2025-05-17 17:22:28
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Who Was She?
The road to Eryndall had been long, winding through frost-laced forests and the steep rise of the Silverpeak mountains. As Calen Storm crested the final hill, the city unfolded before him like a storybook illustration—grandeur nestled in the snow, surrounded by towering walls of pale stone and crowned by the spires of the royal palace that shimmered in the late afternoon sun.Eryndall. The capital of the North. Cold, proud, and impenetrable—much like the bloodlines it protected.Calen tightened the woolen cloak around his shoulders as he approached the main gates, where a line of travelers had already formed. Armed sentries watched from the battlements, their gazes sharp beneath helms of polished steel. No one simply walked into Eryndall. Every name was recorded, every reason for entry scrutinized.When it was finally his turn, Calen stepped forward, heart steady but alert. A guard in a thick fur-lined uniform halted him with a raised hand.“Name?”“Calen,” he replied calmly. “Just a
Calen Will Fall
The towering double doors of the royal audience chamber groaned open, revealing the vast, vaulted hall bathed in golden candlelight. High above, chandeliers swayed gently, casting flickering shadows across the marble floor and the crimson banners of Aerondale that hung solemnly from the ceiling. At the far end of the chamber, seated on a throne of obsidian and gold, King Theron Ashford regarded the intrusion with a heavy gaze.His crown gleamed under the light, a silent symbol of absolute power, but the man beneath it looked weary—worn by long councils, war reports, and preparations for a royal marriage that was meant to solidify his legacy. His fingers were still dusted with ink from royal decrees, and his expression hinted at thinly veiled irritation as he looked up from the stack of documents before him.He was tired. And the last person he expected—perhaps even wanted—to see tonight was Lord Evan Drake.At the threshold, Evan stepped into the hall with slow, deliberate strides. He
Evan And His Evidence
Harlan’s face twisted with rage, but the tremble in his voice betrayed the fear he tried desperately to hide.“You insolent wretch!” he spat, voice rising in a shrill bark. “How dare you lay hands on my men—how dare you defy me!”But his body betrayed him—his fists clenched tight, knuckles white, yet his legs subtly shifted backward, as if preparing to retreat. His pride clashed with his instinct to run.Calen stepped forward slowly, his presence composed, unthreatening yet impossible to ignore. His voice was calm, but there was steel beneath the surface.“I didn’t come here to start a fight,” he said, eyes locked on Harlan’s. “I only did what anyone should—stopped a defenseless woman from being dragged into a carriage against her will. I’ll make sure she’s safe. Then I’ll be on my way.”There was no boast in his words. No arrogance. Just quiet conviction.Harlan scoffed and straightened his coat, trying to regain composure, though the flush on his cheeks spoke volumes.“Pathetic,” he
Is That All?
Harlan, still glaring daggers at Calen, staggered forward and shoved him hard with both hands. To his utter disbelief, Calen didn’t flinch or step back an inch. Instead, he stood there, steady and unmoved—like a great oak rooted deep in the earth. The sudden immovability made Harlan’s face flush with a mix of embarrassment and simmering rage. Just then, a muffled chuckle from one of Harlan’s own men broke the tension, only fueling his fury further.“You think you’re tough, do you?” Harlan snarled, his voice thick with wounded pride. “I’ll teach you what it means to respect your betters.”The crowd of men surrounding them, once quick to mock, exchanged uneasy glances. From the beginning, they had all assumed Calen was just a weak, insignificant peasant—an easy target for their scorn. “Look at this idiot—thinks he’s a hero just because he won’t fall over,” one scoffed loudly. Harlan’s cruel grin deepened as he stepped closer, voice dripping with venom. “You don’t belong here, village fo
Let Her Go!
