Lilith.
Her screams had been echoing through the halls of the Keep, sultry and wrathful in equal measure. Though shackled in rune-etched irons deep within the dungeons, her presence felt woven into the stones themselves. Soldiers flinched when her voice crawled through the air. Servants crossed themselves. Even the bravest Royal Guards had failed to endure her presence long enough to interrogate her.
In the war room above the throne hall, the air was thick with the scent of oil and cold metal. Maps of Primera lay splayed across the oak table, marked with red pins and smudges of blood.
Gabriel leaned against the window, arms crossed. Byronard paced beside the war table. Raphael, as still as glass, stood near the fire. Flint Ironward sat with arms like iron bands crossed over his chest.
“She’s laughing at us,” Byronard muttered. “Every scream? A game. Every silence? A message.”
Gabriel rolled her eyes. “Then send someone who can’t be swayed by a little moaning and charm. I’ll go. She knows I beat her. She fears me.”
“She hates you,” Byronard replied, turning sharply. “She won't speak if you’re there. And unlike the guards, she might try to kill you.”
“Let her try,” Gabriel snapped, golden light flickering at her fingertips.
Raphael raised a hand. “Enough. This pride-fueled peacocking is getting us nowhere.”
He glanced to Flint.
“She hasn’t seen him yet.”
Flint raised an eyebrow. “You think I’ll get answers?”
“No. But you might get her to listen,” Raphael said. “You were there during the siege. She saw you fight. And more importantly—”
“She doesn’t hate you yet,” Gabriel added, a grin tugging at the corner of her lips.
Byronard exhaled, rubbing his temples. “If you’re sending him, you’d best bring someone to reinforce his mind. Her voice is not normal.”
“I’ve already spoken to Lord Hans Silverkind,” Raphael said. “He’s setting up protective wards around the chamber. The moment she speaks in that tongue again, the room will silence her.”
“And Lady Alderth?” Gabriel asked.
Raphael nodded. “She’ll be there too. Her presence may... ground things.”
Byronard grunted. “Well, knowing she's there should help.”
“Agreed,” Gabriel replied. “But knowing her temperament, I doubt how smoothly things might go.”
Raphael turned to Flint. “Well, there's no time to waste.”
The stairwell into the dungeons was narrow, lit by flame-touched sconces that flickered with each footstep. The deeper they descended, the quieter the world became—until only the distant echo of Lilith’s breathless laughter remained. It wasn’t joy. It wasn’t madness. It was control.
Flint walked in silence, the weight of his sword absent from his hip for once, replaced by a subtle tension in his shoulders. Beside him, Lord Hans Silverkind murmured incantations under his breath, his gloved fingers weaving sigils in the air. The magic felt clean, tight, like glass perfectly molded to fit a blade.
Lady Alderth trailed behind, silent as always. Draped in silver robes embroidered with black thread, her hair was streaked with white despite her youth. Her eyes, pale violet and unfocused, didn’t blink.
“She’s been singing,” Hans muttered as they reached the threshold of the warded chamber. “Three guards clawed out their ears.”
“I’m not afraid of lullabies,” Flint replied, stepping through the arched door.
Inside, the room was stone and rune-bound. Arcs of magic ran in rings around the floor like a protective cage. In the center, bound by chains of dwarven make and seated upon a stone dais, sat Lilith.
Even now, her appearance was deceptive—porcelain skin, long black hair draped over her shoulders like velvet, eyes of molten crimson, a beauty coiled in steel. She watched them approach with the interest of a cat watching mice play at soldiering.
“Ah,” she breathed, her voice already weaving into the room, “it appears they've sent me new food to play with.”
Hans raised his hand. The moment her tongue curled into that foreign dialect, a shimmer of white snapped around the room, silencing her instantly.
She blinked. Then smiled wider.
“Clever,” she mouthed.
Flint stepped forward. “Lilith. We’re not here to play.”
“Oh, but you are,” she said sweetly. “Tell me... what do you dream of when your eyes close? Fire? Blood? Or perhaps... that boy you couldn't save at the northern wall?”
Flint’s jaw clenched.
Hans stepped closer, hand still raised. “She's testing your walls.”
“No,” Flint murmured, “she’s testing hers.”
Lilith turned her eyes toward Lady Charlotte. “Oh, and that poor child... You shouldn’t have brought her that day. You gave her hope when there was none.”
