---
The escape from the forest was a blur of shadows, blood, and breathless flight. Seraphina's arm burned, the wound deeper than she'd let on, but she held tight to Alaric's cloak as he guided her through deer trails and forgotten glens.
By the time they reached the old hunter's cabin hidden deep within Hollowfen, the stars had scattered like shattered glass across the night sky. Alaric barred the door behind them and lit a single oil lamp.
"Sit," he ordered gently.
Seraphina collapsed onto a low bench, blood soaking her sleeve. He pulled aside the fabric and winced.
"You'll need stitches."
She nodded, breath shallow.
He worked quickly, his hands steady despite the fire in his chest. The wound was clean, but she had lost more blood than he liked. As he cleaned the last of it, she finally whispered, "You saved me again."
His eyes flicked to hers. "I'll always save you."
They sat in silence, the weight of those words settling between them like a vow.
"I can't go back now," she said at last. "Even if I wanted to."
"You don't have to," Alaric said, standing. "I've sent word to a friend. Someone who can help hide you for a while. Let the nobles think you vanished—let them stew in their fear."
"But my father—"
"Your father tried to protect you once. Now he lets his court circle you like wolves. If he does not call them off, he's already lost you."
Tears welled in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall.
Alaric knelt beside her, taking her hand.
"There's another path," he said. "Not war. Not peace bought with blood. But something in between. You and I—together—could force it."
"You'd betray your crown?"
"I'd reshape it," he said. "For you. For us. For something better than centuries of hate."
The oil lamp flickered.
Outside, horses' hooves pounded the earth.
Alaric sprang to his feet.
"Hide," he hissed, drawing his sword.
Seraphina dove behind the wooden wall panels as the door shattered.
It wasn't Eleryn guards.
It was Thornehold soldiers.
"Commander," one of them barked. "You're under arrest. By order of the War Council."
Seraphina's breath caught.
Alaric didn't lower his sword. "And what is the charge?"
"Consorting with the enemy. Treason."
The room fell into stillness again—before it exploded.
---
The clash of steel rang like thunder in the hunter's cabin.
Alaric fought fiercely, sword flashing in the lamplight. Two of his own men lay wounded within minutes, but he held back his deadliest strikes—these were not enemies, but brothers-in-arms manipulated by fear and politics.
"Stand down!" he bellowed. "I am your commander!"
But the soldiers hesitated only for a breath.
"The Council has spoken!" one shouted back. "You're no longer in command!"
In the shadows behind the wall, Seraphina watched, heart hammering. She wanted to scream, to run to him—but she knew it would seal both their fates.
Alaric ducked a blow, parried, and stepped back. "You know me! You know I would never betray Thornehold!"
"Then explain her!" the sergeant snapped, pointing his blade toward the shadows.
Silence fell.
Alaric didn't move. "She is not your enemy."
A tense breath.
"She is my future."
That broke the spell. One soldier rushed forward. Another struck Alaric across the jaw with a hilt. He fell hard, blood on his lip.
"Bind him," the sergeant ordered.
She had to follow.
Talia would be waiting with horses.
Seraphina pressed a hand to her bleeding shoulder, pulled Alaric's cloak tight around her, and stepped into the cold night.
Hollowfen loomed around her—a labyrinth of marshes and twisted pines. She whispered prayers to gods long abandoned, using every path Alaric had taught her in their secret meetings.
The moon cast broken silver across the ground as she reached a rise and saw the convoy ahead—Alaric, tied to a horse, head down but defiant.
She watched them ride toward Thornehold.
And she swore, by blood and shadow, that she would get him back.
No matter what it cost
---
Seraphina stayed in the shadows until the sounds of hooves faded into the night, swallowed by wind and forest. The wound on her shoulder throbbed, but it was nothing compared to the ache growing in her chest. They had taken him—her Alaric—bound like a criminal, dragged back to a kingdom that would see him hanged for daring to love her.
She could do nothing but watch.
No. That was a lie.
She would do something.
She pressed a hand to the cabin wall to steady herself. The flickering lamp was nearly out, casting long, swaying shadows that danced like ghosts. With gritted teeth, she tore a strip from her cloak, wrapped her wound tighter, and drew a dagger from Alaric's old satchel. The steel felt heavier than it should have.
