The rain hadn’t stopped since the army left Kareth. It came down in sheets cold, relentless, washing mud and blood into the same earth. Yet Mara rode ahead of them all, her crimson cloak soaked through, her hair whipping loose behind her like a banner of defiance.To the soldiers, she was a storm in flesh unyielding, tireless, her voice cutting through wind like steel.“Keep the lines tight! Shield wall holds even in rain especially in rain!” she shouted as she rode past the front ranks. Her warhorse, a black stallion named Korr, stomped through the mire as though born from it.Behind her, Elias watched from his own column, silent.Rhys leaned close and muttered, “She loves this.”“She loves the power that comes with it,” Elias corrected. His eyes didn’t leave Mara’s silhouette. “But for once, it’s useful.”The army halted by midday at the edge of the Lareth fields once green and wide, now scorched and scattered with the bones of burned wagons. Smoke still rose from the east where Ret

The rain had thinned to a drizzle by dawn, leaving behind a camp that stank of wet leather and exhaustion. Soldiers stirred like ghosts between the rows of tents, their armor dull with mud. The march west toward Thalen’s Reach had begun two days ago, and the rhythm of it the endless trudge, the weight of silence had already worn through morale.Rhys moved through the lines, checking formation, correcting stance, his voice calm but distant. He’d stopped trying to speak to Mara; she was off commanding the vanguard now, hungry for victories of her own. He’d stopped seeking Rynna too her eyes were full of fire and prophecy, and he didn’t know which burned worse, belief or fear.So he kept to duty.Steel, discipline, and the king’s orders. Those were things that didn’t lie.By noon, scouts brought in a prisoner.He was dragged through the mud before Elias’s command tent a man in torn leathers, half his face painted in the red sigil of Alaric’s rebellion. Even kneeling, he grinned as if he’

The rain came before dawn not a drizzle, but a deluge that swallowed the camp whole.By sunrise, the banners were soaked, the earth turned to mud, and the army’s departure had become a test of endurance rather than a march of triumph.Elias stood beneath the awning of his tent, cloak dripping, eyes fixed on the gray horizon. The world was mist and thunder, the kind that drowned sound and blurred distance. Every strike of lightning seemed to flash against his armor, turning him into a silhouette a king of ghosts.Seren appeared beside him, his hood drawn low. “The omens couldn’t be clearer,” he said. “Storms before battle. The gods rarely whisper more plainly.”Elias didn’t turn. “Then perhaps they should whisper victory while they’re at it.”“Careful,” Seren murmured. “Mocking fate has a way of making it listen.”Elias gave a hollow laugh and stepped into the rain. “It already is.”The march began with the groan of wet wheels and the rhythmic thud of boots in the mire. The columns str

The morning after the blast, the valley was red. Smoke curled up the slopes like mourning veils, carrying the scent of pitch, flesh, and rain.The fortress of Wynthorpe had lost a wall a gaping wound in its western flank. Through that wound, Elias’s army now advanced.“Archers first,” Rhys shouted, his voice hoarse. “Shields up, no gaps!”Elias rode behind the vanguard, his armor spattered with soot, his sword unblooded but heavy in his grip. The world was sound and fury arrows slicing air, catapults groaning, screams lost under the thunder of men charging uphill.The rain began again, thin and gray, like the gods themselves had chosen to weep for what was coming.They reached the breach by midmorning. Wynthorpe’s defenders fought like cornered beasts their eyes wild, their blades clanging against shields slick with rain and blood.Elias dismounted, pressing forward on foot. A spear tore through a man beside him. Another soldier stumbled, clutching his throat. The mud was a mirror of

The night was too quiet for war.Even the wind seemed to hold its breath as Rynna stood alone by the brazier, eyes reflecting the trembling flames. The camp behind her slept restlessly soldiers muttering through dreams, steel clinking faintly in the dark. Elias hadn’t slept in two days. He was in his tent, bent over maps that had begun to look more like graves than borders.She didn’t need to see him to feel his unrest. It rolled through the air like heat.Seren had said the King was changing. Mara said he was finally becoming strong. But Rynna saw something else: a shadow crawling along the edges of his soul, fed by choices he hadn’t yet made.The coals hissed. The smoke rose in twisting shapes, and for a heartbeat she saw two crowns one burning, one bleeding and between them, a hand that trembled before letting go.Her voice broke before she realized she was speaking.“Not by blade,” she whispered to the dark, “but by choice.”The tent flap rustled behind her. Elias’s silhouette app