Alek slammed his fist on the rickety wooden table, the force sending a tremor through the dimly lit room. His face, usually a mask of smug arrogance, was contorted with a mix of fear and fury. "Unbelievable," he snarled, each word a guttural growl. "Father's declared war on Silverkeep, and that...that mutt...is the commander."
Mikhail, sprawled languidly on a cushioned bench, barely looked up from his intricate doodling. "Well, Ana's got the strength for it," he drawled, his voice a stark contrast to Alek's volatile rage.
Alek's eyes narrowed to slits. "Strength? Leading an army? This isn't some training spar, Mikhail! This is Father spitting in our faces, declaring her his heir!" His voice cracked, a tremor of vulnerability hidden beneath the bluster. "If only...if only there was a way to even the odds, make her weaker..."
Mikhail finally met his gaze, his brow furrowed in thought. "Weaker? You want Inferno to lose to Silverkeep? Damian's their commander, isn't he? Your precious friend?"
Alek flinched, the mention of Damian a raw nerve. "We haven't spoken in years," he spat, "but...that doesn't mean I wouldn't..." His voice trailed off, a dangerous glint entering his eyes. "Maybe she'll lose anyway. Maybe she just needs a little...nudge."
Whispers of a dangerous substance, a black market concoction that promised a temporary boost of arcane power, filled Alek's mind. It was a fickle thing, the whispers warned, harmless for most, but for someone like Anastasia, with her volatile magic like a raging inferno...what would it do? Could it tip the scales, push her over the edge into...madness?
Crimson glinted in Alek's eyes, a predatory gleam that spoke of a plan taking shape. A plan fueled by envy, fear, and a chilling disregard for the consequences. He knew the risks, the potential for disaster, but the thought of Anastasia falling, of his father's chosen heir consumed by her own power, was a dark thrill he couldn't resist.
**
"Not enough, focus, focus, FOCUS!"
Her father's voice, a ragged rasp etched with desperation, echoed through the chambers of her skull. It ripped her from a fitful sleep, the moonlit training ground beckoning like a cold, unforgiving altar. Each step into her training gear felt like a ritual, a heavy cloak of duty draped over her barely eighteen years.
Eversince Duke Dmitri unearthed her power, it had been a gilded cage. Tutors, a parade of ambition and fear, had drilled control into her veins, their praise fueling his manic hunger for glory. Then, that hunger spiralled into war.
Now, she stood, the youngest commander history had ever seen, the weight of a dukedom's hope, a bitter pill in her throat. Older eyes, etched with the weariness of battles, watched her with guarded respect. Others, their eyes feverish, saw her as a beacon in the encroaching darkness. Beacon? She scoffed, the air thick with the metallic tang of a war born of greed, not glory. A political chessboard, and she, the unwilling pawn, trapped between duty to protect and doubt.
Protect? To do so, she must become the very thing she loathed: a destroyer. The dissonance twisted her gut, a discordant symphony of fear and fury. Just what, she whispered into the night, had this world become, where hope and horror danced in such a macabre waltz?
**
"Stay back, Anastasia!" Ivan's voice, a desperate growl over the clang of steel, cut through the inferno. But her jaw clenched, eyes molten gold flames mirroring the chaos above.
"Nonsense," she spat, launching into the roiling sky. Fire, her birthright, erupted from her fingertips, a maelstrom against the tides of Silverkeep knights. Yet, against their legion of gleaming blades, Inferno's flames felt brittle, consumed by the sheer weight of steel.
Each swing of a sword sparked miniature supernovae against the crimson curtain of Anastasia's fury. Panic gnawed at the edges of her resolve as the silver tide surged, pushing back the meager line of fire mages. Their desperate cries, the metallic tang of blood in the air, fueled the molten rage in her core, but fear, a viper in her gut, spat acid whispers of defeat.
With a primal roar, she unleashed a hurricane of fire, a wave of molten defiance crashing against the knightly ranks. Screams, swallowed by the inferno, were the only response, painting the sky a morbid sunset. But exhaustion gnawed at her, dragging her back to the precarious safety of Ivan's outstretched arm. His gaze, etched with concern and something deeper, sent a tremor through her.
Ivan's hand, warm and roughened by years of combat, lingered on her cheek. "My Lady," he murmured, his voice hoarse with a tremor she couldn't decipher. Was it fear for her life, or something else entirely? Emerald flecks flickered within his crimson eyes, hinting at depths she dared not explore. "Leave this to us. You're spent."
Ignoring the throbbing in her limbs, Anastasia stumbled to her feet. "This is nothing," she rasped, her voice hoarse, but her chin held high. As the Silverkeep legions retreated, their crimson banner stained with soot, she sought refuge in the cool darkness of her tent.
Ivan Robin, a titan sculpted from noble lineage, a Marquess's blood, had become her constant companion. His loyalty, forged in fire and steel, was unwavering, and his affection, though unspoken, burned with a steady warmth. Yet, fire and fire, whispered the ancient warnings, were destined for mutual annihilation. And Ivan, with his complete devotion, danced closer to the edge of that forbidden inferno.
Anastasia's heart ached with the responsibility of extinguishing the flames before they consumed him whole. Yet, amidst the tension, another spark ignited. Eydis, her eyes smouldering with a mix of jealousy and a veiled understanding, stepped forward. "Hold on," her voice a taut thread, "Do you...still carry a flicker for Ivan, after all these years?"
Astra's jaw tightened, her gaze a searing challenge. "War," she growled, her voice betraying a tremor of vulnerability, "It was all that consumed me then."
But before she could retreat, Eydis' unexpected touch sent a jolt through her. The brunette's embrace, a sudden burst of heat against the chill of doubt, lingered for a breath too long. A whisper, warm and laced with unspoken questions, brushed Astra's ear, stirring a smouldering ember within.
"If Alek were still alive," Eydis growled, her voice barely a hiss, "I'd make him pay. Dmitri too. What a terrible excuse of a father." The raw emotion in her words hung heavy in the air.
Eydis pressed a tender kiss on Astra's eyelid, her warmth lingering on the skin. Pulling away, she met Astra's gaze, usually lit with playfulness, now simmering with something unspoken, a spark that ignited a flush on Astra's neck.
"I would, too," Astra confessed, her voice a husky whisper, leaving the air charged with unspoken longing. The amber pools of Eydis's eyes held Astra captive, their gentleness as unexpected as it was breathtaking.
The tension between them crackled. The brunette leaned in, a slow exploration of kisses - forehead, cheek, chin, each one sending a tremor through Astra. Finally, lips met, a gentle yet hungry touch that sent shivers down both their spines.
The sound of a throat clearing shattered the intimacy. Indigo's face blazed crimson as he stammered, "Right, the story. And Miss Eydis, perhaps..." He trailed off, his gaze landing on her hand, which rested posessively on Astra's hip, but instead of a reprimand, there was a hint of amusement in his voice. "...you could maybe move it a little closer to your own lap for now?"
Eydis, with a playful smirk, winked at Astra, then shifted her hand with a mock sigh. "Oh, alright, alright," she teased, settling back on the bench, her gaze still locked on Astra, unspoken promises dancing in her eyes.