Mistveil Forest had grown still. The ashes of war had settled, yet the air trembled with grief beneath the canopy of silver-leafed trees, where light filtered down in fractured shafts, where a solemn procession formed.

  The Sacred Grove of Elun’dir, a ring of ancient trees said to be older than time itself, now held the body of King Ithilien Alastrassa—warrior, healer, and the last of the Adhirala Crown.

  Elves in mourning robes—woven from moon-silk and midnight thread—stood silent as the wind whispered the Lament of Stars. The beasts of the land had gathered, too: antlered stags, white-furred lynxes, even wind eagles circled above as though paying tribute.

  In the heart of the circle, upon a bed of woven roots and petal-strewn cloth, Ithilien’s body lay in still grace. His sword, Stargazer, rested across his chest, glowing faintly with a soft green hue.

  Sir Byronard stood near the front, dark armor gleaming faintly in the filtered light, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. His face was carved from stillness, but his eyes—sharp and shadowed—betrayed the ache of loss.

  Behind him stood the Seven: Gabriel, Raphael, Uriel. Wyatt and Cassian stood beside Flint, all clad in ceremonial attire. The Royal Guards flanked them in white armor, solemn and unmoving.

  Wyatt stared at Anarór?, who knelt beside her father's bier with her silver eyes closed and her forehead resting upon his hand. She had not spoken since the moment he passed. He could not fathom her pain. She and her brother had been born before kingdoms had names, and now, she remained alone.

  He turned slightly and caught Flint’s expression—one of grim introspection. The mercenary-king had not spoken either. The fire in his eyes had dimmed, replaced by something heavier.

  “He was a pillar,” Flint murmured finally, voice like gravel. “A reminder that strength can be quiet. That peace is worth bleeding for.”

  Wyatt looked at him. “He led for ages. And now you have to help carry that weight.”

  Flint gave a short, dry chuckle. “Aye… I know. It’s just—” he paused, eyes locked on the bier, “I wonder how long I can carry it before I break, too.”

  Cassian laid a hand on his shoulder. “You won’t break. That’s not how you’re built.”

  Before Flint could answer, the elves began to sing.

  The Dirge of First Light echoed across the grove—an ancient song sung only for kings. It was sung in the tongue of the Eldertrees, a language older than air, and though none among the humans understood the words, they felt the grief sink into their bones.

  Golden blossoms fell from the high trees and gathered like snow around the bier. The roots began to twist, wrapping gently around Ithilien’s body. One by one, the grove accepted him back into the earth.

  Anarór? finally stood. Her features were carved from grief, but her voice was strong. “He who gave his life to spare ours… who bore no hate, only hope. May the earth carry his sorrow, may the stars guide his soul. I vow—on my life and all my years—to protect our people in his stead. And one day… to return the blow that broke him.”

  She turned, gaze sweeping across Byronard and the Seven. “You stood with us when others turned away. My father believed in your cause. So shall I.”

  There was silence. Then Byronard stepped forward, cape shifting in the forest light. “He was a king of rare heart. And what he gave will not be forgotten. We stand with you, Anarór?—until the last fire dies and the last breath leaves this world.”

  She nodded once, a tear tracing down her cheek, and turned back to the roots now glowing softly.

  The trees hummed. And King Ithilien Alastrassa became one with the land.

  The days that followed were quiet but relentless.

  Word of King Ithilien’s passing spread through Primera like wind through hollow trees, carrying whispers of dread and grief. The Capital City, already stretched thin by the war’s toll, now opened its arms to thousands of elven refugees—tired, wounded, and starved from their long escape through the forest ruins.

  Sir Byronard stood atop the battlements of Wolfsbane Keep, watching as supplies were carried through the gates—blankets, food, water, medicine. The Royal Guards, along with Raphael and Gabriel, moved with precise efficiency, helping direct the elves toward makeshift quarters repurposed from training halls and abandoned barracks.

  Even Uriel lent his strength, carrying wounded elves in his arms as if they weighed nothing. The gryphons, tethered to high perches nearby, screeched softly at the growing crowd.

  Wyatt, Cassian, and Flint stood just outside the southern gate, overseeing a small group of children being led by elder healers. Their expressions were darkened—not by fatigue, but by helplessness.

