Rya stirred as dawn's pale light slipped through the tent's thin canvas, warming her face. She yawned, her hands rubbing sleep from her eyes, and stretched, easing the stiffness from her limbs. Sitting up on the thin mat, her dark hair tangled and loose, she winced as her sore muscles protested. The mat offered little comfort against the hard ground, leaving her body aching. Her thoughts swirled, a jumble of worry and memory. What had happened to Michael after she fled Runevale? His voice echoed in her mind, shouting for her to run as he faced the guards and her mother, Nyxelene, alone. Gratitude for Draven's protection warmed her chest, but fear for Michael gnawed at her. Had he escaped? Was he safe?
No answers came. Before she left, Michael had promised a plan with confidence, swearing he'd follow right behind her. He'd held off the guards, buying her time to slip away. Rya shook her head, trying to clear the fog of worry, and stood, brushing dirt from her torn clothes. The mat's thinness left her joints creaking, so she stretched again, her arms reaching high. Only then did she notice the clamor outside—soldiers' voices, the clink of metal, the rustle of canvas.
Stepping out, Rya squinted against the morning sun. The Zalem camp buzzed with activity at the forest's edge, where tall pines loomed like silent sentinels. Soldiers hustled, some brushing down snorting horses, others folding tents with quick, practiced tugs. The grassy field stretched before them, littered with yesterday's fallen foes, their still forms a grim reminder of battle. Rya's feet brushed the damp grass as she wove through scattered gear—swords, shields, and spilled rations—avoiding the chaos.
She spotted Draven near a sturdy brown horse, his hands deftly adjusting its saddle. His broad shoulders slumped slightly, betraying a sleepless night. Draven, a man who commanded wealth and power, cared little for the lives he took or the rules he broke. Ties like family or love held no sway over him; women never caught his eye. Yet, seeing Rya yesterday—her bruised body, her innocent green eyes—had stirred something unfamiliar. A pang, sharp and raw, had gripped his chest, unsettling him. He wasn't one for pity, especially for humans, but her gaze had haunted him all night. Shaking his head, he blamed the strange feeling on too long a stay in the human world.
Rya approached, stepping carefully over a muddy patch. "Good morning, Your Majesty," she said, her voice soft but clear, though Draven seemed lost in thought, his fingers still on the horse's reins.
He turned, releasing the reins, his eyes meeting hers. "Call me Draven," he said gruffly, looking away, his boots shifting in the grass.
Rya hesitated, then nodded. "Thank you for taking me in, Your M... I mean Draven," she said, her gaze fixed on his back.
Draven glanced over his shoulder, his expression softening briefly. "Sleep well?" he asked, but before Rya could reply, Harion's voice boomed across the camp.
"ON GUARD!" Harion shouted, his command sharp enough to freeze every soldier. Swords rasped from scabbards, glinting in the sunlight as the Zalians turned toward the distant forest.
Draven cursed under his breath, his hand gripping his sword hilt. How had he missed an enemy's approach? His mind, tangled with useless thoughts, had dulled his senses—a mistake he hated to admit.
At the camp's edge, the forest's shadows stirred. Seven figures emerged, their armor catching the dawn's light. The Zalians formed ranks, shields raised in their left hands, swords steady in their right, their boots trampling the grass. Corpses from yesterday's fight lay scattered in the field between them, a gruesome barrier.
"Stop where you stand, or we'll treat you as foes!" Harion bellowed, his voice carrying over the wind. "Name yourselves and your kingdom!"
One of the seven, a lean soldier, stepped forward, his eyes scanning the dead with disgust. "Zalian scum," he spat, his voice low but venomous. "They slaughtered these people and pitched their tents atop their graves."
Another soldier pushed through the group, yanking off his helmet. His long black hair fell loose, framing dark eyes that locked onto Rya. "I've found you at last, Rya," he said, his tone cold yet familiar. "But how am I to kill you when you hide behind all this rabble?" He said pointing at the soldiers of Zalem, or Zalians, as one might say.
Rya's breath caught, her heart lurching. She knew that voice, those eyes—Javier, her childhood friend, now standing as her enemy.
