Chapter 13: Chapter 12-The Storm Beneath The Silence

The fire in the hearth murmured low, casting golden light across the polished stone of the royal apartments. Outside, wind rustled through the high silver pines, but within the walls of Greyclaw’s inner keep, the world was still — and warm. Queen Krysthalia del Rathaile reclined on a cushioned bench beside the low hearth-table, a simple fur-lined wrap around her shoulders, her silver hair braided loosely over one shoulder. The circlet of the office had been left on its velvet pillow. Tonight, she was not a queen. She was simply a mother. Opposite her, nestled into a cushion too large for her frame, was Ashanti — four years old, legs swinging above the floor, ears perked forward in anticipation. Her fur was still soft with youth, her eyes alight with innocent mischief.

“Is it really pie night?” she whispered, her voice full of wonder.

Krysthalia smirked behind her teacup. “If the stars haven’t moved, yes.”

“Even though I was naughty yesterday?”

“Especially because of that,” Krysthalia said dryly. “Every rebel deserves a last meal.”

Ashanti grinned and rested her chin on her hands, practically vibrating with anticipation.

Just then, a knock came at the door — light and familiar.

“Enter,” Krysthalia called.

The door eased open, and Maela stepped inside. Her robes were the soft blue of evening service, a leather-wrapped satchel slung over one shoulder. In her hands, carefully balanced, she carried a silver tray cloaked in linen. The moment the scent reached the room — ironboar, thyme, and rosemary, crisped into the crust — Ashanti’s ears shot up.

“It’s here!” she squealed.

Maela laughed, setting the tray on the table and peeling back the cloth with a little flourish.

“One Greyclaw Meatpie,” she announced, “liberated from the kitchens and smuggled under threat of death.”

“You’re so brave!” Ashanti declared, clapping as the pie was revealed in a cloud of rich steam.

“Don’t encourage her,” Krysthalia said with a smile, though her voice held no bite.

Maela gave a sly wink. “Bravery is tradition in this family.”

Ashanti dug in with her small fork, tearing a clean piece from the golden crust and revealing the stew beneath — tender chunks of ironboar, mountain onions, and gravy thick with the forest’s green herbs.

“Mmmm,” she hummed in ecstasy. “Better than feast food. Better than dumplings. Better than everything.”

“Careful,” Krysthalia warned. “Words like that can get a princess exiled.”

Ashanti made a show of thinking. “Can I still have meat pie if I’m exiled?”

“Only if you don’t tell the steward.”

“Deal!”

The laughter that followed was small, unguarded, and warm. Krysthalia leaned forward, brushing a crumb from her daughter’s cheek. Ashanti beamed back at her with a mouthful of crust, cheeks full like a chipmunk.

“You’re going to turn into a pie,” Maela teased, settling beside her.

“I want to!” Ashanti giggled. “Then you’d never forget me.”

Maela ruffled her hair. “As if I ever could, Little Moon.”

The name landed with quiet affection, and Ashanti tilted her head, pleased. She loved it when Maela called her that — a secret between them. A name only given when the halls were quiet and the world felt safe. Krysthalia’s smile softened. Her daughter leaned instinctively against Maela’s side, still chewing, content.

“She adores you,” Krysthalia said, voice low but genuine.

“And I her,” Maela replied, wrapping an arm gently around Ashanti’s shoulders.

The three of them sat there in the soft firelight — queen, daughter, and the woman trusted with both their hearts. For now, there was only warmth. The pie was already half-devoured, and Ashanti had flecks of crust on her cheeks and one stubborn smudge of gravy on her nose. She didn’t seem to notice — or care.

“Slow down, Little Moon,” Maela chided gently, wiping at Ashanti’s face with the corner of a linen napkin. “At this rate, the pie will eat you.”

“It’s too good!” Ashanti mumbled around a bite. “I’ll never eat slow again!”

Krysthalia raised a brow. “A bold vow for a girl whose bedtime bell chimes in twenty minutes.”

Ashanti froze, fork hovering. “Wait… It’s almost bedtime?”

“Nearly,” Maela said, smoothing the little girl’s fur behind one ear. “And there’s still brushing, and your prayers, and your—”

“Not if I finish before the bell!” Ashanti declared, shoveling another piece into her mouth.

The two women laughed — Krysthalia’s laugh quiet, amused, Maela’s fuller, more maternal. The queen rested her chin on her hand and simply watched them, watching her daughter tucked so easily against Maela’s side, glowing with joy and innocence.

