"Please follow me," Harion said sharply, his voice cutting through the night like a blade. He didn't look back as he strode ahead, his broad shoulders rigid, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. Rya hurried to keep pace, her legs trembling from exhaustion, her torn cloak flapping like a tattered flag. The soldiers' torches cast flickering shadows across the ground, painting the scene in jagged strokes of light and dark.
Harion led her through the maze of carnage to a small camp nestled at the edge of the forest. Tents of crimson canvas stood in a rough circle, their fabric snapping in the wind. A roaring bonfire blazed at the center, its flames licking the sky, sending sparks dancing into the darkness. The scent of burning wood mingled with the faint aroma of roasted meat, a stark contrast to the death that clung to the air. Soldiers milled about, their armor clanking as they cleaned their blades or shared flasks of bitter ale, their laughter rough and raw.
Harion stopped at a small tent, its canvas patched and worn, but sturdy enough to keep out the night's chill. He pulled back the flap with a quick jerk, revealing a simple mat on the ground, a folded blanket, and a dented tin cup half-filled with water. "This is your space, Lady Rya," he said, his tone suddenly polite, almost formal, as he stepped aside to let her enter. His weathered face softened slightly, but his eyes remained sharp, watching her every move. "Forgive me, my Lady. We didn't expect to find a noblewoman on a battlefield. We have no proper clothes or comforts to offer. You'll have to bear it until we reach Zalem."
Rya paused at the tent's entrance, her hand clutching the tattered edge of her cloak. 'Lady?' she thought, confusion swirling in her mind like a storm. 'Why the sudden respect? Is it because I'm Nyxelene's daughter, or because Draven declared me his guest?' The shift in Harion's demeanor was jarring, like a blade sheathed but still dangerous. She couldn't read him, and that uncertainty gnawed at her. She nodded slowly, her cracked lips parting to speak. "Is it alright if I call you Harion?" she asked, her voice steady despite the ache in her throat.
Harion's brow lifted slightly, a flicker of surprise crossing his rugged face. "By all means, my Lady," he replied, dipping his head in a curt nod. His voice was gruff but carried a hint of warmth.
"Thank you, Harion," Rya said, forcing a small smile despite the pain of her split lip. "I appreciate your hospitality." Her words felt hollow, a reflex from years of navigating her mother's court, but they seemed to satisfy him.
Harion nodded again, his armor clanking softly as he turned to leave. "Rest well," he said, then disappeared into the night, his dark cloak swallowed by the shadows.
Rya sank onto the mat, her body screaming with exhaustion. She pulled the thin blanket over her shoulders, the wool rough against her torn clothes, and tried to quiet her racing mind. Outside, the Zalians, as the people of Zalem called themselves—gathered around the bonfire, their voices loud and rowdy, carried by the wind like the chatter of restless spirits.
"Hey, did you see the princess earlier?" one soldier said, his voice booming with excitement. He leaned forward, his scarred hands gesturing wildly as he spoke. "I'm telling you, she's a real gem. Even covered in dirt and bruises, she's got that royal spark—something you can't hide."
Another soldier, his face weathered by years of battle, nodded eagerly, his helmet glinting in the firelight. "You're not wrong. Even through all that grime, she's otherworldly. Just what you'd expect from Queen Nyxelene's daughter. That woman's beauty is practically a myth, and her kid's got the same glow."
A third soldier, younger, with a crooked grin, leaned back against a crate, sipping from a flask. "So who was the lucky bastard who got a shot at the queen?" he asked, his voice thick with curiosity. "The queen always carried herself like no man was worth her time. Cold as ice. I never would've guessed she had a kid."
"Right?" another chimed in, tossing a stick into the fire, sending sparks spiraling into the sky. "What's her name again? Oh, yeah—Rya. She's my dream woman, I swear. Those forest—green eyes-they could stop a man's heart."
"Too bad Draven declared her a guest of the highest honor," the first soldier said, shaking his head with a mock sigh. "She's untouchable now, lads. Out of our reach, unless you fancy crossing the king."
Rya's cheeks burned as she listened, her discomfort growing with every word. The soldiers' voices carried through the thin canvas, their laughter and crude admiration making her skin crawl. She curled tighter under the blanket, her bruised hands clenching into fists. She wasn't a prize to be gawked at, not some jewel to be claimed. But their words stung, reminding her of the court in Runevale, where whispers followed her like shadows, judging her as Nyxelene's daughter, never as herself.
"Get some rest, all of you!" a sharp voice cut through the chatter, silencing the soldiers like a blade through cloth. Harion stepped into the firelight, his crimson cloak billowing, his face stern as carved stone. "We leave at first light. Set the night guard and sleep." His tone left no room for argument, and the Zalians scrambled to obey, their armor clanking as they doused the fire and dispersed to their tents.
Harion paused, his boots crunching on the grass as he approached Rya's tent. He stopped just outside, his shadow looming against the canvas, tall and unyielding. "I apologize, Lady Rya," he said, his voice low but clear, carrying a hint of genuine regret. "My men spoke out of turn. I hope they didn't make you uncomfortable."
Rya sat up, her blanket slipping to her waist as she swallowed the lump in her throat, forcing her voice to stay steady. "It's fine," she said, though her words felt like a lie. "I didn't take it to heart." She managed a small nod, her dark hair falling over her bruised shoulder.
Harion hesitated, as if weighing her words, then dipped his head. "Good night, my Lady," he said softly, before turning and vanishing into the darkness, his footsteps fading into the night's restless hum.
