As time passed and the tension on the battlefield lingered, Fianna moved quickly through the dimly lit corridors of the castle, her heart pounding like a drum in her chest. Shadows clung to the stone walls, and a cold draft whispered through the halls, adding to the unease gnawing at her. Something was wrong; she could feel it in the pit of her stomach, a creeping sense of dread she couldn’t quite explain. Her steps quickened as she approached Aemon’s door, the knot of anxiety in her chest tightening.

Reaching the heavy wooden door, she placed her hand on the cold iron handle and tried to turn it. Locked. A small frown formed on her brow as she gently knocked, her voice soft but filled with concern.

— Aemon? Are you there?

She waited, her ear close to the door, hoping for the faintest sound—a response, a sign of life. The silence on the other side only deepened the sinking feeling in her gut. Her hand curled into a fist as she knocked harder, her voice more urgent.

— Aemon? Please, open the door!

Still nothing. The silence was deafening now, and it weighed on her like a heavy cloak. With no other option, Fianna’s worry morphed into quiet resolve. She turned away from the door, her steps measured but brisk as she made her way back to the great hall, where Alaric, Thorne, Cedric, and Edric were gathered, their expressions grave as they discussed the turmoil gripping the kingdom.

When Fianna entered the room, her face was etched with concern, her eyes betraying the unease that had taken root in her heart.

— Aemon's door is locked, she said, her voice steady but tinged with worry. — I tried calling him, but he didn't answer.

Alaric, who had been pacing, stopped abruptly. He turned to face her, his brows furrowing in concern. His sharp gaze met hers, and the tension in the room shifted, thickening like a storm about to break. Thorne, always the pragmatic one, sighed, his hand rubbing the back of his neck as if trying to ease the weight of the situation.

— He must be exhausted and decided to rest, Thorne offered, his tone firm but not without empathy. — After everything he's been through in the past few days, it wouldn't surprise me if he needed a good night's sleep.

Cedric, sitting near the hearth, nodded in agreement, his face cast in flickering shadows as the fire danced in front of him. His voice, calm and measured, added to the sense of reason that Thorne had tried to instill.

— Aemon has been carrying a heavy burden, Cedric said, leaning forward slightly. — It's possible he just wants a moment of peace.

Edric, who had remained silent thus far, glanced toward Alaric before speaking. His voice was quieter, more reserved, but there was a certain wisdom behind his words.

— Perhaps we should let him rest, Edric suggested, his eyes scanning the room. — Tomorrow, he'll be more willing, and we can talk to him then.

Alaric stood frozen for a moment, his hand gripping the back of his chair as he considered their words. His mind was torn between the rational explanations and the gnawing fear clawing at him. Finally, with a sigh of reluctant acceptance, he nodded, though the worry in his eyes never faded.

— Alright, he said, his voice heavy with resignation. — Let him rest. We'll talk to him tomorrow. We've all had a long day.

The tension in the room seemed to ease, though only slightly, as each of them retreated to their own thoughts, burdened by their own worries. One by one, they left the hall, seeking the solace of their chambers, but the unease lingered like a shadow that refused to fade. The locked door of Aemon’s room remained an unanswered question, a secret that none of them yet understood.

But as the night deepened, far from the castle walls, the prince was fighting for his life, locked in a deadly game with the cruel sorceress who had him in her grasp.

At dawn, the castle stirred with uneasy whispers. The air felt thick with something unsaid, as if every breath held a hidden tension. Aemon’s absence weighed heavily, but no one dared voice their concerns—until the silence was abruptly shattered.

The sudden sound of hurried footsteps echoed through the hall, followed by the sight of two guards bursting through the doors, their faces pale, drenched in sweat, their breath coming in ragged gasps. They carried the weight of terrible news, and it showed in every trembling step.

Thorne, always quick to anger, was the first to react. His eyes narrowed as he stepped forward, his hand instinctively going to the hilt of his sword, his voice cutting through the room like steel.

— What disrespect is this? Speak at once, or I'll have your head for disturbing the court's peace!

The guards halted, their faces ashen, eyes wide with fear. They exchanged glances, struggling to find the words, but their terror was palpable, and it hung in the air like the scent of death. Alaric, his worry growing by the second, stepped forward, his patience wearing thin.

— Stop stalling and tell us what happened! His voice was sharp, his fear masked by frustration. — What has happened to Aemon?

One of the guards, trembling visibly, swallowed hard, his voice barely above a whisper as he spoke.

— My lord, the prince... He... He was on the battlefield last night. There was a great explosion... And... He's missing...

The words hit like a thunderclap. Alaric’s face drained of color, the blood rushing from his body as the realization struck him. His breath caught in his throat, his heart skipping a beat as he stared ahead, unseeing, as if the world around him had fallen away. The thought of losing another heir, another son... it was unbearable, a pain too great to comprehend.

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Cedric, standing at the far side of the room, kept his expression composed, though inside, a flicker of satisfaction sparked in the depths of his cold eyes. For a brief moment, he allowed himself to savor the hidden victory before quickly masking his true emotions, feigning shock like the others.

Thorne, stunned into silence, looked around the room as if searching for answers, but found none. His mind struggled to process the information, the weight of it pressing down on him like a vice. The room fell into a heavy silence, each person lost in their own thoughts, grappling with the enormity of what they had just heard.

Fianna, her heart pounding in her chest, felt the suffocating tension around her. With a determined step forward, she broke the spell that had fallen over them, her voice steady, but her eyes filled with resolve.

— What exactly happened? — Her voice, firm and direct, sliced through the air, demanding clarity.

