In the heavy silence that stretched between them, Thorne looked at Cerys with an expression of anguish, the wrinkles on his face deeper than ever, and the worry in his eyes becoming an unbearable weight. He stepped closer, his voice low but laden with urgency.

— Why, Cerys? — his question seemed like a muffled sigh. — Why do this? Volcrist has always treated Vaermere with respect. We were always allies. You always spoke of equality between our territories, of unity. And now... this?

Cerys remained silent for a moment, her eyes fixed on the flames dancing in the distance, as if the answer was lost in the heat of the battle. The sound of steel meeting fire echoed like a distorted backdrop, and the crackling of the flames seemed a reflection of the turmoil within her. When she finally spoke, her voice came out cold and unperturbed, as if each word had been weighed before being spoken.

— It's simple, Thorne. I needed to kill Dravenmoor and prevent Cedric from taking the throne. — She paused, the memory of something distant hardening her gaze. — When I saw Aemon at the Vaermere tournament, something ignited within me. He reminded me of Corvinus. The son... who could be more than he was. A man capable of matching or even surpassing Dravenmoor. I saw in him the future Volcrist needed, and that... that is more than simple politics.

Thorne lowered his head, the weight of Cerys' words crushing any response he could have given. He knew the situation was complicated, but hearing those words, he felt everything had been driven by something deeper. He took a deep breath, his hands trembling slightly, before looking at Cerys with desperation.

— But he's not Corvinus, Cerys. He doesn't have enough training, much less the experience needed to face someone like Dravenmoor! He's... he's a boy! — Thorne's voice faltered, as if he was losing the strength to continue. — I made a promise to Alaric, I promised his grandson would stay alive. I no longer have the strength to be there, but you do! You're a powerful mage, Cerys. You can enhance a warrior's strength, give him a chance! Please... help him.

Cerys looked at him for a moment, her expression impassive, but a shadow of something indiscernible passed through her gaze. She slowly rose from the throne, her silent steps echoing through the room, as if she had made her decision long ago. As she approached Thorne, her eyes continued to shine with the coldness of a war already won in her mind. She shook her head, her tone firm but without any trace of compassion.

— I can't interfere, Thorne. Even with my help, it wouldn't be enough. Aemon might be stronger, but he's still too young. His fate was sealed the moment he decided to face a monster like that. — Her voice was calm, but there was a finality in her words. — I've already made my decisions. Now it's up to him.

Thorne, desolate, looked at her, an old, broken man who had lost the last of his strength to continue. There was nothing more to say. With a tired gesture, he moved away, his shoulders slumped, and approached the window. Outside, the sound of battle seemed unending, but within himself, he felt he was witnessing the end of something, perhaps the end of a kingdom. He murmured, his voice low and hoarse:

— If he falls... everything will be lost, Cerys.

But she did not respond. She sat on the throne, her gaze empty and distant. The battle raged on outside, but to her, the game was already decided

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

The battle had become a storm of steel, fire, and screams of pain. Every step was a fight for survival. Aemon, now wounded and fallen, could no longer rise. His bones were broken, his strength drained, and the pain in his body felt as if he were being crushed by a mountain. The prince of Volcrist was at Dravenmoor's mercy, and hope seemed like a flame about to extinguish.

Dravenmoor, with a sneer of contempt, watched the young prince on the ground, still holding his sword with trembling hands. He approached, his armor echoing with each step, like a silent thunder.

— Did you really think you could defeat me? — He said, his voice deep and laden with disdain. — You are weak. You have no experience, no power like your father.

Aemon tried to rise, but the weight of his body was unbearable. His muscles were weak, his vision blurred. He saw Dravenmoor raising his sword, ready to deliver the final blow. And then, in the last moment of despair, something inside him ignited. Not by his own will, but by the sheer need to survive. An internal scream, a cry from the depths of his soul, invoking an energy he never knew he had.

But before Dravenmoor's blow could fall, an explosion of fire cut through the air.

Lilith, with her flaming eyes and outstretched hands, summoned the power of fire with all her might. She launched a blazing surge toward Dravenmoor, who, for a moment, was forced to retreat, dodging to avoid being consumed by the flames. The heat was nearly unbearable, and the pressure on the enemy lines increased.

— Are you challenging me, mage? — Dravenmoor roared, his voice full of rage.

Lilith, in a fluid motion, spun her body, her cape dancing in the wind like a living shadow. She quickly retreated to position herself among Volcrist's soldiers, who were beginning to regroup, preparing to face Dravenmoor's men. The impact of her attack wasn't decisive, but it brought something Volcrist's men desperately needed: hope. They advanced with renewed strength, fighting with a newfound fury, while Dravenmoor's soldiers were stunned, trying to reorganize their lines.

The battle was now more balanced, but the numbers still favored Dravenmoor. Volcrist's soldiers, who had been in retreat, now fought with the tenacity of desperate warriors. Their eyes were fixed on Aemon, lying on the ground, and on Lilith, who seemed to command the fire with every move.

But the pressure was immense. Dravenmoor advanced on Lilith with brutal force, his powerful arm cutting through the air with a sword that seemed made to destroy. He struck in a massive motion, almost like a thunderous blow, and Lilith barely had time to dodge, feeling the hot wind of the blade brush her face. She retreated, but not out of fear. Instead, she prepared for the next strike, her eyes fixed on her enemy like a serpent ready to strike.

Volcrist's soldiers fought with renewed strength, but Dravenmoor's numbers still felt overwhelming. One of Volcrist's soldiers, a young man with dark hair and a determined gaze, threw himself against Dravenmoor's line with a yell, his sword gleaming like a star. He met resistance from an enemy soldier's shield, which blocked the blow with a dry thud, but the Volcrist soldier didn't retreat, pushing with all his might. The clash of swords and shields echoed through the battle like thunder. But he was alone, and it didn't take long for other Dravenmoor soldiers to surround and attack him, bringing him down.

Lilith, watching the scene, launched another burst of fire. The flames swept over Dravenmoor's front line, and a collective scream rose from his army. They hadn't expected such resistance, such fierce power from a mage.

The battle felt like absolute chaos, soldiers fighting in a frenzy, their sword movements like a deadly dance. But Lilith knew time was running out. She needed something more, something that could turn the tide. She raised her hand again, summoning more fire, more power, her heart filled with rage. She looked at Aemon, fallen on the ground, and at Dravenmoor's imposing figure, and something inside her ignited. She couldn't let him be defeated like this.

The battle was still in play, but the balance tilted towards Dravenmoor, and the fight, now more intense than ever, mirrored Aemon's internal struggle, his need to rise. Aemon, with his strength and his broken bones, felt the battle within him. He didn't know how, but he needed to stand. Not just for the throne. Not just for honor. But for his life, for the life of Volcrist, and for the hope that still burned in his kingdom's defensive lines.

And maybe, just maybe, if he survived this, the power he sought would reveal itself.