The kingdom's capital stood draped in black and gold, mourning and celebration intertwining like poison laced in honey.
Black banners hung from palace spires, mourning the death of the Queen. And yet, only weeks after her passing, preparations for a coronation twisted grief into festivity.
The King stood at the center of it all—a monolith of arrogance masked with false solemnity.
His voice echoed across the grand square as he declared the beginning of a new era, placing the gleaming crown upon his favored mistress's head.
Applause rang hollowly. Behind forced smiles, the court whispered, but none dared to speak aloud the sickness gnawing at the kingdom's core.
And then came the second blow.
The King, with feigned sorrow, announced to the court and the nobles that the crown prince Alight had succumbed to his grief, passing away quietly days after his mother's tragic death.
His words were ripe with theatrics, but Arasha heard nothing but the hiss of lies.
The invitation had arrived days prior—lavish, sealed with the royal crest, its weight an insult rather than honor.
It requested her "dutiful presence" at the coronation and to oversee the ceremonial funeral rites for the late crown prince as the acting Commander of the well-known Scion Order.
Arasha crumpled it in her hand, expression unreadable. Her heart burned.
But she attended.
Not because the King commanded it, but because the people needed a pillar to stand beneath. A light to trust.
The Day of the Funeral
The cenotaph was constructed with precision—an elegant marble tomb built for a prince who still breathed in secret.
Arasha stood before it, clad in deep blue and silver, her ceremonial armor gleaming. Her face remained a mask of resolve, though her knuckles whitened against the hilt of her sword.
The people gathered.
Soldiers from across provinces came to pay respects—not only to the "dead" prince but to her.
The knights of the Awakened bowed their heads not toward the palace, but toward Arasha.
Veterans saluted her with tears in their eyes. Commoners murmured her name like a prayer.
Alight, somewhere far from the public eye, watched through a scrying mirror—safe, grieving, and very much alive.
Arasha knelt beside the cenotaph and spoke softly, her words amplified by a whispering spell.
"Alight was a son to this kingdom. A brother to all who fight in its name. In his mother's death, he mourned not only a Queen but the last shred of peace he had in this world. We honor that grief, and we honor the spirit he carried."
She rose and turned to the crowd, her gaze unwavering.
"Let this be a reminder that we must protect those left behind. That our kingdom is not its crown, but the people who bleed for it. Who stand for it."
There was no cheer.
But a tide of unity rippled silently among the watchers. Loyalty shifted—away from the throne and toward the woman who had held the line when no one else could.
The King, watching from his high balcony, fumed in silence.
This was not the image he imagined.
The ceremony had not diminished Arasha—it had exalted her. She walked among the soldiers and the common folk like a legend, not a servant of the throne.
She had obeyed, yes. But she had not submitted.
And the King understood, far too late, that in trying to bury the prince, he had only raised a Queen in the people's hearts.
****
The moon hung high above the fortress like a watchful sentinel, bathing the world in pale silver as Arasha returned from the capital.
The journey back had been tense, her convoy escorted by a rotating guard of her elite knights who had said little, but whose eyes remained vigilant, wary of foul play along the road.
No ambush came. Only silence.
As they entered the fortress grounds, a soft rain began to fall, washing the dust of deception from their cloaks.
Inside, the halls of the fortress bustled in a quiet, persistent rhythm—scrolls exchanged, scouts reporting, healers tending to the newly awakened.
Life pulsed on, untouched by the treacheries of the throne.
But Arasha moved through it all like a shadow, her eyes distant, her mind already dissecting every lie spun in the capital.
Alight was alive. Hidden. Safe.
But that safety now bore the price of secrecy, and Arasha knew that from this point forward, the King's wrath would know no bounds.
He had sought to humble her with public submission, to brand her as obedient to a false crown and grieving a death that never happened.
Instead, she emerged more revered, more beloved, more dangerous.
In her private quarters, Arasha removed her formal armor, setting aside the mantle of command for a moment's breath. The silent weight of the ceremonial sword on her back had grown heavier with every lie she had to silently witness.
A knock came.
It was Leta.
"The prince… he's asking for you," she said softly, a worn look in her eyes. "He's been… quieter since the 'funeral.' Too quiet."
Arasha nodded. "I'll go."
She found Alight seated by the Sanctuary's high window, the moonlight pouring over him like a shroud. He was no longer dressed like a prince. His clothes were simple—dark linen, soft cloak, no sigil. He looked… small. Weary.
"They buried an empty casket," he said when she entered. "And I didn't even get to bury her myself."
Arasha said nothing, simply taking a seat beside him, her presence the only balm she could offer.
"I don't think I can forgive him," Alight whispered. "Not just for her. But for what he's doing to the kingdom. To you."
