Chapter 76

Chapter 76
Back at the capital – the storm still hadn’t stopped.
From the northern tower, far from the warmth of the Queen’s wing or the safety of the Prince’s quarters, a palace guard watched the lightning strike across the hilltops. He adjusted his soaked helmet and blinked at a flicker he thought he saw far in the distance.
Torches.
Moving torches.
Through the trees.
He leaned forward but the rain blinded him. Still, his gut tightened.
“Something’s coming,” he muttered, just as the thunder cracked again.
But no one would hear him.
Not yet.
And by the time they did…
The trap would already be closing.


Abby’s POV – “Betrayal and Beasts”
I hadn’t slept in days.
The scent of old parchment, scorched herbs, and dried roses filled my chamber—an unsettling blend of magic and memory. Scrolls were strewn across the table like the aftermath of a storm, and the crystal basin beside me glowed faintly with residual magic from my last summoning attempt. I was chasing a theory, a dangerous one, but perhaps the only way left to gather the mana stones powerful enough to dispel the king’s lingering curse.
The last rift had nearly broken us. And still—I wanted to go back.
I had just begun decoding a long-lost spell from Max’s notes, a summoning formula scrawled in feverish, almost desperate script, when the door opened behind me.
“Abby,” came Damian’s voice, low, sharp-edged with tension. I didn’t even turn. “We need to talk.”
“I’m busy,” I murmured, still reading.
“No. Not this time.”
The way he said it made me pause. I looked up. Prince Damian Lucien stood in his riding leathers, damp from the morning drizzle, his gloves in one hand and his usual easy composure nowhere in sight. His jaw was tight. His eyes, colder than usual.
“Someone wants me dead,” he said flatly. “And I believe they want you dead, too.”
Silence fell like a stone between us.
“What?” I asked, voice hoarse.
“My spies intercepted a message,” he continued. “Encoded, traced back to an outer district. Mercenaries, hired in secret. And the names mentioned—” He hesitated. “Abby. One of them was your father.”
I stood so suddenly the chair toppled behind me. “No. You’re wrong.”
“I wish I was,” he said quietly.
I felt the air thicken. My heart slammed hard in my chest. “My father is no saint, but he wouldn't—he wouldn’t go this far. He wouldn't... murder the crown.”
Damian gave me a pained look, stepping closer. “He's already aligned with Chancellor Orrick and Duke Edmond. We've suspected a coup from the Southern nobles for a while now, but this confirms it. They're planning to make their move—and soon.”
I couldn’t breathe.
For a long moment, I stared at the flickering spell runes on the wall—then at Damian.
“So what do we do?” I whispered, hating the tremble in my voice.
“We leave in the morning,” he said. “We head for the Blackfang Rift.”
My eyes widened. “That’s... days away.”
“I know. But the last scout returned half-dead, speaking of a massive beast guarding a core—a magic stone unlike anything we’ve seen. Enough to heal my father. And maybe, enough to fight back.”
I nodded slowly, the weight of my father’s betrayal and the coming war sinking like cold iron into my bones. “Then I’m coming.”
Damian gave me a sharp look. “Are you sure?”
“You just said someone wants me dead. I’d rather not wait for them to knock politely.”
Three days later, we rode under storm-heavy skies.
Our caravan was small—two supply carts, half a dozen knights sworn to Damian, and Norma riding beside me with her usual no-nonsense expression. Annabelle had packed dried soup sachets and warm bread for the journey, insisting I eat even when I couldn’t stop thinking about the looming danger ahead—or behind.
The rain was constant. Not heavy, but persistent, a silver drizzle that turned roads to muck and soaked through even enchanted cloaks. In the far distance, the outline of Blackfang Mountain loomed like a jagged black tooth tearing into the horizon.
They said the creature inside the rift was ancient.
A drake of shadow and magma, its core pulsing with raw, volatile energy. Magic hunters had died just trying to get near it. And now we were marching straight toward it.
At night, we took turns on watch.
I couldn’t sleep. I could barely think. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw my father in a cloak, whispering treason to men I once knew as allies of the crown.
Was that why he abandoned me all those years? Was I just a pawn in a larger game?
Damian sat by the fire that night, his sword resting across his knees. He looked up when I approached.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked.
I shook my head, then sat beside him.
For a while, we just listened to the crackle of flames and distant howls of riftborn creatures stirring far off in the woods.
“I know you’re angry,” he finally said. “And I know this hurts.”
I clenched my fists. “It’s beyond that. My own father might be plotting to kill you. And all I can think is—why now? Why me?”
Damian turned to look at me, eyes deep and searching. “Because you’re more powerful than they ever expected. And because you chose to stand by the crown. That makes you a threat.”
I laughed bitterly. “All I wanted was to study magic. Fix the king. And maybe find Alaric—if he’s still out there.”
Damian’s face darkened at the mention of Alaric, but he said nothing. Instead, he took my hand, gently.
“You’re not alone in this,” he said. “I’ll protect you, Abby. Even if it means going against the entire council.”

“Then let’s go find that beast,” I said. “And take its heart.”
He smiled grimly. “Together.”

I hadn’t slept in days.
The scent of old parchment, scorched herbs, and dried roses filled my chamber—an unsettling blend of magic and memory. Scrolls were strewn across the table like the aftermath of a storm, and the crystal basin beside me glowed faintly with residual magic from my last summoning attempt. I was chasing a theory, a dangerous one, but perhaps the only way left to gather the mana stones powerful enough to dispel the king’s lingering curse.
The last rift had nearly broken us. And still—I wanted to go back.
I had just begun decoding a long-lost spell from Max’s notes, a summoning formula scrawled in feverish, almost desperate script, when the door opened behind me.
“Abby,” came Damian’s voice, low, sharp-edged with tension. I didn’t even turn. “We need to talk.”
“I’m busy,” I murmured, still reading.
“No. Not this time.”
The way he said it made me pause. I looked up. Prince Damian Lucien stood in his riding leathers, damp from the morning drizzle, his gloves in one hand and his usual easy composure nowhere in sight. His jaw was tight. His eyes, colder than usual.
“Someone wants me dead,” he said flatly. “And I believe they want you dead, too.”
Silence fell like a stone between us.
“What?” I asked, voice hoarse.
“My spies intercepted a message,” he continued. “Encoded, traced back to an outer district. Mercenaries, hired in secret. And the names mentioned—” He hesitated. “Abby. One of them was your father.”
I stood so suddenly the chair toppled behind me. “No. You’re wrong.”
“I wish I was,” he said quietly.
I felt the air thicken. My heart slammed hard in my chest. “My father is no saint, but he wouldn't—he wouldn’t go this far. He wouldn't... murder the crown.”
Damian gave me a pained look, stepping closer. “He's already aligned with Chancellor Orrick and Duke Edmond. We've suspected a coup from the Southern nobles for a while now, but this confirms it. They're planning to make their move—and soon.”
I couldn’t breathe.