Life in Annvled, Eirindale, felt especially quiet that night. The cold night wind swept between the sturdy stone walls, carrying a sense of solitude only those long separated from the outside world could truly feel. Reizha, the princess of Iskhalin now imprisoned, sat in her cell, her sharp eyes gazing out through the narrow window at the pale stars above. Beneath her proud and hateful expression, there lived an undeniable fear.
It was not merely fear of captivity, but fear of losing control, of watching her influence slip into the hands of those she once called inferior. She was not prepared for a future stripped of her royal privilege. Arrogance had long shielded her, but now, stripped of title and throne, she was left with nothing but the echo of her own bitterness.
Outside the prison, in a warmer and more comfortable room, Azfaran sat calmly. In front of him, a sealed scroll rested on a broad wooden table. The letter was addressed to Sharrfan, the King of Iskhalin—Azfaran's nemesis. Within its folds were words that Reizha would never be allowed to read: that to have his daughter returned, Sharrfan would have to surrender his throne.
Azfaran glanced at Maeron, who stood beside him. Their eyes met in silence, but they understood each other without speaking. This was a turning point—an irreversible step. One that would shake the very core of what Iskhalin had built. Reizha now stood as a symbol of everything cruel and unjust that had taken root in the kingdom. There would be no compromise.
"This letter must reach Sharrfan," Azfaran said quietly, his tone measured. "Deliver it firmly, with no embellishments. There will be no negotiation."
Maeron nodded, stepping forward to retrieve the scroll. "There's one thing we must ensure," she said, voice steady. "He must know this isn't a request. If we leave room for hesitation, he'll use it to stall and maneuver."
Azfaran's gaze deepened. "I know," he replied. "This is not just about Reizha. It's about our standing in Eirindale—and the future of all Isvalon."
Maeron took the scroll into her hands, feeling the weight not only of parchment, but of history itself. They were no longer dealing with a spoiled, prideful princess, but with a king who would do anything to retain his power. Reizha, in the end, was merely a pawn in a much larger game.
Far away, in the marble halls of Iskhalin's palace, life continued as usual—at least on the surface. But change had begun to stir at the edges. King Sharrfan sat atop his silver throne, his expression unreadable as reports flooded in from his ministers. The disappearance of Reizha had slowly begun to spread among the inner circles, igniting whispers that refused to be silenced. No one knew for certain where she had gone—or who had taken her.
Suddenly, a messenger from Eirindale arrived at the palace gates. Clad in a dark cloak, he entered without fanfare, drawing the attention of every guard he passed. Without uttering a word, he handed over a scroll sealed with the symbol of Eirindale. The scroll was taken immediately to the throne room.
"King Sharrfan, This is from Eirindale," the steward announced, his voice trembling with uncertainty. "It bears a message of great urgency."
Sharrfan took the letter with cold fingers. His eyes fixated on the seal—Eirindale's mark, the very emblem of the new power rising to challenge Iskhalin's dominion. Slowly, deliberately, he broke the seal and unfolded the letter.
It was not a long message, but every word was laced with iron.
"The daughter you really loved and spoiled so dearly—so much that she acted without consequence, spreading lies and falsehoods—Reizha, is now in our hands.
If you want her to return alive and unharmed, there is one price to pay: the throne. Step down from power, and you will see her again.
Refuse, and she will never set foot in Iskhalin again"*
There was no signature. There didn't need to be.
Silence hung thick in the chamber. The ministers, Advisors, and generals present dared not speak. Sharrfan read the letter a second time, then a third. Each time, his jaw tightened further.
He crushed the scroll in one hand.
"Prepare a reply," he said sharply. "But we will not bow to such a junk threats."
No one dared challenge him, yet in their eyes, a question lingered: was he still in control? Or was the kingdom itself slipping from his grasp? What will a king do in this situation?
Back in Annvled, Azfaran stood upon the balcony of the eastern watchtower, the winds brushing his cloak aside. In the distance, the mist-covered hills of Eirindale stretched toward the horizon, where a war yet to be fought was already being written in silence.
Beside him, Maeron spoke softly, "Do you think he'll surrender?"