The guards, still trembling, exchanged nervous glances before one of them stepped forward, trying to steady the tremor in his voice as he spoke:

— Milady, the prince... he was on the battlefield last night. — He paused, swallowing hard before continuing. — The fighting was intense, and the heir faced the barbarian chief in a vicious duel. The situation was desperate and...

— Go on — Fianna demanded, her patience fraying.

— He... devised a plan, Milady. A dangerous one. The prince led the battle towards an area where scattered gunpowder lay. When the barbarian chief was about to land the final strike, the prince... used a torch to ignite it.

Fianna pressed her lips together, her eyes locked on the guard, who struggled to continue, his voice faltering:

— There was a massive explosion, Milady. The barbarian chief was gravely wounded and fled, and most of their forces were crushed. But... — He hesitated, searching for words that would soften the blow. — But we haven't seen him since. The battlefield was consumed by fire and smoke, making it impossible to search immediately.

A tightness gripped Fianna's chest, though she kept her composure, forcing herself to digest the harrowing details. She glanced at Alaric, who stood pale and trembling, before turning her sharp gaze back to the guards.

— Are you certain? There's been no sign of him?

— None, Milady — the guard replied, his voice barely above a whisper. — We combed the area once the flames died, but... there's no trace. We're afraid the worst has happened.

The silence that fell was suffocating, as everyone in the hall absorbed the weight of the guard's words. Fianna's heart pounded painfully, but she knew she needed to remain strong. Yet the reality painted by the guards was grim.

As the grim news settled in, the weight of the revelation bore down like a physical force. King Alaric, already ghostly pale, could no longer withstand the growing dread. His knees buckled as his eyes rolled back, his body collapsing to the floor like a felled tree.

— The King! — Thorne bellowed, rushing forward, followed closely by Edric and Cedric. They knelt beside the unconscious Alaric, desperately trying to revive him.

— Cedric, help me lift him — Thorne barked, trying to maintain a semblance of control though his heart raced. Cedric swiftly grabbed his father’s arm, while Edric supported the other. Together, they carefully lifted the king and settled him into a nearby chair.

Thorne, feeling the tension rising, turned his eyes to Fianna, who stood frozen in shock, her face pale.

— Fianna, go! Bring the court physician, now! — His voice, though commanding, was laced with urgency and fear.

Without a word, Fianna spun on her heel and bolted from the hall, her footsteps echoing down the stone corridors. The heavy silence was only punctuated by the whispers and murmurs of the onlookers as Thorne, Edric, and Cedric tended to the fallen king, their worry mounting with each passing second.

Thorne stared at Alaric’s limp form, a chill running down his spine. The thought of losing Aemon, and now potentially the king as well, was unbearable. His mind raced, knowing that the kingdom teetered on the brink of despair. The weight of leadership had never felt so crushing.

Far from the castle, in a darkened cave, the air was thick with the acrid scent of burning herbs and something far more sinister. The firelight danced over the rough stone walls, casting flickering shadows that gave life to the darkness. At the heart of the cave, the sorceress stirred a bubbling concoction, her malevolent grin widening as she watched the brew simmer.

A figure stirred on the cold ground nearby. Aemon, his body battered and broken, slowly regained consciousness. His eyelids fluttered open, and the searing pain that shot through him was immediate and relentless. He tried to sit up, but agony wracked his body, forcing a low groan from his lips.

— Well, well... The prince has finally awoken. — The sorceress’s voice, smooth and venomous, echoed in the cave, though she didn’t bother to look at him. Her attention remained fixed on the boiling potion before her, as though the prince’s suffering was of little consequence. — Don’t be foolish. Lie still, or your fragile body will shatter beyond repair.

Disoriented and confused, the prince’s mind struggled to make sense of where he was. His memories were fragmented, flashes of battle and fire haunting his thoughts. He attempted to move again, but a fresh wave of pain crashed over him, drawing another groan.

The sorceress glanced at him briefly, her cold eyes glinting with amusement as she caught sight of his struggle. She laughed—a cruel, mocking sound that filled the cave, void of sympathy.

— Pathetic, really. You should thank me for keeping you alive, though I’m not sure how long that mercy will last. — Her words dripped with venom, each syllable carefully crafted to cut deep into his already battered spirit.

— You were quite reckless in that battle, prince... But I must admit, it was quite the spectacle. All that destruction, all that chaos... it's almost poetic, wouldn't you agree? — She finally turned, her eyes gleaming with a dangerous blend of madness and delight as she reveled in his suffering.

The young warrior struggled to respond, but his voice came out weak, barely more than a strained whisper. His body felt heavy, and the exhaustion threatened to drag him back into unconsciousness.

— What... have you done...? — he managed to murmur, desperately trying to piece together the grim reality he found himself in.

The sorceress let out a low, mocking laugh, softer this time but no less unsettling. She tossed a handful of pungent herbs into the boiling pot, the aroma growing more intense.

— I saved your life, of course. But don't be mistaken, my dear prince. It wasn't out of kindness. I want to see just how much you can endure—how much more pain, how much more despair. — Her voice oozed with morbid curiosity as she moved closer, her gaze filled with sadistic pleasure. — Now, be a good boy and lie still. I have grand plans for you, but for that, I need you to stay alive... at least for now.

With no strength left to resist, he lowered himself back to the cold, damp ground, feeling the chill of the earth beneath him and the warmth of the fire at his side. He was utterly at her mercy, and the desperation of the situation weighed heavily upon him. The only thing left for him now was to hold on, to resist, if only to uncover the dark purpose this twisted woman had in store for him.