The peace in Elareth was fragile—like glass stretched too thin, held together by hope and the will of two men desperately trying to change fate.
Lucien felt it in the way the wind carried whispers now, the way even the brightest morning seemed to have a shadow curled beneath it. Something was coming. He didn't know what, or when, or how—but the chill beneath his skin refused to go away.
Eiran, ever the soldier, noticed it too. He had doubled the night patrols, reinforced the palisade with whatever salvaged wood they could find, and began training willing villagers in basic defense.
Still, the unease persisted.
And with it, something else bloomed between them—soft and tentative. Lucien found himself smiling more, not just because Eiran was near, but because something inside him no longer felt so fractured. For the first time, his hands were used to build, not destroy.
But every moment of comfort also brought dread. Because love, for men like him, had always been a curse.
---
One evening, after the village had settled into quiet sleep, Lucien sat with Eiran under the stars, just beyond the rebuilt courtyard.
They didn't speak for a long time. The fire between them crackled softly, sending sparks dancing up into the dark sky.
Lucien finally broke the silence. "Do you think the future can be rewritten?"
Eiran glanced at him. "I think the future is a path. Sometimes clear. Sometimes tangled. But it always moves forward. And we choose how we walk it."
Lucien exhaled. "In the book… Ravencroft dies. A painful, bloody death. And Eiran mourns him, but moves on. Becomes king. Marries. Lives. Ravencroft is just… a chapter."
Eiran's brows furrowed. "You read the end of our story?"
Lucien nodded. "It haunts me."
"You're not him," Eiran said firmly. "You carry his name. His face. But your choices are your own. That matters more than fate."
Lucien turned to him, eyes searching. "Then what would you choose, if tomorrow wasn't promised?"
Eiran hesitated, then leaned closer. "I'd choose this. Sitting beside you. Listening to your doubts. Watching you fight your past."
A silence bloomed—thick with emotion, heavy with the weight of what they couldn't say.
Lucien reached out slowly, hand brushing Eiran's.
And Eiran didn't pull away.
"I want to believe," Lucien whispered.
"Then believe in me," Eiran said. "We'll rewrite the ending together."
---
That night, while the village slept and stars drifted beyond the clouds, something slipped past the perimeter guards.
It moved like smoke, cloaked in magic and hunger.
In the woods outside Elareth, a body was found at dawn—lifeless, eyes wide open, throat slashed by something not quite steel.
A warning.
And Lucien knew: the shadow had arrived.
---
The villagers buried the man with quiet reverence. Eiran held the ceremony himself. Lucien stood at the edge of the crowd, heart heavy, rage simmering beneath the surface.
This was not supposed to happen. He was supposed to be protecting them.
Later, he and Eiran stood by the grave, the earth still fresh.
"This wasn't a random attack," Lucien said. "This was a message."
Eiran nodded. "Someone's watching us."
Lucien clenched his jaw. "They'll come again. And next time, they won't leave just one body."
"What do you want to do?"
Lucien hesitated. Then, for the first time, he gave a command as Ravencroft.
"We prepare for war."
---
The days that followed were filled with tension. Lucien walked the village like a commander, no longer trying to hide the sharpness in his voice or the edge in his gaze. Fear demanded strength, and the villagers needed to see a man who would not flinch.
Eiran trained with the soldiers until nightfall. Lucien organized the defense.
But when they met in the quiet hours—just the two of them—the weight melted slightly.
"Are you afraid?" Lucien asked one night.
Eiran gave a short laugh. "Of battle? No. Of losing this? Yes."
Lucien looked down. "You're not the only one."
They didn't say it aloud. But something had shifted.
They were no longer just allies. Or reluctant companions.
They were something more.
And war was coming for them.
---
In the darkness beyond the borders of Elareth, in a place where the trees whispered secrets to the wind, the shadow crouched beside a twisted shrine.
It was neither man nor beast. Its body shimmered with illusions, its eyes glowed like embers.
A figure emerged from the fog—a woman in crimson robes, her hands stained with blood and ink.
"The Duke defies his fate," she said.
The shadow tilted its head.
"But fate does not take kindly to rebellion."
They stared toward the distant village.
"Let the first fire be lit," she whispered.
And the darkness moved.
---
To be continued...
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