The night was thick with mist, a shroud that clung to the trees and muted even the faint glow of the moon. Maelrik crouched at the forest’s edge, fingers pressed to the cold earth, eyes narrowed. The lingering crackle of energy beneath his palm was faint, almost imperceptible to the untrained, but to him it sang like a whisper on the wind.He had saw it hours ago—a surge of power so sudden and raw that it had jolted even Tharion’s dark wards across Dellwyn. Lucas had made his move. The boy’s defiance was no longer rumor or suspicion. it was a flare sent into the night, a spark of rebellion strong enough to leave traces that only a hunter like Maelrik could follow.“They’re heading east,” Maelrik muttered, rising slowly, his long black cloak brushing against the wet grass.One of his lieutenants, a lean soldier named Veyren, stepped closer, clutching a lantern shaded in deep red glass. “East? Toward the peaks?”Maelrik gave a sharp nod, his piercing gaze sweeping across the forest. “Th

The forest at night was alive with whispers. Leaves rustled softly in the cool breeze, and the distant call of a night bird echoed through the towering pines. A silver crescent moon cut through drifting clouds, scattering pale light across the river that snaked lazily past a small clearing. The air smelled faintly of damp moss and smoke from the dying embers of a campfire, the only sign of life in the vast wilderness.Lucas stood at the river’s edge, barefoot, shirtless, and still as a statue. The moonlight outlined his lean, battle-hardened frame, glinting off faint scars that mapped his torso like a history of survival. His eyes were closed, his breathing measured, his fingers curled loosely at his sides. Around him, the forest felt charged—alive with something invisible yet unmistakable.Every rustle of leaves, every shift of the wind carried information to him. His senses, sharpened by both training and magic, scanned for danger. Somewhere out there, Maelrik and his men were still

A chilling draft swept through the room, extinguishing one of the flickering lanterns hanging above the counter. Lucas instinctively straightened where he stood, his eyes narrowing as his hand inched toward his sword. Beside him, Agnes caught on to the shift in energy, her fingers brushing against the hilt of her daggerBulb, still leaning against the wall as he studied the man the barman had directed them to, tilted his head slightly. “Did you feel that?” he muttered under his breath.Before Lucas could respond, the heavy wooden doors of the bar slammed open with a resounding BANG! The chatter and clinking glasses came to a dead stop. Everyone turned toward the entrance.A group of men entered, they were reckless fighters by the way they moved. They were armored in mismatched pieces of fabric and boots, each carrying weapons that had clearly seen more than one battle. Their boots thudded against the floorboards as they fanned out, a calculated movement that showed they weren’t here f

The golden torches of the King’s Hall burned high, their flickering light painting shadows along the towering marble columns. The chamber smelled faintly of frankincense and steel—a deliberate choice by King Tharion, for both holiness and fear. Tonight, the scent carried heavier weight than ever.Word of Cazien’s arrest had spread through the streets of Dellwyn like wildfire. Whispers filled the city of Ozile, echoing in alleys, and even the palace guards exchanged uneasy glances. It had been centuries since a High Priest of the Kingdom of Thorns had been placed in chains, and the shock rippled through every corner of the realm.Now, in the throne room, the Council of Thorn—twelve men and women adorned in crimson and obsidian robes gathered in a wide semicircle before the elevated throne. Their murmurs bounced off the vaulted ceilings, their voices low and sharp, like swords drawn but not yet swung.Tharion sat at the center of it all, on a throne carved of blackstone and lined with g