“She’s clever,” Krysthalia said softly.

“She’s dangerous,” Maela returned. “You’ve created a tiny, pie-hungry insurgent.”

“I’ll have to draft her into the war council.”

Ashanti looked up, eyes wide and lips greasy. “Can I? I have plans! We can build pie towers and throw crusts at the bad people.”

Krysthalia pretended to consider it. “That may in fact be more effective than half the strategies I've been given.”

Ashanti grinned, full of mischief and sugar-blooded defiance. She didn’t know what war really was. Not yet. And Krysthalia found herself thankful — achingly thankful — that she could still sit here and pretend the world was small enough to protect.

The fire popped softly. Somewhere in the keep, a bell chimed once, low and resonant. A gentle signal that the hour was drawing close.

Maela rose and brushed crumbs from her lap.

“Time to start winding down, Little Moon,” she said. “Let’s get you washed and wrapped before the bell strikes again.”

“Nooo,” Ashanti groaned. “Just five more minutes. Please?”

“You said that five minutes ago,” Maela reminded her, scooping the girl into her arms with ease. “And before that. And before that.”

Ashanti clung to her like a cub refusing to be set down. “But what if I get hungry in my sleep?”

“Then I’ll sneak you a pie crumb under your pillow.”

“Really?”

“No.”

Ashanti giggled into her shoulder as Maela carried her from the table. Krysthalia stood slowly, gathering her robe around her, watching them go with a bittersweet look in her eyes.

“Brush her tail, not just her hair,” she called after them.

“Of course, my Queen,” Maela replied.

“And tell her I’ll come kiss her goodnight after I speak with the wardmaster.”

Maela paused in the doorway and looked back, her expression unreadable for a moment.

Then she nodded. “Always.”

The door closed behind them with a soft click. And for the first time that evening, Krysthalia felt cold. The fire had burned low. Only embers remained now, glowing like the eyes of some old god beneath the hearthstone. Krysthalia lingered at the table, her hands cradling a cooling cup of tea steeped with root and resin. Outside, the wind rustled through turning leaves — the slow breath of autumn moving through silverpine boughs. The air smelled of bark and fading warmth. A faint hum threaded the edges of her awareness. Not a sound, exactly, but a pressure — like the wards woven into the keep were tightening, resisting something unseen beyond the palace walls.

***

She was just rising when the door opened. Tirian stepped through — tall, broad-shouldered, his hair streaked with gray, but his eyes still calm and clear. His presence brought with it the scent of forest dust and warm leather. He wore no crown, no robes — just a tailored tunic and travel cloak, his bearing more soldier than royal.

“You missed dinner,” Krysthalia said, not turning.

“I was warned the meatpie was already claimed,” he replied, placing a hand to her shoulder and leaning in to kiss her temple. “Our Little Moon guards her plate like a lioness.”

“She earned it.”

“You’ll spoil her,” he said lightly, taking a seat across from her. “One day she’ll demand ironboar and rosemary at every state banquet.”

Krysthalia allowed a smile. “Better she eat it in my presence than sneak it past the guards at midnight. She’s clever and quick. Like someone else I know.”

“A trait we both regret in each other,” he said dryly, then leaned back. “Are you well?”

Her smile faded.

“The wards are... humming.”

That gave him pause.

“Humming?”

“Low. As if… resisting something.”

He frowned. “A tremor in the ley?”

“No. This is different.”

Before he could press further, a gong rang out — not ceremonial, but sharp and low. Then a second. Then a third. Alarm. A steward appeared at the door, pale and out of breath. “My Queen. Stricken. Sighted outside the capital walls. In numbers.”

Krysthalia’s spine straightened. “How many?”

“Too many for coincidence.”

She turned immediately. “Hold the bells. Lock the outer circle. Alert the Warden Generals.”

Tirian was already moving with her. But before they reached the hall’s end, Krysthalia stopped beside a familiar door. Ashanti’s room. She slipped inside quietly. The child was already curled under her soft blanket, her little body barely rising with breath. One arm wrapped around a worn fox plush, the other draped over the covers. Her cheeks were still pink from laughter, her lashes dark against her skin. Krysthalia knelt and kissed her brow.

“Sleep well, Little Moon,” she whispered. “I’ll return before morning.”

