From the far end of the corridor, the sound of hurried footsteps grew louder, and Cedric’s hope flickered for a brief moment. But as the figures emerged from the shadows, his heart sank. It wasn’t his guards—it was Thorne, dragged roughly by two invaders clad in the dark armor of Dravenmoor. Blood dripped from a fresh gash across his temple, staining his once-pristine robes.

Fianna’s hands trembled as she stood frozen beside Cedric. Her wide eyes darted between the bloodied figure of Thorne and the imposing invaders that flanked him.

— No... — Fianna whispered, her voice breaking. — This can’t be happening.

Cedric’s grip on Seraphine tightened as the invaders stepped closer. He looked down at her pale face, the faint rise and fall of her chest the only sign that life still clung to her fragile body. With shaking hands, he turned toward the soldiers.

— Please! — Cedric’s voice cracked, desperation pouring out with every word. — She’s innocent! Don’t harm her—I beg you!

One of the invaders, a towering man with a cruel smirk etched across his face, took a deliberate step forward. His blade, still dripping with fresh blood, scraped ominously against the stone floor.

— You think begging will save you? — the man sneered, his voice laced with mockery. — Where were your pleas when your soldiers died like dogs outside these walls?

Cedric’s legs nearly buckled, but he stood his ground, his body shielding Seraphine’s unconscious form. His gaze darted toward the distant hallways, searching for any sign of reinforcements.

The stairs creaked with each heavy step of Dravenmoor, echoing like a fatal warning against the stone walls. The sound seemed to stretch time, pulling each second until it became unbearable.

Cedric remained motionless, his eyes vacant and fixed ahead, as if searching for something in the shadows, or perhaps staring through them, lost in an internal battle that no one else could understand. His body, though rigid, was submerged in a sea of dark thoughts, as if he were gazing into the abyss before him. Dravenmoor and Cerys' arrival did not seem to ease his tension. Instead, it only intensified it.

The air grew denser as they climbed, a nauseating mixture of congealed blood and iron that seemed to invade even their lungs, making each breath a painful effort. The atmosphere was like an invisible shackle, tightening around their chests and making concentration impossible.

The smell hit Fianna and Edric in a visceral way. The fresh iron of swords, the blood still warm in the recent wounds, cut through the air with a pungency that burned their eyes. Fianna felt as if her throat was closing, a crushing pressure that threatened to drown her. Her stomach twisted with the mixture of disgust and fear, as if her body was reacting before her mind could even process what was happening.

She tried to resist, fighting against the urge to succumb, but it was futile. The nausea rose quickly, forcing her to bend over, her stomach turning inside her as the smell of blood hit her like a tidal wave. Edric, beside her, could not control his reaction. His hand trembled as he leaned against the wall to keep from falling, but it was the pain at the back of his throat that betrayed him, forcing him to step away, mouth open, gasping for fresh air that never came.

Dravenmoor, unfazed by the reactions of the others, continued climbing, his presence imposing, like a shadow of something larger. He was used to the smell of death, to the sounds of pain that echoed around him, but with every step, a deeper sense of oppression filled the air. Cerys, beside him, walked with an upright posture, as though watching everything from a distant tower, indifferent to the affliction of her companions.

Fianna, still with tears in her eyes, tried to ignore the dizziness closing in on her, but she couldn’t escape the weight of fear, the terror of something approaching unseen, a shapeless force hovering in the air.

The echoes of their labored breaths and the creaking of the stairs seemed to blend with the sound of blood still pulsing in their veins, each step bringing them closer to something she knew she couldn’t escape. Something sinister was coming.

The tension in the hall of Volcrist was palpable, as if the air had been cut into pieces that no one dared breathe. Cedric, kneeling in the center, looked at Lord Dravenmoor and Lady Cerys, his eyes trying to grasp onto the last line of defense still left in his confused and shattered mind.

— What... what do you want? Cedric’s voice was a weak whisper, trembling as though the very weight of the words almost suffocated him.

Lord Dravenmoor, with an indifferent smile, didn’t move. His eyes gleamed with a coldness that seemed to pierce Cedric’s soul.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

— It’s not about what we want, Cedric. It’s about what we’ve already taken. Volcrist belongs to us now. Your allies are dead or fled. Your army is surrounded, and the people... well, they no longer scream your name. Dravenmoor’s tone was that of someone who had already defeated an empire, as if the words were merely a formality.

Cedric, feeling the ground disappear beneath his feet, looked at the others, the leaders standing before him, not a word of support, not a gesture of compassion. His breath grew heavier, the fear turning into a desperate need to escape, as if the very idea of resistance had become unbearable.

