Lyanna stood by the edge of the healing room, her gaze drifting over the familiar shelves of medicinal herbs and glass bottles filled with potions. The room was warm, bright with the gentle shine of sunlight filtering through the windows.

  Grent lay on the bed, his massive frame taking up more space than one bed could hold. They had to use two for him given his body as large as it was.

  He stirred slightly, the rustling of the sheets the only sound in the otherwise quiet room. His greatsword lay beside him. The weapon had accompanied their adventures for years, but it had been cleaved in half.

  The golem’s weapon, looted from Avaris’s square, rested against the wall. The new sword was wider, thicker, longer. The polished steel handle gleamed in the light, its design far more intricate than his old blade.

  She watched as Grent’s eyelids fluttered open, his dark eyes meeting hers. He attempted to rise, the faintest groan escaping his lips as his muscles tensed in protest. She moved quickly, a gentle hand pressing against his chest, pushing him back down.

  “Rest, Grent. The healer said you need to rest more. The herbs haven’t finished their work yet.”

  Grent grunted, giving her a long steady look. In the end, he relented, his shoulders sagging as he eased back into the bed.

  "I said I was going to head back to human lands after Avaris."

  "But you were too injured. Please heal up here before you leave, Grent."

  He let out another grunt, his large frame shifting slightly as he adjusted himself on the bed.

  "All the problems with Siron," Grent growled. "That bitter old bastard. Me being here is going to be a burden for you, Ly."

  "We killed Avaris, so there would be less pressure from him," she said. "Besides, you are never a burden, Grent."

  Her hand, soft and warm, rested on his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath beneath her fingers. She smiled, but it was a smile that carried the weight of so many unspoken things. Even as she smiled, a part of her feared the truth was far more complicated.

  Grent moved his bandaged hands to cover hers, his rough fingers wrapping around hers with surprising gentleness. The touch, though a simple act, felt more intimate than she expected, and for a brief moment, all the noise of the world outside the room faded away.

  They stared at each other in silence, eyes locked in an understanding that ran deeper than words. Then, almost as if on cue, they both broke into laughter. It was a shared, warm release of tension that had built up between them over the past few days.

  It was rare to see Grent so unguarded, so free of the hardness that often clung to him. At this moment, he was just a man and she was just a fae.

  "Lagos," Grent said with a low chuckle, his voice thick with amusement, "that tortoise bastard."

  Lyanna’s mind wandered back to the day earlier in the week, to the quiet moment as they returned to Highhaven. They were exhausted, the weariness of battle still on their shoulders. Strix and Shem had parted ways, no doubt headed back to the Beast Kingdoms. Grent, Lagos, and herself stood at the gates to Highhaven, the wooden city piercing into the clouds above.

  She had looked at Grent, his large frame standing sturdy as ever, yet the marks of their battle were etched deep into his body.

  “Grent, you should heal up here and then head back to Newvale,” she had suggested. She wanted him to stay, to rest, but she knew he wouldn’t go against his word.

  “No. I’m fine,” he replied. “I can head back to Newvale to find a healer.” It was the same answer he always gave. Grent was always fine.

  Lagos had stepped in then, his voice cool but grounded. “Even rocks are worn down by waves, Grent,” he said.

  “Nah, I’m too big a rock to be worn down,” he had shot back at Lagos.

  “At least let us put some healing herbs on before you go,” Lyanna said.

  “It’s fine,” he grunted again.

  Then, before anyone could say more, Grent was suddenly shoved back, his body stumbling towards her. Lyanna reached out, catching him as he staggered. She looked up to see Lagos standing there, his palm outstretched, a sign he just used his Bear Palm technique.

  "I’ll see you two later," Lagos said. Without waiting for a response, Lagos turned and made his way back, leaving Lyanna and Grent alone.

  The memory of that moment lingered, filling her with a sense of unfounded nostalgia. It reminded her of the old days, adventuring, fighting, laughing. It was simpler. Happier.

  Her thoughts drifted back to the present, and the peaceful silence was broken by the sound of footsteps approaching. Her head turned and she was Eti at the doorway.

  He barged in with a sense of urgency. His eyes quickly darted to Grent and Lyanna. Their hands, still lingering from their shared moment, instinctively pulled apart at Eti's glance.