Ashanti murmured something, too faint to catch, and turned her face into the pillow. Krysthalia pulled the blanket up gently, then stood and closed the door behind her. Maela was waiting in the corridor. Krysthalia’s voice dropped to steel.

“Stay with her. If anything happens, you protect her. With your life.”

Maela bowed her head without hesitation.

“With my life, my Queen.”

Krysthalia gave one last glance toward the door, then walked into the rising dark. The sound of the alarm gongs echoed through the stony corridors of Greyclaw Keep like distant thunder. Servants scurried through shadowed halls with wide eyes and half-buckled cloaks, murmuring wordless fears. Already, the outer towers lit flamebeacons and signal pyres. Krysthalia moved swiftly through the stone underways that led to the armory hold, her steps sure, her expression unreadable. The ward-song still hummed faintly, but it was no longer a warning — it was a cry. By the time she reached the reinforced doors, two royal guards stood at attention, uncertain whether to salute or stop her.

“Your Majesty—” one began.

“Out of my way,” Krysthalia said calmly.

They parted immediately. Within the armory, the scent of cold steel and oiled leather filled the air. Her attendants scrambled toward her, startled by her arrival, but she ignored them. Her hand went to the ceremonial rack first, not for show, but for a purpose. Breastplate of silversteel, etched with the runes of her bloodline. Greaves strapped firmly around her shins. Gauntlets buckled to her forearms. Her long outer cloak she left aside. No helm — she wanted the enemy to see her face. As her fingers tightened the last strap, a voice sounded behind her.

“A queen shouldn’t ride into a night like this.”

She turned.

A captain — young, stern-eyed — stood at the threshold. He bowed, but there was fear in his gaze. Not for himself. For her.

“We are ready to give our lives. But yours—”

Krysthalia’s gaze held him fast.

“Just as I am Ashanti’s mother,” she said, her voice like the clash of steel on stone, “so too am I mother to every soul beneath this banner. I will not sit behind walls while my children bleed.”

The captain bowed his head, silenced. Bootsteps echoed down the corridor behind her. Tirian entered at a steady pace, already pulling his own cuirass over his tunic. His blade — a straight, well-used longsword with no ceremonial flourishes — hung at his side.

“I can’t let my love fight all alone, can I?”

Krysthalia glanced at him, her gaze softening only for a moment.

“You’ve always been foolish.”

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“It’s why you married me.”

He stepped beside her, resting a hand briefly on her armored forearm. “We hold them here. We send them back into the wilds.”

“We buy time,” Krysthalia corrected, eyes narrowing. “Until I know she is safe.”

Tirian nodded.

She turned to her captain.

“Ready the gate phalanx. Twenty to the inner ring. I want eyes on every bridge. Every tower.”

“Yes, my Queen.”

The soldiers scattered, purpose overriding their hesitation. Krysthalia looked out through the slitted window beyond the armory. In the distance — just beyond the treeline — the shapes had begun to move. Twisted silhouettes, crawling across the valley floor. The Stricken had arrived. And tonight, Greyclaw would not sleep. The scent of burning pine wafted through the night air. Krysthalia stepped through the east portico beside Tirian, the sound of her armored greaves clanking against the stone lost in the cacophony echoing through the city. Chaos had already taken root. Servants ran through the narrow corridors that linked the keep to the walls, dragging wide-eyed children and hastily packed bags behind them. Dogs barked. Warnings were shouted. Wards glowed faintly on archways as command-scribes desperately attempted to reinforce them, and through it all, people moved like frightened animals — pulled by instinct, not direction. They stumbled through the torchlit dark toward the inner sanctum, where they believed the queen’s presence would keep them safe.

“It’s spreading faster than expected,” Tirian muttered, sword drawn but held low.

“Panic always runs ahead of the enemy.”

Krysthalia’s jaw tightened as she stepped aside to let a steward and two wet nurses rush past with two crying infants wrapped in blankets.

“Not panic,” she said. “Fear. They know.”

From the higher balconies, soldiers scrambled to their posts. Others shouted over one another about breach reports, about shadows moving too fast, about shapes scaling the outer cliffs that no creature should be able to climb. Krysthalia ascended the final stairway to the high gate promenade. From here, she could see the tree line, and beyond it, movement. The Stricken came not as an army but as a crawling tide, dozens, maybe hundreds of twisted figures weaving like insects over the rocks and roots. Their bodies glistened under the twin moons, patches of exposed bone and wet muscle pulsing in the dark.

