The air inside the tent was thick with the scent of burning herbs, their bitter aroma barely masking the underlying staleness of sickness. Valerion sat at Azrael’s bedside, his fingers curled around her cold, lifeless hand. It had been days since she’d stirred, and her condition had only worsened. Even now, as he held on to her, he could feel how fragile she had become.
Raphael stood a few paces away, arms crossed, his usual arrogance subdued beneath a layer of unease. He watched Azrael’s face, searching for any sign of recognition, of life. But she remained still, the only indication that she was even alive being the slow, shallow rise and fall of her chest.
Then, a small movement. A twitch of her fingers beneath Valerion’s grasp.
His head snapped toward her immediately.
Azrael’s lips parted, her breathing raspy, uneven. She was trying to speak.
Valerion leaned in, his free hand smoothing the damp strands of hair from her face. “Azrael,” he whispered, urgency creeping into his voice.
Her golden eyes fluttered open, unfocused at first, as though she was trapped between dreams and reality. She blinked slowly, her gaze drifting across the dimly lit tent until it landed on Raphael. Then, after a long pause, her eyes finally found her father’s.
She took in the sight of him, the tension in his features, the way he held her hand like a lifeline. A crease formed between her brows. Her voice was a whisper, so weak it was barely audible.
“Father… what’s happening?” Her breath rattled in her chest. “Where… are we?”
Valerion exhaled slowly, his grip tightening around her fingers. “Don’t worry,” he murmured. “Your suffering will be over soon.”
Azrael didn’t react to his words. She only blinked sluggishly, her body too weak to fight the pull of exhaustion. But then, as though recalling something from a distant memory, she whispered a single name.
“Draven?”
Raphael stiffened. Valerion remained silent, watching as her eyelids drooped. Within moments, she slipped back into unconsciousness.
The tent was silent for a long time.
Then—
**“WHERE THE HELL IS HE?!”** Valerion’s voice thundered through the camp, his patience unraveling.
Raphael exhaled through his nose, arms still crossed. “You think he won’t come?”
“He better,” Valerion muttered, his tone dangerously low. “Because if he doesn’t, and Azrael dies, I swear to the gods he’s going to regret ever—”
The tent flap rustled. A guard entered hastily, dropping to one knee.
“My King,” he said, bowing his head. “Two men on horseback are approaching.”
The air in the tent shifted.
Valerion stood slowly, his crimson eyes darkening. Raphael pushed off the wall, running a hand through his hair before following his father outside.
The atmosphere was thick with the scent of damp earth and pine as Draven and Cyrus rode through the mist-laden forest. The trees seemed skeletal in the early morning gloom, their twisted branches reaching like claws toward the overcast sky.
The ride had been swift, far swifter than anticipated, but Draven could feel it—Azrael was slipping. Every fiber of his being told him they were running out of time.
Cyrus had noticed the shift in him.
“We’ll make it,” he said, his voice steady as they neared the open field where the royal camp had been set up. “She’s strong.”
Draven said nothing. His grip tightened around the reins.
As they approached, the sight of the massive tents and stationed guards confirmed that this was no ordinary gathering. This was the royal entourage.
The moment they dismounted, they were flanked by armed sentries, their gazes sharp, wary. Draven ignored them, his strides unwavering as they were led toward the main tent. Cyrus walked slightly behind him, his hand resting near the hilt of his blade.
The moment Valerion stepped out of the tent, their eyes met.
It was like steel clashing against steel.
A tense silence settled between them, the air thick with unspoken history, unspoken hatred.
Behind Valerion, Raphael emerged, his expression darkening at the sight of Draven. His eyes flickered to Cyrus, his scowl deepening. Cyrus merely lifted an unimpressed brow, his hand still resting on his weapon, just in case.
Valerion’s expression remained unreadable, his stance composed yet carrying an unmistakable weight of authority.
Draven’s jaw tensed.
The silence stretched, the wind howling softly through the trees.
Then—
Valerion was the first to break it.
“Draven.”
Draven didn’t break eye contact. His voice was steady, firm.
“Valerion.”
—
The heavy wooden doors to Draven’s chamber burst open with a resounding crack.
Diana strode inside, her cloak billowing behind her like a storm cloud. The fire in the hearth had long since died, leaving the room bathed in the dim morning light filtering through narrow windows. The air carried the faint scent of steel, leather, and something distinctly him—but he was nowhere to be found.
Good.
Draven’s absence was a rare thing, and she intended to make full use of it.
Diana’s sharp gaze swept across the chamber. It was not a place of luxury, but of a warrior—spartan in its decor, with only the bare essentials. A massive wooden bed, unmade but orderly. A heavy oaken table covered in maps and reports. A weapon rack filled with blades, axes, and bows. Shelves lined with books, some worn with age, others barely touched.
Nothing seemed out of place. But she knew better.
Her son was hiding something.
Diana had spent years observing Draven, studying him as any mother would her child—but more importantly, as any ruler would their heir. He had always been guarded, but lately, something had changed. The tension in his shoulders, the way his gaze lingered on things unseen. He was withholding something from her, from the pack. And she would find out what.
She moved swiftly, methodically.
Her fingers skimmed over the table, shuffling through the maps and reports—battle strategies, patrol schedules, supply counts. Nothing unusual.
Next, she moved to his bed. She ran her hands over the sheets, checking for anything hidden beneath the mattress. Empty. She crouched and looked under the bed—nothing but a few forgotten boots and a stray dagger.
Her irritation grew.
Diana turned to the shelves, scanning the books. A history of their ancestors. Records of treaties. A few tomes on warfare. She pulled out a book at random, flipped through the pages. Nothing. Another book, and another—still nothing.
She exhaled sharply, her patience thinning.
Then her gaze landed on the weapon rack.
A collection of finely crafted blades gleamed in the dim light, each one meticulously maintained. But her eyes weren’t on the weapons—they were on the thick wooden beam beside them.
Draven’s chambers were simple, yes, but they were also strategic. He didn’t leave things out in the open, which meant if he was hiding something, it would be somewhere most wouldn’t think to look.
Moving closer, she ran her fingers along the edges of the wooden frame, pressing lightly. It was solid, unyielding—until her hand brushed against an almost imperceptible groove.
Her eyes narrowed.
Diana pressed harder, and click.
A small compartment in the wood shifted, revealing a hidden space barely large enough to hold a piece of parchment.
Her pulse quickened.
Reaching inside, she pulled out a folded letter.
It was blank.
Frowning, she turned it over, inspecting the texture, the weight. She lifted it to her nose and inhaled.
The faint scent of aged parchment and something else—something familiar.
A spell.
Her lips curved into a slow, knowing smirk. “It’s enchanted.”
So this was the secret.
She strode to the table, placing the letter down carefully. Her eyes flickered to the weapon rack once more before she reached for one of Draven’s daggers. The blade was sharp, well-used.
Without hesitation, she took a seat, rolled up her sleeve, and drew the dagger across the palm of her hand. A thin line of crimson welled up instantly, pooling before dripping onto the letter.
At first, nothing happened.
Then—
Her blood moved.
The droplets spread unnaturally, as if alive, slithering across the parchment like ink. Slowly, letters began to form, twisting and shifting until words took shape.
Diana’s breath caught.
She picked up the letter, her eyes scanning the words as they emerged.
And then—
Her hand flew to her mouth, stifling a sharp gasp.
Her eyes widened in shock, her chest tightening.
No…
The parchment trembled in her grasp as the truth revealed itself.