The ruins of Veilmoor were nothing like the stories said.
Lucien had always imagined broken stone towers and moss-covered halls, but what he found instead was something ancient and eerily intact. The marble columns stood tall despite the vines, and the central plaza shimmered with residual enchantment—faint, golden, and pulsing like a heartbeat.
He and Eiran dismounted at the edge of the clearing, rain still misting the air.
"This place feels alive," Lucien muttered.
Eiran nodded. "Veilmoor was once the seat of old magic. Before kingdoms. Before thrones."
Lucien turned to him. "Fitting place for a confrontation, then."
They walked together through the mist until a flicker of torchlight cut through the gloom.
Three men waited near a stone altar. One of them was the King.
Tall. Regal. Cold.
King Aldric of Aurellia looked exactly like the man Lucien remembered from the novel—ruthless and calculating. But there was something else now. Something older in his eyes.
Lucien bowed shallowly. "Your Majesty."
Aldric studied him. "You've come. Alone?"
Lucien gestured to Eiran. "Not entirely."
Aldric's jaw tightened, but he gave no command. "You know why you're here."
Lucien stepped forward, cloak rippling. "I've read this story before. It ends in blood."
The king raised a brow. "And yet you walk toward it?"
"I walk toward the truth," Lucien said.
Aldric folded his arms. "Very well. Then answer me this—why do you ally with my son? The same boy your house once vowed to destroy?"
Lucien met the king's gaze. "Because he is not the enemy. And neither am I."
Aldric's expression darkened. "You wear Ravencroft's face. You carry his name. You speak with his voice. Yet you deny his legacy?"
Lucien stepped closer. "Yes. Because I am not him."
The air crackled. One of the king's guards shifted, but Aldric raised a hand.
"You claim redemption," the king said. "But what of the North? What of the ambushes? The alliances you've broken?"
Lucien's voice did not waver. "I have changed the path laid before me. And I will not walk the one carved by fear."
Aldric studied him for a long moment.
Then, slowly, he unsheathed his sword and held it out—not in threat, but in offering.
"Then take it," he said. "Not as a weapon, but as a symbol."
Lucien hesitated. "What does this mean?"
"It means," Aldric said slowly, "that for the first time in two decades, Ravencroft and Aurellia may speak peace."
Lucien reached out—and accepted the blade.
Behind him, Eiran exhaled, relief mixing with disbelief.
It was not the end of the war.
But it was the first step.
And maybe, just maybe, it would be enough.
---
The ride back from Veilmoor was quiet, the road shrouded in fog as if the land itself held its breath. Lucien kept one hand on the hilt of the ceremonial blade the king had given him. It wasn't just a sword—it was a message. One that needed to be handled like glass: carefully, and with the understanding that a single crack could shatter everything.
Eiran rode beside him, his gaze thoughtful. The expression on his face had shifted. No longer wary, no longer guarded—it held hope now. But also fear.
"What are you thinking?" Lucien asked softly.
Eiran didn't answer right away. "That I've seen miracles in war. But never in diplomacy."
Lucien gave a short laugh. "Then let's be the first."
---
Back at Ravencroft, the court was in chaos.
News of the King's gesture had traveled faster than either of them. Nobles argued, generals protested, and the War Council was divided.
"You expect us to trust the Aurellians now?" one commander shouted. "After everything?"
Lucien stood at the head of the council table, gaze sharp. "I expect you to trust me."
"And what if this is a trap?" another noble snapped. "What if you've led us to our ruin?"
Lucien didn't flinch. "Then hold me accountable. Not my men."
Eiran, seated at Lucien's right, rose. "The King has offered his hand. Denying it will give him every excuse to withdraw it. And this time, he won't offer again."
The chamber fell silent.
Slowly, Lord Verrin—the oldest among them—stood. "Perhaps," he said, "this is the peace Ravencroft never dared to dream of."
Lucien looked at Eiran. Their eyes met.
The first stone had been laid. The foundation of a fragile alliance.
---
Later that night, Lucien and Eiran stood in the high towers, looking down over the darkened grounds.
"The hardest part comes now," Lucien said. "Keeping the peace."
Eiran turned to him. "You don't have to carry it alone."
Lucien let out a breath. "I've spent so long trying to prove I wasn't him. The villain. The destroyer. Now I'm terrified I'll become something worse—a disappointment."
Eiran stepped close. "You're not a disappointment. You're the reason we still have hope."
Lucien smiled faintly. "You always say the right thing."
Eiran leaned in, his voice a whisper. "Not always. Sometimes I say what I feel."
And then, for the first time, there was no hesitation.
Their lips met—soft, slow, filled with every unspoken promise and every moment they'd stolen in the shadows.
It wasn't a kiss of passion. It was a kiss of peace.
Of possibility.
And as the moon rose higher over the realm of Ravencroft, two men who had once stood on opposite sides of fate now stood together.
Not enemies.
Not allies.
But something entirely new.
---
To be continued...