Arasha studied him. The trembling hands. The restless eyes. But also the spine that hadn't bowed once. She saw it now—the steel forming beneath the grief.
"You don't have to forgive him," she said quietly. "But you have to decide what kind of man you'll become."
Alight turned to her. "And if I choose to be a better, more powerful one?"
Her voice was steady. "Then I'll make sure you're grounded and informed so you won't repeat his mistakes."
A long silence stretched between them, heavy with truth unspoken.
"I'm not ready to be king," he admitted.
"No one ever is," Arasha replied. "But you won't be alone."
Outside, the clouds shifted. The moonlight broke free, casting long, sharp shadows across the stone floor.
And far away, within the royal palace, the King's fury burned quietly like a smoldering pyre.
He had tried to kill a legacy.
Instead, he had created a legend.
—
The candlelight flickered against parchment after parchment, shadows dancing over Arasha's stoic face as she sat at her war desk.
Maps of rift activity dotted with red ink, threat analyses, coded reports from embedded spies, and sealed missives to her agents lined the heavy oaken surface.
But tonight, her quill moved across a different kind of paper—one no warrior ever wished to write.
Her last will.
The ink flowed smoothly, the words clear and precise, not a tremor in her hand. Every sentence bled with purpose:
If I fall in battle… Garran will assume full command of the Order.
The awakened ones are not to be disbanded or surrendered to royal control under any circumstance.
Secure caches beneath the Old Sanctuary and the Eastern Watchpost contain weapons and materials for rift emergencies.
Alight is to be protected until his claim to the throne is undeniable.
If the throne remains hostile, instate Haven Protocol: evacuate key personnel and awakened ones to safe zones outside the kingdom.
There was no emotion in her script. Only clarity. Arasha had never expected to live long. But she refused to leave behind a battlefield of chaos.
Once the will was sealed in silver wax and hidden in the locked chest beneath her desk, she turned to her next burden.
The King's movements.
Arasha laid out his recent decrees, tracked the shifting positions of noble houses.
Several formerly neutral dukes now lent veiled support to the third prince's faction. The royal army had increased recruitment under the guise of national defense.
And there were rumors—unconfirmed but frequent—that an elite unit was being trained to "restore order" within the Sanctuary. A polite euphemism for a future raid.
Her hand moved to her temple, rubbing it slowly. The synchronizing rifts had also begun to fluctuate unpredictably.
Attacks happened not by proximity now, but by resonance—one rift growing volatile could trigger another leagues away.
The enchanted weapons forged in the early years were beginning to shatter during combat, unable to endure the strain of evolved riftspawn.
She would need a new kind of alloy. A re-engineered enchantment cycle. New barriers. New doctrines.
And time.
But time was the one currency she could not hoard.
She pushed the strategy reports aside and opened another file. Alight's progression.
She marked it with a red seal—high priority.
His training schedule, education rotation, political theory briefings, and court manner simulations were mapped out across a timeline she'd refined nightly.
She had two years—at best—to build him into a symbol powerful enough to rally the kingdom's wavering hope.
"Two years," she murmured, gaze distant. "Two years to change the future."
A quiet knock stirred her from her thoughts.
Kane stepped in, dressed in his training tunic, a thin sheen of sweat still glistening at his brow. His sword was strapped to his back, but his expression was calm—open, even. He leaned against the door frame and studied her.
"You're doing it again," he said.
"Doing what?"
"Preparing for a war no one sees coming, while forgetting to delegate and rest."
She arched a brow. "Rest is optional."
Kane stepped closer, eyes searching hers. "I know you believe that. But if you keep carrying this alone, even you will break eventually."
She looked back at her maps, her scrolls, her meticulous planning. "I have no time for a break."
"Then use mine," he said, more firmly this time. "You once told me I wasn't alone in my pain. Let me return the favor. Use my time by giving me some of your worries and tasks."
There was silence.
Arasha didn't speak for a long moment. Her fingers curled slightly over the edges of the scroll before her. She didn't look up.
"Thank you," she said at last, voice softer than usual. "But if I lean too much, I might forget how to stand again."
Kane smiled faintly, stepping closer and placing a hand on her shoulder—a warm, steady presence.
"Then lean," he said, "and when you're ready, I'll remind you how to rise."
For a moment, just a breath in time, the storm within her paused. And Arasha let herself close her eyes, just briefly.
If only she could…
****
The candlelight sputtered as Arasha tore through the sealed document, the wax of Cassian's sigil still warm from the flight courier's arrival.
Her eyes moved like a blade, cutting through each line of the report with growing dread.
"Confirmed: The Queen's carriage never reached the charity village. Evidence of tampered wheel bindings and residue from paralytic essence found at the crash site. Witnesses silenced, two servants 'relocated' to the royal mines. The orders trace back to Lord Valhest—recently elevated in court. He was seen speaking to the King just two days prior to the incident."
