At the golden break of dawn, Aurelia stirred awake, her body still weary from the night before. Blinking away the remnants of sleep, she glanced around their makeshift resting place. Elara lay curled beside William, her breathing steady, exhaustion still gripping her. William, however, had yet to wake. His face was pale, his body unmoving—a silent reminder of the battle that had nearly taken everything.

  Pushing herself up, Aurelia scanned their surroundings, sharp eyes searching for anything out of place. Satisfied that they were safe, she returned to Elara and gently shook her awake.

  “We need to go back to Celestria,” she murmured. “Back to Frostspire. William needs treatment.”

  Elara sat up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes before nodding in understanding. Without another word, they began preparing for the journey. At Aurelia’s sharp whistle, her white mare trotted toward them, its silver mane gleaming under the morning light. A few paces behind, William’s black stallion, Nyx, followed, his dark coat rippling like shadows beneath the rising sun.

  As they mounted, ready to depart, Elara hesitated. Turning once, she cast a final glance at the distant ruins of Renalia—her home, her kingdom. A place now lost to the cruelty of fate. The weight of its fall pressed down on her chest, threatening to break through the fragile composure she held.

  Tears burned at the corners of her eyes, but she did not let them fall. With one last, silent farewell, she turned away and rode forward, leaving behind the ashes of a past that could no longer be saved

  Back at Ira’s place, frustration twisted her features, her honey-brown eyes burning with impatience. She paced the dimly lit chamber, her fingers curled into tight fists. “It’s almost morning,” she muttered, irritation lacing her voice. “An entire night of torture, and still—nothing. He just won’t talk.”

  At her feet lay Edmund, his body a grotesque ruin of pain. His nails had been torn away, his fingers left shattered and useless. Blood clung to his skin in dark streaks, seeping from countless wounds. His empty eye sockets, raw and hollow, told of agony beyond words. He should have been dead. By all rights, no man should have survived this. And yet—he still breathed.

  With an exasperated sigh, Ira knelt beside him, pulling a small vial from her belt. Tilting it over his broken form, she poured its shimmering contents onto him. The moment the liquid touched his skin, flesh knitted together, bones reset, and his ruined body mended as if it had never been touched. In mere moments, Edmund was whole again—pristine, as if the horrors of the night had never happened.

  Ira exhaled, rolling her shoulders as she lifted him with surprising ease. “I guess you really don’t know,” she murmured, more to herself than to him.

  She adjusted her grip, then smirked. “Let’s take you home.”

  Without another glance at the blood-stained floor, she carried him toward the door, ready to return him to his manor—as if the night’s torment had been nothing more than a fleeting inconvenience.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  In the grand hall of the royal palace, King Robert sat upon his throne, his brow furrowed in thought. If Garios didn’t kill the count, then who did? His mind sifted through possibilities. Leofric? No, he has no reason. Arutoria? No, she’s indifferent to such matters. Then who?

  His contemplation was interrupted as the grand doors swung open. Aldric strode in, his posture poised, a smirk already playing on his lips.

  “Good morning, Father,” he greeted smoothly. “What weighs so heavily on your mind?”

  Robert didn’t look up. “You’re sharp enough to figure that out,” he replied curtly.

  Aldric chuckled, tilting his head ever so slightly. “Ah… the count’s assassination,” he mused, amusement flickering in his gaze. “I assume you’re wondering who orchestrated it.”

  Robert finally met his son’s gaze. “Do you have an idea?” he asked, his tone unreadable.

  Aldric placed a hand over his chest in mock sincerity. “None at all,” he said with feigned innocence. Then, with a sly grin, he added, “But I’m sure Ira will figure it out… eventually.”

  His words dripped with sarcasm, but there was an edge beneath them—one that didn’t go unnoticed by the king.

  In a place far removed from the world—a nightmarish realm that seemed like the very depths of hell itself—three hooded figures strode through the towering gates of a darkened castle. The air was thick with the scent of brimstone, the ground cracked and scorched, as if the very land itself had suffered beneath the weight of countless battles. Shadows twisted along the walls, whispering secrets in the flickering crimson glow of eerie torches.

  As they stepped inside, they lowered their hoods. Leading them was Alexander, his expression unreadable, his scarlet eyes gleaming with quiet amusement. “Today was quite fun,” he mused, his voice carrying through the vast chamber, rich with a self-satisfied undertone.

  Beside him, the other two figures revealed themselves. One was a rugged man, his face marked by time and hardship, with a single piercing eye filled with wariness. The other eye was long lost, the skin above it scarred and twisted—a relic of a battle that had cost him dearly.

  The second was a woman with striking, unnatural beauty. Her hair writhed subtly, an ever-moving cascade of dark, serpent-like strands, as though each lock had a mind of its own. Her piercing purple eyes, however, betrayed her foul mood. “You had fun,” she scoffed, arms crossed tightly. “We did not.”

  Alexander turned to her, his gaze cold, detached, as if he were observing an insect struggling beneath his boot. “Tell me,” he said smoothly, his voice calm but edged with something sharp, “do you think you would have survived that last attack?”

  Silence fell over the room like a heavy shroud. The woman’s lips parted, but she hesitated, no quick retort coming to mind.

  The man with the scar exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders. His voice was rough, pragmatic. “What about the next stage of our plan?” he asked, steering the conversation away from the uncomfortable moment

  Alexander turned away from them, stepping toward a massive obsidian table in the center of the dimly lit chamber. He ran a hand along its polished surface, his smirk barely shifting.

  “We wait,” he said simply. “Until He gives us our orders… we relax.”

  His words lingered in the air, but the unease among them was palpable. The idea of waiting did not sit well with either of his companions.

  But no one dared to argue.