"So what you're saying is—the sword is the King's life source?" Selene asked.
"Yes… something like that," Travis replied, his gaze fixed on the glinting hilt buried in the earth. "But it's more than that. It's the King's heart."
Selene blinked. "The King's… heart?"
Travis nodded solemnly. "When Ronan found the sword in the ruins of the Vale, no one could lift it. Not the strongest warriors, not the most powerful mages. But he—he lifted it like it had been waiting for him. The sword chose him. And with it came blessings. Strength. Immunities. And a binding enchantment—he cannot die unless that sword is destroyed. But the blade is said to be indestructible, and only he can wield it."
Selene's scoffed inwardly. That's why my powers didn't work on him… The realization struck her like a slap. The sword was shielding him all along.
"So nothing can harm him?" she asked quietly.
"Harm, yes. Kill, no." Travis answered. "We need to get back to the castle. This changes everything."
He turned toward the path.
"We're just leaving it here?" Lila asked, frowning.
"We have no choice. None of us can lift it. Once we find Ronan, he'll retrieve it himself."
Travis started walking. Lila followed. But Selene… remained still.
The sword's ruby dragon eyes shimmered faintly under the moonlight, almost pulsing—calling to her.
She knew it was foolish. But something in her chest tugged.
Just try.
"My Queen," Travis called. "It's not safe out here."
She stepped forward slowly. The earth was scorched around the sword. Her fingers curled around the hilt tightly.
She braced her feet, gritted her teeth, and pulled.
Nothing.
"My Queen, don't waste your strength," Travis sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. "That sword isn't moving."
Lila stayed silent, her eyes narrowed with interest.
Selene inhaled sharply, steeling herself—and pulled again, every muscle trembling.
This time, the sword slid free.
With ease.
She stumbled back, the blade light in her hands, as if it had been forged for her alone.
Travis froze.
His mouth parted, stunned into silence.
Selene unsheathed the weapon.
a magnificent obsidian blade, black as midnight with intricate veins of molten gold running through it, as if fire pulsed beneath its surface. The dragon's eyes in the hilt blazed red.
Travis eyes widened.
"This...Is... impossible," he stammered, voice barely above a whisper. He shook his head once, then again, as if that might shatter the illusion. But it wasn't an illusion. The sword was in her hands. Valerius—the sword no other soul but Ronan had ever lifted.
He took a slow step forward, staring like he was witnessing a miracle. "No one's been able to even budge that sword. Not generals. Not godsdamned warlords. And you just… pulled it out like it was a flower from a field."
Selene turned to him, steady and composed despite her racing heart. "When we arrive at the castle, you will gather the remaining soldiers, and together we will ride and search the entire kingdoms for the King," she declared.
Travis's eyes locked with hers, amazement etched into every line of his face. "Ronan was smitten with you. From the first day he laid eyes on you. Now I know why. You are indeed… remarkable."
Selene rolled her eyes.
"I lifted a sword, Travis. Not create life," she said flatly, though the corners of her mouth twitched. "Now wipe that look off your face and let's find our way back to the castle."
He gave a faint, breathless laugh. Then turned, casting one final look at the field littered with their fallen.
Selene noticed. Her voice softened. "Once this is over… they'll have a proper burial. I promise."
Travis nodded again.
And they walked into the night, the sword of the King gleaming in the Queen's hands.
-----
Ronan's eyes snapped open.
He felt it.
Like a thread pulled tight through his ribs, yanked suddenly by an unseen hand.
She had lifted his sword.
Selene.
His head fell back against the stone wall behind him, a faint, grim smile tugging at his bloodied lips.
Of course it was her.
No one else could lift it. The sword was his heart, and his heart—whether damned or blessed—belonged to her.
But his pain didn't vanish. If anything, it worsened. The spear still impaled him, his body still throbbed with every unbearable breath. But now, a flicker of hope burned through the pain.
She's alright and She's fighting.
Good.
Now he had to do the same.
He tugged at the chains. They didn't budge. His muscles screamed in protest, bones grinding under the effort. His arms, slick with sweat and blood, were raw where the cuffs bit in.
Still, he pulled again. Again. Harder.
A metallic creak groaned overhead, but not enough to break the chains.
The sound of footsteps echoed down the tunnel.
Ronan stilled, his golden eyes narrowing.
Melisse entered slowly, her usual smirk absent, replaced by what looked like a mix of anger and humiliation.
Her red eyes gleamed in the lantern light, and Ronan noticed a fresh gash split her forehead, blood dried in dark streaks down her temple.
Ronan's gaze flicked to it immediately. "Well," he rasped, voice low and cracked, "looks like I missed a party."
She didn't answer. She didn't even look at him.
He gave a broken chuckle. "What happened to your face, witch? Did the wind kiss you too hard?"
Finally, Melisse's lips curled into a vicious smile. "Oh, this?" she said, gesturing lazily to the gash on her head. "Courtesy of your precious wife."
At that statement, Ronan's entire body went still. "What?"
The air in the cave thickened.
"What did you just say?" he asked, voice low and dangerous.
Melisse tilted her head, delight blooming across her face like a twisted flower. "Oh... you don't know, do you?"
She took slow deliberate steps toward him, enjoying every inch of his confusion.
"Well, since everyone thinks you're dead," she whispered, "I might as well tell you a little secret."
Ronan's eyes blazed, his jaw clenched.
She leaned in close, her voice like silk and poison.
"Your lovely wife. Selene. She's one of us. Trained since she was a child—molded, perfected, made into a weapon with one purpose: you."
A pause.
"She was sent to seduce you. Win your trust. Make you fall so completely that when she killed you… you'd thank her for it."
The words hit like knives, slicing through the haze of pain.
Ronan strained against the chains, muscles bulging, wrists raw and bleeding. "And I'm supposed to believe you?" he spat. "You're a liar. A witch. You'd say anything to break me."
Melisse gave a soft, almost pitying laugh. She raised a blood-crusted finger and traced it along the length of the spear still lodged in his chest.
"Believe me or not," she murmured, "but know this…"
She leaned in, her lips nearly brushing his ear.
"You killed her father right in front of her."
The world tilted.
Ronan blinked, stunned. "What…?"
Her voice was honey-sweet, wicked. "Does the name Eliot Wynter. The last usurper ring any bells? Well, Selene Wynter is his daughter—his last-born, sent to avenge her bloodline after your oh-so-glorious conquest."
His breath caught.
No.
No, it couldn't be.
But then… the memory slammed into him.
A child. Green eyes wide with horror. Hiding behind the large throne, trembling, too young to understand war but old enough to understand death.
The scream. Her scream.
He remembered it now. He remembered turning as Eliot Wynter's head rolled to the floor—catching a glimpse of the girl just before she fled.
His men had told him she was dead. That she'd thrown herself into the river. That the current would have swallowed her whole.
But she hadn't drowned.
She had learned to swim.
"Oh," Melisse crooned, watching the realization ravage his face, "look at that. I think you do believe me."