Chapter 18
966 Words
The morning sun finally broke through the clouds, casting a sharp, unforgaining light on Castle Valdren.
For the first time in days, the sky was clear, but the air in the courtyard below was thick with the usual chaos.
Soldiers clashed in training drills, the sound of metal on metal ringing out like a death knell.
Servants scurried like frightened rats between the stone buildings.
Merchants near the southern gate unloaded supplies, their faces grim, knowing these goods would likely be seized for taxes before they ever reached the starving villages they were meant for.
Prince Aldric watched it all from the stone balcony, his knuckles white as he gripped the railing. His expression was a mask of weary resignation.
"Your Highness."
The voice of his aide broke the silence.
Aldric didn't turn. "What is it?"
"The villages north of Blackwood have sent another complaint."
Aldric sighed, the sound lost in the wind. "Taxes?"
The aide nodded, though the prince couldn't see it. "Again."
Aldric closed his eyes. Every report was a new layer of hell. Starving villages. Overworked farmers. Taxes that choked the life out of the kingdom. And every solution his father proposed involved taking more. Never less. It was a machine designed to grind people into dust.
"Bring the reports to my chambers," Aldric said, his voice flat.
"Yes, Your Highness." The aide hesitated, shifting his weight. "There is something else."
Aldric finally turned, his eyes cold.
"The princess."
The prince groaned, rubbing his temples. "What now?"
"She dismissed six servants before breakfast."
Aldric stared at him, a bitter laugh dying in his throat. "Only six?"
The aide almost smiled. Almost. But the humor didn't reach his eyes.
Inside the opulent dressing chamber, Princess Lyanna stood like a statue of ice while two terrified maids worked on her hair. Their hands trembled. They knew better than to pull too hard. They knew better than to speak. The memory of what happened to the last servants who displeased her hung in the air like a ghost.
The memory of Vaelith's rejection still burned in her mind, a fresh wound that refused to heal. Days had passed, but the humiliation festered.
A knock at the door.
A guard entered, bowing so low his forehead nearly touched the floor.
"My princess."
Lyanna studied her reflection in the mirror, her eyes dark and calculating.
"Speak."
"The commander is leaving the war room."
The air in the room shifted.
For the first time all morning, Lyanna smiled.
It was a dangerous, predatory thing.
"Alone?"
"Yes, Your Highness."
The smile widened, sharp as a blade.
"Good."
Commander Vaelith crossed the eastern courtyard, his stride purposeful. Several officers trailed behind him, their voices a dull drone discussing supply routes, winter preparations, and border defenses. Vaelith listened, answering only when necessary, but his mind was elsewhere.
Elara.
The name echoed in his head.
A face.
A slave.
The fragments of information were maddeningly incomplete. Five years of dreams, of visions that felt more real than the ground beneath his feet, could not be explained by a single page of records.
He needed to know more.
He would know more.
As he approached the castle entrance, a familiar, silky voice cut through his thoughts.
"Commander."
Vaelith stopped.
He didn't turn slowly.
He just stopped.
Princess Lyanna stood near the staircase leading to the royal wing. She was dressed in emerald silk that clung to her like poison, beautiful and deadly. She radiated confidence, expecting the world to bend to her will.
Vaelith looked at her, his face a blank slate.
He waited.
"I haven't seen you since my return," she said, stepping closer. She was used to men stumbling over their words, their eyes dropping in fear or desire. Vaelith did neither. He stood like a stone wall.
"I was wondering if you might join me for supper," she purred, the invitation a trap wrapped in silk.
"No."
The word was immediate.
Cold.
Absolute.
There was no hesitation, no apology, no fear.
The smile vanished from Lyanna's face, replaced by a flash of pure, unmasked rage.
Around them, servants suddenly found urgent reasons to look away, sensing the storm brewing.
Vaelith didn't wait for a response. He didn't offer an excuse. He simply turned and continued walking, as though the conversation had never happened, as though she was nothing more than a ghost in the wind.
The princess stood frozen, watching him leave.
Her nails dug into her palms until they drew blood.
No one refused her.
No one.
Yet this man, this commander, had done it repeatedly.
And with every rejection, the obsession in her heart twisted into something darker, something violent.
Deep beneath the castle, in the sweltering heat of the kitchens, Elara carried a basket of fresh bread.
The smell of yeast and fire filled the air.
Around her, servants moved in a frantic dance, but nobody noticed her.
Nobody ever noticed her.
Which was exactly how she preferred it.
She tried to push the strange encounter in the commander's chambers out of her mind. Work was a distraction. Survival required focus.
But every now and then, the image flashed behind her eyes.
Silver eyes.
Familiar.
Impossible.
She forced the thought away, her heart pounding.
Dreams are dreams.
Reality is reality.
They had nothing to do with each other.
She kept telling herself this, repeating it like a prayer.
Above her, in the towers of stone and halls filled with nobles, powerful people moved their pieces across an invisible board.
Kings.
Queens.
Princes.
Commanders.
Princesses.
Elara knew nothing about their games.
Nothing about their plans.
She was just a slave, a nobody.
But fate, cruel and indifferent, had already begun to pull their paths together.
The gears of destiny were turning, and there was no stopping what was coming.
- Writer
