Arion’s eyes snapped open. The world rushed in at once and with it came pain, deep and consuming, wrapping around his ribs, his spine, his right arm. He gasped, his breath catching as his pulse thundered in his ears.
He needed to move. Now.
He pushed himself up as pain tore through his arm, dropping him back before he could even breathe.
A door burst open. Footsteps.
A pair of strong hands caught him just before he hit the ground. “Easy.” The voice was deep, steady, yet not unkind.
Arion gritted his teeth as the man helped him back into bed. His vision swam, but he forced himself to speak. “I need to—ack!” A blinding pain shot through his arm, cutting off his words.
The man exhaled through his nose. “You need to, but you can’t.” He adjusted the woollen fur blankets around Arion with an almost mechanical efficiency. “Your arm is fractured. Your ribs are bruised—possibly cracked. You have nerve damage along your spine, and I’d wager a severe concussion from the swelling. You’re lucky to be alive.”
He met Arion’s gaze, voice firm. “You’ve been out for a month. You need to rest and heal.”
“A month...” Arion’s urgency surged as he rasped, “I can’t.” His voice was raw and strained. He swallowed hard. “Where am I?”
The man hesitated. “A safe place.”
Safe. The word meant nothing. Arion’s breath hitched. “The temple,” he rasped. “Tell me—” His throat tightened. “Tell me everything.”
The man didn’t answer immediately. He turned toward the window, where the late afternoon light cast a faint glow against the steady snowfall. Outside, the world lay swallowed by winter’s silence—cold and indifferent.
“Nothing remains of the temple,” the man finally said, still not meeting Arion’s gaze. “Just ash and bones.”
Arion’s chest constricted. His fingers curled weakly into the blanket. “What about the Grand Overseer?” His voice faltered. “Did he…” He couldn’t finish the question.
The man exhaled slowly. “I am afraid he did not survive.” Then, for the first time, he lifted his eyes to meet Arion’s.
“Most didn’t.” He paused; his gaze heavy with unspoken sorrow. “Those who were noncombative—scribes, elderly scholars, the injured, and the healers—were given a choice: join Theron or face banishment. Most chose exile.” His tone darkened. “Last I heard, they’ve likely taken refuge in one of the small towns outside Aetheria.”
The words sank in slowly, hollowing him from within. His father. Gone. Just like that.
The air thickened in his lungs. He squeezed his eyes shut, but the burning image of the temple flared behind them. His father’s voice—faint, unreachable now. His stomach churned, nausea rising.
This isn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening.
His body trembled as he swallowed back bile. “No,” he whispered. Not a plea or a denial—just a broken word cast into the cold.
The man remained silent, watching him. After a moment, when Arion’s grief allowed the world to creep back in—did he notice the mark on the man’s temple. A brand of banishment. Yet more urgent questions clawed at his mind.
Master Rezar. Kaelen. Kony. Were they alive? Did they escape? Arion wanted to ask, but he didn't, realizing the stranger wouldn’t recognize those names. Instead, he managed, “Why did you save me? Who are you?” His voice was hoarse.
The man’s expression did not change; he remained still, unreadable. “You wouldn’t know me by name… and I don’t know why she chose to save you,” he finally said, his voice softer than before.
Arion’s brow furrowed. She? A flicker of confusion cut through the haze of pain.
"Who's she and where's my gauntlet and my sword?" Arion's urgent voice filled the quiet room as he looked around searching the unfamiliar cabin, its aged wooden walls and low ceiling creaking. Situated on a snow-covered mountain, the cabin served as a refuge from the harsh winter. Through a narrow window, the world outside was blanketed in white, with winds howling across the peaks.
"Your gauntlet and armor are safe," a man said calmly, trying to ease Arion's panic. "The sword… where did you get it?" the man asked.
“My father…” The simple word struck Arion like a blow. Emotion welled up as unbidden, raw tears slid slowly down his cheeks. Even turning his head proved too painful in his weakened state.
“Hmph… What’s your name, young Custodian?” the man inquired, his voice calm yet laced with quiet curiosity.
“Arion… Arion Faris,” he replied.
The man's eyes widened, “Omid’s son,” the man observed, his tone carrying the weight of a revelation. “That makes sense.” It was as if a missing piece of a puzzle had finally snapped into place.
