The scent of scorched magic still lingered in the air, thick and metallic. Arasha exhaled slowly, eyes scanning the crater where the rift had once churned.
Her knights were busy tending to the wounded and helping the villagers clear debris.
Beyond the broken fields stood the silent, slumbering line of the enchanted forest—its massive trees humming faintly with dormant power, undisturbed for decades until now.
The rift had opened just shy of the forest's roots. Had they been even half a mile deeper, this battle might have awakened something far more ancient.
Arasha wiped a smear of blood from her jaw, armor still radiating residual warmth from the battle.
Just as she turned to issue a regrouping command, a courier hawk swooped low with a scroll bound in the royal court's crimson seal.
She caught it, eyes narrowing.
From the palace?
Breaking the wax and unrolling the message, her heart froze.
Her Majesty the Queen has passed in an unfortunate accident during a charitable visit to the outer towns. The King mourns her passing and, in respect to the realm's stability, will appoint Lady Mona, his long-time consort, as Queen once the mourning period concludes. The court will convene in seven days.
The words blurred for a moment as a storm of disbelief clouded her vision.
The Queen. Passive, perhaps. Distant, certainly. But never cruel. And she had helped—quietly, subtly, always when it counted.
Whispering support for Arasha's cause in the sanctuaries when few in court dared speak.
Arasha crushed the scroll in her gauntlet.
"Captain?" Sir Garran approached, reading the fury in her face before she could speak. "What is it?"
Arasha didn't answer him directly. She pulled out her sigil comm link instead, its surface pulsing as she dialed a connection.
"Leta," she said the moment the line clicked. "The Queen is dead."
There was a pause on the other end. A breath. Then, "What?"
"The King's making it look like an accident. And he's crowning his mistress after the mourning period."
"...The Crown Prince?"
"He doesn't know yet. You need to be with him. Now."
"I'm on my way." Leta's voice was iron. "He won't go through this alone."
The line went dead.
Next, Arasha turned to her second call—to Cassian's signature sigil.
When it shimmered to life, she didn't bother with preamble. "Cassian. I need everything you can find on the Queen's last movement, witnesses, travel logs, mage guard rotation—everything. She was no fool, and this wasn't some accident on a countryside road."
Cassian was quiet for a beat, then his voice came, low and grim. "So the King's making his move, then."
"Yes. And I want proof. For her. For the Crown Prince. And for the realm. I don't care if she stood idle once—she stood with me when it mattered most. And that's enough."
"You'll have what you need within three days," Cassian promised. "But Commander…"
"Yes?"
"Be careful. You're balancing a storm now. The King won't tolerate another challenge to his authority."
Arasha's eyes glinted with cold resolve.
"Then let him come."
As the connection faded, Garran stepped beside her. "What will you do?"
Arasha's eyes lingered toward the slumbering trees of the enchanted forest, then to the wounded villagers… and her knights who still stood, always.
"I'll mourn her. Quietly. But I won't weep long."
She turned to him, fire behind her calm.
"I will make the truth known. And I will not let the King's rot spread through the crown unchallenged. If they think this chaos makes me hesitate…"
She didn't finish.
She didn't have to.
Garran nodded once, solemn. "Then we move."
And the sun dipped beneath the horizon.
****
The gate of the Sanctuary loomed ahead as Arasha dismounted, dust and fatigue clinging to her like a second skin.
Her armor still bore streaks of ash and dried ichor from the skirmish at the enchanted forest's edge.
Yet before she could even breathe the familiar calm of home, she heard it—a cry. A guttural, raw, unrestrained sob.
Arasha's heart clenched.
She broke into a run, her knights trailing behind her.
The echo of Alight's anguish carried through the training grounds like a blade dragging across stone.
At the heart of the courtyard, a small crowd had formed. At the center was Alight, collapsed to his knees, his face buried in trembling hands.
Beside him lay a small bundle of elegant velvet—familiar embroidery of the royal seal dulled with age and dirt.
An elderly woman, her frame bent with age and fatigue, stood nearby, supported by one of the Sanctuary's medics.
Her face was tear-streaked, her hands still shaking from the burden she had just delivered.
Leta was already there.
She knelt beside Alight, cradling his shoulders as his body wracked with sobs.
In his trembling grip, a single parchment fluttered—a letter in the Queen's hand.
"…I'm sorry…" Alight choked between breaths, barely able to speak. "She… She knew. She knew it was coming…"
Arasha stepped closer, her knights instinctively halting behind her. She gestured to them softly, her voice steady.
"Stand down. Go rest. I'll handle it from here."
The knights hesitated, but trusted her enough to obey, slowly dispersing into the shadowed halls, leaving the quiet of dusk to envelop the courtyard.
Arasha knelt slowly beside Leta and Alight. The prince's eyes were swollen and red, his shoulders slumped as if the very spine had gone out of him.
"She left this for me," he whispered hoarsely, holding the letter against his chest. "Everything… she wanted to tell me. Everything she couldn't say in court. She knew they would take her."
