash streaked her gown, and smoke clung to her hair, but her eyes burned with triumph.
"They came," she told him, her voice steady. "And they failed."
Franck dismounted in a rush, grasping her shoulders, searching her face for injury. Relief softened his features as he realized she was unharmed.
"You held the duchy," he said, awe lacing his tone.
"We held it," she corrected, her gaze fierce. "Together."
And for the first time, Franck pulled her into an embrace, not as duty, not as strategy, but as something raw and real.
In that moment, Emma knew: the ashes had not crushed them. They had forged them.