Talia had to know. Seraphina could no longer keep her friend in the dark. She left a blood-stained message behind in the cabin—A taken path cannot be unwalked. Meet me in the ruins of Halwyn. Bring only those you trust.
Then she slipped into the forest.
The journey south took her through treacherous wetlands and ice-choked gullies. Hunger clawed at her. Fever simmered in her blood. More than once she saw shadows moving in the trees, but none dared approach. Perhaps they saw the fire in her eyes and thought better of crossing her path.
When she reached Halwyn—a ruin forgotten by time and claimed by crows—she collapsed beneath the stone archway of an old shrine. Her body was weak, her limbs trembling, but her mind remained iron.
Alaric was not just a man. He was the proof that peace could be more than a myth. If she let him die, everything they had risked would die with him.
The wind howled through the empty village, whispering ancient names, and she spoke into it like a prayer:
"I will get him back."
She stayed there for hours, clutching the dagger, until the sound of hooves in the distance stirred her from the edge of unconsciousness. Talia emerged, flanked by two cloaked figures.
One carried a scroll. The other, a bow.
"You look like death," Talia said, kneeling beside her. "But I suppose even death fears you now."
Seraphina smiled faintly. "I need help."
Talia glanced at the others. "Then let's raise hell."
The war for love had begun ...
Seraphina stayed in the shadows until the sounds of hooves faded into the night, swallowed by wind and forest. The wound on her shoulder throbbed, but it was nothing compared to the ache growing in her chest. They had taken him—her Alaric—bound like a criminal, dragged back to a kingdom that would see him hanged for daring to love her.
She could do nothing but watch.
No. That was a lie.
She would do something.
Talia had to know. Seraphina could no longer keep her friend in the dark. She left a blood-stained message behind in the cabin—A taken path cannot be unwalked. Meet me in the ruins of Halwyn. Bring only those you trust.
Then she slipped into the forest.
The night was thick with mist, the trees like towering sentinels guarding secrets too old for memory. Each step was a test—of pain, of will, of the fire inside her that refused to die. Seraphina didn't know how far she would get. She didn't know if she'd survive the journey. But she knew that she couldn't stay still. Not while Alaric was behind bars, not while the council prepared his execution.
Her fevered mind clung to scraps of memory: the way his eyes had searched hers in the cabin, the way he had said, You are my future.
She wouldn't let them kill her future.
At dawn, she reached the riverbank. She collapsed beside a tree, pressing her forehead to the bark. Her strength was nearly gone.
A fisherman's boat bobbed at the edge of the reeds.
She stole it.
It wasn't graceful—her hands shook, her wound reopened—but the current did much of the work. Hours passed. Birds cried overhead. Her vision blurred.
When she finally reached the southern bridge, she staggered ashore and began the slow climb to Halwyn.
She had no army. No allies. No strategy.
Only her resolve.
And sometimes, that was enough.
Seraphina stayed in the shadows until the sounds of hooves faded into the night, swallowed by wind and forest. The wound on her shoulder throbbed, but it was nothing compared to the ache growing in her chest. They had taken him—her Alaric—bound like a criminal, dragged back to a kingdom that would see him hanged for daring to love her.
She could do nothing but watch.
No. That was a lie.
She would do something.
The night was thick with mist, the trees like towering sentinels guarding secrets too old for memory. Each step was a test—of pain, of will, of the fire inside her that refused to die. Seraphina didn't know how far she would get. She didn't know if she'd survive the journey. But she knew that she couldn't stay still. Not while Alaric was behind bars, not while the council prepared his execution.
Her fevered mind clung to scraps of memory: the way his eyes had searched hers in the cabin, the way he had said, You are my future.
She wouldn't let them kill her future.
At dawn, she reached the riverbank. She collapsed beside a tree, pressing her forehead to the bark. Her strength was nearly gone.
A fisherman's boat bobbed at the edge of the reeds.
She stole it.
It wasn't graceful—her hands shook, her wound reopened—but the current did much of the work. Hours passed. Birds cried overhead. Her vision blurred.
When she finally reached the southern bridge, she staggered ashore and began the slow climb to Halwyn.
She had no army. No allies. No strategy.
Only her resolve.
And sometimes, that was enough.
