Aftermath in Camp
The fires burned low, but the smell of blood lingered, heavy and bitter. Soldiers dragged the corpses of the spies into the shadows, their faces pale with the realization that the enemy had been among them all along.
Inside Aelion's tent, Kaelen sat rigid while a healer stitched the gash across his side. He bore it in silence, teeth gritted, eyes fixed on the flap of the tent as if daring another enemy to enter.
Aelion hovered near, restless, his hands clenched so tight the nails left crescents in his palms. "You should be resting, not glaring holes through the canvas."
Kaelen's lips twitched in the faintest smirk. "Resting feels like surrender."
The healer scolded him but kept her work steady. When she left, Aelion dropped to one knee before him, eyes burning with emotion.
"You almost died." The words cracked, sharp with fear. "You can't keep throwing yourself in front of blades meant for me."
Kaelen reached out, cupping Aelion's chin, forcing his gaze to meet his. "And if I hadn't? You'd be the one on this cot. I swore to guard you, Aelion. That oath is the marrow of who I am."
Aelion's throat tightened, tears threatening. "But what of who you are to me?" His voice fell to a whisper. "More than guard. More than oath. You're the reason I can bear this crown at all."
Kaelen's hand stilled. For once, words failed him.
Outside, the murmurs of soldiers swelled—whispers of prophecy, of shadows, of the bond their prince shared with his guard. Some voices carried hope. Others carried fear. Aelion heard them all, and his jaw set with new steel.
Tomorrow, he would not let the council dictate his choices. He would stand before his men and show them that prophecy would not chain their fate.
But tonight, his hand lingered over Kaelen's, holding it as though to anchor both of them against the pull of destiny.
---
In the Shadow's Lair
Far to the north, within caverns of endless night, Varros felt the severing of his spies as one feels the snapping of a tether. Their lives winked out like candles snuffed beneath a storm.
He smiled.
"So, the sun burns brighter than I thought," he murmured, pacing before the altar of black stone. His silver eyes gleamed with cruel amusement. "And the shadow that walks beside him bleeds, yet does not fall. Interesting."
Around him, his new army stirred—men and women twisted by his power, their veins glowing faintly with darkness. The cavern pulsed with their whispers, restless, hungry.
Varros raised his arms, and silence fell like a blade.
"They think killing my spies ends the game. But they forget—shadows do not break, they spread." His voice dripped with venom and delight. "Let them heal. Let them cling to their fragile love. It will only make the moment of ruin sweeter."
At his command, the altar bled shadow across the floor, forming shapes—cities, roads, battlefields. His hand swept over the map of darkness, and whole regions drowned in black.
"The prophecy demands only one shall shine. And I…" He pressed a hand to his chest, his laughter echoing. "…I will decide who that one will be."
The army roared, their cries a storm in the cavern. Varros lifted his head, silver eyes fixed northward.
"Let the prince and his guard cherish their fleeting dawn. Soon, night will fall—and in night, I am eternal."