“Sound the horn,” Krysthalia commanded. “Draw them to the gate.”

“We’ll never hold it,” Tirian said, even as he took position beside her.

“We only need time.”

Behind her, the sounds of chaos did not relent — bells clanging, torches snuffed by gusts of sudden wind, the low hum of wardlines being overwritten. Inside the keep, unknown to her, a shadow moved where none should. A door closed gently. Bootsteps padded down a hall that should have been sealed. The heart of the keep was no longer untouched. And Maela, ever calm, ever smiling, stood silently outside Ashanti’s door — hands folded, expression unreadable — as the world began to burn. To the warband, it was like a storm had been let loose. Krysthalia surged across the stone like a silver bolt, faster than eyes could track, her form blurring as lightning danced in her wake. Her enchanted blade sliced through the first Stricken, then another — each strike sending crackling pulses through their malformed bodies until they burst apart in violent spasms of light and sinew. The bridge became a battlefield of flashes, her magic arcing through clustered enemies, jumping between them like living thunder. Where she struck, the ground scorched black. Behind her, the warband held formation at the mouth of the bridge. They let none pass. Shield met claw. Spear met bone. Tirian stood at the center, his blade not glowing like hers, but moving with brutal, practiced force, efficient and measured. He fought like a wall, unshakable.

“She’s clearing the flanks!” one soldier shouted.

“Keep the line tight!” Tirian barked. “Don’t break for heroics!”

Krysthalia wheeled mid-air, her boot slamming into a Stricken’s chest, sending it spiraling into the moat below. Another lunged from her blind side — she turned and thrust her palm forward, releasing a burst of concentrated lightning that ripped the creature apart mid-leap. Still, they came. Still, she cut. Her body moved with inhuman grace, not wild or frenzied, but honed. Controlled. A Queen who had bled for her crown and knew how to wield fear. But even as her blade tore through the corrupted flesh, something shifted. The air grew heavy. The rhythm of the horde began to change. From somewhere beyond the treeline came a sound that froze the blood in every throat. A roar — deep, guttural, like the bellow of a mountain splitting open. It wasn’t the voice of the Stricken. It was something else. Krysthalia stopped mid-swing, her eyes narrowing.

“Tirian,” she said, turning back toward the line.

“I heard it.”

The Stricken, though still surging, no longer came in mindless frenzy. Their motion began to sync, to shape — as if they were being commanded. The Queen turned her gaze toward the tree line beyond the battlefield.

“There’s something out there.”

The real enemy had not yet shown itself. The roar faded into the treeline, but the echo of it remained, thrumming in the bones of every soldier. Then the Stricken surged again, this time not as a wave, but a maelstrom. No hesitation. No fear. Only violence. They hurled themselves toward the bridge, clawing over the bodies of their own dead, shrieking, gnashing, unbreaking.

“Shields up!” Tirian shouted. “Form tight!”

Krysthalia didn’t wait. She dropped into a low stance, etched a second sigil into the air, three strokes sharp, one curve inverted — and with a deep breath, let go of her restraint. The storm took her. Lightning burst from her body in crackling tendrils, weaving around her limbs and down her spine. The runes on her gauntlets flared to life, illuminating the entire bridge in blue-white radiance. Her hair whipped as though caught in an updraft. Her eyes glowed — not with anger, but with sheer focus. She moved faster than any animal. Too fast for the Stricken to follow. In a blur of motion, she carved through the enemy ranks, each swing of her blade sending arcs of lightning cascading through clustered bodies. Bolts danced from enemy to enemy, each contact a detonation of flesh and fire. Her sword crackled louder than the horns, each impact laced with destructive force. She spun, swept, and dashed, and the battlefield was hers. One Stricken lunged from above — she flicked her wrist, and a bolt lanced upward, reducing it to sizzling bone midair. Another came from the flank — her sword split it in half, and a ribbon of lightning shot out from the edge, bisecting two more behind it. She fought like the storm made flesh — a cyclone of fury and precision.

“By the gods,” a soldier murmured behind the shield wall, barely able to track her.

“That’s no queen,” another whispered. “That’s the storm we named the walls after.”

