The two froze.

  “Get her out of Solvara,” Sylvas said, his voice firm, unshaken.

  Ryn’s throat tightened. “…I don’t understand.”

  A scream tore through the street beyond the wall, cut short by steel. Rubble rained from somewhere above, the ground shuddering as another blast rippled through the city.

  Sylvas didn’t answer at once. His eyes lingered on Ryn, steady, deliberate.

  It was Sara who broke the silence, her voice sharp but trembling.

  “They’re not here to conquer. They’re here to erase us. To wipe Solvara from the map.”

  Her gaze flicked to Ariel, then faltered. She turned her head, lips pressed tight as another rumble shook the stones beneath them.

  “And that means destroying what’s left of our blessing. The royal line.”

  Ariel’s grip tightened around Ryn’s arm, nails digging through the fabric.

  The fleeting relief among the knights vanished, replaced by the sound of muffled weeping somewhere in the street and the clang of distant steel. Kael shifted beside them, jaw tight. His eyes flicked toward Ariel, then down to the blood-streaked cobbles at his feet. He said nothing, only drew a slow, unsteady breath, his silence heavier than words.

  Sylvas’s voice cut through the chaos, steady as steel.

  “We cannot shield her from an army of Blessed.” He set his scarred hand on Ryn’s shoulder, firm, grounding, as another explosion rattled the stones behind them.

  “You must run. Protect her.”

  Before Ryn could speak, a voice slipped through the clash and smoke — thin, trembling.

  For the first time since the night raid began, Ariel spoke.

  “You… you can’t make me do that…”

  Her hands shook as she clutched her skirts, eyes wide, breath uneven. She turned from them, as if the sight of the blood and ruin beyond the wall might steady her more than their faces ever could.

  “I can’t abandon them,” she whispered, at first barely audible. Then louder, breaking.

  “All those people out there, suffering, dying—” her voice cracked, faltering into a whisper again, “—just to save myself.”

  She swallowed hard, forcing the words out, terrified but refusing to break.

  “I just… I just can’t.”

  Every knight in the ruined hall turned their gaze away. None dared meet her eyes. For a while, the only sound was the muffled thunder of battle beyond the wall — steel striking steel, a scream carried on the wind, the low rumble of stone collapsing somewhere deeper in the city.

  Then Sylvas spoke, his voice steady but softer than before.

  “Your Highness… every knight here knows their worth. And we all know yours. You are worth more than every sword, every life we still have to give. Our duty is to see you live on, even if it means the rest of us fall.”

  Ariel’s head gave a quick, trembling shake as soon as the words left him.

  “That’s not… that’s not fair.”

  Her chest rose too fast, her words catching on the edge of her breath.

  “Why do you… Why do you get to decide my worth? My worth compared to yours?”

  Her grip on her gown tightened until her knuckles whitened. The anger she tried to summon flickered, hollow, giving way to something smaller, something frightened.

  “Why do you get to throw your lives away for me… while I just… stand here? While I do nothing in return?”

  The last question came out softer, almost pleading.

  “Wh-why…?”

  Sylvas’s jaw flexed

  The silence that followed was suffocating. The knights’ eyes drifted, each one fixed on stone, on smoke curling through the cracks, on anything but the princess. None dared answer her.

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  Ryn parted his lips, but no words came. Anything he said now would fall short, fragile against the weight of her despair.

  And then, movement. A faint stir, a ragged breath.

  Lilia shifted against the rubble, forcing herself upright. The sound alone broke the stillness.

  Ariel’s head snapped toward her.

  For a heartbeat, she didn’t move. She couldn’t. Her eyes darted over the figure half-buried in dust and broken stone.

  When Lilia lifted her head, dazed but alive, something in Ariel broke loose. She stumbled forward at first, then ran

  Before she could fully rise, Ariel lunged forward, arms wrapping around her in a desperate embrace.

  “Thank the gods…” Ariel whispered, the words tumbling over themselves, over and over again.

  Her shoulders trembled, her breath hitching against Lilia’s neck, and for the first time since the raid began, her composure cracked entirely.