Alderth’s voice came like wind over a grave: “Then speak quickly. The end is closer than you think.”
Lilith laughed. “You still think you're winning this war. You think capturing me will buy you time. But I’m not the army, I’m not even the tip of the blade. I'm merely a piece in a larger game.”
She leaned forward, chains groaning.
“I’m just the first kiss.”
The air in the chamber tightened with the scent of scorched wax and cold stone. Lilith continued to sit in the heart of the ritual circle, her posture relaxed but unmistakably unnatural — too perfect, too poised, too still. The rune wards flared in a pale blue sheen, humming in resistance around her as Hans Silverkind stood beside them, hands alight with protective mana.
Flint remained where he stood, boots grounded like bedrock, arms folded across his chest. Lady Alderth lingered in the shadows behind him, her expression unreadable.
Flint scowled. “Start talking. You’ve had our blades at your throat, our chains at your wrists, and yet every interrogation ends the same — with your voice in their ears, making them forget why they’re here.”
“I am the Circle of Lust,” she said plainly, her tone devoid of pretense. “Desire is my language. Regret is my script. I’ve been writing both since before your ancestors ever carved their names into trees.”
A flicker of doubt crossed Hans’ face, but Flint didn’t blink.
“We want answers,” he said. “Where did you come from? What are you? What is your kind planning?”
Lilith exhaled slowly, a sound between boredom and satisfaction. “You really think this world is the only one? That your stars shine on all that exists? There are places your gods never tread. Realms buried beneath the bones of creation. We didn’t crawl out of the mountains. We came from the Pit. A place your people used to whisper about before they forgot what true fear meant.”
Hans stiffened. “Hell?”
Lilith’s eyes gleamed with eerie joy. “That’s what some of your old tongues called it, yes. Not the fiery torture-pit your priests wail about. Hell is deeper. A prison without walls. A song that never ends, and never begins. We are its echoes.”
“You’re not an echo,” Flint muttered. “You’re the scream.”
Lilith gave a sharp, delighted laugh. “Beautifully said.”
Alderth stepped forward now, her voice measured. “What woke you? Why now?”
Lilith looked her over, head tilting slowly. “Because the veil thinned. Because the balance your little pantheon tried to keep is failing. Because one of you—somewhere, somehow—pulled too hard on a thread you didn’t understand.”
“And the frost drakes?” Flint snapped. “Why have they awoken and are laying siege to the Dwarves? Why now?”
At that, Lilith’s grin stretched into something far more sinister.
“You think they march on their own? You think beasts of ancient winter just decide to leave their nests and raze cities?” She leaned forward, chains rattling. “No. They follow the call. A song older than your world. One sung by him, the first voice to answer the silence.”
The revelation fell like a weight in the room.
Lilith gave a small, knowing smile, tilting her head as if listening to a distant melody only she could hear. Then, without warning, her voice dropped into something far colder, more distant:
“They march not because of instinct, or hunger. But because something calls to them. Something ancient. Something powerful enough to stir the frozen blood of monsters who’ve slumbered for centuries.”
Flint narrowed his eyes. “Something? What is calling them?”
Lilith looked up, her eyes glowing faintly with an unnatural shimmer. “A voice from beyond. A mind unshackled. You think I’m dangerous?” Her grin spread slowly, beautifully cruel. “There is one who does not seduce. He does not coax. He commands. And they obey.”
Alderth’s breath caught. “Do you mean another... like you?”
Lilith only offered silence for a moment — then leaned back, as though the very notion thrilled her.
“I am only a whisper,” she said. “But he... he is the silence before the storm. You don’t even have a name for him yet. But he remembers you. All of you.”
She turned her gaze to the warded stone ceiling above her.
“And when he finally speaks, the world will tremble.”
Lilith gave nothing more. Instead, she turned her attention to Alderth once again.
“You still wear the guilt of that boy,” she whispered. “The one in the Hollow Vale. You saw his death too late. Too late.” Her voice grew mocking. “You could’ve saved him. But you didn’t. Because you are weak. You’re weak.”
Charlotte’s expression didn’t change. “And yet I’m the one standing,” she replied, voice cool.
Lilith narrowed her eyes. “Enjoy it. While it lasts.”
Flint stepped forward, his voice a low growl. “Enough. This is done.”