Krysthalia leapt, blade raised high, and slammed down into a crowd of Stricken. The impact triggered a shockwave of pure electric force that flattened everything within ten paces. For a heartbeat, there was silence. And then— The Stricken froze. Every single one. In mid-lunge. Mid-climb. Mid-crawl. Claws suspended inches from armor. Jaws gaping but unmoving. As if they’d all been struck by the same invisible command. The air stilled. Krysthalia straightened, chest heaving, sparks flickering off her armor and blade. Her eyes scanned the battlefield, pulse thundering in her ears. The warband didn’t cheer. They waited.

Tirian stepped forward, voice low. “Why did they stop?”

Krysthalia looked toward the tree line. And then she felt it. Pressure — ancient, deliberate. A presence not of instinct, but intent. She narrowed her eyes.

“Because something told them to.”

The Stricken remained frozen. Then, without warning, they parted. Not of their own volition — but like puppets yanked from their strings, their bodies jerked away from the center path, clearing a swath of stone and blood between the treeline and the bridge. And from the dark, he emerged. A towering figure stepped through the clearing, shoulders hunched beneath heavy armor half-fused to his corrupted form. His skin gleamed obsidian under the moonlight, striated with glowing crimson veins of dama. Long clawed fingers dragged behind him, and his eyes — if they could be called such — burned like dying stars. The Drekon. Krysthalia’s stance shifted, lightning still dancing across her arms and blade. The Drekon halted just beyond the moat’s edge. He looked at her, not with hunger, not with rage. But with certainty.

“Queen of beasts,” he said, voice like rock grinding beneath deep waters. “You stood before the wheel and turned from it. Your choice will cost you... Everything.”

Krysthalia’s eyes narrowed, her voice iron-hard.

“Speak plainly, or fall in silence.”

The Drekon smiled — a slow, broken stretch of bone and muscle.

“Your daughter wakes. And the shadows are thicker than ink. You have already lost.”

The lightning surged behind Krysthalia's eyes.

“Not yet.”

She moved. The world cracked. In an instant, she and the Drekon collided, and the air around them exploded. Sound shattered — the sheer speed of their clash breaking the barrier between silence and thunder. The impact sent a shockwave roaring outward, flinging Stricken like rag dolls into the sky. Many were torn apart mid-air, their bodies unable to withstand the backlash. Steel rang against the clawed blade. Lightning arced. Cracks splintered through the stone bridge beneath their feet. They moved again — faster. Boom. A second collision lit the night like lightning striking the earth, sending another blast of raw force surging outward. The warband behind them dropped to their knees, shields raised, struggling to hold their footing. Krysthalia spun, her blade dancing with electricity, and brought it down like a hammer. The Drekon met her with a raised arm, claws glowing with dark-red energy. The force of the strike sent both of them skidding back, tearing gouges through the stone.

Tirian shouted, “Pull back! Get the wounded inside!”

But no Stricken followed. They didn’t move — couldn’t. Without the Drekon’s command, they were empty shells, held in stasis by his will alone. This wasn’t a battle for territory. Krysthalia darted forward in a streak of silver and blue, her blade sparking with fresh lightning. She struck from below — an upward slash aimed clean through the Drekon’s exposed abdomen. The impact landed, but did not bite. The blade screamed off the Drekon’s armored hide with a shriek of skidding metal, sparks bursting outward like firecrackers. The monster didn’t even flinch.

Too dense, she realized.

She pivoted, flipping behind him with inhuman grace, her blade reversing for a second strike — this time toward the back of the neck, where the armor looked fractured. Again, the hit connected. And again, the Drekon shrugged it off. He moved like a statue given breath — slow, deliberate, but immovable. One swipe of his claws forced her back a dozen paces. The air warped around his limbs with the heat of controlled dama, seething in veins beneath plated skin.

“You cannot cut what does not yield,” the Drekon murmured, voice low and patient. “And you... Queen of storms... are still tethered to form.”

Krysthalia skidded to a halt, breath steady, but her eyes narrowed. The Drekon charged this time — not fast, but heavy. Each step cracked the stone. His fist came down like a collapsing tower. She rolled beneath it, blade flicking upward toward his underarm — and was met only with the clang of impact against unbreakable plating. The Queen leapt back again, lightning flickering down her arms, lips tight.

“Then let’s see if your shell can outlast the sky.”

