The Alpha's Captive Princess

Chapter 3

Millennia ago, when the Kelberon clan pledged fealty to the Duran Dynasty, they forged a sacred pact sealed within an ancestral coffer possessed by each generation's chieftain. Every Kelberon knew of this covenant's existence.

After the fall of Atlantica, Lyralei fled for three harrowing days and nights under Brenik's protection, taking only the most desolate routes. Yet despite their precautions, they faced relentless pursuit and assassination attempts. Finally, on the fourth dawn's faint glow, they reached the borders of the Blanca Continent.

The rising sun was not yet scorching, leaving a lingering chill in the air. Lyralei perched on a withered log, the gentle rays bathing her weary features in a gilded aureole as she stared unseeingly, fingers clenched until her nails bit into flesh.

Returning from gathering firewood, Brenik found her thus and knelt before her, murmuring, "Rest awhile, Princess. Once we reach Unopa, we can regroup."

Unopa - the Kelberon knights' clandestine stronghold on Blanca's frontier, its existence known only to the clan's elite advisors. There lay their covert military forces and intelligence networks.

"Father...I know not what became of him..." Lyralei's voice rasped, her nerves frayed from the endless fugitive tension.

Unfurling her fist, Brenik grimaced at the deep crescent moons scored into her palms, the wounds so severe they had yet to bleed.

"Failing to protect the chieftain was my greatest lapse," he confessed, gaze downcast as he gingerly tended her self-inflicted injuries. "But Unopa is our sole hope of amassing enough strength to counter this threat."

The towering warrior's simple robes were tattered and stained, his features marred by gashes and dried blood - mute testaments to the relentless combat they'd endured. Yet his well-muscled frame betrayed graver hurts - a makeshift leather binding barely staunched the seeping gash along his abdomen, while an arrow had torn through the powerful arms now cradling Lyralei's hands with uncharacteristic gentleness.

"Let's go," she said at last, rising. "To Unopa."

...

The vista unfolding before them was one of desolate, harsh aridity. The continent's highest peaks plunged abruptly into a vast abyss, its obsidian depths yawning across a lower, jagged escarpment. The very earth emanated a faint crimson luminescence, as if beckoning some occult force.

Twice before had Lyralei ventured into these blighted lands. First, when Kelberon elders proclaimed her the destined heir to the clan's enchanted runes. Then again during the Bali uprising, when her father had considered unleashing Unopa's military might.

This third journey would be her most pivotal yet. The key to unsealing Unopa lay in spilling the blood of a Kelberon rune-bearer.

Digging her nails into her lacerated palms, Lyralei allowed the crimson droplets to splatter the scorched soil. The ruddy glow intensified, then dimmed as the chasm parted - revealing a breathtaking oasis, as if an entire kingdom thrummed beneath the barren surface.

Supported by towering marble pylons, this subterranean sanctuary defied its arid shroud with lush vibrancy. An armored cavalcade emerged to greet them, the ranking knight saluting Brenik before bowing deeply to Lyralei.

"Sir Brenik, Princess Lyralei - we have awaited your return. The palace's fall is known to us. Elder Godrin expects you in the inner chambers."

"Understood." Producing a mottled grey stone from his robes, Brenik pressed it into her hands. "Your father secreted this to me...before he was captured."

Lyralei studied the innocuous yet distinct edges, as if designed to slot into some unknown alcove. Her father's finalbequeath in that chaotic onslaught - did it conceal deeper significance? Perhaps the elder could illuminate its purpose.

The knights ushered them through the antechamber into Unopa's sanctum, passing training brigades and scores of intersecting corridors - their torchlight blazing ever brighter toward the heart of the citadel.

At the far end, an aged figure hunched before a crimson casket, his gnarled fingers caressing its ornate surface. Upon their approach, Godrin started upright, rasping through unshed tears.

"Princess Lyralei...you live! Thanks be to the gods..."

His relief palpable, the elder studied her intently. "You are unharmed?"

Recognizing the wizened face awoke Lyralei's own gnawing dread. "I am well, Elder, but I fear for my father's safety. Have you any news of his condition?"

Godrin's countenance grew grave. "Rest assured, the chieftain's life is not at risk - so long as Sir Brenik remains by your side."

Lyralei frowned at his cryptic response. "But I've heard the tales of Prosper's cruelty, his butchery of the Duran royals. If my father is his captive..."

"Peace, child." The elder raised a calming hand. "There is much to share - truths your father meant to reveal in time."

Leaning forward, he continued in a low timbre.

"Three years ago, the chieftain bade me investigate a disturbing pattern of disappearances plaguing our ranks - primarily those sharing his bloodline. Even your aunt vanished without a trace while traveling the neighboring realms."

Lyralei's breath hitched. "Aunt Mirelle? But how..."

"By following the threads, I uncovered a clandestine facility emanating an unmistakable aura - that of our clan's runes."

"Runes?" She knew the lore well - thirteen primordial sigils comprised the Kelberon's most sacred legacy, passed down through an ordained bloodline inheritor. Yet over countless generations, these mystic glyphs had dwindled until only seven remained entrusted to her father.

"You heard correctly. The thirteen primeval runes were our clan's greatest source of power and identity. For reasons unknown, the rune-sigils gradually abandoned their hosts over the centuries until but seven graced your father's keeping."

Godrin stroked his beard, recounting his findings. "That facility exuded the runes' essence...intermingled with an obscure force seemingly suppressing their potency."

Lyralei gasped, recalling the luminous manacles that had ensnared her father - the anguish as he struggled to unleash his rune-craft, only to be subjugated.

"You witnessed it firsthand - your father's summoning abilities were nullified. I theorize that installation was Prosper's attempt to research and dominate the runes' power."

Of course - to the common folk, the Kelberons inspired either awe or dread. Mastering such mystic might would become an obsession for those coveting supremacy.

"With seven runes bound to your father, Prosper understands their full, destructive capabilities. He has imprisoned the runes along with their host - for if he slays your father, the severed runes could retaliate, unleashing devastation upon his forces."

Slowly, comprehension unlimbered Lyralei's taut shoulders. Her father may still endure, but his very survival hinged upon a tenuous stalemate.

"This was secreted to me in those final moments." She produced the stone bauble. "Perhaps it may shed light on his intent?"

"Ah, as I suspected!" Godrin beckoned her toward the ruby casket. "This coffer enshrines our covenant with the Duran sovereigns. By entrusting you with the key, your father invoked the Kelberon legacy's succession!"

The elder's bent frame straightened imperceptibly as he regarded the young woman with solemn admiration.

"Though destined to lead our clan, the burden falls upon you sooner than anticipated. Are you prepared, my lady?"

Lyralei met his penetrating stare, her own eyes blazing with conviction.

"It is my solemn duty, Elder - one for which I have been ready since first setting foot in this hallowed sanctuary."

Tracing the grooves and fissures scoring the unassuming stone, she maneuvered it into the casket.

The stone was riddled with pits and cracks, yet surprisingly solid. At first, Vithy couldn't quite find the right spot for the gap, but after some careful adjustment, the small stone fit perfectly into the outer shell of the red box.

The box's shell dissolved into a watery substance, then dispersed into mist around it. Within the box, black lines floated, gradually forming into words:

"Board the great ship to Duran, and carry on the glory of Kelberon."

With black script and red mist, the words vanished, revealing the image of a red lion's face emerging from the bottom of the box. First came the sharp eyes, followed by the fangs, and finally the muscular contours of the face.

The red lion's face, the emblem of Kelberon.