Arion nodded, though a strange, unsettled feeling churned in his chest. The man studied him thoughtfully, as if trying to place a memory—perhaps his scent, the shape of his face, or even the cadence of his voice. Finally, Arion ventured, “Did you know my father?” the realization that the man recognized his father opened a new question in Arion’s mind which followed quickly, “Do you know Master Rezar?”
At the mention of the name, the man’s gaze dropped, his expression darkened by a grief that hinted at old, unhealed wounds. “Rezar was my brother,” he said softly.
“You’re Xur?” Arion’s heart raced as the name registered. Then, hesitating, he asked, “Master Rezar, did he?”
“No,” Xur interjected, his voice heavy with resignation. “He gave his life defending the temple.”
Arion’s throat tightened further. He closed his eyes, as if trying to stem the flow of long-held sorrow. Moments later, in a voice barely above a whisper, he managed, “How did you find me?”
Xur exhaled slowly before rising to his feet. “Rest,” he said, his tone gentle but firm. “You’ll have all your answers when you’re healed.”
Frustration bubbled in Arion as he pushed himself off the mattress. “Wait, I have so many questi—”
But Xur was already moving away. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Arion alone in a place he didn’t recognize, his thoughts swirling with despair, death, and loss.
***
A month had passed since the temple fell and almost two months since the world she knew had been reduced to ruin. Two months since Theron stood at Father’s throne, smirking like a man who’d taken more than just a crown.
That night burned in her mind. His words, his laughter, the coldness in his eyes… it all fit too neatly with the doubts that had festered since her father’s death. The weight of grief clung to Elara like a second skin, suffocating, inescapable.
Night had long settled over Aetheria, casting her chamber in deep shadows, broken only by the flickering glow of a single candle. The heavy silence of the palace pressed in around her, thick with unspoken truths and unseen eyes. She was never alone—always watched, always guarded. A prisoner in her own home.
The candlelight flickered as Elara pressed the quill to parchment, her hand trembling. She took a slow breath, steadying herself before the ink bled too much.
Arion,
She wrote, the name alone forcing her throat to tighten.
I don’t know who else to tell. I think Father was murdered. The thought won’t leave me. The night before he died, Nima stood right in front of me, pouring his tea, mixing in the medicine. She didn’t even try to hide it. And now, she walks the halls as Theron’s paramour, like she’s always belonged there.
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She hesitated, her grip on the quill tightening. A fresh wave of grief crashed over her, but she pushed through it.
Nara is gone. They imprisoned her for treason, for trying to save me.
I have no one left.
The words blurred as her vision swam, and she forced the final admission onto the page.
I don’t know why I’m writing to you. Maybe because I refuse to believe you’re gone too.
Her hand stilled. A tear slipped past her lashes, landing on the ink and smudging his name. With a shuddering breath, she put the quill down. Her fingers traced the words, as if that could somehow reach him.
Then, carefully, she folded the letter and placed it into the woven basket beside her— where dozens of letters lay inside, carefully stacked, each one carrying the same silent plea.
Come back.
Her fingers hovered over them, tracing the edges of paper that would never be sent, words that would never reach him. She had written to a ghost. Again, and again.
And yet, she kept writing.
Elara’s shoulders trembled as silent sobs wracked her body. She curled forward, gripping the edge of her desk, as if grounding herself against a grief that threatened to consume her whole.
Then, with a sudden inhale, she straightened. Her swollen eyes flickered toward the basket. Slowly, she reached for it, cradling it in her arms like something precious—though it was only filled with paper, ink, and the remnants of a girl who had once believed in hope.
She walked to the fireplace, her steps steady despite the tightness in her throat. The flames flickered, crackling softly, indifferent to her pain.
Elara picked up the first letter and held it over the fire. For a moment, she hesitated, her fingers tightening around the parchment. Then, with a slow exhale, she let go.
The flames licked at the edges, curling the paper inward, blackening the words until they were nothing but ash.
Anyone who loves me is taken away from me.
Another letter. The fire consumed it greedily.
First my mother. Then Father. Then you.
Another. And another. The heat stung her face, but she kept going, eyes unblinking as each fragile hope turned to smoke.
Maybe I’m cursed to stay alone.