  Cassian ran a hand through his hair. “She hasn’t spoken to anyone since the burial. Not even to Sir Byronard.”

  Wyatt exhaled slowly, watching the elven princess in the distance—seated in silence near a water basin, hands clasped over her knees, unmoving. “What do you say to someone who just lost everything?”

  “You don’t,” Flint murmured. “You stand nearby and hope your presence doesn’t make it worse.”

  A voice, young but warm with a hint of steel, joined them.

  “She won’t listen to words… not unless they come from someone who knew how to make her laugh.”

  The three turned. An elf stood behind them, his silver beard braided and tied with gold-threaded clasps. His arms were thick, scarred, blackened from years of labor, and on his hip rested a heavy hammer with runes that shimmered faintly with embedded mana.

  “Elmar,” the elf said, offering a rough, calloused hand. “Master Smith of Mistveil. And… friend to the princess. More importantly, a friend of Godric’s.”

  Wyatt’s eyes widened. “You knew Godric?”

  Elmar gave a short laugh. “Knew him? I gave that stubborn fool the twin blades he keeps strapped to his back like trophies. ‘Death’s Lament.’ Nearly killed himself trying them out for the first time as well.”

  Cassian chuckled. “That sounds like Godric.”

  Elmar’s smile faded. He looked toward Anarór?. “You know… she’s always been a storm. Cold, fierce. But underneath—there’s a kindness only a few ever saw. Godric was one of them. He didn’t treat her like royalty. Treated her like she wasn’t broken.”

  He paused, rubbing his hand across his weathered beard.

  “She started smiling again when he spent time with us. Not just in fractions, mind you—they were real. And now that he’s currently off to who knows where, and her father’s gone too… I’m afraid that spark might die for good.”

  The three fell silent.

  Flint glanced down, hand resting on the hilt of Dawnbringer. “She’s not broken. Just bent under grief.”

  Wyatt nodded. “Then maybe it’s our job not to speak… but to stand close, until the light returns.”

  Elmar gave a slow nod. “Then stand you must. Just… don’t expect her to thank you for it. And if she snaps, remember it’s the weight talking—not her.”

  He gave them a firm look, then turned toward the forge quarters that were being rebuilt near the eastern courtyard. “I’ll be in the smithy. Those blades of yours look like they’ve seen war. Might be time I gave them a tune-up.”

  As he walked away, the three watched Anarór? again.

  This time, she lifted her head and stared at the clouds above—eyes blank, lips parted, as though searching the heavens for answers that would never come.

  Cassian stepped forward. “We stand close. That’s all we can do.”

  Flint sighed. “And we pray she finds reason to keep walking.”

  Wyatt’s gaze lingered on her. “She will. Godric gave her a reason once. Maybe we can remind her of that.”

  ***

  The wind had grown cold that night.

  In a high chamber within Wolfsbane Keep, the fire crackled softly. A long table stood at the center, lit by flickering sconces. Maps of Primera, scattered reports, and magical scrolls filled the surface.

  Seated at the head was Sir Byronard, his dark armor gleaming faintly in the low light. His expression was unreadable—stone, forged from command.

  Gathered with him were Gabriel, Raphael, Uriel, Wyatt, Cassian, and Flint. The others remained outside the chamber, ensuring privacy. No servants. No echoes.

  Gabriel broke the silence first, eyes narrowed.

  “It’s no longer just one Circle. We’ve now seen Gluttony, Greed… and with Lilith already in our cells, that makes three.”

  “Three out of Nine,” Raphael murmured. “And that’s only what we’ve seen.”

  Byronard leaned forward. “What happened in the North… what happened with The Nameless at Khaz Gareth… that was not an isolated attack. The Nine Circles are returning—and we’re still blind to their full strength.”

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  Wyatt’s voice was low. “They’re coordinated. Lilith was bait. The North was a test. And Mistveil… that was war.”

  Cassian frowned. “If not for King Ithilien, we wouldn’t have had any survivors.”

  Flint spoke quietly, but firmly. “And we have to face the truth: Ióm? Alastrassa betrayed us.”

  Gabriel’s gaze fell. Raphael shook his head. “He was raised by the King himself. Millennia of loyalty, just… undone?”

