The battlefield sprawled like a festering wound under the moon's merciless gaze. Blood-soaked grass glistened, slick and black in the silver light, littered with the wreckage of war—shattered swords, crumpled shields, and the twisted remains of brown-armored soldiers, their lifeless eyes staring into the void. The air hung heavy with the stench of death, thick with the coppery tang of blood and the acrid bite of smoke from smoldering fires. Gnarled trees loomed at the clearing's edge, their claw-like branches swaying in a mournful wind that carried the distant wail of a lone wolf, as if the forest itself mourned the slaughter.
"Step out of the shadows and show yourself!" Harion shouted, his voice firm as his sharp eyes scanned the dark tree line in the distance. He squinted, trying to make out a figure in the dimming light, but he couldn't see anything clearly. More importantly, he couldn't feel a human presence either.
Then, slowly, someone moved.
Rya stepped out from behind the trees, her body tense and uncertain. Her breath caught in her throat as the eyes of a dozen armed men turned toward her.
She was trembling slightly. Dirt clung to her skin, and her breathing was shallow. Still, she forced herself to walk forward, one cautious step at a time.
'How did he know I was there?' she wondered, confused and anxious.
'The distance between us is over a hundred meters... and it's already night time. How could he possibly see me through the trees and shadows?' She had been so sure she was hidden well—low to the ground, still as stone. But clearly, she had underestimated them.
A murmur passed through the group of red-clad soldiers.
"It's... it's a girl?" one of them muttered, surprised. He had expected some rugged outlaw, a dangerous man with wild eyes and a deadly weapon. But this? This was far from what he imagined.
"She's so pretty," another said under his breath, eyes wide. "Totally my type."
"Idiot," a third soldier snapped. "You've got a wife and two kids."
The others chuckled, though they didn't take their eyes off her.
Harion narrowed his gaze, watching the girl move closer. Even from a distance, he couldn't deny it—she had a striking presence, battered as she was. Her dark hair clung to her face, her lips were cracked, and bruises ran down her arms and legs. Her clothes were torn and stained with dust and blood. And yet, there was something about her—a stubborn spark that hadn't been broken.
Draven stood a few feet behind, arms crossed, watching silently. He said nothing, letting Harion take the lead.
"Do we have to kill her?" one soldier asked quietly.
"I don't know... it'd be a shame," another replied, scratching his neck, clearly unsure.
Ignoring the chatter, Harion stepped forward, hand resting on the hilt of his sword. His boots crunched softly against the dirt as he walked. The soldiers parted for him without a word.
He stopped a few feet away from her.
Up close, the girl's condition was worse than it looked. Her lip was split. Her arms were scratched. Her breathing was uneven, yet her eyes met his with quiet defiance. She didn't cower.
Harion tilted his head slightly.
"State your name," he said, his voice cold and sharp like ice, "and your reason for being here."
Rya swallowed hard, her throat dry as dust. Her heart hammered, but she forced her voice to stay steady. "My name is Rya, and I'm from the Kingdom of Runevale," she said, her gaze unwavering despite the fear clawing at her insides.
A gasp rippled through the soldiers, their murmurs louder now, buzzing like flies over a corpse.
"Runevale?" one soldier blurted, his eyes wide with shock. "As in the kingdom ruled by the most beautiful woman alive?" He turned to his comrades, his voice rising with excitement. "Queen Nyxelene, right? They say her raven-black hair flows like a midnight river, and her ashen eyes glow like the moon itself. She's practically a goddess!"
Another soldier nodded eagerly, his helmet clanking as he leaned forward. "No kidding, they say she is as youthful as one could be. If I lived in Runevale, I'd worship the ground she walks on. Why's this girl all the way out here, looking like she's been dragged through hell?"
It made sense they didn't recognize her. Rya had spent years locked away in Runevale's cold, stone-walled castle, a prisoner in her own home. Her mother, Queen Nyxelene, had kept her hidden, her existence barely acknowledged beyond the castle's walls. Nyxelene was a vision of ethereal beauty—youthful, with smooth, pale skin that seemed to shimmer under moonlight, and a calm demeanor that masked a heart of steel. But her love for Rya? That had been as cold and empty as the dungeons Rya had called home.