She buried her sword in the bridge to its hilt, its runes glowing white-hot. Above her, the storm obeyed. She raised her left hand, fingers outstretched toward the roiling clouds that churned and spiraled above the battlefield. The wind went still, the sky holding its breath. Then the heavens screamed. A single bolt of pure lightning ripped down from the clouds, massive as a tower, blinding in its intensity. It struck Krysthalia’s raised palm and surged through her body, into the blade, and into the Drekon. The impact was apocalyptic. Stone shattered. Air split. Stricken were flung off the bridge like broken dolls as the blast tore a crater into the enemy’s ranks. The Drekon was at the center of it — his body outlined in searing white, armor cracking in a spiderweb of fractures across his chest and shoulder. And then — silence. Smoke curled from the scorched earth. The scent of ozone hung thick in the air. Bits of molten stone hissed as they cooled. The Drekon fell to one knee. Then toppled, crashing to the ground in a heap of blackened flesh and broken plating. For a moment, no one moved. Then came a voice from the rear line.

“She felled it!”

Another followed. “It’s dead!”

“The Queen broke it!”

A ragged cheer burst from the warband — a desperate, hopeful cry of triumph. Krysthalia stood amidst the wreckage, her sword crackling in her grip, breathing heavily. Her eyes locked on the still form ahead.

Is it over?

The smoke shifted. The Drekon's body twitched. Then came the sound, soft at first. A low, grating wheeze. Laughter. Choked and broken, then rising into a rasping, full-throated sound that scraped against the bones of every man and woman on the field. The Drekon lifted its head, eyes glowing hotter than before, mouth split in a jagged grin.

“You think this is death?” he whispered. “This shell is only a gate. You’ve broken nothing.”

His body rose, trembling, splintered, but still very much alive. Cracks in his armor glowed with inner red light, veins of dama pulsing like a second heart. Krysthalia stepped forward, sword raised again. He turned toward her — slowly now, like savoring a secret.

“You burn so bright for her… your little moon.”

Her breath caught in her throat.

“But you were too late,” the Drekon hissed. “The shadow is already within.”

Then he lunged. Claws tore through the air. Krysthalia blocked one, dodged another — but a third caught her side, tearing through enchanted steel, drawing blood. She fell back, teeth clenched, sliding along cracked stone. He pressed in, fast now — faster than before. As if the broken shell had only unleashed him.

“Krystha!” Tirian’s voice rang out — and then he was at her side.

He blocked a sweeping strike, his longsword catching the brunt of the Drekon’s power. Together, they pushed back, blades flashing in tandem — a seamless dance of experience and will. For a moment, they held their ground.

Until the Drekon raised one claw and unleashed a pulse of magic, dark, humming, ancient. It struck Tirian full in the chest. He staggered. Dropped.

“Tirian!” Krysthalia screamed, catching him as he fell.

His body convulsed once, and then went still, eyes fluttering shut. A black sigil pulsed faintly on his chest, fading with each breath. Krysthalia rose. Slowly. The runes across her body flared to life, lightning crawling across her form like a second skin. She did not scream. She did not curse. She simply vanished and reappeared beside the Drekon, blade cleaving through his arm before he could react. Then again — and again. Each strike came with a boom of displaced air, each movement faster than the last. The Drekon, once an overwhelming juggernaut, now could only defend, flinching under the force of a queen who had shed restraint. Wounds opened across his body in flashes. And still, she moved faster. Lightning wove around her like armor. With every beat of her heart, she broke the sound barrier again and again — not running, but rending the world with her speed. And for the first time… The Drekon was afraid. The Drekon fell back, step by step, his once-towering frame hunched and shaking. His armor was shattered. His arms bled from a dozen invisible wounds. His breaths came in wet, hissing bursts. Krysthalia didn’t let up. She blinked forward again, a blur of searing light, and drove her blade through his chest. Lightning exploded from the wound, tearing open his back in a web of radiant fury. The Drekon stiffened, eyes widening. For a moment, he didn’t move. Then his knees buckled. He collapsed, his body hitting the ground with a deep, final weight that shook the broken bridge. Silence. The air shimmered around Krysthalia’s form as the lightning faded, her breath catching in her throat. She turned.

“Tirian…”

She dropped to her knees beside him. He lay still, his chest rising in weak, uneven motions. His skin was pale — too pale. The sigil carved across his heart pulsed faintly, its black edges burned into the flesh like branded smoke.

“Tirian,” she whispered, brushing his cheek. “Stay with me. You hear me?”

No response. She lifted his head gently into her lap, cradling him as if the warmth of her body might keep his soul tethered. Tears welled in her eyes, sharp and hot.

“You stubborn man. You always said you’d outlive me.”