  Uriel crossed his arms, the faint golden glow of his gauntlet pulsing with restrained energy.

  “Either he was turned long ago… or something—someone—got to him"

  Byronard stood. “Treason isn’t always born from hate. Sometimes it’s from fear, or love, or promises of something greater. But it doesn’t matter why he did it. The fact is—he’s now among them. And he took Voraxx and Tessarith with him.”

  He turned to the window, gazing at the moonlit city below. “Which brings us to the other issue… Lilith.”

  The room shifted.

  Wyatt spoke up. “She hasn’t said anything since Khaz Gareth.”

  Cassian added, “She just stares at the walls. Never eats. Doesn’t sleep. She’s waiting.”

  Gabriel asked, “Waiting for what?”

  Byronard’s voice was quiet. “A reckoning.”

  They all looked to him. “The Circles are not just monsters. They are ideas. Gluttony, Greed, Lust—they are part of what corrupts mankind and elves alike. And I fear they are no longer content to whisper in the shadows.”

  He turned back to face them, his tone now one of resolve. “We need to decide: what do we do with her? What do we do about Lilith?”

  Raphael hesitated. “She’s dangerous. Even now, she radiates temptation. If she escapes…”

  Gabriel countered, “But she also knows things. About the Circles. About their plans. If she’s waiting… perhaps she’s waiting for us to ask the right question.”

  Wyatt met Byronard’s eyes. “Then we speak to her.”

  Byronard nodded. “Soon. But not yet.”

  He placed a hand on the table. “First, we rebuild our defenses. The Circles are no longer hiding. They are moving. They are bold. And if Lilith, Voraxx, and Tessarith are active… the rest won’t be far behind.”

  He looked at each of them in turn. “We’re at war with something older than kingdoms. And the only advantage we have is unity.”

  There was a beat of silence before Flint said quietly, “And Godric…?”

  Byronard nodded slowly. “We must pray that their mission reaches Azane in time. If the Mother is right… then the Stranger’s Vessel is out there. And they’ll need all the help they can get.”

  The Council Hall was cast in cold light, stained glass windows dimmed by the overcast skies. A mourning shroud had befallen the city, and now it lingered in this chamber of power. At the roundstone table sat the leaders of the Great Houses, summoned without delay.

  Lord Augustus Hawthorne, one of the youngest, yet most composed, sat with folded hands, his green-and-gold surcoat pristine despite the urgency. Beside him, the gaunt and sharp-eyed Lord Silas Davenmere leaned forward, always calculating, his House's sigil glinting against his cloak. Lord Menethil Grimguard, dour and clad in jet-black iron, stood rather than sat, arms crossed as if braced for war. Lady Charlotte Alderth, calm and stern in her silver-and-ash robes, sat beside Lady Emilie Blackstone, whose dark eyes rarely blinked as she listened intently.

  Lord Rykard Wintertomb entered last among them, still pale from his long slumber, draped in furs and blue runes of mourning. He offered a brief nod to Sir Byronard, who stood at the table's center, flanked by Gabriel, Raphael, and Wyatt, with Cassian, Flint, and Anarór? standing behind them.

  Also present were Lady Tryst Huntingborne, gentle-hearted, hawk-eyed, and armored in leather, and Lord Dunwick Browgan, sipping wine with his signature goblet in hand. Lord Hans Silverkind, poised and meticulous, stroked his trimmed beard thoughtfully. Finally, Lord Marius Coppermouth, loud-voiced and broad-shouldered, whispered something in distaste as the room settled.

  Byronard spoke first. His voice was as cold and cutting as the northern winds. “King Ithilien of Mistveil has fallen. Betrayed not by blade nor beast, but by blood. His son, lóm?, has committed treason and now walks beside the enemy.”

  The room murmured, some recoiling in disbelief, others glancing toward Anarór?. She said nothing—her expression carved in quiet fury. “Two of the Circles of Hell revealed themselves that night. Voraxx, the Maw Below. Tessarith, the Gilded Thorn. They are not myths. They walk among us again.”

  Gasps and heavy silence followed.

  Lord Hawthorne was the first to regain composure. “This cannot be ignored. If more of their kind appear, this spells nothing but trouble not only for Primera, but for all of the known world.