Harion's voice cut through the tense air, low and steady, his grip tightening on his sword. "I won't ask again. Name yourself and your kingdom."
Javier's dark eyes glinted with defiance, his long black hair swaying as he took two bold steps forward, boots crunching the grass. He smirked at Harion, tilting his head. "What, are Zalians blind now?" he taunted, jabbing a finger at the wolf crest etched on his helmet, its snarling jaws gleaming in the dawn light. The Zalians froze, their eyes darting to the emblem. Runevale's mark was unmistakable, and the realization hit like a cold wind. A wrong move could spark war between their kingdoms, and every soldier's hand hovered over their weapon, muscles taut with caution.
Javier's lips curled into a mocking grin, his voice dripping with scorn. "Here's a riddle for you, Zalian. What kingdom wears a wolf on its armor?" He tapped the crest again, his gaze sweeping the camp, daring anyone to act rashly.
Harion's jaw clenched, his sword tip steady as he pointed it at Javier. "What do you Runians want?" he demanded, his voice sharp, eyes narrowing as he scanned the seven soldiers fanned out behind Javier, their hands resting on sword hilts.
Javier straightened, his tone hardening. "We're here for the princess. Step aside, Zalians, or we'll carve our way through."
Draven glanced at Rya, who stood rooted beside him, her forest-green eyes wide with shock. Her frame seemed to shrink under the weight of Javier's arrival, her bruised arms trembling slightly. The fierce spark that once defined her flickered, dimmed by the sight of her old friend turned foe. Draven's chest tightened, his fingers flexing on his sword hilt, puzzled by the urge to shield her. "Do you know him?" he asked, his voice low, studying her pale face.
"Yes," Rya whispered, her voice barely audible. She swallowed hard, then stepped forward, her feet pressing into the damp grass. Standing beside Harion, she faced Javier, her dark hair falling over her shoulders. "Javier, what happened to Michael? Is he okay?" she asked, her voice cracking, eyes glistening with unshed tears. Her hands clenched at her sides, bracing for his answer.
Javier's gaze hardened, his lips twisting into a sneer. "Why should I tell you, you ungrateful girl? You fled Runevale without a glance back, leaving Michael to hold off the guards and your mother alone. Did you even care about him?" He leaned forward, his words sharp as daggers, slicing through the morning air.
Rya's breath hitched, her thoughts tangling into knots. "That's not…" she stammered, struggling to find words, her fingers twisting the hem of her torn dress.
Javier's voice grew colder, his dark eyes boring into hers. "If there's one thing I know, Rya, it's that you're the most selfish person I've ever met. You didn't spare a thought for Mira, the maid who raised you all those years, now in danger because of you. Or Michael, who threw away everything—his home, his future—for you."
Rya's lips parted, but no sound came. Her mind raced, replaying memories of Michael's blonde ponytail bouncing as he grinned at her window, his sapphire eyes bright with courage. She shook her head, tears threatening to spill.
Javier stepped closer, his voice dropping to a bitter murmur. "One question, Rya. Why do you think Michael risked his life to save you?"
Her voice trembled, soft but certain. "Because… he's my friend." She clung to the memory of their nights in her chamber, whispering tales of adventure, their laughter a shield against Nyxelene's cold shadow.
Javier's eyes narrowed, a flicker of pity crossing his face. He thought of Michael, his fool of a friend, sacrificing everything for a girl too naive to see his love. "That's what I figured," he muttered, shaking his head. 'Michael, you idiot. She doesn't even know why you did it.' Raising his voice, he addressed the Zalians, his tone sharp. "Hand over the princess, and we'll leave. I see no real warriors here. I'd hate to waste my blades on you."
Harion's eyes blazed, his patience snapping. "You're mistaken, Runian. You're the ones in danger, and I'll prove it right now." He charged like a bolt, his boots pounding the earth, muscles coiling as he leaped, his sword arcing downward in a fierce slash. Javier tossed his helmet aside, his long hair whipping free, and drew his father's twin daggers, now his, their blades flashing like stars. Steel clashed against steel with a piercing metallic screech, sparks flying as Javier blocked the overhead strike, his arms straining against Harion's force. The two stood locked, blades scraping, the sound echoing across the field where the dead lay silent.