The Weight of Victory
The camp buzzed with the sounds of soldiers tending to their wounds, sharpening weapons, and recounting the battle's chaos. Fires crackled in the cool night air, casting flickering shadows over the weary but triumphant faces of the allied armies.
Leon sat in his tent, his exhaustion evident in the slump of his shoulders. Maps and reports were spread across the table in front of him, but his focus remained on the memory of the battle—the moment the tide shifted, the shadowy figure striking down Fleur commanders with precision.
"Atlas…" he murmured under his breath, the name escaping before he could stop it. His hand trembled slightly as he reached for a cup of water, the weight of the day pressing down on him.
Bjorn entered without preamble, Eli in his arms. The boy squirmed excitedly, his laughter a welcome distraction in the heavy atmosphere. "Papa!" Eli chirped, reaching for Leon.
Leon managed a small smile, scooping Eli into his arms. "Were you good for Uncle Bjorn?"
"He wanted to charge into battle," Bjorn said, his tone gruff but affectionate. "Had to keep him distracted with stories."
Leon kissed Eli's forehead, his heart aching at the innocence his son still carried. "One day, you'll understand why we fight."
Eli pouted, his small hands gripping Leon's tunic. "Don't go fight again. Stay here."
Leon's chest tightened. "I wish I could, Eli. But some fights can't be avoided."
---
Allies in Discord
Outside the tent, the Arabic princess and Eastern prince stood by the main war table, their expressions tense. Soldiers and commanders moved around them, but their focus remained on the maps before them.
"You see what the relic can do," the princess said, her voice low but sharp. "If Fleur continues to wield it, even a united front won't save us."
The Eastern prince nodded, his tiger lying silently at his feet. "Agreed. But today proved one thing—unity is possible, even under Mondell's leadership."
The princess's lips twitched in a faint smirk. "He surprises me, I'll admit. But surprises won't win this war."
Nathan joined them, his presence a quiet but steady force. "Leon's not working alone. You both know that. If we falter now, Fleur wins without lifting a finger."
The princess crossed her arms. "Then we press forward. But if Mondell falters again, I'll take command myself."
The Eastern prince glanced at her, his tone measured. "You assume command is yours to take."
Tension rippled between them, but Nathan stepped forward, his voice firm. "Enough. The enemy is Fleur, not each other."
The princess's eyes narrowed, but she said nothing more, turning back to the maps. The prince inclined his head, silently acknowledging Nathan's point.
---
Atlas's Isolation
Far from the camp, Atlas stood on a rocky outcrop overlooking the battlefield. The moon bathed the land in pale light, illuminating the wreckage of war. His cloak billowed in the wind, the shard of obsidian in his hand pulsing faintly.
"You couldn't stay away, could you?" a voice said behind him.
Atlas turned, his expression guarded as Cardinal Isolde stepped into view. Her silver hair gleamed like the moonlight, her eyes sharp with understanding.
"I had to see them," Atlas admitted, his voice low. "To know they're safe."
Isolde stepped closer, her gaze piercing. "You've seen them. Now what?"
Atlas tightened his grip on the shard. "The relic is the key to this war. If we destroy it—"
"You risk losing yourself in the process," Isolde interrupted. "You forget, Duke De Luna, that your bond with Leon is fragile. Do you truly believe he will forgive you for what you've done?"
Atlas flinched, her words cutting deeper than he cared to admit. "I don't deserve his forgiveness," he said after a long pause. "But I'll earn it. For him. For Eli."
Isolde studied him for a moment before sighing. "Then tread carefully. The relic's power isn't boundless, but neither are yours."
With that, she turned and disappeared into the shadows, leaving Atlas alone with his thoughts.
---
Lysander's Next Step
In the heart of Fleur's encampment, Prince Lysander paced before the relic, its crystalline surface glowing faintly. His sorcerer stood nearby, her hands weaving intricate spells into the air.
"They've won this round," Lysander said, his voice cold. "But the relic has only just begun to show its potential."
The sorcerer hesitated, her tone cautious. "The more we use it, the more unstable it becomes. Prolonged exposure could—"
"I don't care about stability," Lysander snapped. "I care about results."
He turned to a map pinned to the wall, his finger tracing a path toward the allied camp. "Send word to our spies. We'll strike before they have a chance to regroup."
The sorcerer inclined her head. "And the Duke? He's more dangerous than we anticipated."
Lysander's lips curled into a cruel smile. "Let him come. He's already lost everything. What's one more defeat?"
The relic pulsed brightly, as if echoing his malice. The war was far from over, and Lysander intended to end it on his terms.