  Lady Blackstone asked, “And what of the prisoner? Lilith. Has she spoken?”

  Byronard turned to Gabriel, who stepped forward. “She remains silent. The runes of Wolfsbane Keep still hold, but her presence alone is a danger. We need more time.”

  Lord Grimguard grunted. “Time is a luxury we’re about to run out of.”

  Lady Alderth spoke gently, “And the elves? The refugees?”

  Raphael answered, “They are being tended to. Mistveil burns, but some survived. We have offered sanctuary in the outer districts. It is... not enough.”

  Lord Wintertomb’s voice, low and grave, echoed in the stone chamber. “This is only the beginning. If the Circles of Gluttony and Greed have stirred, the rest will follow.”

  A heavy silence returned. Then Lord Coppermouth, typically the loudest, quietly muttered, “Then we must prepare to make war with Hell itself.”

  Byronard’s gaze swept across the room. “We do not yet know how many of them have returned. But what we do know is this: if they are left unchecked, they will feast on the bones of Primera. We must act.”

  Lady Huntingborne nodded. “Then name the task. We will answer.”

  Byronard stepped back, letting the silence settle.

  Outside, bells began to toll once more—this time not in alarm, but in mourning. The sound passed through the room like a shared breath.

  And the council knew: the world had begun to bleed again.

  The meeting had dispersed. The lords and ladies filed out beneath stone arches, their faces grim and tired. But Anarór? remained, standing alone in the garden courtyard outside the council hall, beneath the sacred mourning tree, its pale silver leaves gently swaying in the breeze. A strand of her long, golden hair danced with the wind, but she stood motionless, her silver eyes locked on nothing and everything all at once.

  A few paces back, Wyatt, Cassian, and Flint lingered, watching her with uncertainty.

  “She hasn’t spoken much since the rites,” Cassian said quietly.

  “She lost her father. And her brother…” Flint stopped himself. “She’s holding more than anyone should.”

  Wyatt nodded. Then, after a breath, he stepped forward, careful not to make his footsteps too sudden. He approached with hands loosely at his side, unarmed, humble.

  “Princess Anarór?…?”

  She didn’t turn. Not at first. But after a moment, she glanced at him, expression unreadable, the grief still heavy on her features.

  Wyatt gave a respectful bow. “My name’s Wyatt. Wyatt of Rosetown.” He hesitated. “Godric’s best friend.”

  Her eyes lingered longer this time. Something shifted behind them. Not warmth — not yet — but the first ripple of recognition.

  Cassian joined beside Wyatt, giving a nod. “Cassian. I ran with them once. Hawk, Xhiamas, the others. Wasn’t always noble business, but we survived together.”

  Flint came last, folding his arms, unsure how formal to be. “I’m Alexander, but please call me Flint. A simple mercenary… for now.” Wyatt, then, remembering something: “I heard that you beat him every day during training without even trying.”

  A flicker — almost imperceptible — touched Anarór?’s lips. A memory, distant and fragile, tried to stir. She looked down, voice low, brittle. “I did. He was the only one who could make me hope when I didn’t want to.”

  Wyatt smiled, gently. “That sounds like him.”

  Silence settled again — but this time, it was not awkward. It was shared.

  Anarór?’s hands clenched lightly at her sides. “He should’ve been the one to stand beside me. To help me lead. Not…” Her voice cracked slightly, then she composed herself. “Not my brother.”

  Wyatt took a step closer. “We’re not him, and we won’t pretend to be. But… we are with you. For whatever comes next.”

  Cassian added, “And if you’ll allow it, we’ll help you carry the weight — the one your father left behind.”

  She finally turned to face them fully. “Then walk beside me. But don’t expect me to speak kindly until the dead rest quieter.”

  Wyatt gave a small bow again. “Fair enough.”

  She began to walk, and to their relief, did not tell them to stay behind. Slowly, the four made their way from the Mourning Tree, the leaves above whispering with wind — a quiet blessing, perhaps, from the forest’s old soul.

  The four walked slowly, the quiet steps of the royal gardens giving way to a breeze that brushed past marble statues and moss-grown stone. Anarór?’s gaze remained forward, unreadable, her presence a mixture of grace and stillness heavy with grief.