Arasha looked to the elderly maid—silent now, lips sealed, staring at nothing.
The years of quiet servitude, of watching a queen stand alone behind curtains and veils, had all led to this final act of courage: carrying a final message across dangerous paths to reach the last person the Queen loved without compromise.
"Leta," Arasha said gently, "stay with him. Let him grieve."
Leta nodded, tightening her arms around Alight. "I won't leave him."
Arasha rose, moving to the old maid and gently guiding her toward the infirmary. "You've done enough," she murmured, voice softer than a whisper. "Let us take care of you now."
The maid said nothing, but she clutched Arasha's hand with surprising strength as she was led away.
And in the courtyard, as night settled in, the echo of a broken prince's grief hung in the air.
Arasha paused in the archway, glancing back.
Alight, his face buried in Leta's shoulder, cried not as a royal… but as a son.
The morning sun filtered through stained glass, casting quiet, kaleidoscopic light upon the long war table in Arasha's command chamber.
Maps were unfurled, dotted with sigils marking rift zones, noble banners, and current troop movements.
A fresh pot of bitterroot tea sat untouched by her elbow, long gone cold.
Arasha stood with arms crossed, her eyes sharp and storm-bright, scanning the placements, calculating movements—not of monsters, but of men.
Political monsters, in truth, far more insidious.
Sir Garran stood by her side, stone-faced as always, while Kane leaned casually against the wall, arms folded but eyes alert.
Leta was hunched over the corner of the table, reading over sealed reports freshly returned from Cassian's contacts.
A faint thrum of tension pulsed in the chamber.
"Word is spreading fast," Leta murmured, eyes narrowing. "The nobles are circling. The King's already whispering to his dogs in court about the 'instability' of your command. They want the awakened ones under the crown's direct authority—especially if the third prince awakens."
"And they believe that'll happen soon," Kane added. "They've quarantined the third prince's estate. Royal healers, arcane stabilizers, even sentinels. That's not just preparation. That's expectation."
Arasha said nothing for a moment. Her fingers brushed the edge of the map. A tap. Tap. Tap. The sound of someone not uncertain, but containing something vast.
"They think I'll yield," she said finally, her voice cool as tempered steel. "That I'll kneel, because I've always chosen duty over inheritance."
Kane tilted his head. "Would they be wrong to think that?"
She turned then, and a rare smirk ghosted over her face—not cruel, but amused, biting, a spark of something long buried flaring to life.
"They keep forgetting," she said softly, "that I, too, carry royal blood."
The room stilled.
"My mother was a foreign princess, my father a duke, and the brother of the current King. My father's name was carved into the heart of this kingdom long before King Alric ever touched the throne. I may not have taken the title, but I have never relinquished the right. If they push me into a corner, then let them choke on the mistake of making me their enemy."
Garran bowed his head slightly, not in deference, but in quiet approval. "You will always be a better fit for the crown than your uncle."
"Hmm, maybe so, but it would be my last resort," Arasha said. "I do not want a throne. I want safety. For the awakened. For the people. For all of you. But I won't hesitate to use my legacy if it becomes the only shield left."
She walked to the window, then looked out over the training fields below.
The Sanctuary pulsed with life—awakened ones sparring, knights training, healers tending, engineers reinforcing the southern bastions.
Among them moved the crown prince, Alight, his eyes still haunted by grief and sorrow, moved mechanically.
"This is what I'll protect," she whispered. "Not titles. Not crowns. Them."
Leta stepped closer. "Then we plan for both paths. If they push the issue, we'll be ready. We'll fight them on every front—rifts and court alike."
Arasha nodded once.
"Prepare the contingency plans," she said. "If the King dares to summon me, I want our defenses secure, our allies briefed, and our proof—every scandal, every misuse of the awakened, every failure of their courts—ready to be laid bare."
Kane grinned, the fire rekindled behind his eyes. "A full strike, then. Not just in steel—but with truth."
"Truth," Arasha echoed, "is our sharpest weapon now."
And though her gaze never left the world outside the window, inside, she was already arming herself for war.
One of politics. Of power. Of shadows and memory. Because she knew now—
If the King dared to corner her again…he'll know what regret truly means.
****
The sky above the fortress was overcast, heavy with the promise of rain. The air was quiet, the kind of silence that spoke of storms brewing in hearts more than the heavens.
Alight found Arasha alone in the stables, brushing down a tired horse after patrol.
His usually sharp, composed demeanor had frayed at the edges.
No armor, no attendants, no royal trappings—just a boy on the verge of breaking, knuckles white, eyes shadowed.
"Commander Arasha," he said quietly, almost reverently, like a prayer.
She turned slowly, her gaze meeting his.
And in that instant, she understood. Not the physical pain of training, not the awe of admiration. It was the question in his eyes.
How do I live after losing someone who held up my world?
She said nothing, just nodded once and gestured for him to follow.
