The Blade Of Asher Storms

Chapter 4: The Exiled Princess

“Keep moving, princess,” Torren growled, his voice rough as the shale crunching under their boots, cutting through the wind’s howl in the Ashen Peaks. “Or you’ll be drake bait before dawn.”

Serenya Nightfall shot him a sharp glance, her green eyes glinting in the moonlight as she pulled her cloak tighter against the biting chill. “I’m not the one slowing us down,” she said, her tone edged with defiance, though her legs ached from the steep climb. The path wound higher into the volcanic mountains, its jagged stones slick with drizzle and ash. The air reeked of sulfur, the Peaks’ fiery heart rumbling beneath them, and the distant roar of a fire drake sent a shiver down her spine. Torren, a grizzled loyalist with a scar-twisted face, led the way, his spear catching the faint light. Seven years in exile had taught Serenya to trust his instincts, but his grumbling tested her patience.

“You’re still a royal,” Torren said, not looking back, his voice low but firm. “Doesn’t matter how long you’ve been running. You die, we all do.”

Serenya didn’t answer, her gaze dropping to the valley below, where their hidden camp nestled among blackened rocks, its fires dim to avoid notice. Two dozen loyalists—remnants of her father’s court—clung to her like she was their last hope. She wasn’t sure she believed that herself, but she’d learned to carry their faith, even when it felt like a lie. The weight was heavier than the celestial magic stirring in her veins, a power she’d kept secret since her exile, its whispers as unsettling as the wind now tearing at her cloak. She brushed a strand of dark hair from her face, her breath fogging in the cold, and pushed forward, her boots slipping on the shale.

Torren paused, raising a hand to signal a stop. The path had narrowed to a ledge, a sheer drop yawning to their left, the sea’s distant crash barely audible over the wind. “Something’s wrong,” he muttered, his eyes scanning the shadows. “Too quiet.”

Serenya felt it too—a sudden stillness, the wind dying as if the Peaks held their breath. Her skin prickled, a faint glow flickering at her fingertips, the celestial magic stirring unbidden. “Drakes?” she asked, her voice low, her hand drifting to the dagger at her hip.

Torren shook his head, his spear ready. “Worse.”

The attack came like a shadow splitting apart. Three figures surged from the darkness, cloaks blending with the night, their blades glinting with moonlight. Veilborn. Their silver clasps bore the crescent-moon-and-thorn symbol, a mark Serenya had learned to dread. She drew her dagger, her body moving on instinct honed by years of survival. The first assassin lunged, his sword a blur, but she ducked, her blade catching his wrist, drawing blood. Torren roared, his spear thrusting, but the second Veilborn was faster, his blade grazing Torren’s arm, tearing leather and flesh.

Serenya spun, her free hand raised, and a pulse of celestial light flared from her palm, a starburst that blinded the third assassin. He staggered, clutching his eyes, and she drove her dagger into his side, dropping him to the shale. The magic burned through her, leaving her dizzy, her vision swimming, but she held her ground. Torren finished the second Veilborn with a brutal thrust, blood spraying across the rocks. The first assassin fled, his cloak trailing like smoke as he vanished into the shadows.

Torren cursed, clutching his bleeding arm. “They’re getting bolder,” he said, his voice tight with pain. “They know something.”

Serenya sheathed her dagger, her heart pounding. “The decree,” she said, her voice low. “They know about the Stormbearer.”

Torren’s eyes narrowed, his scarred face grim. “You think this Kael Dorian’s one of them?”

She shook her head, though doubt gnawed at her. “If he was, they wouldn’t need to hunt him. But they want his blade. And me.”

They hurried along the ledge, the cave mouth of their camp looming ahead, guarded by two loyalists with spears. Torren signaled them, slipping inside to check for more threats. Serenya leaned against a boulder, catching her breath, her mind racing. Word of the blood-sealed Royal Decree had reached the camp that morning, carried by a scout who’d heard whispers in a lowland village. A mercenary named Kael Dorian, the Stormbearer, was coming, bound to her by her father’s dying command to wed her. The decree spoke of the Celestial Gates, ancient portals tied to her bloodline, a power she’d felt in her dreams but never fully understood. Marriage to a stranger, a man whose name was whispered alongside tales of a cursed blade that split the heavens, felt like a cage, not a destiny.

Torren reappeared, nodding. “Clear. But we can’t stay long. If the Veilborn found us, more will come.”

Serenya followed him into the cave, where the camp was a flicker of firelight and hushed voices. The loyalists—men and women hardened by years of exile—sat around a small fire, their faces gaunt, hands on weapons. A woman named Lysa, her hair streaked with gray, tended the flames, her eyes darting to Serenya. “You’re hurt,” she said, nodding at the blood on Serenya’s sleeve.

“Not mine,” Serenya said, kneeling by the fire, warming her hands. The celestial magic still buzzed in her veins, a faint glow lingering at her fingertips. She hid it, pulling her cloak tighter. Her power was a secret, known only to Torren and a few others, a legacy of her mother’s bloodline, tied to the stars and the Gates. She’d honed it in secret, small bursts of light and energy, but using it in the open, like tonight, risked exposure.

Lysa handed her a waterskin. “The scout said this Stormbearer’s already in Valtheris. Skalvir, last anyone heard. You believe he’s got your father’s decree?”

