Chapter Two: The Frontlines
620 Words
The eastern sky bled gold and red as the carriage rolled over the last hill into the valley.
Kaelara sat stiffly inside, wrapped in a thick travel cloak that did little to mask the ache in her chest. The bond still pulsed softly beneath her skin, curled like a warm ember near her heart. She had grown used to its presence over the two days of travel—how it drifted out in moments of fear, curled tighter in discomfort, and shimmered faintly when she dreamed.
Ahead, the Drenna War Hospital came into view. It wasn’t what she expected.
No banners, no fortress walls—just long rows of white canvas tents stretched across a muddy field. A thin river wound nearby, its banks dotted with wounded soldiers and field mages slumped in exhaustion. The scent of ash, healing herbs, and blood hung thick in the air.
This wasn’t exile. It was something worse.
It was forgotten.
The carriage stopped near the central tent. A tall figure stood waiting—lean, broad-shouldered, arms crossed. His coat was unbuttoned, revealing a dark shirt streaked with ash. His face was hard to read beneath the shadow of his hood, but his stance spoke volumes.
Impatience.
Kaelara stepped down slowly. Her boots sank into the mud. The golden thread pulsed once, then vanished beneath her skin.
“Name?” the man asked flatly.
Kaelara raised her chin. “Princess Kaelara Veyra.”
He stared at her a beat too long. Then, with visible restraint, he muttered, “Of course. The weaponless one.”
Her jaw tightened. “And you are?”
“Riven Thorne. Healer. Commander of this camp. I didn’t ask for a royal shadow, but apparently the palace thinks I need one.”
“If I’m to be stationed here, I’d appreciate not being treated like baggage.”
“You’re not baggage,” he said, turning away. “You’re a liability.”
He didn’t look back as he walked toward the main tent.
Inside the Tent
Kaelara followed, silently fuming. The main tent was a chaotic mess of potions, bandages, and moaning patients. The air buzzed with low spells—heat wards, wound-stitching charms, pain dampeners. Three young healers bustled around, barely noticing her.
Riven gestured to a corner. “You’ll sleep there. You’ll help with the wounded, clean equipment, and stay out of my way. You’re not here to lead or inspire. Just survive.”
“Does everyone here hate me already,” Kaelara asked, “or do you just take pride in setting the tone?”
That made him pause.
He turned toward her, eyes dark and tired. “Out there—” he pointed beyond the tent walls, “—we’re neck-deep in dying men. We don’t have time for royalty or soul-forged political statements.”
Kaelara held his gaze. “What you saw was not a mistake. My bond—whatever it is—chose me.”
He studied her, then muttered, “Then I hope, for everyone’s sake, it changes its mind.”
Later That Night
Kaelara lay on her cot, staring at the canvas ceiling.
The bond glowed faintly on her chest again—gentle and warm, like a lullaby in the dark. She pressed her fingers to it, searching for meaning in its rhythm.
She had come expecting to prove herself. To reclaim her place.
But here, surrounded by war, she wasn’t sure what could be saved—herself, her bond, or the people drowning in pain outside her tent.
And yet, somewhere in the dark, she felt a thread stretch—not just from her chest, but toward someone else.
Someone bitter.
Someone broken.
Someone who, deep down, needed love more than anyone.
- Writer