The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
Lilith chuckled as they turned to leave.
“Try to stop what’s coming. You’ll die screaming... and still not know why.”
As the heavy door groaned closed behind them, her laughter followed, like the tolling of a twisted bell.
Flint paused just outside, his expression grim.
“Well,” he muttered. “At least we finally got something.”
Charlotte stared back toward the cell, her voice barely a whisper. “This was a warning.”
The flames in the hearth snapped softly, casting long shadows across the obsidian floor of the council chamber. Flint stood still, arms folded, as the heavy doors closed behind him. Gabriel was pacing, Raphael sat with a leather-bound tome cracked open on the polished table, and Sir Byronard, ever stern, leaned over the map of Primera’s warfront.
Lady Charlotte Alderth’s eyes flickered, still shaken from her confrontation with Lilith.
“So?” Byronard asked sharply. “Did she yield anything of use?”
Flint shook his head. “She speaks in riddles. But not without truth.” His gaze turned to Charlotte. “She mentioned others. Circles. Plural.”
Raphael pushed the tome toward the center of the table, the pages fragile with age. “She wasn’t lying.”
He tapped the open page. Etched in fine ink and golden script were seven burning glyphs — each labeled in the old tongue.
“The Seven Circles of the Damned.”
“Lilith belongs to the second,” Raphael continued. “Lust. But it begins with Limbo. A realm of silence. Of waiting. A prison for the unfulfilled.”
“Then Gluttony. Greed. Wrath. Envy. Sloth.” Gabriel recited softly. “Seven hells, as we were taught.”
“No,” Raphael said. “That’s the lie.”
He flipped to the end of the tome. Torn pages greeted them.
“The last two circles were removed. Erased. But I found hints from other books in the Royal Library—Fraud and Treachery. That makes nine. Not seven.”
Silence fell like snowfall.
Byronard was the first to speak. “And we’ve only captured one. Lust. What does that make the others? Who else walks among us?”
Charlotte’s expression darkened. “She admitted that they are behind the frost drakes. That they were awakened. But she refused to say why… or how.”
“And Wyatt?” asked Gabriel. “He and Uriel are already in the North.”
“We have to believe in them,” Flint said quietly. “Uriel is still one of the Seven. And Wyatt… he carries the hammer. If anyone can hold back what’s coming, it’s him.”
Byronard didn’t reply.
Gabriel’s voice was a whisper. “So… Hell is real.”
Raphael closed the tome with a quiet thump. “Yes. And it’s just begun to bleed into our world.”
***
Sleep had eluded Flint ever since Lilith arrived.
Even as the fire in his quarters dimmed, his thoughts refused to settle. He had replayed the interrogation a dozen times in his mind — her words, her eyes, the venom woven between syllables. And still, it felt like she was holding back. Watching.
Waiting.
The halls of Wolfsbane were silent when he left his chambers, wrapped in only a loose coat and the weight of responsibility. No guards. No escort. Just him and the faint echo of his boots on the stone floor.
He reached the cell without alerting the others. The chamber hummed faintly with protective wards — magic from both Hans and Raphael’s design — but Flint passed through them with little resistance. A benefit of holding royal blood.
Lilith sat there, legs crossed, as if she’d never moved since they left her. But her eyes snapped open the moment he arrived.
“Well,” she purred, tilting her head, “this is a surprise.”
Flint didn’t respond. He stepped into the light, and the flickering torchlight caught the fire behind his eyes.
“Couldn’t sleep?” Lilith smirked.
“No,” Flint said plainly. “Because I think you know something the others don’t.”
“Darling,” she said, leaning forward, “I know many things the others don’t.”
He frowned. “Then answer this — why now? Why Primera? Why the North, the drakes, the circles? This feels… deliberate.”
Lilith’s smirk twitched. There was something in his voice — a truth she hadn’t expected.
“Because,” she whispered, “everything always comes back to blood.”
She stood now, letting the chains drag behind her. She approached the edge of the cell, where the barrier shimmered between them like glass.
She studied him. No, examined him.
And then, her lips parted in a soft, delighted gasp.
“Oh. Oh, now I see.” Her eyes widened, and then laughter followed — cruel and lilting.
“It’s you. You’re the mistake.”
Flint’s brow furrowed. “What are you talking about?”
She pressed her hand against the barrier, her voice suddenly low and reverent, almost amused at her own revelation.
