Chapter 1

Chapter 1

The Battlefield and the Princess

The sun was a dying ember behind bloodied clouds, casting a scarlet haze over the fields of Araleth. The clamor of war still echoed in the air—screams, steel, and the wet crunch of bodies under hooves. Princess Elyra of Thareth stood atop the hill that overlooked the carnage, her armor gleaming gold and obsidian, her sword slick with the blood of men who had dared to cross blades with her.

She had killed today. Many times.

But she felt nothing.

The war had drained her of tears long ago. Her people had lost too much—villages razed, rivers poisoned, ancient groves burned to ash—all because of the Kingdom of Dareth and their golden prince, Kael, whose face haunted her dreams like a curse.

“Your Highness.” The voice of General Maerin, gruff and tired, cut through the thick smoke. He dismounted and approached her, saluting with a fist to his heart. “The Darethian forces have retreated to the southern ridge. We hold the valley—for now.”

Elyra nodded, wiping her blade on a torn Darethian banner. “How many lost?”

“Too many.”

She didn’t flinch. “And the prince?”

“No sign of him.”

He would be here, she thought. He had to be.

Kael of Dareth. The golden heir. The Flameborn.

Stories said he was untouchable in battle, that fire danced in his blood and bent to his will. Elyra hadn’t believed it—until she saw him tear through her men a fortnight ago, wreathed in flames, eyes like molten steel. She remembered their swords crossing for only a heartbeat before a thunder spell shattered the earth between them.

She had been hunting him ever since.

“Send scouts,” she ordered. “We march at first light. I want to see that bastard kneeling at my feet.”

General Maerin hesitated, but nodded and retreated.

Elyra turned her gaze to the darkening sky. The twin moons were rising—one silver, one red. The sky whispered of old magic tonight. She felt it in her bones.

The war was changing.

Across the Ridge

Prince Kael of Dareth sat in the shadow of a ruined tower, his cloak torn, his sword broken in half beside him. His left shoulder was seared—courtesy of a desperate mage's last spell—but he barely noticed the pain.

He had lost.

His men were dead or scattered. The Tharethians had been relentless, led by a warrior woman in black and gold who fought like a demon. He hadn’t known who she was at first—not until their blades met and her helm fell away.

The Princess of Thareth.

Elyra.

He had expected a cloistered royal, not a battlefield commander with wildfire in her eyes and death in her swing.

She was beautiful, he realized. Terrifying—but beautiful.

“She’ll be hunting you,” murmured Taren, his lieutenant, who crouched nearby, bleeding from a gash across his ribs. “You humiliated her a month ago at Talven Pass. She’ll want revenge.”

Kael laughed bitterly. “She’ll get it soon enough.”

He stared out at the valley below. The Tharethians were fortifying the hill. They’d won this ground. For now.

But Dareth would not back down. Not while he still breathed.

“We can’t go back to Dareth like this,” Taren said grimly. “Your father will—”

“I know what my father will do,” Kael snapped. “He’ll hang us both and call it justice.”

He sheathed what remained of his sword.

“I’ll go alone,” he said. “Find her. Parley. Buy time.”

Taren stared at him. “You’re walking into the jaws of the lion.”

Kael smiled.

“Better that than running like a coward.”

The Witch's Grove

Nightfall brought silence, broken only by the croaks of frogs and the distant howl of a wolf. Elyra moved alone through the woods beyond the battlefield, her hand on the hilt of her dagger. The others thought she was resting—but her instincts, sharpened by magic, had tugged her from her tent.

Something was coming.

The trees around her were old—withered oaks, roots like serpents, bark carved with ancient sigils. Her mother once told her this grove was sacred to the old gods. Magic lived here still, waiting for those foolish enough to seek it.

A twig snapped.

She spun, dagger drawn, only to freeze.

There he stood.

Kael.

His armor was scorched, his face bruised, but those eyes burned with the same defiance she remembered. He made no move toward his swordless hip.

“Princess Elyra,” he said, voice calm. “We meet again.”

Elyra stepped forward, every muscle coiled. “You’re either brave or suicidal.”

“Perhaps both.”

They circled one another like predators.

She studied him. Up close, he was taller than she remembered. His golden hair was matted with blood, and his fire magic pulsed faintly under his skin, like a heartbeat of light.

“You should have brought an army,” she said coldly.

“I came alone,” he replied. “To talk.”

Her laugh was sharp. “You expect me to believe that?”

“I don’t expect anything. But I’m tired of burying men who don’t need to die. This war is madness.”

“You started it.”

He held her gaze. “No. Our fathers did. You and I are just their weapons.”

Elyra faltered.

He stepped closer.

“I saw the way you fought today. You don’t belong in the blood and mud any more than I do.”

“I fight because I must,” she hissed. “Because your kingdom burned my forests and slaughtered my kin.”

“I know. And I’ve lost family too.”

Something softened in his expression. “But this doesn’t have to end with one of us killing the other.”

She stared at him. Her dagger trembled.

She hated him. She had to hate him.

But in his eyes she saw not a monster, but a man. One as broken as she was. One who had seen too much death, and carried it in his silence.

The grove shimmered faintly. The old magic stirred.

Their blood, spilled across the battlefield, now pulsed in harmony beneath the earth. The gods were listening.

“You’re right about one thing,” she said softly. “We are weapons.”

Kael tilted his head. “Then maybe it’s time we stopped being used.”

Elyra didn’t lower her blade. But she didn’t strike.

Not yet.

The Pact

They sat across from each other as the moon climbed higher. Kael had lit a small fire with a flick of his fingers, and Elyra watched him with guarded curiosity.

“So what do you want?” she asked. “Peace?”

“A truce,” he said. “Long enough to find out why the old magic is waking.”

She stiffened. “You felt it too.”

Kael nodded. “I had a vision two nights ago. Fire and ash. A great tree burning. And a voice—one I didn’t recognize—whispering your name.”

Elyra went still. “I had the same dream.”

They looked at each other in silence.

“The gods are meddling,” she whispered.

Kael reached into his satchel and pulled out a scroll, half-burnt. “I found this in the ruins of the Oracle’s temple. It speaks of a binding—of two heirs, fire and night, who must unite or the world will fall into shadow.”

She read the scroll, her breath catching.

The prophecy was real.

And it pointed to them.

“You want us to work together?” she asked. “After everything?”

“I don’t want to,” Kael said honestly. “But we may have no choice.”

Elyra looked up at the stars.

She thought of her mother, murdered by a Darethian assassin. Of her people, still mourning. Of the rage in her chest that had never cooled.

And yet…

If the gods had chosen her for this path, could she turn away?

Could she trust him?

“Fine,” she said finally. “We’ll find the truth. But the moment you betray me…”

Kael smiled faintly. “You’ll kill me.”

She nodded.

“Good.”