Draven, however, stirred at the mention of Runevale. His crimson eyes flickered with something dangerous, like a spark catching in dry grass. He uncrossed his arms and stepped forward, his black cloak swirling around him like a storm cloud. Each step was deliberate, his boots silent against the blood-soaked ground, as if the earth itself feared to disturb him. He stopped just behind Harion, towering over the scene, his gaze locked on Rya. The air seemed to thicken, the soldiers falling silent under the weight of his presence. He looked at her like one wrong word might end her life then and there.
"Tell me, Rya," Draven said, his voice low and smooth, but laced with a chill that made her skin prickle. "Why does a daughter of Runevale wander these wastelands alone? Covered in filth and bruises? Are you perhaps a fugitive?" A faint frown creased his brow, but his lips twitched upward, a sly, dangerous smile forming. 'If she's a fugitive of high rank, I can use her to get back at Nyxelene for what she did to me,' he thought, the idea curling in his mind like smoke. Memories of old wounds from Runevale's queen flashed behind his eyes, fueling his quiet malice.
Rya hesitated, her mind racing. Lying might buy her time, but Draven's piercing gaze seemed to see through her, peeling back her secrets layer by layer. He was able to spot her behind the shadows of a tree, there was no way he wouldn't notice a lie. She squared her shoulders, deciding honesty was her only chance. "I'm the Princess of Runevale… or I was," she said, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. "Yes, I'm a fugitive. My mother wants me dead."
The soldiers froze, their jaws dropping. A few exchanged stunned glances, their whispers dying in their throats. Harion's eyes widened slightly, but he masked his surprise quickly, his hand tightening on his sword.
Draven's smile grew, sharp and predatory. 'The princess, what a stroke of luck. I would've killed her right here and now, but that is exactly what Nyxelene wants, so..' he thought, his mind spinning with possibilities. 'Nyxelene, ruthless as ever, but to kill her own daughter? Something's off. She's not so weak as to fail at such a simple task. Did someone interfere? No matter—this works in my favor. If Nyxelene learns I'm sheltering her precious runaway, what face will she make?' He took another step closer, his presence overwhelming, like a shadow swallowing the moonlight.
Draven's gaze softened slightly, but the edge in his voice remained. "Rya," he said, his tone almost gentle, "you stand before Lucius B. Draven, King of Zalem. Come with me, and I'll treat you as my most valued guest."
Harion stepped back, giving Draven room to take charge. His expression was unreadable, but his mind churned. 'A guest?' he thought, stunned. He'd fought beside Draven for years, loyal through blood and fire, yet the man remained an enigma. Offering refuge to a fugitive princess? This was no simple act of mercy—Draven always had a plan.
Rya blinked, her breath catching. "A guest?" she said, her voice barely above a whisper. Zalem was one of the three great kingdoms of the era, a rival to Runevale's power. Meeting its king in the middle of a blood-soaked battlefield was shocking enough, but offering her protection? It sounded too good to be true. If she went with him, her mother's soldiers would struggle to reach her behind Zalem's fortified walls. But could she trust him?
Harion's head snapped toward Draven, his brows furrowing. 'A guest?' he thought again, his loyalty warring with confusion. Draven's motives were a labyrinth, and Harion was still lost in its twists.
Rya's mind raced. "But… won't that put you at odds with Runevale?" she asked, her voice trembling but firm. "It could lead to war. You don't understand—my mother…" She trailed off, the weight of Nyxelene's cruelty pressing against her chest.
Draven cut her off, his voice sharp but calm. "Rya." He leaned down, his breath ghosting across her cheek, cold as a winter grave. "Our kingdoms have danced on the knife's edge for decades." His eyes burned with a quiet fire, daring her to doubt him. "And trust me—Nyxelene knows better than to test me."
Rya's heart pounded, her gaze darting between Draven's unyielding stare and the soldiers watching her every move. The wind howled across the battlefield, carrying the faint scent of smoke and death. She was trapped—between her mother's wrath and this mysterious king's offer. Trusting Draven was a gamble, but staying here meant certain death.
She lifted her chin, her voice steady despite the fear coiling in her gut. "Yes," she said.
Draven's smile widened, a flicker of triumph in his eyes. "Good," he said softly, his voice like a blade sheathed but still dangerous. He turned to Harion, his cloak swirling dramatically. "Prepare the men. We move at first light tomorrow. Oh, and treat our dear guest with the utmost care you can offer."