Azfaran didn't answer right away. His eyes were focused far ahead, beyond the clouds, beyond the walls.
"He will try to twist it," he said at last. "That's what tyrants do when the walls begin to close in. But no matter what he chooses, the people will see what we've done. That matters more than any throne."
He turned to her. "Let the fire be kindled. One that burns only to clear the path for something new."
Maeron stayed silent for a moment, but her brows furrowed as if she were holding back a thought that refused to rest.
"Azfaran," she said, her voice quieter than before, but edged with concern. "What if Sharrfan doesn't answer with words?"
Azfaran turned slightly, intrigued. The wind tugged gently at the folds of his robe.
"You mean—"
"A rescue mission," Maeron finished. "A small force. Loyalists, or worse, mercenaries. Not an open war yet, but something just enough to retrieve Reizha. Something covert, hidden in the night."
Azfaran considered it, his gaze drifting toward the torchlit roads below that led from Annvled's gates into the valleys. His silence was not uncertainty—but a weighing of possibilities.
"He would never risk a full army—not yet," Maeron continued. "It would spark the war before he's ready. But a smaller strike? It's the kind of arrogance he's known for. Bold. Reckless. Believing he can win her back with a blade instead of surrender."
"She's too valuable to him," Azfaran murmured. "Not just as a daughter. As a symbol of his rule. If Reizha returns unharmed, it validates his power. If she remains with us, it weakens him before his court. And if she dies..."
"Then he has a martyr," Maeron finished, grimly
There was a long pause. The night around them felt even colder.
Azfaran stepped away from the edge of the balcony and began to pace. "He won't send knights in armor. He'll use shadows. Men who blend into the outskirts. Hunters, trackers, maybe former scouts from the old border divisions. People who know how to kill without leaving a sound. Because, they know if they do open war, we will kill Princess Reizha"
Maeron nodded. "And they'll target the prison directly. Not the gates. The east wall, perhaps. The blind spot we identified last month."
"We need to reinforce it," Azfaran said. "Without making it obvious. If we appear too guarded, it confirms we expect an attempt. He'll take that as fear—and act sooner."
Maeron's tone grew more urgent. "Then we must prepare guards who are not just soldiers, but listeners. Those trained to detect the unnatural in the quiet. The whisper before the scream."
Azfaran looked at her, a soft admiration in his eyes. "You think like a commander."
She gave a faint smile. "I think like someone who's seen too many tyrants escape through carelessness."
He crossed his arms, considering. "Very well. Double the watch near the prison and the borders, but make it look like routine drills. Position archers in the high towers, unseen. And send word to Ysolde—we may need her spies to listen among the merchants. If strangers begin asking for the prison layout, or offering coin for silence, we must know."
Maeron nodded again, already forming plans in her mind.
But Azfaran wasn't done.
"There's one more danger," he said, his voice low. "What if Reizha collaborates?"
Maeron's expression sharpened. "You think she'd help them?"
"She might recognize a rescue attempt. Hear a signal. Leave a mark on the window. Anything. If she believes she still has value to Sharrfan, she may try to use that to her advantage."
Maeron exhaled slowly. "Then we must ensure she is isolated—not only by walls, but by certainty. She must not believe help is coming. She must begin to question whether anyone even remembers her."
"That," Azfaran said, "will be harder than any wall we build."
A sudden gust of wind swept over them, rattling the iron torch beside the balcony. Maeron pulled her cloak tighter.
"She will not be broken easily," Maeron said softly. "She is proud. And proud people burn slowly."
Azfaran looked back toward the horizon, where faint light still clung to the edge of the world.
"Then we will not rush her ruin," he whispered. "We will let it rot from within."
Maeron glanced up, studying his face in the torchlight—resolute, yet weary. A man who carried not only duty, but consequence.
And then, with her voice steadied again, she asked, "Do you believe we are ready if the strike comes?"
Azfaran paused.
"No," he admitted. "But we will be."
Maeron nodded, her voice a whisper against the cold wind. "Then we wait for the answer. But not forever."
"No," said Azfaran, quietly. "Not forever."