The last letter burned away, leaving only embers. Elara wiped her tears, her chest rising and falling with steady breaths. Her fingers curled into fists.
Then I need to stop looking at that balcony. I need to stop waiting for you.
She turned abruptly, her decision solidifying with each step.
I need to do something. For Nara. For Aetheria. And maybe… for me.
Something inside her shifted, grief hardening into purpose. Without another glance at the fire, she stepped out of her chambers, the cool night air brushing against her skin like a ghostly whisper. The halls of the palace, once alive with warmth and grandeur, now felt hollow. Stripped of the laughter, the music, the life that once filled them. The flickering torches cast long, wavering shadows across the polished floors, their dim light barely holding back the suffocating darkness that had settled over Aetheria since her father’s death.
She moved with quiet purpose, her steps light yet unwavering. The guards posted outside her door barely acknowledged her, their presence a reminder that she was no longer a free woman.
As she passed through the corridor, she felt a prickle at the back of her neck—the unmistakable sensation of being watched. Her gaze flicked to the side, and there, lingering at the far end of the hall, stood Nima.
The royal paramour’s golden robes shimmered under the torchlight, but the usual confidence that dripped from her like honey was absent. Instead, there was something else—hesitation, unease. Their eyes met, and for a fleeting moment, Elara saw a flicker of something almost human beneath Nima’s carefully constructed mask. Guilt? Fear?
Then, as if burned by the intensity of Elara’s stare, Nima tore her gaze away and disappeared down another corridor, vanishing like a thief in the night.
Elara exhaled, forcing down the surge of emotion tightening in her chest. There was no time to dwell on Nima—not now.
She continued forward until she reached the heavy doors of the council chamber. Here, she paused for a moment, steeling herself.
The more you appear broken, the more power you hand over to them, she reminded herself.
With that, she approached the doors to royal adviser’s chambers, the guard nearby opened for her as she stepped inside.
Royal Advisor Kharis sat at the long wooden table, his fingers steepled beneath his chin, his expression one of quiet tension. The air in the room was thick with something unsaid, as if even the walls knew of the kingdom’s slow unravelling.
At the sight of her, he straightened, standing as she approached. Then, with a measured nod, he bowed slightly.
"Your Highness," Kharis greeted, his voice calm yet edged with something unreadable.
"It has been a month," Elara said, her tone firm. "Why is Nara still imprisoned? On what charges?"
Kharis didn't answer immediately. Elara noticed the tension in his posture, the weight of unspoken burdens pressing down on him. The stress was evident in his face, and for a brief moment, her resolve wavered.
Softening her gaze, she shifted the conversation. "How do you fare, Kharis?" she asked, a rare note of concern slipping into her voice.
He hesitated for a moment, unease creeping into his expression. Finally, he spoke, his voice low. "Since Theron’s coronation, he has disregarded King Adir’s envoys, and the flow of exports to Kerios has ceased entirely. The Keriosi delegates are forbidden from entering Aetheria. And now,” he picked up a royal scroll with Kerios’ sigil stamped, “King Adir has sent a letter—an ultimatum, demanding a meeting to resolve their differences, or he shall consider the peace treaties null and void."
Kharis paused, his eyes briefly scanning the room, as though searching for something to steady himself.
"King Adir also requests an audience with you, Your Highness. But when I delivered this message to King Theron, it was dismissed without a second thought."
Elara’s expression hardened as she refocused on the matter at hand. "We’ve strayed too far," she said, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade. "Nara’s imprisonment is the issue at hand, Kharis. You spoke of delegations and treaties, but they mean nothing if the heart of our kingdom is poisoned by such injustices. She is innocent—this I know."
Kharis knew she was right, but as the King’s representative, it was his duty to uphold the decisions of the throne, even the cruel ones. He hesitated, searching for a justification that felt increasingly hollow.
“Treason, Your Highness.” Kharis said, with an unconvinced tone, “The guards testified that she was acting under the orders of the Keriosi emissaries in a plot to abduct you.”
“That is nonsense!” Elara’s eyes hardened. “I have already dismissed the charges. I made it clear she was acting on my decision, not Kerios’.”
Kharis exhaled, long and slow. He had tried, in his way, to reason through the decisions made in the past weeks, to justify them under the guise of duty. But there was no defense left to cling to. Not with her. Not anymore.