She reached the outskirts of the ruined village by twilight. Crumbling stone and shattered arches whispered of a kingdom long forgotten. Moss blanketed the bones of once-proud buildings. No guards, no traps—just silence and the occasional echo of a bird's cry.
She collapsed beside the hollow shrine of Ceryna, the goddess of justice, her fingers curled around the dagger.
Her body trembled with cold and pain, but her spirit held.
As stars bloomed above, Seraphina whispered into the wind, not a prayer, but a promise: "You are not alone. I will come for you."
In the distance, a low howl stirred the stillness.
The war had changed. And Seraphina Vale would become it's flame 🔥
The moon rose higher, casting a pale glow over the ruins. She forced herself upright and limped toward a crumbled bell tower. Its broken spire still overlooked the valley like a sentinel of old. There, beneath the shattered stained glass, she found a hidden compartment carved into the wall—Alaric's secret cache.
Inside: a map, a flare vial, dried provisions, and a weathered ring bearing the sigil of House Thorne.
Hope swelled.
He had prepared for this. Not this exact moment, perhaps—but for a day when the world would turn against them both.
Seraphina studied the map, committing the escape routes and enemy positions to memory. She memorized the timing of the guards' patrols, the secret passages beneath the castle walls, and the location of the southern tower where prisoners were kept.
She would not wait for rescue. She would become it.
The wind shifted, carrying the scent of woodsmoke—someone was coming.
Seraphina retreated into the shadows of the bell tower. Moments later, hooves crunched against frostbitten grass. A figure approached, cloaked and alone.
Talia.
"By the gods," she breathed, dismounting. "You're alive."
"Barely."
"You look like you fought the forest and lost."
"I fought myself and survived," Seraphina whispered.
Talia stepped closer, pressed a hand to her forehead, then looked her in the eyes. "We have one shot at this."
Seraphina nodded, holding up the map.
"Then we don't waste it."
And in the cold ruins of Halwyn, the rebellion was born—not from armies, but from love and defiance.
---
Talia lit a small fire inside the bell tower, shielding the flame with an iron plate from the ruined brazier. They huddled around it as the cold bit deeper into their bones. Seraphina's cloak was torn, her hair damp with river mist, her eyes rimmed red—but within them burned something that silenced Talia more than any wound could: purpose.
"There's a passage here," Seraphina said, pointing at a faint mark on the map. "It runs beneath the chapel into the lower dungeons. Alaric used it once, years ago, when he was still a spy in the South."
Talia studied the lines, then the sigil on the ring. "He marked this himself."
Seraphina nodded. "He knew I'd find it."
They worked in silence, assembling gear from what little was left in the cache: a rusted sword, half a lantern, oil-slicked rope. Talia removed the poison darts she kept in a hidden pocket of her corset—relics from her past life in the Crown's intelligence.
"We'll leave before dawn," Seraphina murmured. "We cross the marsh. Then, when the bells toll for the morning watch, we slip into the tunnels."
"You'll never survive another direct wound, Sera."
"I'll survive long enough."
They slept in turns, curled beneath the cracked wings of the goddess's shrine. The stars above seemed brighter here—more watchful. As if the heavens themselves were holding their breath.
In the darkest hour before dawn, Seraphina rose. Her shoulder burned, her limbs stiff with exhaustion, but her mind was clear. Talia joined her at the tower's edge, both women cloaked in shadow.
From the ridge, the outer lights of Blackreach prison twinkled in the far distance—like the eyes of a dragon waiting in silence.
"That's where he is," Seraphina whispered. "Caged like a beast."
"Then let's break the bars."
They didn't speak again. They packed what they could carry and slipped into the underbrush, vanishing like ghosts through the frost-tipped hollows. The map guided them through an ancient deer trail, now long-forgotten, overgrown with thorns and creeping ivy. A nightjar called once, twice—then silence again.
By the time the first blush of dawn touched the sky, they had reached the edge of the Blackreach marsh.
Seraphina paused. She could see it now—beyond the dead reeds and stagnant pools, the spires of the prison like knives jutting into the sky.
Alaric was in there. Waiting. Bleeding. Alone.
Not for long.
She turned to Talia, her voice low and fierce.
"Tonight, we steal back what they took from us."
Talia drew her blade. "Let the crown tremble."
And with that, the two women disappeared into the mist, toward the jaws of the kingdom's darkest fortress—toward treason, toward war, and toward love.
---