The moon hung high, shrouded behind drifting cloud banks, its pale light casting spectral shadows across the frost-hardened grass. A cold wind stirred the boughs of ancient pines, rustling like whispered warnings in a language too old to translate. From the south, ten riders emerged from the trails beyond Aerondale’s last watchpost—phantoms cloaked in charcoal gray and black, their armor matte and unmarked.The Shadow Unit.Aerondale’s most secret and lethal hand.At their head rode Evan Drake, his black horse cutting through the frost with mechanical precision. Steam coiled from the beast’s nostrils; its rider's eyes burned with a darker fire.The shame of failure still coiled inside Evan’s gut like a festering wound. But it was no longer the dominant force. Rage—sharp and quiet—had taken its place. His orders from King Theron had been clear: find Calen Storm. End him. No more mercy. No more delay. There would be no third chance.A flick of his hand signaled a halt. The riders reined

The practice yard outside Rivermoore’s eastern gate—once a cracked expanse of weed‑choked flagstones—now throbbed with new life. Torchlight guttered along makeshift ramparts, spears glinted in neat racks, and the low murmur of gathering troops echoed against half‑toppled towers. Word of the queen’s revival—and her summons—had traveled on Seraphina’s enchanted scrolls faster than any horse could gallop.By night’s third watch more than two hundred soldiers had poured in: river‑folk archers, hill‑country pikemen, former palace guards, and a smattering of wide‑eyed volunteers who barely owned boots. Yet at the center of this motley host stood a tight ring of Vynoria’s senior officers—all women, their armor burnished and battle‑scored, insignia restored from trunks long hidden.Captain‑Marshal Yasmin Draevel—broad‑shouldered, gray‑streaked braid—rested a mailed fist on the pommel of her sword. Beside her stood Shield‑Commander Renata Vale, a slender strategist famed for her river‑cross am

The fog clung to Rivermoore like a second skin—dense, enchanted, and restless. It curled through broken archways and drifted between cracked statues of long-dead kings. The mist dulled every torchlight, softened every footstep, and gave the city an eerie sense of being caught between waking and dream.At the eastern gate, Seraphina stood unmoving, arms lifted as sigils pulsed and danced beneath the sleeves of her dark robes. Lines of silver-blue light radiated outward from her feet, crawling like roots through the ancient stonework and into the surrounding earth. Every breath she took was slow, measured—each word she uttered was part of an old rite that bound mist to mind and stone to silence.Beside her, Commander Ilyra Thornweft, leader of the River Guardians, whispered a steady chant into a conch-shaped charm, her other hand hovering over the hilt of her curved blade. Their voices—one sharp and precise, the other soft and lilting—blended with the sound of the Sacred River below, co

“I ask you to lead,” Calen said gently. “With your voice, with your presence. Rally the broken. Speak to them before the battle. That will do more than your blade ever could.”Silence fell again.Then Carmen broke it. “He’s right, you know. You terrify me, and I like you.”That earned a weak smile from Elara. She placed a hand on Calen’s chest. “If I do this… if I stand down—it’s because I trust you to bring us through.”“I won’t fail you,” he said.From somewhere down the corridor, a bell tolled—low and urgent.Liora’s head turned sharply. “That’s the western gate. Someone’s returned.”Moments later, a young scout burst into the room, panting and wide-eyed. “Messenger from the Tarnish Marches,” he gasped. “Two captains and a whole unit—riverborn. They’ve come to swear fealty.”Seraphina blinked. “The riverborn? They disappeared after the Fall.”“They say the river called them back,” the scout said.Calen straightened. “Then the Sacred River is still answering us.”He looked once more

The scent of river-smoke drifted through the shattered windows, mingling with the mustiness of old parchment and the sharp tang of alchemical ink. Calen gently closed the Emberglass Codex, the glyphs on its cover pulsing faintly—as if acknowledging his resolve.Seraphina exhaled beside him, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “We’ll need a clean workspace,” she muttered. “I’ll requisition the east tower lab—assuming it hasn’t collapsed.”“Tell Carmen to meet us there,” Calen said. “She’s got precision hands. And she’s not afraid of weird reactions anymore.”Seraphina gave him a sideways look. “She also has a tendency to argue with potions.”“I call it passionate negotiation.”They exchanged a brief, weary smile.As Seraphina swept from the chamber, her cloak whispering over the stone, Calen lingered a moment with the Codex. His fingers brushed the edge of its binding, feeling the subtle warmth it radiated—like a fire undecided between comfort and consumption.Then he turned and f