Serenya took a sip, the water cold against her throat. “The scout saw the seal. My father’s mark. It’s real.” She pulled a pendant from beneath her cloak, a silver star etched with runes, a relic of her mother’s. It hummed faintly, resonating with her magic, a reminder of the power she both wielded and feared. “But I don’t know what it means. Why me? Why him?”

Torren snorted, bandaging his arm with a strip of cloth. “A mercenary with a god-forged blade? Sounds like a trap. Or a curse.”

Serenya’s lips tightened. “Maybe both. But if the Veilborn want him, he’s not their ally. They’re after the blade. And my blood.”

Lysa’s eyes narrowed. “The Gates. You think they’re real?”

Serenya didn’t answer, her gaze on the flames. She’d seen the Gates in her dreams—starlit portals pulsing with power, a voice whispering of creation and destruction. Her mother had spoken of them, bedtime stories turned prophecy, warning that her bloodline was the key. Seven years ago, when her father exiled her for reasons he’d never explained, she’d thought she could outrun that fate. Now, with the decree and the Stormbearer, it was catching up.

“We move at dawn,” Serenya said, standing, her voice firm. “Deeper into the Peaks. If Kael Dorian’s coming, we need to be ready.”

“For him or against him?” Torren asked, his tone hard.

“Both,” she said, meeting his gaze. “Until I know what he is.”

The cave fell quiet, the fire crackling, the wind outside howling again. Serenya stepped to the entrance, looking out at the storm-swept Peaks. Lightning flashed, illuminating jagged cliffs and the distant glow of volcanic vents. She felt the celestial magic stir, a pull toward something greater, something dangerous. The pendant grew warm against her skin, and in her mind, she saw him—a shadow cloaked in storms, a blade glowing green, eyes haunted by a curse. Kael Dorian. The Stormbearer. Savior or doom, she’d find out soon.

The loyalists prepared to move, packing supplies, sharpening blades. Serenya helped, her hands steady despite the weight of her thoughts. The Veilborn’s attack wasn’t random—they knew about the decree, the Stormbearer, her bloodline. They’d been a shadow over her exile, their fanatical hunt for the Gates growing bolder each year. She’d fought them before, small skirmishes in the lowlands, but this was different. They were closing in, drawn by a prophecy she didn’t fully understand.

Torren approached, his arm bandaged, his spear slung across his back. “You’re not telling us something,” he said, his voice low, for her ears only. “That light you used. It’s getting stronger.”

Serenya’s jaw tightened. “It’s under control.”

“Is it?” He studied her, his scarred face unreadable. “You’re not just a princess, Serenya. You’re a weapon. If the Veilborn get you, or that mercenary’s blade…”

“I know,” she snapped, her voice sharper than she meant. She softened, sighing. “I know, Torren. But I’ve kept it hidden this long. I’ll manage.”

He grunted, unconvinced, but let it drop. Serenya turned back to the fire, her mind racing. The celestial magic was her mother’s gift, a power tied to the stars, to the Gates. She’d learned to summon light, to bend energy, but it was unpredictable, growing stronger with her dreams of the portals. Each use left her drained, exposed, and the Veilborn’s presence meant she couldn’t afford mistakes.

A young loyalist, barely sixteen, approached with a bundle of maps. “Found these in the scout’s pack,” he said, his voice trembling. “They mark the Peaks. And… something else.”

Serenya unrolled the leather, her eyes scanning the crude lines. The map showed their camp, the surrounding cliffs, and a path deeper into the mountains. But one mark stood out—a circle etched with the moon-and-thorn symbol, near a volcanic crater. A Veilborn outpost. Her stomach twisted. They weren’t just hunting her; they were entrenched, waiting.

“Burn it,” she said, handing the map to Lysa. “We can’t risk them finding our route.”

Lysa nodded, tossing the leather into the fire. The flames flared, consuming the symbol, but Serenya felt no relief. The Veilborn were too close, their knowledge too precise. She thought of Kael Dorian, out there in Valtheris, carrying a blade that drew assassins like moths to flame. Was he a pawn, like her, or something worse? The decree bound them, but trust was a luxury she couldn’t afford.

The loyalists moved with quiet efficiency, packing bedrolls, dousing the fire. Serenya strapped her dagger tighter, checking her pack for supplies. The Peaks were a death trap—drakes, bandits, volcanic fissures—but staying still meant certain capture. She’d lead her people deeper, to a hidden valley Torren knew, where they could regroup and wait for the Stormbearer. If he was real. If he was coming.

As they left the cave, the storm broke, rain lashing the cliffs, lightning illuminating the jagged peaks. Serenya pulled her hood up, the pendant warm against her chest. The celestial magic stirred again, a whisper of starlight in her blood, urging her toward a destiny she didn’t want. She saw Kael in her mind again, his blade glowing, his presence a storm she couldn’t outrun. The Veilborn wanted them both, and the Gates were waking, their pull stronger with every step.

Torren took the lead, his spear ready, as the loyalists followed in a tight line. Serenya brought up the rear, her eyes scanning the shadows. A distant roar echoed—a drake, or something worse. The wind carried the scent of ash and blood, and she felt the weight of her people’s hope, her father’s decree, and the magic she couldn’t fully control. Kael Dorian was coming, and with him, a storm that could either save Valtheris or burn it to ash. She’d be ready, whatever he was.