“The taint clings to you like a shadow,” she said. “Passed down through a line meant to end. But it didn’t, did it? No… the curse didn’t die with him.”
Flint stiffened. “Him…?”
Lilith grinned. “Your dear brother. Alaric.”
Flint took a half-step back. “How do you know that name?”
“I remember the way he died,” she whispered, as if reminiscing fondly. “Clawing at fate, thinking he could defy it. Such a waste. He was the intended one. But fate… has a strange sense of humor.”
Flint’s fists clenched.
“What curse?”
Lilith’s voice dropped to a whisper. “A mark. Hidden in the blood of kings. Left behind when He first whispered into mortal ears. It chose your brother. And when he fell…” She paused, eyes glimmering.
“It chose you.”
Flint’s thoughts reeled. Suddenly, the civil war — Dante’s rebellion, Alaric’s death, his exile under Lord Dunwick’s roof — all of it felt like the first half of a longer story.
“This isn’t about vengeance,” Flint murmured.
“No,” Lilith smiled. “It’s about inheritance.”
She stepped back into the shadows.
“They’re not just trying to take Primera, little lion. They’re trying to take you.”
The cold of the stone seeped through Flint’s boots as he stood alone before the cell. The torchlight flickered across the warded walls, casting dancing shadows on Lilith’s expression — playful, cruel, unbothered. She stared at him like a wolf might a wounded stag, scenting weakness.
“What do they want with me?” Flint asked at last, voice calm despite the thunder of his heart. “If this curse passed to me, if I’m part of this… why?”
Lilith tilted her head, her raven-black hair falling over one shoulder like flowing ink.
“To reap what was sown,” she said, almost in a whisper. “A debt, Prince of Primera. One older than your House. One the world has long tried to forget.”
Flint narrowed his eyes. “What debt?”
Her silence said more than any answer could. It was the silence of inevitability.
“Who owes it?” he pressed.
She leaned forward until the magical barrier hummed, her smile feral. “That,” she whispered, “depends on who you ask. The blood of kings rarely flows without cost.”
Her words stirred embers buried deep in Flint’s memory. The war. The fire. The stories whispered in dark corners of court.
“Is this tied to the Civil War?” he asked. “To Dante?”
At the name, Lilith’s smile changed — from cruel to almost nostalgic.
“Ah,” she breathed, “him.”
Flint held his breath.
“You knew him?”
“Intimately,” she purred. “He burned with purpose. With hunger. Your people say he died, but the truth…?” She chuckled darkly. “He disappeared. And you all chose to believe that was the end.”
Flint’s fists clenched. “So he’s alive?”
Lilith’s eyes shimmered with dangerous mirth. “More than alive. Sleeping embers don’t die, boy — they wait. And should he rise again… he’ll do more than shake your fragile kingdom.”
Flint took a step back, bile rising in his throat. He had seen the scars Dante left behind. The fractures in Primera's nobility. The silence in his father's gaze when Alaric fell. And now…
“Was he part of your Circle?”
Lilith’s smile widened like a blade drawn slow.
“He was, and still is.”
Flint’s stomach dropped. “Then why hasn’t he come back?”
Lilith’s gaze darkened, as if the weight of her next words required reverence.
“Because he waits for him. The one who gave us our names. The one who whispers beneath the seven thrones.”
A chill laced Flint’s spine. “Him?”
“There are kings,” she murmured. “And there is the architect.”
The silence that followed was thick, choked with fear and implications Flint couldn’t yet understand.
He forced himself to speak. “Then tell me—what do you want from me?”
Lilith's expression softened — not with kindness, but curiosity.
“To see,” she said gently, “if the child of ash can become more than just a prince in shadow.”
She took one last step back, fading into the gloom.
“But beware, little lion. Some debts are paid not in gold... but in blood.”
And with that, she vanished into the cell’s darkness.
Flint stood alone, the flickering torch behind him, the weight of revelations digging like hooks into his mind.
The great hall still bore the remnants of the earlier council—half-finished drinks, maps spread across the long table, and ash in the hearth. The hour was late, yet the lords and ladies remained gathered, deep in tense discussion. Byronard stood closest to the war map, arms crossed, while Charlotte and Emilie sat quietly, murmuring about the current state of the southern roads. Raphael thumbed through the weathered tome, now resting open on a pedestal nearby, its pages heavy with the weight of forgotten truths.