“I know, Your Highness,” he admitted, his voice lower now. “Everyone knows. But the ruling came straight from the king. It was never about justice—it was meant to inspire loyalty through fear.”
Elara’s hands curled into fists at her sides. “Fear can’t inspire loyalty,” she said, her voice quieter now but no less firm.
Kharis met her gaze, and for the first time in weeks, there was no pretence in his expression—only quiet, weary agreement. Kharis turned away, “I only wish those words came from our king.”
Elara let out a bitter chuckle, her smile devoid of warmth. “If only wishes were granted so easily.”
She shook her head, her tone laced with quiet disbelief. “Father’s death. That’s all it took to keep this kingdom from descending into madness. And now that he’s gone, no one dares speak reason to the new king.”
Kharis exhaled slowly, the frustration in his posture unmistakable. “I’ve tried, Princess. Over and over.” His voice tightened, weary but resolute. “But the more I push, the worse the consequences. Theron has an intent, a calculated one—and he isn’t acting alone. That sorcerer he’s welcomed into the royal court… He whispers in the king’s ear, and our king listens. My words mean nothing here anymore.”
His hands clenched at his sides; a man exhausted by the battle he was losing.
Elara stepped closer, her voice firm but laced with frustration. "Then what you plan on doing, Kharis? Stand by and watch as the whole kingdom burns to the ground like the temple did?"
Kharis exhaled, gripping the edge of the table as if trying to steady himself. "Perhaps… perhaps King Theron will see reason."
Elara scoffed, shaking her head. "Reason?" She stepped around the table, forcing Kharis to meet her gaze.
"He slaughtered the Grand Overseer and hundreds of temple custodians—men who have done nothing but serve Aetheria for centuries.”
She paused for a moment before she continued, “He took the sacred Aether, plunging the kingdom into darkness. He demands that his subjects abandon their faith, yet in return, he gives them nothing but growing famine and despair."
Kharis didn’t interrupt.
Elara’s voice grew sharper. "He imprisons Aetheria’s princess in her own home. He breaks every tradition of burial and coronation. He—"
She hesitated, her chest rising and falling, before she finally said, "Do you not see, Kharis? He killed father, too."
Kharis’ eyes widened, his breath catching. "What are you saying?"
Elara tilted her head slightly, studying him. "For the smartest adviser in the council room, the thought never crossed your mind?"
Kharis stiffened, the words hitting him harder than they should have. "That’s… a dangerous claim, Princess."
"No, it’s the truth." Her voice was ice now, cutting through whatever defences he had left. "Theron bringing a dark sorcerer into royal service wasn’t a coincidence. Ever since the Queen’s resurrection, her body exudes a repellent energy. The temple healers confirmed it."
Kharis frowned, shifting uncomfortably. "What does that have to do with—"
"Nima mixed medicinal herbs in Father’s tea the night before he died." She replied.
That made him pause.
"He just had a headache, Kharis. No chest pains. No symptoms of heart problems. The next morning, he was dead."
A breath passed between them. Kharis swallowed hard, but before he could speak, Elara continued, each word landing like a dagger.
"Remember the morning we found father dead," Elara continued, her voice trembling with barely contained fury.
"Theron stopped temple healers from trying to heal father. He threw them out of the palace because he knew they would sense the traces of dark magic in him too."
She paused, her eyes locking with Kharis', the weight of her words sinking in.
"Nima, who gave father medicine that night, has openly gone from a palace maid to a mistress to Theron ever since father died. She stood beside him at the coronation for crying out loud!"
Kharis blinked, his mind racing to put it all together. He had never connected these events before—not like this. His gaze flickered as if scanning every past decision, every dismissed doubt, every moment he should have asked more questions. His hands clenched at his sides, frustration creeping onto his face—not at Elara, but at himself.
Slowly, he looked up, his expression unreadable. His fingers curled against the table, knuckles white. Then, without a word, he turned his head, scanning the doors, the windows—checking for unseen ears.
Elara watched the shift in his demeanor, the stiffness in his shoulders, the way his breath deepened. Something had changed.
"Kharis?" she asked, barely above a whisper.
For a moment, he didn’t answer. Then, in a voice lower than she’d ever heard from him, he said, “We shouldn’t speak of this here.”
***