The air inside Lord Halvard's study was thick with tension, the faint scent of parchment and polished wood doing little to mask the unease lingering in the room. The lord sat at the head of the long table, his sharp gaze fixed on Alaric, who stood at the other end with his arms crossed. Lysandra leaned casually against the wall, her posture relaxed, but her eyes never stopped scanning the room, alert for any sign of hidden intent.
Lord Halvard cleared his throat, breaking the silence. "Your Highness, I assume you've already encountered the ghoul problem firsthand, given the state of your forces upon arrival."
Alaric's expression remained neutral, though his tone carried a cool edge. "We've had more than our share of encounters, yes. Your reports suggested the issue was contained to the outskirts of your lands. Clearly, that's no longer the case."
Halvard's lips pressed into a thin line. "The situation has… escalated. The ghouls have become bolder, attacking not only the border villages but also travelers along the main roads. My scouts have reported sightings closer to the city in recent days."
"And yet you've done little to address it," Lysandra said bluntly, earning a sharp look from the lord. "If your defenses were stronger, we wouldn't be having this conversation."
Halvard's eyes narrowed. "You overstep, mercenary. This is a matter for nobles and military leaders, not hired blades."
Alaric's voice cut through the tension before Lysandra could respond. "Lysandra has more firsthand experience with these creatures than most of your men combined," he said evenly. "Her insights are valuable—whether you like it or not."
Halvard's jaw tightened, but he said nothing, instead glancing at the map laid out on the table. "The ghouls are originating from the northern forests," he said, tapping a finger on the area marked with a red circle. "There's a ruined temple there—an ancient site from the old wars. My men believe it to be their den."
"A den implies they're nesting," Lysandra said, stepping closer to the table. "Which means there's likely something—or someone—controlling them."
Halvard looked at her sharply. "Controlling them? Ghouls are mindless creatures, driven by hunger. They don't have masters."
"Not naturally," she countered, her tone firm. "But we've seen enough to know there's nothing natural about this. Ghouls don't normally gather in numbers like this, and they certainly don't organize their attacks."
Alaric nodded, his gaze thoughtful. "If there's a den, we'll need to investigate. Destroying the source will be the only way to stop them for good."
Halvard frowned, clearly displeased. "You intend to lead your men into the northern forests? Those woods are treacherous, even without the threat of ghouls. It's a fool's errand."
Alaric's voice hardened. "It's better than sitting here waiting for them to attack again."
Lysandra smirked faintly, leaning forward to tap the map. "If you're too afraid to act, Lord Halvard, then let the 'hired blades' and 'your highness' handle it. We're more than capable."
Halvard's nostrils flared, but he held his tongue, his gaze shifting to Alaric. "Very well. I will provide what supplies I can spare and send a few men to assist. But know this—if you fail, the consequences will be on your head."
Alaric's expression didn't waver. "If we fail, Lord Halvard, you'll have far worse to worry about than consequences."
The tension in the room lingered as Halvard finally nodded, signaling the end of the discussion. Alaric turned to leave, motioning for Lysandra to follow. She shot one last pointed look at the lord before falling into step beside him.
As they exited the study, Alaric glanced at her, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "You enjoy pushing his buttons, don't you?"
"Only when he deserves it," she replied, her tone light but her eyes sharp. "And right now, he's doing a lot of deserving."
Alaric chuckled softly, though his expression quickly grew serious again. "The northern forests won't be easy. If there's truly something controlling the ghouls, it's not going to give up its hold without a fight."
Lysandra nodded, her hand brushing against the hilt of her blade. "Good. I've been itching for one."
Alaric stopped abruptly, turning to face her, his expression firm. "You're not going."
Her brow furrowed, and she crossed her arms, fixing him with a sharp glare. "Excuse me?"
"You're still healing," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "You can barely walk without wincing, and I'm not risking you getting hurt—or worse—because you can't keep off that leg."
Lysandra scoffed, stepping closer to him with her usual defiance. " You're not going to sideline me while everyone else is out risking their necks."
Alaric held his ground, his voice steady but quieter as he leaned in slightly. "This isn't up for debate, Lysandra. You need to recover. Pushing yourself now will only make things worse."
She narrowed her eyes, her hand tightening around the hilt of her blade. "I'm not some fragile flower. I'm a Shadow Blade, and I know my limits."
"And I know what happens when you push past them," he shot back, his tone sharper now. "I've seen you collapse from exhaustion, from injuries you refused to let heal. Not this time, Lysandra. You're staying behind."
Lysandra's eyes narrowed, her defiance simmering just beneath the surface. "And I can speed up the healing process," she said, her voice measured, but there was a clear undertone of challenge.
Alaric's expression darkened. "You're talking about using magic," he said, his voice low and laced with warning.
She shrugged, tilting her head slightly. " One I've used before."
He stepped closer, his jaw tight, his tone dropping to a near whisper. " You know what's at stake. If Lord Halvard—finds out, it won't just be your freedom on the line."
Lysandra met his gaze without flinching, her voice cold. "No one has to know. I've kept it hidden this long."
"No." His voice was firm, unwavering. "I won't allow it. You're staying here and letting yourself heal properly. That's final."
She stiffened at his words, the fire in her eyes flaring. "Final? Since when do you get to decide what I do?"
"Since you refuse to take care of yourself," he retorted. "You think I'm doing this for me? You're not ready to fight. And I won't let you risk your life just because you're too stubborn to wait."
Her fists clenched, but she said nothing, her jaw tight as she fought to keep her temper in check. "Do what you want.I'll do what I want."