The doors groaned as they opened.
Heads turned. Flint entered.
He didn’t speak right away. The flickering torchlight behind him cast long shadows across his face—his expression unreadable, but weary, troubled.
Gabriel was the first to speak. “You went to her again, didn’t you?”
Flint nodded. “I had to.”
Byronard’s jaw tightened. “Alone?”
“She wouldn’t have spoken otherwise.”
“And?” Charlotte asked quietly. “Did she give you anything?”
Flint moved to the table, resting both palms upon it, leaning forward. “She said Dante is alive.”
Gasps rippled across the room.
“Alive?” Augustus echoed. “But he vanished over two decades ago.”
“Not vanished,” Flint replied. “Waiting. And he’s not the end of it.” He looked to Raphael. “She said he was part of the Circle. But not its leader.”
Even Raphael paled slightly. “A servant…”
“She didn’t name who leads them. Only that he gave them their names. Their identities.” Flint’s eyes swept across the table. “Which means this war? It started long before Lilith showed up. Before the frost drakes. Before the siege.”
“A second invasion…” Emilie murmured.
“A continuation,” said Charlotte. “One that began with the Civil War.”
Flint’s voice dropped low. “She also said… I wasn’t the one they were after. Not at first.”
Byronard stiffened. “You mean—?”
“She spoke of a curse. Of something that was meant for Alaric.”
Silence fell again.
The memory of Flint’s elder brother—beloved, valiant, the true heir—still haunted many in the room. His death at the hands of Dante had marked the end of the war, or so they thought. To hear it may have been orchestrated as part of something deeper… it chilled even the seasoned warriors present.
“What do they want with you then?” Raphael asked, voice calm but intense.
Flint looked down for a long moment. “I don’t know. Only that… whatever it is, it’s personal. And it isn’t done.”
He looked back up. “They want something from me. And if Lilith’s to be believed, Dante was just a prelude. There’s more coming.”
Raphael closed the tome slowly. “Then we prepare for more than a war. We prepare for a reckoning.”
Gabriel’s gaze turned toward the cell blocks far below. “And we hold onto Lilith for as long as we can. She’s our only link to what lies beneath all this.”
Byronard moved closer to Flint. “You should’ve told us sooner.”
Flint met his gaze, unflinching. “Would you have believed me?”
No answer came.
Raphael stepped forward. “Then we set a course. For the kingdom’s sake—and for Flint’s.”
“And if Dante is alive…” Byronard grunted, his tone calm but fierce after hearing the name again.
Flint whispered, “Then this time, we'll be ready.”
Charlotte was the first to speak. “Then we must send word to the ancient seats. All of them.”
Byronard nodded. “Agreed. If this is no longer a war for land but for something deeper, then every noble line must be warned—whether they sit in gilded halls or holdfasts hidden in the mountain roots.”
Lord Silas Davenmere leaned forward, his tone grave. “The southern holds still stand. Davenmere will send riders to the Thornwatch. House Hawthorne should do the same.”
Augustus, young but resolute, gave a firm nod.
“Hawthorne will answer.”
Lady Emilie Blackstone crossed her arms, her voice calm but firm. “And House Blackstone will lend its steel. We won’t stand idle while the shadows grow.”
Raphael turned to Gabriel. “Your reach will get us there faster than any rider.”
Gabriel nodded. “I’ll take word to Mistveil. King Ithilien must be informed—about Lilith… and what may follow.”
“He’ll understand what this means,” Flint said quietly, staring into the flickering candlelight. “When he hears her name.”
“And the dwarves?” asked Lady Tryst Huntingborne, her brows furrowed.
“Uriel is with them,” said Byronard. “If anything stirs beneath the frost, he’ll be our blade in the dark.”
Raphael’s eyes narrowed. “Then we prepare. If Lilith’s words are true, and Dante is but a servant… we are nowhere near the heart of this storm.”
Charlotte turned, her eyes moving to each of them. “Then Primera must brace for the reckoning to come.”
The chamber fell into silence, each noble bearing the weight of a truth long buried and now unearthed. Their world, once united by fragile peace, now stood on the edge of something ancient—something wrathful.
The bells of Wolfsbane Keep rang low in the distance, tolling the final hour before dawn.
And with it, the promise of a new day…One that may never see peace again.