The council chamber was packed, tension rolling through the air like a brewing storm. Torches lined the walls, their flames restless, casting long jagged shadows across the carved stone. Every captain, lieutenant, and strategist had gathered, their voices low but sharp—murmurs of distrust, accusation, and fear.Renna stood near the center, bound in chains that glinted in the torchlight. Her jaw was set, defiant despite the humiliation. Eldrin lingered at the far end of the table, the curse beneath his skin still pulsing faintly, and Kael stood beside him like an immovable wall of iron. Isolde kept close too, her healer’s eyes darting between them, watchful, protective.Doran, the most outspoken of the council, slammed his fist on the table. “Enough of this delay! We have a traitor in our midst and a cursed man who grows more dangerous by the hour. Do you not see? The Warlord doesn’t need to storm our gates—he’s already inside our walls!”A ripple of agreement followed. Heads nodded. S

The moon hung pale and cold above the palace, its silver glow spilling through the open arches of Isolde’s chambers. The night should have been silent, but it wasn’t—her quarters seemed alive with whispers, shadows moving where none should move.Isolde sat on the edge of her bed, her fingers nervously tracing the embroidery of her nightgown. Sleep was a stranger to her now. Each time she closed her eyes, she heard voices—sometimes Eldrin’s, sometimes her mother’s, but tonight it was different. Tonight the voices sounded closer, as if someone was standing right outside her chamber door.Her maid, Alara, had begged her to get some rest, but Isolde had dismissed her hours ago. She couldn’t afford to let anyone see her weakness—not now, when the council doubted her every decision and whispers of betrayal circled like vultures around a dying beast.Then came the knock.Soft. Too soft. Almost as if whoever stood beyond didn’t want to be heard.“Who’s there?” she asked, her voice steady thou

The courtyard stank of blood and smoke when the last soldier fell. Eldrin’s blade dripped crimson, his chest rising and falling with the harsh rhythm of a man who had fought not just with steel, but with the raw edge of his soul.Ceryn staggered backward, cloak torn, cheek bloodied. His once-perfect composure cracked into something desperate, something ugly. “Do you think killing me will end this?” he spat, voice trembling. “There are others. The council breathes treachery in every chamber. You cannot silence them all.”Eldrin’s eyes narrowed, rage simmering hotter than the forge. “Perhaps not,” he growled, “but I can silence you.”He raised his sword, the moonlight catching its edge, and for a heartbeat it seemed Ceryn’s life would be severed where he stood.But Isolde’s voice cut through the night like a bell. “Eldrin, stop!”The word pierced him deeper than any blade. He turned, gaze locking on her, torn between fury and restraint.Isolde stepped forward, trembling but resolute. “K

The torches in the war tent burned low, their wavering light painting restless shadows across the walls. The air smelled of smoke, steel, and worn leather, the very scent of war. Outside, the distant clang of steel rang from the training grounds, steady as a heartbeat. Every strike of blade against blade was a reminder of the battles yet to come. Inside, however, silence stretched between Eldrin and Isolde like an invisible wall neither seemed willing to cross. Isolde sat at the heavy oak table, her posture tense but graceful, her fingers absently tracing the rim of a goblet. The wine within had long gone untouched, forgotten as her gaze locked on the flames of the brazier. The firelight flickered in her eyes, but the brightness there was not of warmth—it was of thought, of memories she could not let go. Eldrin leaned against the tent’s central pole, his broad frame caught half in shadow. His eyes never left her, though he had said nothing since they’d entered. He watched the way her

The battle raged like a storm, a thousand cries mingling with the clash of steel. Smoke rose from the lower fields where the Warlord’s sorcery had torn through barricades, leaving men scattered like broken dolls. The fortress, though still standing, groaned beneath the weight of fire and shadow.Yet the greater storm was not outside the walls—it was within.Eldrin stood motionless on the battlements, his sword still trembling in his hand. The curse had left its mark upon him, its power still simmering like embers beneath his skin. Soldiers who had once looked to him with unshakable faith now cast glances heavy with fear. Some whispered openly, their voices sharp even amid the din of war.“He lost control.”“Did you see his eyes?”“He’s no better than the Warlord.”Each word struck deeper than any blade.Isolde remained by his side, her presence a fragile anchor against the tide of doubt threatening to pull him under. She had seen him wrestle the curse before, seen him falter, but neve