  But then — just before they crossed beneath the first archway leading back into the citadel — her voice broke the silence. “Where is he now?”

  Wyatt turned, puzzled at first, until he caught the flicker in her eyes. “Godric,” she said softly. “You said you were his best friend. Then tell me—where is he now?”

  Cassian paused behind him, his expression tightening. Flint folded his arms, shoulders rising with tension.

  Wyatt exhaled slowly. “He’s… far from here. East of the Evergleam Ocean, last we heard. Sailing toward Azane on orders from Sir Byronard.”

  Anarór?’s brow furrowed. “Alone?”

  Wyatt shook his head. “Not entirely. He’s with Xhiamas, Ziyad, and Michael. The mission’s important. Something about uniting the continent and becoming a potential ally for this war.”

  At that, her eyes narrowed, and her voice turned sharp with worry. “Then he’s walking into danger. Azane has its own shadows. Its own poisons.”

  Wyatt gave a small, almost bitter smile. “That’s kind of been the story since we met him.”

  Cassian added quietly, “He chose it. And we admire him for that.”

  Anarór? looked down at her hands for a long moment, then reached into a leather satchel at her side, retrieving a small trinket: a carved, wooden figure of a dove, its wings partially broken, worn smooth with age.

  “Father made this for me,” she whispered. “When he returned. I treasured it then… but now I'll carry it forever.”

  She turned it over in her hand once, then looked back at Wyatt. “If you hear from Godric… tell him to come back.” Her voice broke. “Tell him I’m still waiting.”

  Wyatt nodded solemnly, his voice thick. “I will. I promise.”

  The moment passed between them — a bond formed not in joy, but in shared memory.

  The night was quiet.

  After days of war, loss, and diplomacy, silence fell over the Capital like a heavy blanket. Torchlights flickered along the ramparts. Distant owls called out from the trees lining the courtyard. Within the stone chambers of the Keep, the newly arrived guests — elves of Mistveil and allies of Primera — had finally found a semblance of rest.

  Wyatt leaned back on the cold stone windowsill of his quarters, staring out into the night sky. The stars were brighter tonight, he thought. Or maybe he was just seeing more clearly after so much death.

  Then the door burst open.

  “Sir Wyatt!” a Royal Guard shouted breathlessly. “The Princess—Anarór?—she’s… something’s happening!”

  Wyatt was already on his feet.

  Moments later, the Seven, Flint, Cassian, and Wyatt sprinted through the corridors, their boots echoing across the stone. Elven voices rose in alarm ahead — and when they reached the refugee camp on the lower terraces of the Keep, they saw it.

  Anarór? lay on the ground, writhing in pain, surrounded by a small circle of elven warriors.

  Her back arched violently as her body convulsed, hands clenched tightly into the grass. Veins of golden light pulsed beneath her skin like roots of fire. Her long hair was strewn across her face, eyes wide but unfocused.

  Tariq, now bearing the mantle of leader of the Wandering Arrows, knelt beside her, sweat beading on his brow as he whispered foreign calming mantras.

  “She was fine an hour ago,” Tariq said, looking up. “Then she screamed—and collapsed. I've never seen her like this. Something is wrong.”

  Wyatt dropped to one knee beside him. “Is she poisoned? Cursed? Did someone—?”

  “No,” Raphael cut in, already inspecting her as his hands glowed with white mana. “This isn’t a wound… this is something else. Her life essence is surging—uncontrolled. Like it’s trying to rip itself apart!”

  He placed a glowing hand over her chest — and his eyes widened in alarm. “We need to get her to the infirmary. Now.”

  “Why?” Cassian asked, heart racing. “What’s happening to her?!”

  Raphael looked at them all, face pale, sweat dripping down his temple. “Because if I’m right—this isn’t a sickness. This is an awakening.”

  Wyatt froze. “An awakening?”

  Raphael didn’t answer.

  He just stood, his voice loud and sharp:

  “Guards! Get her to the Keep’s infirmary—immediately!”

  As soldiers surged forward to carry Anarór?’s trembling form, her cries echoing against the cold stone, the rest of them could only watch — helpless — as another thread of fate began to unravel.