A cold, controlled breath escaped Arasha's lips. Her fist clenched around the page, crumpling its edge, but she did not speak. Not yet.
Before she could turn to the next parchment, a second courier burst into the chamber—sweat-soaked and pale, bearing Duke Lionel's crest.
"My lady," he gasped, falling to one knee, "the Third Prince has awakened."
Arasha's head snapped up.
The courier's words tumbled out. "Gifted with foresight. He spoke his first vision aloud before the court. He saw himself—burning—dead beneath obsidian roots. And Arasha… he saw you."
Silence. Then a whisper:
"What did he see?" Arasha asked.
The courier hesitated, then finished in a trembling voice.
"You were closing the rift at Blackvein Hollow. And then—striking the King down with a blade of light."
The silence in the chamber turned to steel.
Arasha stood at once, her cloak snapping behind her like wings of judgment.
She crossed the chamber in five strides and threw open the war-map case.
Blackvein Hollow, part of her great aunt's mythril mine.
Valmira's lands were remote, nestled in forgotten mountains and veined with ancient arcane scars.
She pointed to the Blackvein Hollow. "How many units has the King moved?"
"Three full legions, with all elite mages and royal artificers," the courier reported. "He means to claim the rift before anyone else can act. Or survive."
"He means to erase the prophecy before it manifests," Arasha said darkly. "Even if it tears the land apart."
Without hesitation, she moved to the central command stone and called her knights to readiness.
****
Within the hour, she was mounted and clad in combat regalia—subtle yet built for endurance and high mobility. Leta, already armored and prepared, rode at her right. Kane, grim-faced and silent, mounted left.
Arasha passed command of the Sanctuary and the fortress to Sir Garran, who met her with a short nod and a furrowed brow.
"You're finally going against the crown and its army," Garran said. "Not your usual battlefield."
"No," she answered. "But this one also needs to be fought and won, no matter what, like the rest."
Kane flicked the reins of his steed. "Blackvein Hollow... isn't that near—"
"My great aunt's territory," Arasha confirmed. "If the King unleashes ancient relics and massive magic there, he'll shatter the balance protecting her lands. She'll be first to fall. No means to protect themself from the rift. So we will also close the rift while we're at it—and it must be closed."
Before they rode off, a second urgent message came, intercepted mid-flight and rushed to Arasha's hands. Cassian again.
"Your presence in the Third Prince's vision caused the King to panic. He is not raiding the rift to destroy it—but to reach its heart first.And Blackvein Hollow rift seems like it doesn't just lead into the riftspace—it leads into the ancient plane of origin. The third prince prophesied. So the King believes striking there can alter fate itself."
Arasha crushed the letter in her gauntlet, her voice low but firm.
"Then we'll show him," she said, "that fate doesn't bend to tyranny."
She turned to Kane and Leta, the starlight catching the quiet fire in her eyes. "We ride tonight. For truth. For the people. For the future the King fears."
And like a phantom storm, they vanished into the night, racing toward a land already trembling beneath the weight of prophecy.
****
The once-verdant hills now smoldered beneath dusk's shadows, the scorched remains of siege tents and spellfire ash staining the landscape.
Moonlight flickered across shattered steel and bloodied soil, but in the heart of the chaos, a temporary triage camp hummed with urgency and faint hope.
Within the largest tent, Valmira lay on a cot, pale but alert. Her right arm was bandaged tightly at the shoulder, the arrowhead—imbued with hexing runes—having been extracted with great care by Leta's deft hands.
Despite her injury, she sat upright, posture still proud, as Arasha entered.
"You missed the warmest welcome," Valmira murmured dryly.
Arasha knelt beside her cot, eyes scanning the wound. "And you missed retirement, clearly."
They exchanged a brief look—half exhaustion, half unspoken pride.
"She'll recover," Leta confirmed quietly, still dabbing away drying blood. "But the hex wasn't random. It was meant to cripple, not kill. A message."
"To show us they can reach anyone," Arasha said, rising. "Even legends."
Outside, Kane approached the tent, dust-covered and weary, wiping blood from his brow. He saluted. "The King's forces are pulling back temporarily. Looks like they weren't prepared for resistance from both of you. We've bought a day—maybe two—at most."
Arasha turned toward her tactical board, already unrolling new maps. "Then we use it. Leta, take Aunt Valmira's people and complete the relocation of the remaining civilians. Kane, I want a survey team tracking the leyline rupture pattern around the Vein. If the King reaches the heart of the rift before we do, we'll lose the only chance to seal it without collapsing the region."
Kane's jaw clenched slightly. "Understood."
Leta paused at the tent flap, looking back. "And you?"
Arasha didn't look up. "I'm going to the threshold."
Silence fell for a breath.
