"Peace is a fragile thing, it must be held with a soft grasp, a strong hold might break it beyond recovery."

  —SIX AND HALF YEARS AGO—

  The mountain pass coiled upward, edged by a sheer slope to the left and a forested valley sprawling far below to the right. Hooves clacked against the rocky trail as the Elite Knights of Valedrin rode in quiet formation. Dust trailed them like smoke behind a blaze.

  Among them rode Ryob Koril, second ride as an anointed Elite Knight, yet already earning glances from her peers—not out of curiosity, but acknowledgment. She looked the part now. The emerald sheen of her crystal-green wool coat shimmered beneath the rising sun, belted at the waist to reveal her well-trained frame. Two long knives, forged to resemble short swords, swung against her hips in matched scabbards. A black cloak trimmed with bronze thread was slung over her right shoulder, pinned by the Elite’s sigil—a crescent moon.

  Her short, rich chocolate brown hair had been swept to the side and oiled tight, but already the wind was trying to reclaim it.

  Riding ahead was Captain Giflan—then head of the Elite Knights. He was a broad man bearing the scars of too many wars. His face sagged slightly, his scalp bare, and his eyes cold as flint. His voice was low, yet it carried—slicing through the mountain breeze like a drawn blade.

  "Target is the enemy's head," he said. "The king. The generals. No prisoners. No mercy."

  He didn’t need to explain why. Peace had been spat upon.

  The emissary Valedrin had sent came back in pieces—if at all. Worse were the female messengers: defiled, impaled, and stuffed like grotesque warnings. The sticks still bled when they were retrieved.

  Valedrin would not forget.

  Suddenly, the distant earth quaked with thunder. Ryob turned sharply, trying to locate the source. The sound was layered—hoofbeats, thousands of them, echoing through the canyon and rolling into her bones. Her hand slid instinctively to the hilt of her knife.

  "Calm," Commander Giflan muttered without turning. "We’re almost at the overlook."

  As if on cue, the path curved around a boulder-studded ridge and brought them to a steep rocky pass that leveled out briefly—then dropped into the vastness of war.

  Below them, the battlefield spread like a nightmare made real.

  Two massive armies clashed in the valley, charging from opposite ends. A flood of red and black—descending like fire—met a wall of yellow and white, bright as sunlit bone. Metal clanged. Horns howled. War cries rose into the air like smoke offered to a being of death.

  And still, no Valedrin banner in sight. Not yet.

  Ryob’s eyes narrowed. That was the plan—the armies of Draevenhold would serve as bait. Valedrin would strike from behind. Leave none alive. Burn their bones with memory.

  They dismounted at the top of another ridge, quietly. Below on the far slope, a valley dotted with tents sprawled outward—hundreds of them, forming a maze of canvas and rope.

  Their target.

  Four watchtowers stood like skeletal guardians at the perimeter, each manned—barely. Most of the enemy had marched off to join the battle beyond the ridge.

  Commander Giflan knelt, peering through a narrow lens. Ryob crouched beside him, heart pounding—not from fear, but focus.

  This was her first mission as an Elite Knight. No drills. No practice. Just blood and steel.

  "Koril," Giflan said, still focused through the lens. "Take the southern post. Soft-silk arrows only. No sound."

  She nodded, unclipping a smaller quiver from her saddle. The arrows were short, their shafts waxed, the fletchings lined with woven soft-silk. Silent death. The mark of the Elite.

  "Farin, Yoss, Mehl—take west, east, and north towers. No misses. We move when the bodies begin to drop."

  Ryob's hands were steady as they split off, vanishing down goat-trails. Her only thought was the distance between her and her target. Her bow already in hand, she found her perch: a rock ledge just fifty yards from the south tower. A simple shot for an Elite.

  She exhaled and waited.

  The wind shifted. Not yet. She slowed her breath, watching the guard pace lazily atop the wooden tower. His helm askew. His posture relaxed. Too relaxed.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  The breeze shifted again, brushing her cheek—pulling scent and sound away.

  Perfect.

  Twang.

  The arrow vanished.

  A moment later, the guard stiffened, then collapsed in silence.

  Below, three men looked up. One muttered something. The others burst into laughter.

  Ryob slung her bow over her shoulder, knives drawn as she crept through rock and brush. Sweat trickled down her temple—but not from fear.

  A memory stirred. A ghost of pain. Shai.

  Her jaw tightened. She remembered the smirk, the jokes, the light in her friend’s voice. She also remembered what they'd done to her—what Shai had tried to avoid by enlisting as an Elite Knight. It had caught her anyway, even as a scout.

  Ryob moved like a whisper, gliding into the tower's blindside. Three soldiers played a board game near the base. One stood with a grin—and saw her.

  He blinked.

  Thunk.

  Her blade buried in his forehead.

  The others cursed and fumbled for weapons.

  Ryob lunged. One slash—blood. The second turned—three jabs, then a final slice across his throat.

  Silence.

  She retrieved her blade and climbed the tower. Wood creaked, but her steps were sure. Inside, the dead watcher bled across the planks.

  She turned to the valley.

  Tents. Campfires. Soldiers stretching, unaware.

  A spark of light from the west tower. The signal.

  Ryob raised her mirror, returned the flicker. Another from the north. They were ready.