They walked in silence, away from the fortress and into the woods, winding through old moss-covered trails only few remembered.
The wind rustled above them, and the air grew cooler as they reached a small clearing where an aged hut rested under a canopy of towering pines.
Time had worn it down—cracks in the stone, ivy climbing the walls—but it stood.
Arasha pushed the door open gently. The interior was sparse. A few wooden stools. An old hearth. Dust and scent of old ash. But it was safe. Isolated.
"This is where I used to come when the nightmares became too loud," she said softly. "When the faces came back."
Alight sat down slowly, his shoulders hunched as if the weight of the world bore down on him. "I thought… if I got stronger, faster… if I trained hard enough… maybe the grief would fade. Maybe it would become something else."
"It doesn't," she said. She lowered herself beside him, eyes distant with memory. "It just... changes shape."
He turned to her, desperation raw in his voice. "How do you do it? How do you keep standing? After losing so much?"
Arasha took a slow breath.
"I was eight," she began. "When the rifts opened near my home. I wasn't strong. I couldn't even lift a real sword and could only spend my spare time having fun in the garden with my parents."
Her eyes fell to her hands, fingers curling slightly as if feeling the blood of that day again.
"My maids tried to shield me. Brave, kind women. I watched the monster rip through them. Heard their screams. Then I saw my puppy—little Thistle—charge in, barking, trying to save me."
Her voice faltered, just for a moment. Even now, the pain was a live thing.
"It tore him apart right in front of me. His blood stained my shoes. I remember that. I still remember that color."
Alight's breath hitched. She continued, her tone quiet but resolute.
"My parents gallantly stood to protect our people. But the horde came too fast. I watched as they were swallowed while Sir Garran carried me away from the chaos. I still vividly remember how my mom kissed me full of blessings as she handed me to Sir Garran, and my Dad smiled at me, telling me to take care..."
Silence. The rain finally began outside—soft at first, then steadier, a gentle rhythm of grief against the hut's roof.
"I didn't overcome that pain," she said finally. "I carry it. Every day. I still grieve. Even now."
She turned to him, eyes glimmering—not weak, but honest.
"So I'm sorry, Alight. I can't teach you how to overcome grief. Because I haven't."
Tears slipped down his cheeks, silent, no sobs—just sorrow that had no more strength to scream.
"But," Arasha said, her voice steady, "what I can offer you is this—my shoulder. My hand, if you need it. My voice, to remind you that you are not alone."
She reached out, placing a gentle hand over his.
"I'll be your lighthouse, until you find your own light again."
He buried his face into her shoulder, and Arasha let him cry, holding him like a sister would.
Outside, the rain fell harder.
But inside the hut, something quietly began to heal.
****
The hallways of the sanctuary were dim and hushed, the flickering light of lanterns casting gentle shadows along the stone walls.
Arasha walked slowly, her arms wrapped around the sleeping figure of Alight, the weight of the young crown prince light in body but heavy in significance.
His face, streaked with dried tears, was peaceful now—finally loosened from the grip of sorrow. He had cried himself into exhaustion.
Carefully, Arasha entered his chamber, pushing the door open with her shoulder.
She laid him down onto the bed with a gentleness rarely seen from her, brushing away a few strands of hair clinging to his damp face.
She pulled the covers over him and lingered only a moment longer, watching his breath rise and fall.
That was when she heard the faint creak of the door behind her.
She turned and saw Kane leaning against the frame with his arms crossed. There was a faint, bitter smile on his lips as he watched her. Not of anger. Not of resentment. But something softer, harder to define—something quietly aching.
He averted his gaze after a heartbeat.
"Jealousy doesn't suit me," Kane muttered to himself, low enough he probably didn't mean to be heard.
Arasha caught it anyway. Her lips curved ever so slightly, the expression tired but amused.
As she stepped past the doorway and closed it behind her gently, she turned toward him. "I'm still not good at comforting people," she said quietly.
Kane gave her a crooked smile. "Could've fooled me. Your hugs were always… strangely calming."
Arasha tilted her head, voice steady and soft.
"That's because you're the only one I hug to comfort."
Kane blinked—speechless.
He opened his mouth, only for silence to tumble out.
She stepped closer, the weight of the day slowly sloughing off her frame as she leaned forward—gently resting her head on his chest. Her eyes closed.
"And you're the only one I lean on."
Kane's breath caught. His arms, hesitant for a moment, finally wrapped around her. Not tightly, not possessively—just enough.
He rested his chin on the top of her head and closed his eyes too, murmuring just above a whisper:
"Then I'll stand firm… so you'll always have something to lean on."
For a while, they stood there in silence. Two people burdened by too much, holding onto what peace they could steal between storms.
Outside, the wind picked up, soft but rising. Trouble still stirred in the kingdom, in the rifts, and in the hearts of men.
But inside that quiet hallway, for just a flicker of time, Arasha and Kane were still. Anchored. Together.