The morning sun broke over the hills like a blade of fire, slashing through the mists that lingered over the valley. In the cold light of dawn, Kael stood silently on the eastern wall, watching the land that had become both battlefield and graveyard. His cloak rustled faintly in the wind, but his mind was still — sharp, calculating.
Behind him, the fortress was stirring. Soldiers prepared for drills, mages meditated in silence, and servants rushed through the halls with nervous energy. But beneath the routine, an invisible tension threaded through the air. Last night's revelation — or rather, suspicion — had cracked something fundamental.
Lysara arrived beside him, her footsteps quiet but purposeful.
"He hasn't made a move," she said, not needing to explain who.
"Of course not," Kael replied. "If Eryndor is truly the traitor, he's too skilled to be caught by simple bait."
Lysara's expression hardened. "Then we push harder."
Kael turned to her, the sun casting half his face in gold, the other in shadow. "No. We don't force the viper out. We let him strike first — then we crush him."
Deep inside the war chamber, Riven pored over a coded scroll. It had been found in the south wing — hidden behind a loose stone in a long-abandoned chamber. The ink was fresh.
"You're sure no one else has seen this?" he asked the scout.
The young man nodded. "Only you, Commander."
"Good. This goes nowhere." He dismissed the scout and turned back to the symbols.
Riven's fingers hovered above the parchment. Something about the markings felt… too familiar. His mind flashed back to his youth — to the Academy of Silent Tongues, where he had learned encryption from a master who vanished without a trace. One symbol stood out — a crest shaped like a coiled serpent around a crown.
"Gods," Riven breathed. "This isn't just betrayal. This is regicide."
He snatched the scroll and ran.
In the training yard, Eryndor moved among the younger soldiers, offering advice, adjusting stances, correcting sword angles with patience and the air of a veteran. To them, he was a hero. To Kael and his circle, a shadow draped in charm.
A messenger approached him.
"Captain Eryndor. You're summoned by Commander Kael to the eastern chamber."
Eryndor nodded politely. "Tell him I'll be there shortly."
As the boy left, Eryndor's gaze followed him just a second too long. Then he smiled — and turned to the barracks.
Riven burst into the eastern chamber, scroll in hand.
"Kael," he said, not bothering with pleasantries. "We have a deeper problem."
Kael took the scroll, his eyes scanning it quickly. Beside him, Lysara read over his shoulder. When they finished, there was silence — but the kind that preceded a storm.
"So," Kael said. "It's not just one traitor. It's a faction."
"Worse," Riven added. "It's the original bloodline. The ones who ruled before the rebellion. They want the throne back."
Lysara's hand dropped to her dagger. "And Eryndor?"
"Is a descendant," Riven confirmed. "A noble born into exile. Hidden, trained, and returned."
Kael nodded slowly, thinking. "Then we give him the throne."
"What?" Lysara snapped.
"A false one," Kael replied. "Let him believe his plan is working. Let him call his allies. Then, when they gather…"
Riven finished the sentence: "We burn the nest."
That night, Kael invited Eryndor to dine with the high command. The room was warm, lit by low lanterns and a roaring hearth. Wine flowed. Laughter was shared.
"Strange," Kael mused aloud, lifting a goblet. "How some men carry the burden of lost bloodlines in silence."
Eryndor's smile faltered — for just a breath. Then returned.
"True," he said. "But silence is often wiser than shouting."
They toasted.
Across the table, Lysara met Eryndor's eyes — and for the first time, he looked away first.
Later, as Eryndor returned to his quarters, he found a note under his door. No signature. Just a symbol — the coiled serpent and crown. Below it, a message:
"Strike at dawn. The gate will fall from within."
He burned the paper and locked his door. Then he sat in silence, fingers tightening around the hilt of his dagger. The time had come.
But he did not know — the ink used on that note was Kael's own. Crafted by mages to trace magic. The trap had closed.
At dawn, Eryndor donned his armor with reverence. Each buckle, each strap, felt like a final promise to a cause that had long lived in the shadows. He moved toward the gate, his steps steady, his heart calm.
Inside the control room above the gate, Kael, Lysara, and Riven watched through enchanted glass. Their forces were in place — disguised as guards, ready to spring.
"Let him open it," Kael said softly.
They waited.
Eryndor reached the lever. His hand hesitated.
And then — he yanked it.
The gate groaned.
Kael whispered: "Now."
The hallway exploded in motion. Guards poured in from every side. Eryndor whirled, sword flashing, cutting down two soldiers before Kael himself dropped from the upper balcony, blade drawn.
Steel met steel.
"You should've stayed in exile," Kael growled.
"You should've died with the old kings," Eryndor spat back.
Their blades clashed in a flurry of sparks. But Eryndor, though skilled, fought with rage. Kael fought with purpose.
And that purpose ended with a blade through Eryndor's heart.
Silence fell.
Kael knelt beside the dying man.
"Why?" he asked.
Eryndor smiled through blood. "Because loyalty to shadows… is stronger than light."
And then he was gone.
Kael stood. The battle was over — but the war in the shadows had just begun.