His hand twitched — just once — before falling limp again. She leaned down, her forehead pressed to his.

“Please... don't leave me. Not you.”

Her breath hitched. Around her, the warband stood frozen, unwilling to speak. Some turned their eyes away. Others whispered prayers under their breath. And then— Footsteps. A steward, wild-eyed and disheveled, sprinted across the broken gate path.

“My Queen!” he gasped. “My Queen!”

Krysthalia didn’t move.

“What?”

“The guards inside the keep—” He swallowed hard, shaking. “They're dead. Dozens. Slaughtered.”

Her blood turned cold.

“What?”

“The inner halls were breached. We—we found the high corridor. The nursery wing—”

She was already standing.

The steward’s voice cracked.

“The Princess is gone.”

As the steward’s words fell into the ash-laced silence, a groan rippled across the field. Low. Wet. Empty. Krysthalia turned toward the edge of the bridge. The Stricken, what remained of them, had begun to move again, not attacking, not even coordinated. They shambled, limbs dragging across stone, broken bodies twitching like puppets with tangled strings. Their eyes no longer glowed. No will remained behind them. Without the Drekon’s presence, they were nothing. One of the warband stepped forward — Captain Ralden, his armor bloodied, one arm cradled.

“We’ll handle the clean-up,” he said quietly, his voice tight with grief. “And we’ll carry the Prince Consort to the inner sanctum.”

Krysthalia knelt one last time and brushed Tirian’s hair back from his brow. Her fingers lingered against his face as if trying to memorize it — every line, every scar, every memory.

“Don’t let the healers stop trying,” she said. “You fight like hell to bring him back.”

Ralden nodded once, solemn. Krysthalia stood. Her legs trembled beneath her — from blood loss, from magic depletion, from the shattering ache in her chest — but she ran. Through the broken gate. Across the shattered causeway. Into the city. The streets of the inner keep were chaotic. Smoke clung to the air, and the fires from the initial incursion still flickered along alley edges. The moons above cast strange light through fractured windows — one red, one silver, both watching her like twin witnesses to failure. Bodies lay slumped along the walls — guards, servants, a few unlucky civilians. She didn’t stop. She sprinted through the courtyards where she had once taught Ashanti how to ride a pony. Past the kitchens where Maela had once braided her daughter’s hair. Up the spiral staircase, where light still flickered from overturned lamps. Her breath was ragged. Her muscles screamed. Her boots slipped on blood. Still, she ran. She didn’t dare call out. Didn’t dare let the silence answer. She reached the door to Ashanti’s chamber. It was slightly ajar. A single wolf-carved hinge creaked as she pushed it open. She didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink. Krysthalia stood in the doorway, staring at the empty bed, the soft blanket curled like a sleeping creature, the warm air lying to her. Her daughter was not here. And yet… the scent lingered. Faint, but real. Like memory caught on silk. She stepped further into the room, slow and silent, her nose twitching — not the queen now, not the warrior — but a mother of the beastkin, guided by instinct older than titles. The scent led to the far wall. To the stone altar. The shrine of the Forgotten God, carved by hand before the First Crown was forged. It had never been used in her reign. It had not been touched in generations. But the scent was strongest there.

Ashanti was here.

Krysthalia reached forward and touched the smooth stone. It pulsed. She pushed — and the wall groaned. Dust spiraled as ancient gears shifted. A hidden passage cracked open, revealing cold steps descending into the dark. The air changed. Older. Earthier. Stale with secrets. She descended. One flight. Then two. The stone grew damp beneath her feet. Then she saw it. A doll. Ashanti’s. Slumped on the crypt stones, half crushed against the wall, one button eye missing, one arm torn and dangling by a thread. A trail of tiny embroidered feathers spilled from the split seam like spilled memory. Krysthalia fell to her knees, fingers trembling as she picked it up.

“No…”

She clutched it to her chest, her breath beginning to hitch.

“No. No. No—”

The dam broke.

“ASHANTI!”

Her scream cracked off the stone walls, echoing through the hollow crypts, deeper and deeper until it no longer sounded like a voice, just a howl. A mother’s pain, bound in lightning and loss. She dropped her head to the cold stone, clutching the ruined doll, her sobs ragged and sharp, shoulders shaking as the storm inside her finally broke.

“Please… please, gods, bring her back…”

But the crypt answered with silence, far above, in a city barely still breathing, the moons bore witness. One silver.And one — stained red.