  "I need to speak with you, Guardian," Eti said.

  Lyanna exchanged a quick, unreadable glance with Grent before nodding. "I’ll meet you outside," she said.

  As soon as they stepped outside, Lyanna turned to face Eti. "Is this about Grent?" she asked before Eti could speak. "Perhaps a question about what you saw?"

  "I... I have questions. But it is not my place to ask." He paused, then continued, his words coming faster. "There are more pressing issues."

  Lyanna’s brow furrowed, the shift in his tone enough to draw her full attention.

  "What is it, Eti?"

  Eti took a deep breath before speaking again.

  “It’s Siron. He has been gathering some of the traditionalist fae. He… He’s looking to start a coup."

  Siron. He who had haunted the shadows of her past, the power-hungry fae who sought to claw his way to dominance.

  Without a word, Lyanna turned on her heel, her pace swift as she entered the room again, her mind racing. She barely looked at Grent as she strode past him, heading straight for the bed.

  "Get up," she said.

  Grent’s face was strained as he sat up, his body still in pain. "What’s going on, Ly?"

  "Siron is starting a coup," Lyanna replied. "He’s gathering support, trying to strip me of the Guardianship."

  "That old bastard can’t do that. Can he?"

  "He can and he will if we don’t stop him. He’ll target you, Grent. He’ll want you out of the way. You need to leave quickly."

  Grent didn’t move. "And leave you here alone to deal with it?"

  "I can handle it.”

  "I'm staying."

  Lyanna, Grent, and Eti hurried through the endless stairs of Highhaven, their footsteps rattling through the wooden city. Grent limped heavily, his injuries from the recent battles still fresh.

  "I’m slowing you down," Grent said. "I’ll head up there on my own time. You two can fly."

  Lyanna’s wings twitched slightly as she turned back to him. “Stay safe, Grent.”

  "I’ll be fine."

  Lyanna hesitated, glancing at Grent one last time before her wings unfurled, carrying her upwards with a powerful beat. Eti followed closely behind her.

  The central hollow area of Highhaven stretched out beneath them, the towering wooden city rising on every side. The Hall of the Guardian was ahead, its imposing doors visible in the distance. Lyanna’s heart quickened, her thoughts racing.

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  She had no choice but to deal with this. Deal with him.

  As they approached, the heavy wooden doors of the Hall groaned open with a slow, deliberate creak. Lyanna landed with a soft thud on the polished wooden floor, her white cloak resting softly on her shoulders. Her wings folded neatly behind her as she strode forward, every step measured and purposeful. As she expected, Siron stood there, waiting for her.

  The old fae, once the Guardian, wore a white cloak just like hers, though his was different. As he twirled it around himself, Lyanna saw the embossed patterns on it: Mother Crystal but there were three crystals on his cloak. Not one. Three. It was a symbol of power.

  "Siron," Lyanna said. "What are you doing?"

  Siron smiled. “Oh, Lyanna," he said, stretching her name out as if savoring it. "Glad you could drop by."

  He raised his arms, twirling the cloak around him like some kind of display, showing off the symbol with pride. "I am doing what is right," he said.

  "You killed Avaris. Brava." He clapped slowly, the sound hollow, his mockery thick in every syllable. "But you should let me do the ruling," he continued. "So you can run around for more adventures instead. Doesn’t that sound good?"

  "I will not let you take this from me, Siron," she said. “I will not let you rule Highhaven.”

  "You think you can stop me?" His eyes flickered over her shoulder, to the group of green cloaked fae gathered behind him.

  The Hall of the Guardian had always been a place of reverence, of discussion and respect, but now it felt like a battlefield.

  “It is my duty to protect Highhaven and the fae,” she said. “And I will protect it—even if it is from the inside.”

  Siron raised an eyebrow. “Oh?” he said. “Funny you say that, since you are the one poisoning the fae from the inside. Forgetting our place. Forgetting our tradition.”

  Lyanna’s laugh cut through the air, a sharp contrast to Siron’s venom. “You speak of tradition, Siron,” she retorted. “But I never heard of a coup in fae history. Or a time when fae held blades to other fae. Face it, Siron. Your methods are wrong. Planting another Mother Crystal would be the start of a war.”