Aldric’s face grew sad, his form flickering like a candle about to go out. Calen tried to reach out, desperate to hold onto the moment, but before he could say anything more, his father turned away and began to fade into the shadows.“Father!” Calen shouted, but Aldric didn’t respond. The figure simply vanished, dissolving into the thick mist until there was nothing left but silence.Calen jolted awake, his body tense and his breathing uneven. He sat up, wiping the cold sweat from his forehead, trying to make sense of the dream. The sky outside had turned pale with the first light of dawn.Realizing he wouldn’t be able to sleep anymore, Calen decided to get ready. He grabbed his travel pack, set his father’s sword carefully on the table, and took a deep breath to calm his racing thoughts.After splashing cold water on his face and taking a quick bath to refresh himself, Calen put on his traveling cloak and secured his sword at his side. The earlier unease lingered, but he pushed it as
Father! What Happened?
Calen finished his meal and rose from the table, pulling his hood a bit lower. As he turned to make his way to the stairs leading to the guest rooms, someone bumped into him—hard. He staggered back a step, glancing up to see a man dressed in fine, embroidered robes, the kind only worn by officials or nobles. The man’s cheeks were flushed, and his eyes glazed—clearly drunk.The man swayed, pointing an accusing finger at Calen. “Watch where you’re going, you filthy commoner!” he slurred, his words tinged with the arrogance of privilege.Calen remained calm, bowing his head slightly. “Apologies. I didn’t mean to—”“Didn’t mean to?” the man cut him off, his voice growing louder. “You bump into me and think an apology is enough? Do you know who I am? I’m a high-ranking official from Eryndall! How dare a peasant like you lay hands on me!”The inn fell silent, all eyes turning toward the commotion. Calen kept his head down, suppressing the urge to retaliate. He knew that starting a fight her
The Quiet Queen
Theron lay sprawled on the expansive bed, his dark hair tousled, his bare chest rising and falling as he caught his breath. Elara lay beside him, her gaze fixed on the ornate ceiling, her face impassive. The silk sheets tangled around them, a stark contrast to the tension still lingering between their bodies.The King turned to her, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. “You know, Elara,” he began, his tone low and contemplative, “I never thought I would desire the woman who killed my father.”Elara didn’t flinch, didn’t turn to look at him.“But here you are,” Theron continued, his hand tracing her jawline, “so beautiful, so ethereal. I should hate you, but your beauty is something that even fury cannot destroy.” He paused, his fingers still lightly grazing her skin. “You’ve conquered me, Elara. And I intend to make you mine in every sense.”Elara said nothing, her mind miles away from the opulent chamber. In the dim light, she moved her hand to her stomach, barely caressing it,
The Wedding
The grand hall of Aerondale Palace was transformed into a vision of opulence. Golden candelabras lined the aisle, their flickering flames dancing across polished marble floors. Flower arrangements of rare blue roses and white lilies adorned every corner, their fragrance mixing with the crisp evening air drifting through the open windows. The vaulted ceiling loomed high above, its intricate carvings gilded and shimmering in the candlelight.Nobles from both Aerondale and Vynoria filled the hall, their whispers a soft, curious hum. Everyone had gathered to witness the union that would mark a new era of prosperity—or domination, depending on whom one asked. The tension was palpable, woven into the smiles and murmurs of anticipation. Musicians played a solemn yet hopeful melody, their instruments harmonizing in a way that seemed to echo the mixed sentiments of the gathered crowd.At the far end of the hall, King Theron Ashford stood tall and imposing, his dark ceremonial armor polished to
Leave
The first light of dawn crept into Calen’s chamber, bathing the room in a soft, golden glow. He had spent the night preparing—gathering provisions, packing a small satchel with the essentials: water, dried meat, a map, and a sturdy cloak. His military gear was stacked neatly on the wooden rack near his bed—armor, insignia, and the polished swords he used during training and combat.But he wouldn’t take those. Instead, he fastened a plain, dark leather belt around his waist, the familiar weight of his father’s sword resting against his hip. He glanced at the blade, the intricate silver patterns on the hilt catching the morning light. It was the only weapon he would carry—the only one that mattered.Seating himself at his desk, Calen dipped a quill into the inkwell, the dark liquid pooling at the tip. He pulled out a piece of parchment, the Aerondale emblem embossed at the top, and began to write:To General Ironheart,I, General Calen Storm, respectfully submit a request for leave from
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