  She nocked a soft-silk arrow. Breathed in.

  Twang.

  One soldier dropped.

  She shifted. Twang.

  Another.

  Each arrow slipped through the air. Each one found its mark. She covered the strike squad—six shadows weaving between tents. Her aim never faltered. Her hand never shook.

  —————

  The Kingdom of Iskavell sprawled across sea-hugging cliffs, a marvel of ambition and stone. Its jewel—the Watchtower Castle—rose like a sentinel, spires cutting into dusk like a poet's quill. The ancient gray keep stood with its back to the sea, casting its long shadow over the city below.

  The streets fanned outward from the royal grounds, separated by a wide fern meadow of green and gold. The evening sun bled hues of vermilion across the sky, casting the courtyard in golden glow.

  Lanterns danced above roped lines. Nobles and dignitaries mingled in silks and satin. Music from flutes, lutes, and harps lifted the air. Laughter and the scent of roast meat mingled with spiced wine.

  Royal guards patrolled in mirrored boots and gray coats, short swords crossed over white leather baldrics.

  Inside the castle's domed chamber, lightstones floated gently, casting amber hues over marble walls. From a high balcony, smaller ensembles entertained cloistered guests.

  High-Ser Ryob stood against a pillar, arms crossed. Not from formality, but restlessness. Her sage-green cloak swayed with each turn. The Valedrin emblem—sun rising behind twin hills—pinned it at the shoulder.

  She was watching one man.

  Lord Elfic Effion stood on the raised platform, surrounded by nobles. Clad in white and purple, with embroidered vines and stars, a circlet resting on his brow, he looked every bit the ruler. His dark hair was longer now. His light-brown skin glowed with health. Once scholarly in frame, now broader. He caught Ryob’s stare—and winked.

  Ryob rolled her eyes.

  “Gorgeous, isn’t he?”

  Ryob flinched.

  Lady Dalmia stood beside her, grinning. Hands behind her back, red lips curled in amusement. At twenty-three, she was radiant—pale skin and a round face framed by long, curly strawberry-blonde hair. Gray eyes glinted under delicate brows. Her crimson gown hugged her waist, whispering elegance.

  “No one will be staring at Lord Elfic with you looking like a hot steaming sauce,” Ryob muttered.

  Dalmia blushed. “Oh stop! You flatter me.” She stepped closer. “You know, I’ve always wondered what you’d look like in something other than—” she squinted, “—Knight wears.” She reached up, brushing Ryob’s cheek.

  Ryob winced.

  “By the mercy of the third moons, Ryob. What happened?”

  “It’s nothing,” Ryob said, pulling back.

  Dalmia inspected her face, concern blooming.

  “Don’t tell me it’s true.” Her voice rose.

  “Stay calm, my lady,” Ryob muttered, regarding the crowd around them.

  Dalmia lowered her tone. “Ten men, Ryob? Full-grown soldiers?”

  “I handled it.”

  Dalmia locked arms and pulled her aside. “You’ll let me see to it.”

  Her retinue followed, two Royal Iskavell guards and five maids. Dalmia waved them ahead. “Fetch my box.”

  Ryob was seated beneath the staircase. Dalmia examined her cheek.

  “What manner of brute dares strike a woman?”

  “I signed up for this.”

  “Virelia should truly consider the customs of Cravharn.”

  Ryob chuckled. “I’d love to see them try.”

  “One day, I’ll teach you to be a proper lady.”

  “As an Elite Knight?”

  “Precisely. You’ll cut down enemies with unusual curtsey.” She demonstrated with an elegant swipe of her hand.

  They both laughed. Just then, a soldier approached.

  “A message, High-Ser Ryob.”

  Ryob frowned. “From Captain Nagor?”

  “No, from the capital. For Lord Elfic.”

  Ryob took the letter—sealed in crimson wax. King Isen’s seal. She handed it to Dalmia, who opened it and read. Her face paled.

  Ryob leaned closer. “What is it?”

  Dalmia gestured for Elfic to descend, then whispered:

  “King Isen has summoned him. Immediately.”

  Ryob’s brow furrowed. “On his nameday?”

  The letter read:

  > Virelen’s blessings follow you, Lord Elfic. I wish you a long life on your new year, and may you be gifted many seeds to come. I congratulate you on the success of princess Esfis' joint union with a noble Rhenvaal family. I also offer my condolences to Lady Dalmia’s mother’s passing. I do hope she is well and favourably treated by you.

  There has arisen an urgent matter that requires your presence in Valedrin. It would do us well that you appear as soon as possible.

  Peace of Virelen honour your household. — King Isen Elandor

  Ryob’s expression darkened. “Something’s wrong. There's no reason given. No delay allowed. I've never hear of King Isen do that.”

  Elfic approached, reading their expressions before taking the letter.

  His eyes scanned it. Then he looked up, a flicker of tension passing through.

  “Well,” he said, tone unreadable. “It must be important.”

  “Do you think they suspect something?” Dalmia asked.

  “If they do,” Ryob said, “I’ll be the first to hear it. I’m coming with you.”

  Dalmia nodded. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  Elfic nodded. Unspoken trust passed between them.

  “Have your things readied by morning, my lord,” Ryob said. “We ride at first light.”