— You... you can’t do this. Volcrist... this kingdom isn’t yours! I am the king now! The words came out with more force, but they failed to carry any weight. It was a lost cry, an empty assertion in the face of inevitable defeat.

Lady Cerys smiled, her smile cruel and lifeless, like the blade of a sharp knife. She slowly shook her head, almost as if teaching a lesson to a child.

— Oh, Cedric. Do you really think a crown makes you a king? Volcrist has always belonged to the strong. And you... you were never strong enough. Her tone was venomous, laced with a superiority that turned each word into a strike.

In the grand hall, the torches flickered with a sinister glow, reflecting off the stone walls, making the atmosphere even more oppressive, almost claustrophobic. The smell of metal was still in the air, seeping into everyone’s senses, while Cedric, still kneeling, tried in vain to process the blow.

Lady Cerys continued, her voice cold and calculated, in no hurry to reveal the details, as if speaking of a game already won.

— We worried in vain, she said with a slight gesture of disdain. Volcrist’s defenses were weakened. The various bandit raids in the more remote areas gave us the perfect opportunity. It was foolish to send your forces to fight those invaders.

Lord Dravenmoor, observing his companion, nodded in approval, his smile sharp as the blade of a sword.

— Underestimating the enemy is the greatest mistake a kingdom can make... and Cedric made all of them, he said with a coldness that pierced the mind of anyone who heard him. Volcrist was a fortress... until he turned it into ruins.

But something in the background began to unsettle Lady Cerys. Her once proud and confident gaze began to shift nervously around the hall. Something seemed to be missing, something she couldn’t identify at first glance.

— Something’s missing here... she murmured, her voice low but piercing. Where is Aemon? He should be here, beside the uncle.

The mention of Aemon seemed to cut through the tense atmosphere like a blade. His name rattled Cedric, Edric, and Seraphine, their hearts racing for a moment, as if the name were a spell that made them relive all their hopes.

Dravenmoor, raising an eyebrow with a cynical look, remained silent for a moment before responding with a thoughtful tone.

— That’s not what I heard, he murmured, as if reevaluating the information. I thought he died in battle, a fallen hero.

Cerys shook her head, her smile cold becoming more enigmatic, as if she were the only one who held all the answers.

— You’re not well informed. He survived. He disappeared from the city... he was seen with a mysterious woman in the regions of Vaermere.

Dravenmoor was silent for a moment, his eyes narrowing in consideration. He seemed to process her words, and a faint glimmer of recognition appeared in his gaze.

— So, he’s alive... he murmured, with a surprise that didn’t seem genuine, but rather a cold calculation. And if Aemon is alive, he will certainly return. This place was always his destiny. We’ll wait. He’ll come.

As these words echoed through the hall, Aemon, elsewhere, felt the weight of time pressing down on his shoulders. His feet hit the ground with desperate urgency as he carried Lilith in his arms, the silver egg protected against his chest. The wind cut through his skin, and the distant sounds of battle and chaos echoed in his mind, as if the world itself were collapsing. He couldn’t waste any more time.

Ahead, his eyes caught sight of a caravan of soldiers marching toward Volcrist. The banners fluttered in the wind, and Aemon’s heart raced. They were men from Volcrist, but something about them was wrong, something didn’t fit. What he saw before him were familiar figures, but what he felt was different. They looked at him as though he were a legend, a living shadow of something that had already died.

— Hey! the prince shouted, his voice tearing through the air, laden with desperate urgency. Listen!

The soldiers, initially distracted, stopped abruptly. Their faces, once determined and focused, froze in pure shock as they recognized the figure before them. Aemon, stronger, more enigmatic, carried a weight that had never existed before. His eyes, now deeper and more intense, reflected a transformation that no one there could understand.

— A-Aemon? one of the soldiers stammered, his eyes wide, and his hand instinctively went to the sword at his belt, as if to fight an illusion.

Aemon, without wasting any time, leapt onto the cart with supernatural agility, his breath heavy, but his eyes fixed on the mission.

— Yes, it’s me! We don’t have time! Volcrist is under attack! He quickly positioned himself, his eyes burning with desperate urgency. I need you to go straight there, no questions. There’s no time for doubt!

The soldiers exchanged glances, unsure of what to think, but Aemon’s unyielding tone made them understand the gravity of the situation. They hesitated, but not enough to ignore the urgency in his words.

— But... one of the soldiers began, but was interrupted by a firm order from the commander.

— Don’t question it! The commander, his eyes fixed on Aemon, knew something was deeply wrong. If he was here, alive, and not dead like they were told, the world had already shifted in ways they couldn't yet understand.

With an uncertain but resolute gesture, the caravan turned its course toward Volcrist. The air around them seemed to crackle with tension. They couldn’t avoid the fact that the coming storm was real.