Chapter-4: The Edge of Tomorrow
Moonlight cut through the courtyard like a blade.
Ethelia's sword followed, slicing through leaves suspended mid-fall. Each strike was precise, brutal, economical. No wasted movement. No flourish. Just the clean efficiency of someone who'd learned that hesitation got you killed.
Sweat gleamed on her face, catching the silver light. She wore thin practice clothes—loose enough for mobility, tight enough not to snag on a blade. At this hour, the barracks were silent except for the whisper of steel through air and her own controlled breathing.
'I need to reach at least one level close to Marakanda,' she thought, resetting her stance. 'Just one level. Then maybe—'
"Lady Ethelia."
She spun, sword raised instinctively before recognition stopped her arm mid-swing.
High Priest Sol Na Duina stood beneath the cherry blossom tree across the courtyard, hands folded peacefully. At sixty-eight, he moved with the careful dignity of someone whose body had started to betray him but whose mind remained sharp. His robes were immaculate despite the late hour.
Ethelia lowered her blade, reaching for a towel to wipe her face. "Greetings, Priest Duina." She pulled a cloak over her shoulders, suddenly aware of how exposed she must look. "You're here at this time?"
"I know a Death Knight like you wouldn't be resting easily." His voice carried genuine warmth beneath the formal courtesy. "Prince Lucien is in the Nurin Palace. You should have met him there."
Ethelia's jaw tightened slightly. "I don't understand why the Emperor asked me to escort him for only twenty miles to reach the capital Siena. It seems..." She paused, choosing her words carefully. "Excessive."
Sol Na Duina's expression shifted—something between amusement and concern. "Ah. We never truly know what runs through the minds of courts and royal families." He gazed up at the moon, and for a moment looked every one of his years. "But one thing is certain—Prince Lucien has far surpassed Emperor Emrik. And he's only twenty."
Ethelia frowned. "What do you mean by that?"
The priest studied her face for a long moment.
"Prince Darian is the heir. He's stronger than Prince Lucien in combat, isn't he? I've seen Lucien fight—he's excellent, but surely below Prince Darian. Perhaps even below me." Ethelia asked.
"It seems you are very pure, Lady Ethelia." Sol Na Duina's smile was sad, almost pitying. He glanced toward the barracks entrance where guards stood at their posts—exhausted, swaying slightly, but still upright through sheer force of will. "Very pure indeed."
He turned to leave, robes whispering against stone.
Ethelia stood alone in the moonlight, towel forgotten in her hand.
'Is Prince Lucien truly that formidable?' She'd met Darian. Met princes from other kingdoms, sons of dukes, warriors with legendary reputations. They'd all felt... obvious. Readable. Men who telegraphed their intentions through arrogance or insecurity or desperate ambition.
Her gaze drifted toward the distant silhouette of Nurin Palace, its towers dark against the star-filled sky.
'Something has started to change.' She could feel it in the way soldiers whispered about troop movements toward State Zyrick. In the tension that had settled over the capital like fog. In the way the Emperor himself had summoned her for what should have been a routine escort.
'Tomorrow,' she decided. 'I'll meet him tomorrow.'
---
Sleep came reluctantly.
When it finally dragged her under, it brought voices with it.
At first they were distant, overlapping, impossible to distinguish. Then they sharpened, one by one, until each word cut like broken glass.
' "You're one of the Death Knights now. A Platoon Knight, if we're being formal." '
' "Your mother was an outsider. That makes you an outsider too." '
' "Ethelia..." ' A man's voice, too close, breath hot against her ear. ' "You should sleep with me. I'll grant you power. Real power." '
' "It shouldn't matter that you're only thirteen. We should do it. Don't you want to be strong?" '
Hands reaching. Her back against cold stone. The smell of wine and sweat and something rotten beneath. She run away from them to save herself.
Then another voice, official, detached: '"Ethelia De Colisson, from this day forward you are recognized as one of three Platoon Knights of the Aurelith Empire." '
Her mother's face. Pale. Fevered. Eyes that didn't recognize her anymore.
' "I'm sorry, Mama. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm—" '
Blood on her hands. So much blood.
The dream shattered.
Ethelia jolted upright, gasping. Her pulse hammered against her ribs. Her body burned like she was running a fever, nightgown soaked through with sweat.
"Hnngh—" The sound escaped before she could stop it.
She stood on instinct, legs shaking, and stumbled toward the washbasin. Splashed cold water on her face. Gripped the edge of the table until her knuckles went white.
The mirror caught her reflection—half-shadow, half-moonlight, features twisted into something she barely recognized.
"Why do I keep having these dreams?" Her voice was hoarse, talking to her own distorted image. "I need to train more. Need to refine my skills. I need to—"
'Be stronger. Be better. Be enough.'
She pressed her forehead against the cool glass.
The moon watched through the window, silent and indifferent, painting everything in shades of silver and black. Intimate and horrific all at once.
Somewhere across the lake, Prince Lucien slept in silk sheets, surrounded by luxury and sin.
And tomorrow, she would finally meet the man everyone feared but no one seemed to understand.
Tomorrow.
She just had to survive until tomorrow.