Alone in the tent, Rya lay back, staring at the sagging canvas above. Her body ached, every bruise a reminder of her escape, every breath a testament to her survival. She owed her life to Michael—her only friend, her anchor in a world that had tried to break her. She'd met him when she was seven, a skinny girl with wide eyes, trapped in Runevale's cold stone walls. At the time, her mother's kingdom was locked in a brutal war with Namesh, a neighboring realm, over a fertile strip of land southwest of Runevale. The valley, lush with golden fields and winding rivers, was a prize both kingdoms craved. Namesh needed it to feed its growing population, its king willing to defy one of the three great kingdoms for his people's survival. Runevale wanted it because Nyxelene demanded it. Her will was law, her desires absolute—anything she coveted must be hers, no exceptions.
The war had been a slaughter. Orin, Runevale's one-armed commander and fiercest warrior, carved through Namesh's forces like a scythe through wheat, leaving half their army bleeding in the dirt. He was known to be the strongest warrior in Runevale. But it was Harion—then Runevale's genius strategist, a mind sharper than any blade—who turned the tide. His tactics outwitted Namesh's generals, leaving them scrambling in the dust. On the morning of the truce, the grand throne hall of Runevale glittered with cold splendor, its marble floors polished to a mirror sheen, its towering columns draped in silver banners. The Namesh delegation stood on one side, their faces pale and weary, hoping for peace—perhaps even an alliance—while Nyxelene's court watched with predatory silence.
The grand throne hall of Runevale loomed like a cathedral of ice and shadow, its towering marble columns gleaming under the flicker of a hundred silver chandeliers. Their flames danced wildly, casting jagged shadows that writhed across the polished marble floor, as if the hall itself were alive with secrets. Crimson banners, embroidered with Runevale's wolf crest, hung from the vaulted ceiling, swaying faintly in a draft that carried the faint scent of incense and cold stone. The air was heavy, thick with the weight of power and unspoken threats. Beyond the stained-glass windows, the sky churned with storm clouds, their muted thunder rumbling like a warning from the gods.
"Announcing the arrival of Her Majesty, Queen of Runevale, the First of Her Name, Lady Nyxelene!" a guard's voice boomed, echoing off the walls like a war drum. Two armored sentinels, their faces hidden behind polished helms, heaved open the massive oak doors, their hinges groaning under the weight. The doors swung wide, revealing a figure who seemed to step out of a dream—or a nightmare.
Nyxelene glided into the hall, each step deliberate, her black-and-crimson gown trailing behind her like a river of blood and shadow. Her raven-black hair cascaded down her back, so dark it seemed woven from the heart of midnight itself, shimmering with an unnatural sheen that caught the chandelier light. Her skin was impossibly pale, almost translucent, as if a single touch might shatter her like fragile porcelain. Her moonlit-ash eyes, cold and luminous as moonlight on a frozen lake, swept the room, commanding every gaze without effort. She was beauty incarnate, a goddess carved from starlight and frost, but there was something chilling in her presence, a sharpness that cut deeper than any blade.
Every eye in the hall locked onto her, drawn like moths to a flame. The Namesh delegation, clad in drab gray tunics, stood rigid on one side, their faces pale with awe and fear. Runevale's courtiers, draped in silks and furs, bowed low, their whispers silenced by her arrival. Even the air seemed to still, as if the hall itself held its breath in her presence.
"Gods above, is that the queen?" a Namesh soldier whispered, his voice trembling with disbelief. He leaned forward, his weathered armor clanking softly, his eyes wide as he stared at Nyxelene. "How can one person be so beautiful? It's unnatural—like she's not even human. I feel like I should drop to my knees and worship her." His hand twitched toward his sword, not in threat but in nervous awe, as if he needed to ground himself against her radiance.
Another soldier, his neck scarred from battles long past, nodded dumbly, his jaw slack. "I've seen queens before, but this… she's a legend come to life." His voice was barely a murmur, lost in the reverent hush that blanketed the hall.
Rya trailed behind her mother, a shadow in her wake. As Nyxelene's only heiress, she should have commanded respect, but her presence was an afterthought, a faint echo to her mother's brilliance. Her simple gray gown, patched and frayed at the hem, hung loosely on her small frame, and her dark hair was pulled back in a tight braid, unadorned compared to Nyxelene's flowing locks. At seven years old, Rya's green eyes were wide with quiet defiance, but her steps were cautious, her shoulders hunched as if bracing for a blow. She clutched her hands together, her knuckles white, as she followed her mother into the hall.
Nyxelene had never cared for her daughter. The number of times she'd spoken to Rya could be counted on one hand, each word sharp and cold, like shards of ice. "Don't you dare disappoint me, Rya," she'd snapped once, her voice cutting through Rya like a whip. Another time, on Rya's seventh birthday, she'd barely glanced at her, muttering, "Hmm, so you've managed to stay alive for seven years? A commendable feat worthy of my daughter. This means you're no longer a child, so behave. I have important guests today." Rya couldn't recall the last time her mother had met her eyes. Nyxelene's gaze always drifted elsewhere—over Rya's shoulder, to the courtiers, to the throne—as if her daughter were invisible, a stain on her perfect world.
Now, Rya walked behind her, her boots scuffing softly against the obsidian floor. The hall's grandeur pressed down on her, its towering columns and flickering chandeliers making her feel small, insignificant. The Namesh delegation watched her with curiosity, their eyes flicking from Nyxelene's radiance to the quiet girl in her shadow. Whispers followed, soft but cutting, like knives slipped between ribs. "The princess?" one murmured. "Hardly looks like her mother's kin." Rya's cheeks burned, but she kept her head high, her jaw tight, refusing to let their words break her.