The winds howled with an unspoken warning.
Lucien stood at the watchtower as twilight bled into the sky, streaking the clouds in crimson and violet. Below, the villagers moved like ants—stacking barrels, forging crude weapons, stringing up lanterns and torches that would burn well into the night.
But none of them knew what he knew.
The shadows weren't just coming.
They were already here.
---
That morning, Lucien had awakened with his heart pounding. A nightmare clung to his skin like sweat. He saw Eiran lying in a pool of blood, a golden crown shattered beside him. Fire consumed the sky, and whispers chanted his name—not Lucien Vale, but Ravencroft. Over and over.
He couldn't breathe.
It took Eiran's steady voice to ground him again. The prince had held him in the quiet hush before dawn, arms wrapped around him like a shield.
"Tell me what you saw," Eiran murmured.
Lucien shook his head, burying his face in Eiran's shoulder. "It doesn't matter. It was just a dream."
"No dream leaves scars on the soul like that," Eiran said.
Lucien pulled away slightly to meet his eyes. "I saw you die."
Eiran didn't flinch. He simply placed his hand over Lucien's chest. "Then I won't let that happen. Whatever comes, we face it together."
Those words echoed in Lucien's heart now, standing alone atop the tower, watching the village beneath.
---
By midday, two more bodies had been found in the woods.
Their eyes were burned out.
Lucien and Eiran examined the scene personally. No tracks. No blade marks. Just… scorched flesh and twisted limbs.
"This isn't bandits," Eiran said grimly.
Lucien nodded. "It's magic. Dark, old magic."
A memory surfaced—one Ravencroft had buried deep. A temple in the north. A voice in the dark offering him power. A contract sealed in blood.
He clenched his fists.
He had thought rejecting Ravencroft's path was enough to be free.
But fate was a cruel storyteller.
It never forgot its plot.
---
Later, in the war room of Elareth's keep—a room repurposed from a library and barely large enough for the makeshift war table—Lucien unrolled a map.
"We need to find the source," he said. "Before it consumes us."
Eiran studied the markings. "The closest convergence of ley lines is here." He pointed to a forested ridge known as Whisperfen.
Lucien nodded. "It's a two-day journey. We leave at dawn."
Eiran raised an eyebrow. "We?"
Lucien met his gaze. "You think I'd let you walk into that alone?"
Eiran smiled. "Good. I didn't want to go without you."
They lingered at the table longer than they needed to, pretending to study strategy, when all they really wanted was to stay close.
The candle between them flickered, casting gold on Eiran's cheek.
Lucien's voice softened. "You're not what I expected."
"Disappointed?"
Lucien shook his head. "Terrified."
Eiran tilted his head. "Of me?"
"Of how much I need you."
The silence stretched, full and fragile.
"I'm not going anywhere," Eiran said.
Lucien wished he could believe that promise would be enough.
---
They left Elareth at dawn with a small escort—just four men they trusted, two horses, and enough provisions for five days.
Whisperfen loomed like a sleeping beast on the horizon. Dense, ancient, and heavy with secrets.
The journey was tense. Birds did not sing in the trees. The wind carried a scent of iron. Twice they spotted movement beyond the trail—figures too fast to follow, too silent to be human.
Each night they camped close, weapons drawn, backs to the fire.
And in the quiet hours, when even the shadows seemed to sleep, Lucien would find Eiran watching him—not with suspicion, but with worry.
"You still don't trust yourself," Eiran said once.
Lucien looked away. "Would you?"
Eiran reached across the small space between their bedrolls. "I trust what I see. A man who is trying. A man who loves."
Lucien's breath caught. "You said it."
Eiran's smile was soft. "I meant it."
Lucien stared at the stars above them and let the warmth of that truth wrap around his broken edges.
---
They reached Whisperfen on the third day.
The forest swallowed sound. No birds. No wind. Just damp earth and the creak of ancient trees shifting overhead.
They dismounted at the edge, the others staying behind to guard the camp.
Lucien and Eiran stepped into the gloom.
It wasn't long before they found it.
An altar of bone and ash stood in a clearing, runes pulsing faintly across its surface. Blackened flowers surrounded it, their petals etched with names.
Lucien's breath hitched.
One of the names was his.
Ravencroft.
Eiran touched his shoulder. "This was meant for you."
Lucien stepped closer. "Or by me. Before."
He reached out, and the altar responded. Shadows rose like smoke, wrapping around his wrist.
Eiran drew his sword. "Lucien—"
"I'm okay," Lucien whispered, teeth clenched. "Just… hold on."
Visions flooded his mind.
A cloaked woman chanting. A dagger dripping blood. A pact signed with a soul's name.
And then… a tear in the veil. Something pushing through. Something ancient. Hungry.
Lucien yanked his hand back.
The altar cracked down the middle.
The forest screamed.
Eiran pulled him back as the ground trembled. Trees twisted. Roots writhed. Something deep beneath them roared.
Lucien gasped. "It's not just a curse. It's a summoning."
Eiran helped him stand. "Then we end it."
---
Back at the camp, their escorts were under attack.
Dark shapes—twisted mockeries of men—descended on the tents. One guard fell before they reached them. Another cried out for help.
Lucien's magic surged. Ice bloomed at his feet. He hurled a shard into a creature's chest.
Eiran fought with blade and fury, movements precise and brutal.
Together, they pushed the creatures back—but not before one hissed a final warning:
"He wakes... and he remembers."
Then the creature crumbled into ash.
Lucien stood panting, heart hammering.
"What does that mean?" Eiran asked.
Lucien shook his head slowly.
"I don't know," he said. "But I think we just lit the first fire in a very old war."
---
To be continued...