Alaric watched her go, his shoulders sagging slightly, his frustration evident. "Lysandra—"
She didn't let him finish, disappearing down the hallway without a backward glance.Alaric stood there, his gaze fixed on the hallway where Lysandra had disappeared, her determined footsteps echoing faintly as they grew distant. His shoulders sagged, a mix of frustration and helplessness weighing on him. He ran a hand through his hair, muttering under his breath, "Stubborn as ever…"
Before he could dwell further, one of the royal knights approached him with purposeful strides, holding a small piece of parchment sealed with the royal crest. The knight bowed slightly, his expression serious.
"Your Highness," the knight said, his voice low. "A message from the palace. It came via pigeon not long ago."
Alaric straightened, taking the parchment from the knight's outstretched hand. He broke the wax seal, his brow furrowing as he unfolded the letter and scanned its contents.
Alaric,
Reports of increased ghoul activity in Voltarian territory have reached the court. If you cannot contain the threat, reinforcements will be sent under Lord Eamon's command. Ensure your success swiftly, or preparations for the ghouls' eradication will be made without you.
Additionally, there are troubling developments along the northern border. Eldren forces have been spotted moving near the forests further testing our forces.
On another note, the court wishes to remind you of the matter regarding the bastard rumored to be traveling with your party. Have you located her yet? If so, I trust you'll take appropriate action.
—King Valtor
Alaric stared at the message, his hands tightening around the parchment as a mixture of frustration and unease roiled in his chest. The weight of his father's expectations was nothing new, but this message felt heavier, more insidious. His gaze lingered on the words "appropriate action" regarding Lysandra, the implication twisting in his gut like a blade.
What does he mean by that? Alaric thought, though he already had a sinking suspicion. His father had made his feelings about Lysandra's existence—about her very bloodline—abundantly clear in the past. To King Valtor, she was a threat. A potential bargaining chip or a liability, depending on how she was handled.
The thought of his father expecting him to "handle" Lysandra—made his stomach churn. He knew the king well enough to understand that appropriate action could mean anything from abandoning her to eliminating her outright.
As if I'd ever let that happen, Alaric thought, his jaw tightening.
But the mention of Eldren forces near the northern border only compounded his unease. Were they aware of the ghoul activity spilling into Voltarian territory? Or was there something more deliberate at play?
For a moment, he leaned against the cold stone wall, staring down at the letter as if willing it to change. The words wouldn't budge, and the pressure on his shoulders only grew heavier.He folded the parchment carefully, slipping it into his pocket. There was no time to waste. He would deal with the ghouls, ensure the Eldren stayed out of Voltarian territory, and protect Lysandra from whatever shadowy plan his father had in mind.
But deep down, he couldn't shake the worry gnawing at him. His father rarely left things to chance. If the king thought Lysandra was worth mentioning, it meant he was already planning something— Whatever it is, I'll deal with it, Alaric thought grimly as he pushed off the wall and strode toward the courtyard. For now, the mission came first.
Back in her room, Lysandra paced angrily, the walls of the small space closing in around her. Stay behind? Heal properly? she thought bitterly, her fingers brushing against the satchel at her side. Alaric's words echoed in her mind, but she shoved them aside, her resolve hardening.
Reaching into her satchel, she pulled out the rune. Its surface glimmered faintly, the familiar weight of it grounding her as she sat on the edge of her bed. She held it tightly, her lips pressing into a thin line.
He doesn't get it, she thought. I'm not some fragile noble who can sit on the sidelines and wait.
Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes and murmured the incantation, her fingers tracing the runes etched into the stone. A faint warmth spread through her hands, growing stronger as the magic activated.
The healing magic surged through her, targeting the wounds on her leg and back. It was a strange, almost burning sensation—painful at first but quickly replaced by a soothing warmth. She clenched her teeth, forcing herself to endure it.
When the glow faded, Lysandra let out a shaky breath, her body trembling slightly from the effort. She flexed her leg experimentally, the pain now dull and distant. The deeper aches remained, but they were manageable—enough for her to fight.
She tucked the rune back into her satchel, her resolve firm. She wasn't going to sit idly by while others risked their lives.
The courtyard was abuzz with preparations for the mission. Knights and mercenaries gathered in the courtyard, checking their gear and organizing supplies. Alaric stood near the center, speaking quietly with Roderic, his expression focused.
Lysandra approached quietly, her steps steady, her injured leg no longer slowing her down.
Roderic noticed her first, his brow furrowing in surprise. "Lysandra? I thought you were—"
"Not staying behind," she interrupted, her voice firm as she adjusted the strap of her satchel.
Alaric turned sharply, his eyes narrowing as he took in her presence. "What are you doing here?"
"Going on the mission," she said simply, meeting his gaze without hesitation.
"I told you to stay behind," he said, his voice low and sharp.
"And I told you I can handle myself," she shot back. "I'm healed enough to fight."
His jaw clenched, the realization dawning in his eyes. He stepped closer, his voice a harsh whisper. "You used the rune, didn't you? After I told you not to."
She didn't flinch. "I did what I needed to. I'm not going to stand by while everyone else risks their lives."
Alaric stared at her for a long moment, his frustration warring with something deeper—something he didn't have the words for. Finally, he exhaled sharply, his shoulders sagging slightly.
"Stubborn as always," he muttered.
"Persistent as always," she countered, her lips twitching into a faint smirk.
Roderic cleared his throat, breaking the tension. "If she's here, she's here. We need everyone we can get. Let's move out."
Alaric's gaze lingered on her for a moment longer before he nodded, his voice quiet but firm. "Stay close. And don't make me regret this."
Lysandra smirked faintly, falling into step beside him as the group began to move. "You'll be fine, Your Highness. Just try to keep up."