  “A-Ariel… p-please…” Lilia stammered, her voice thin, caught between pain and surprise.

  Relief washed through him the instant his eyes found Lilia. Her slight frame trembled, her silver hair matted with dust and blood, yet she still breathed. She was alive, and that was enough.

  The silence held until the next blast rolled through the street, rattling loose stone. Somewhere far off, a bell tolled once before falling silent again.

  Brann’s voice cut through the haze. He strode up, face grim, and tossed a bundle of rust into Ryn’s hands.

  “Put this on, Ryn.”

  Ryn glanced down. a tunic and Armor—if it could be called that. Dented plates, scorched at the edges, the kind scavenged from the fallen. Poorly fitted, almost scrap, likely torn from a comrade who no longer needed it.

  Still, he did not hesitate. He strapped it across his aching body, the cold bite of steel pressing against half-healed wounds. Every movement sent a dull burn through his chest and shoulders, the reminder of the last battle carved deep into him.

  But thanks to Eldric, his bones still held, his breath still came, and his sword arm could still rise. Pain or not, he could fight. He had to.

  Sara slipped an arm under Lilia’s good shoulder, steadying her as she tried to rise. The effort tore a hiss of pain from her lips, her body trembling, and then—

  A sound.

  Sharp. Wrong. Like glass splintering, but stretched, drawn out, echoing strangely in the cramped stone around them.

  The knights froze, hands snapping to weapons. Even the fire and screaming beyond the wall seemed to fall away.

  The noise came again, low, shivering, like the world itself was cracking.

  The hiding place of fourteen souls, knights, wounded, and the princess herself, went dead quiet. Even the distant battle seemed to pause.

  Then, in the space between one heartbeat and the next, the air changed, wrong, heavy, humming like a thousand whispers pressed into silence.

  Then the air shattered.

  A sound like a mirror breaking, stretched wide enough to rattle the bones. Cracks of light split across empty space, jagged fissures tearing through the air.

  And from that rift, a body was hurled.

  Blood sprayed in its wake as it flew across the ruined hall, smashing through the wall of their cover in an explosion of dust and stone.

  Eldric lay sprawled in the rubble. Bruised, battered, blood dripping from head to toe, his body was carved with shallow cuts and dark welts. Whoever he had faced hadn’t fought to kill. These weren’t the wounds of a clean execution; they were the marks of someone toying with him, striking where it hurt most, but never deep enough to end him.

  Before Ryn could even register what had just happened, the world seemed to lurch.

  An oppressive weight pressed down over the ruined shelter, thick and suffocating, as though invisible chains had bound all fourteen where they stood.

  Cold sweat slid down Ryn’s brow. His muscles jerked, clenching against his will, every fiber of his body straining just to remain upright. His lungs burned, his chest refusing to rise until he forced the breath through clenched teeth.

  From the fissure stepped a slender foot clad in silver armor, followed by the rest of the figure until his face emerged from the shattering air.

  He was male, yet there was something disturbingly delicate about him, an elegance that clung too tightly to his form. Silver-white hair spilled over his pauldrons like strands of moonlight, drifting as though stirred by a wind no one else could feel.

  His eyes were pale and luminous, catching the firelight with an almost holy glow, yet the weight of his gaze was unbearable, calm, unblinking, too still to belong to anything human.

  His features were sharp, refined, high cheekbones, a slender nose, lips pale as carved marble. Beautiful in the way a statue might be beautiful. Beautiful in a way that should not breathe.

  In his hand, he carried a slender sword, its golden hilt bound with violet ribbons that twisted and fluttered like restless spirits in the smoke. The steel gleamed, streaked with blood that did not belong to him. His armor, though splattered, shone as though the carnage slid from it by design, unable to stain him.

  There was no roar, no menace, no fury. Only the quiet, angelic grace of something that had no right to stand on a battlefield. And that stillness, that impossible beauty, made Ryn’s skin crawl.

  He was the Prince of Varghelm.

  And he stood right before them.