As the heavy doors closed behind Calen, silence wrapped around the great hall for a brief moment—before it was broken once again by the sharp footsteps of Seraphina returning.She approached Queen Elara swiftly but gracefully, then leaned in to whisper something into the queen’s ear. Whatever she said, it was meant only for Elara.The queen gave a single, serene nod. Then she whispered in return, "Wait a little longer."Seraphina inclined her head in understanding and slipped away into the shadows once more, her crimson cloak trailing silently behind her.Meanwhile, Evan Drake was still at it—his voice rising above the murmurs in the hall, sharp with accusation and barely-contained fury.“He’s sealing the king’s fate! That’s what he’s doing!” Evan shouted, stepping forward, his face flushed with rage. “You all saw it—he was the last person beside His Majesty before the collapse. And now he demands to be alone with him? Wake up!”A nobleman from Vynoria stepped forward, nodding fervent

Inside the flickering firelit chamber, the air was thick with tension and urgency. Calen knelt beside the unconscious King, his hand pressed firmly to the monarch’s chest. A soft golden light glowed from his palm—his energy flowing steadily, barely keeping the King tethered to life. Beads of sweat rolled down Calen’s temple, his entire body straining to maintain the transfer. The Aerondale healers worked feverishly around him, whispering incantations, their hands trembling as they tried to assist his efforts.Then something shifted.Calen's eyes narrowed as he felt a sudden disturbance—a faint vibration in the floor, a distant clamor. His senses, sharpened by years on the battlefield, screamed a warning. Shouts—muffled, but rising. Movement. Metal clashing softly. A surge of magical energy—hostile, surrounding the palace.Something was wrong.One of the Aerondale healers looked up from the King’s side, her voice trembling. “Do you feel that? Something’s happening…”Calen didn’t answer

Calen stood amidst a growing circle of unconscious bodies and shattered stone, a whirlwind of fury and power. Lightning cracked again, this time arcing out from his back like wings made of storm. The force of his rage alone had begun to fracture the very structure of the palace.Down below, in the great courtyard where the soldiers of Aerondale had been bound, a fork of lightning slammed into the stone—not killing, but disrupting. The shock ripped through the ranks of the Vynorian guards, sending them sprawling and unconscious, their weapons skidding across the floor.The ropes binding the Aerondale soldiers burned and snapped, singed at the edges. The first to rise was Captain Rhys, shaking the dizziness from his head. Then another, and another. A dozen soldiers unbound, then two dozen, then more.Their eyes burned with renewed purpose.“Free the others!” Rhys barked. “The King is dead—but the war isn’t over!”They moved fast, cutting ropes and lifting comrades to their feet. One of

The skies over Aerondale were a pale gray, as though the heavens themselves mourned the fall of the kingdom’s sovereign. A soft, cold drizzle blanketed the cobblestone streets of Ardenfell, dampening the black banners that fluttered from every tower, every rooftop, every archway. Bells tolled in slow, rhythmic mourning, echoing through the city like a heartbeat that had grown faint.People lined the streets in silence, dressed in black. Faces were pale, tear-streaked. Women clutched their children close. Old men removed their hats. Some fell to their knees, sobbing openly. The air was thick with grief—but beneath it, a whisper of fear. Their king was dead. And Aerondale had not just lost a monarch, but its pride.Inside the Grand Hall of the Citadel, the atmosphere was colder still.The wives of the late King Ashford stood along the right side of the throne room, dressed in mourning veils, their faces somber. Among them stood Queen Isabella—the First Queen. Her face was unreadable, ca

The great gates of Ardenfell opened with a groan, revealing the once-adored war hero now reduced to a man in shackles.Calen Storm, draped in chains and stripped of his armor, was marched through the capital like a common criminal. The very streets that once sang his name in victory now roared with fury and betrayal."He let the king die!" someone screamed."Traitor!" spat another, hurling a rotten apple that struck Calen in the chest.Mothers clutched their children tighter, merchants shut their stalls. The cries of the grieving city became a chorus of hate. Men who once idolized him turned their backs. Women who once adorned him with flowers now hurled curses.A boy no older than ten picked up a stone and threw it. It struck Calen above the eye, drawing fresh blood.The guards did nothing to stop it.In fact, they allowed it.They paraded him through every district—the Circle of Banners, the Ivory Market, even the sacred Hall of the Phoenix, where the king’s body still lay in state