Valmira stirred. "You'll be walking into a place where the boundary between what 'is' and what 'could be' is thinner than breath. Are you sane?"
"I've been sure since the day the Queen died," Arasha replied, voice low but certain. "This is no longer about survival. It's about reclaiming what's been stolen—truth, future, and justice."
Then, more softly: "For Alight. For the crown that should never have fallen into such hands."
Kane followed Arasha outside as the night deepened, the stars above flickering like watchful eyes.
"You know," he said after a moment, his voice strained but sincere, "you don't always have to walk toward the fire alone."
Arasha gave a faint smile, more shadow than light. "Maybe not. But someone must walk first."
Kane said nothing more. He simply stepped beside her—sword drawn, eyes forward—ready.
****
A violet storm churned silently above the valley, casting sickly hues over the cragged rocks and withered trees that lined the approach to the rift.
The Blackvein Hollow rift was no longer dormant. Its pulse—a low, rhythmic thrum—grew louder with each breath, vibrating through the bones of all who stood near.
Arasha stood at the base of the ridge, the wind howling around her like a warning. She had expected another day, perhaps two. But the King had moved sooner.
And now his banners appeared at the edge of the treeline—obsidian black, trimmed in red, carried by knights in full ceremonial war plate.
Behind them, massive spellforged siege beasts lumbered forward, steam hissing from glowing runes carved into their armored hides. The King had brought his full strength.
A single figure rode ahead of the main host.
King Alric, clad in imperial crimson and adorned in relics long hidden from the public eye—artifacts older than the kingdom itself.
His crown was reinforced with enchantments that twisted the air around it. A sash made of wyrmskin coiled at his side, glowing with latent fire.
In his hand, he held a curved scepter forged from dragon-tempered obsidian—an artifact stolen from one of the early Riftwars.
He stopped ten paces before Arasha, his warhorse snarling with demonic augmentation.
"You stand between me and salvation," the King said, voice low, seething. "Move, niece."
Arasha stepped forward, blade drawn, aura flaring with divinity and steel. "No. Salvation built on fear and slaughter is no salvation at all."
The King's expression twisted. "Do you know what he saw?" he spat. "My son saw his death! My death! At your hand! I will not let a vision become my fate."
"Then you fear a shadow more than justice," Arasha replied coldly. "You have already lost."
Without another word, the King struck.
The air shattered as his obsidian scepter cleaved down, sending a shock wave of warped magic toward her.
Arasha raised her shield, divine light erupting as the blast collided, sparks of abyssal energy scattering into the stormy sky.
They clashed, relics and will crashing in an explosive ballet of steel and sorcery.
The King fought with a madman's desperation—his movements erratic, powered by blood-bound enchantments and the might of ancient tools.
His strikes distorted time itself, slowing her step, forcing her to adapt on instinct alone.
Still, Arasha did not yield.
She matched him, blow for blow, her blade singing with purpose, her armor glowing with the prayers of thousands.
But the King's tricks were endless—illusions, mirror doubles, even shadow puppets formed from corrupted mana. Each one a delay. Each one a stab in the dark.
Until—
"ARASHA!"
Kane's voice rang out, and in the nick of time, his blade swept through an encroaching illusion behind her. He fell into step beside her, dual-wielding short and long blades, blocking another of the King's cursed spells. "I got your back. I won't let you fall alone. Never again."
Arasha smiled as Kane diligently supported her with all he had.
Together, they pressed forward—Kane covering her flanks, Arasha striking true, pushing the King back foot by foot.
At last, Arasha found her opening.
She knocked aside the scepter with a forceful parry and drove her blade up under the King's chest plate. He staggered, blood splattering across the scorched earth. She raised her sword high, ready to strike the final blow.
But then the world screamed.
The rift cracked open behind them with a deafening roar, releasing a shock wave of raw, unfiltered void energy. Trees snapped like twigs. Ground up heaved in violent spasms. Knights from both armies were hurled back, shields and relics disintegrating.
Kane was faster than thought.
He thrust his hand into his cloak and activated the barrier talisman—the one he swore never to use unless it meant saving Arasha.
A dome of golden light burst around them just as the energy hit. It held—barely. The impact still flung them both to the ground, ears ringing, skin scorched by proximity.
When Arasha pushed herself up, coughing from dust and power-burnt air, she turned toward the King—
Only to see his lifeless body, crumpled and contorted, impaled on the jagged talons of a prime riftspawn.
It stood tall, skeletal and serpentine, plated with bone-like crystal. Its maw split into three directions, and its many eyes shimmered with intelligent malice. Around it, reality bent and twisted.
The King was dead. Not by her hand.
But the prophecy… was still in motion.
The riftspawn turned its many eyes on Arasha.
And she rose to her feet and lifted her sword once more.