  Siron opened his mouth to speak, but the sound of running feet interrupted him. Lyanna’s eyes shifted, and she caught sight of Eti entering the hall, his wings flapping softly as he moved forward, leading a group of fae behind him.

  The sound of chanting filled the air, rising from the gathered fae like a rising tide.

  “One Crystal! No wars! Peace!”

  Lyanna felt a spark of hope as she turned toward Eti and his group, their voices strong and sure, standing in defiance of Siron’s ambitions. There were many that were weary of ambition. Of war. But that flicker of hope was quickly dimmed by the sigh that escaped Siron’s lips.

  “You will never learn,” Siron said.

  Lyanna’s gaze flickered to the other side of the room, another tide coming in. A new group of fae entered, their cloaks trailing behind them like banners of war. Their twin swords were drawn, gleaming coldly in the dim light of the hall. They shouted with a fervor that rang in the air like a war cry.

  “Three Mother Crystal! For the glory of fae!”

  Lyanna’s heart sank as she saw their cloaks. They bore the symbol of three Mother Crystals, the mark of fae expansion. The line between them had been drawn clearly now. These were Siron’s supporters, the ones who wished to fight others for the sake of expansion.

  Lyanna’s gaze swept over the two groups, her eyes narrowing as she recognized the boiling anger in Siron’s supporters.

  "I understand everyone is on edge," Siron called out, his voice booming with false calm. "But now is the time to strike."

  "Golden City is weak. Vor’s latest attack has crippled them. They cannot stop us from planting another Mother Crystal. They cannot stop us from having another Highhaven."

  Siron’s supporters began to shout, their voices rising in a deafening cheer, their faces alight with fervor. The room vibrated with the excitement of it—the promise of power, the call to war.

  Lyanna stepped forward, her voice ringing out over the shouts of Siron’s side.

  "Why?" she demanded. "Why do we need to fight the humans or anyone else? The Masters are the enemy. They are all locked behind their squares, each of them waiting to break out and keep killing us. We should be helping Golden City, not fighting them."

  "Help the humans?" Siron spat as his supporters jeered behind him. "In their disgusting, garish city made of gold? Our Guardian has truly lost her mind."

  Lyanna stood firm, refusing to let them see the fear that tightened her throat. This was the moment she had to hold the line.

  But before she could speak again, before she could rally her supporters, it happened.

  A push between two fae. Sharp and sudden. Then, a blast of fire surged between the groups, lighting up the hall with a flash of heat and light.

  Fury exploded in an instant, chaos unfurling in the Hall of the Guardian. Lyyanna’s people fought back with what they had, pushing forward with every ounce of strength they could summon, but Siron’s group crashed against them with brutal force. Fists collided with faces and the hall, once so peaceful, became an actual battlefield.

  Lyanna soared above the skirmish, her wings hovering in the air. The cries of the fae, shouts of defiance, of anger, and of pain, filled the hall. She needed to calm them, to remind them of what they were fighting for. But how could she, when the very heart of the fae was splitting open before her eyes?

  "Enough!" she shouted. "Violence isn't the answer! We are fae.”

  But even as her words echoed, two figures flew toward her. Lyanna recognized them immediately. They were Tio and Eyal, both wearing the green cloaks of Siron’s supporters.

  "Tio, Eyal," she called out. "Violence isn’t the way. You know this. We need to stop this."

  “If you stand down, Lyanna," Tio said, "there’s no need for any more violence. This doesn’t have to end like this."

  "Siron is on a dangerous path," Lyanna said. "And you’re in danger for following him."

  The words barely left her lips before Eyal, the larger of the two, snarled in frustration. "Enough of this nonsense!" he growled, his fists clenched. In a blur of motion, he shot forward at her.

  Lyanna twisted in the air, a midair backflip that avoided the charge. Eya charged past her and crashed down onto the wooden floor with a loud thud.

  She felt a pang of worry as she watched him struggle to rise, his body still trembling from the fall. They had once fought side by side, and yet here they were, standing on opposite sides of a fight she never asked for.

  But that fleeting moment vanished the instant she saw Eyal’s hand move toward his cloak. He drew something out, something small and glassy. A potion.

  He drank it down in one swift motion. His eyes turned bloodshot, his veins bulging beneath his skin as though the potion was coursing through his body with a violent force. His hands shook uncontrollably as he hovered in the air.

