The candlelight flickered low in Ariana's chamber, throwing wavering shadows across the velvet walls. Her body still ached—phantom pain laced with the numbness of poison—but she refused to remain idle. Lying in bed felt too much like surrender. She sat upright by the hearth, draped in a deep crimson robe, her raven hair loose around her shoulders like a storm not yet tamed.
Damian entered quietly. Not in armor this time, but in a dark tunic lined with silver thread—royalty cloaked in shadow. He looked at her like she was breakable, and it annoyed her.
"You should be resting," he said gently.
"And you should stop treating me like glass," Ariana replied, her voice soft but steady. "I was poisoned, not shattered."
He knelt before her, his hand brushing her cheek. "You were almost lost to me. Again."
She softened just slightly, but didn't lean in. "Then help me ensure it doesn't happen again."
Down in the dungeons, Kairo stood shackled—his hands bound by rune-etched irons that pulsed faintly in the dim torchlight. The air was heavy with damp and distrust. When Ariana descended with Damian and two guards, Kairo lifted his head.
"I didn't poison you," he said immediately. "You know me better than that."
Her eyes searched his. "Do I?"
Kairo's expression twisted. "I would die before I harmed you."
"Someone brewed a poison keyed to my bloodline," she said, stepping closer. "Only a handful of people in this kingdom know I carry Veyl blood. And you were the one who knew where I would be alone."
Damian's voice turned sharp. "If he is innocent, we will find the proof. But if he isn't…"
A faint ripple of tension passed between the three of them—an old love, a new claim, and a betrayal waiting to be unearthed.
Later, in the royal war chamber, Ariana stood at the head of the obsidian table. The council was gathered—nobles, spies, generals. Among them were new faces.
General Caelum Thorne, commander of the Skyguard, rose first. Tall and broad-shouldered, his hair was ashen silver, his eyes keen and calculating. A known aeromancer, he commanded winds as easily as words.
"The border winds have shifted," he reported. "Scouts found sigils burned into the northern trees—symbols of Eldareth."
Damian frowned. "The Queen of Eldareth moves faster than expected."
"Not just her," said another voice. A woman stepped forward, robes marked with inked runes.
Lady Mireya Voss, newly arrived Head Seer of the Arcane Circle, bowed low. Her eyes were white with magic, sightless yet piercing. "I see threads of darkness tangling with our future. The Queen of Eldareth is not alone—she's awakened the Shadow Court, an ancient sect of spellbinders thought lost."
A hush fell.
"The one who entered Ariana's chamber that night," Mireya continued, "was no ordinary assassin. They carried the mark of the Forgotten Flame—a relic power that can only be wielded by a direct heir of Veyl blood."
Ariana's blood ran cold. "Then they're one of us."
That night, Damian remained by her side, his touch more protective than possessive. She let her fingers trail his jaw as he sat beside her in the dim light.
"You don't have to watch over me every night," she murmured.
"I want to," he replied, voice low. "For once, let me be the shield, not the storm."
She turned to face him fully. "What are you afraid of, Damian?"
He hesitated, then said quietly, "That one day, I'll wake up and you'll be gone. Not stolen by war or poison, but because you'll see me as unworthy of your fire."
Ariana reached for his hand, lacing her fingers through his. "You are many things, Damian Virelith. Cold. Arrogant. Impossible. But unworthy? No."
For a moment, silence stretched between them—then his lips brushed hers, tenderly at first, deepening only when she leaned in.
Outside the palace, a storm began to build.