  The transformation was almost instantaneous. Eyal’s body seemed to swell with strength, his wings beating with unnatural speed. His strength, his power, had been amplified beyond measure.

  And then, he charged at her.

  Lyanna barely had time to react before he was upon her. He was much faster, much stronger. The force of his impact sent Lyanna crashing into the wall, the impact rattling her bones and knocking the air from her lungs. The pain was sharp, but she gritted her teeth, refusing to let it slow her down.

  She struggled to push herself up, but before she could stand, Siron’s voice was heard.

  "Traitor."

  He stepped toward her, his white cloak swirling around him like a shroud. His hand reached out, and in a swift motion, he grabbed her white cloak, yanking it off.

  Lyanna was no longer the Guardian of Highhaven.

  ******

  Eti found himself in the midst of the chaos, shoved back and forth between the two factions. He had hoped to make a difference, to find some way to stop the bloodshed, but now he was struggling to find a way.

  Then, amid the confusion, he turned to face his friend. Wyn.

  Wyn’s eyes were blood red, a dark, unnatural hue that spoke of something far more sinister than passion or anger. Veins twisted around his face like black roots and his smirk mocked Eti’s support of peace.

  "You’re on the wrong side, Eti," Wyn said. "Siron would welcome you, you know. He’s always had a place for fae like you."

  "No," Eti said. "Taking over Highhaven is wrong, Wyn. Fighting humans is wrong. We don’t need more bloodshed."

  Wyn’s smile widened at that.

  With a single, casual push, Wyn sent Eti flying backward, his body slamming into the wall with a sickening crash.

  Before he could even try to gather himself, several hands seized him. Strong, unyielding hands that pinned him to the floor with the force of iron chains. He struggled against them, but their grip was immense, their strength unnatural. He couldn’t move, couldn’t escape.

  ******

  Grent’s heavy footsteps echoed through the hollow space of Highhaven, blood seeping through his bandages. But he pressed on, using the massive iron greatsword he had taken from the giant golem Avaris once controlled as a makeshift walking stick.

  A voice broke through his haze of exhaustion, harsh and dismissive. "Human, you don’t belong here."

  He turned to face the two fae hovering before him. Their yellow cloaks fluttered behind them like the banners of an army, the emblem of three Mother Crystals sewn across their backs.

  "I’m just leaving," he said.

  "Maybe you should jump off," one of the fae sneered as he pointed to the vast drop below them. The ground was far beneath, a dizzying height that stretched fifty stories into the air.

  Grent’s jaw clenched, but he made no move. He wasn’t one to back down, not from threats, not from anything. But when the fae with bloodshot eyes placed a hand on his shoulder, Grent felt a strength he had never felt from a fae.

  But it wasn’t stronger than him.

  Without a moment's hesitation, Grent swung his fist forward, the blow landing with a sickening crack. The fae was sent flying, dropping to the floor in an unconscious heap.

  The other fae, startled by Grent’s ferocity, rushed in, but Grent was already moving. He were fast, but Grent was a force unto himself. He punched the second fae hard in the back of the head, the fae crumpling to the ground with a grunt, his legs buckling beneath him.

  But more fae were arriving now, more with the emblem of the three crystals stitched into their cloaks. They encircled him, their faces covered with bulging veins, their eyes bloodshot. He reached for his greatsword, lifting it with all the strength he had left. It was a weapon of destruction, a weapon that could cleave through anything in his path.

  He stopped.

  Something that held him back. If he unleashed the full weight of his fury, if he went on a rampage, he knew what would happen. Lyanna would bear the consequences. She would be blamed. It would make everything worse.

  With a growl of frustration, Grent dropped the greatsword with a thud, the sound ringing through the hollow air. His fists clenched instead. His arms were heavy, his body already screaming in protest, but he refused to back down.

  He threw a punch, the force of it sending a fae stumbling back. Another rushed in, and Grent punched again, his knuckles meeting flesh with a sickening crunch. His fists landed on faces, on ribs, on whatever he could hit.

  But for every one he took down, more stepped forward. The fae piled on top of him, their numbers overwhelming his strength. They were too many, too fast.

  His body was battered, bruised, and his strength had all but run out.

  ******