The air inside the dimly lit chamber crackled with tension. Alden paced near the grand oak table, his thoughts a tangled forest he couldn't navigate. Na-na watched him from her seat, her face calm but her eyes betraying the storm within. The map spread before them bore the weight of their plans, but it was clear neither was satisfied.
"You're like a bird trapped in a golden cage, Alden," Na-na said, her voice sharp as the edge of a blade. "You long for the skies, yet you won't leave the door open."
He stopped pacing and turned to her, his golden hair catching the flickering torchlight. "And you speak as if the skies don't demand sacrifices," he retorted, his tone carrying the bite of a winter wind. "Every choice has consequences, Na-na. I can't just abandon my kingdom."
Na-na leaned forward, her eyes narrowing. "A kingdom built on the backs of slaves is no kingdom at all. It's a house of cards waiting for the right wind to blow it apart." Her words were a lash, leaving Alden momentarily silent.
The tension thickened as silence cloaked the room, wrapping them in an invisible battle of wills. The flickering torchlight danced across the map, casting shadows that looked like rising flames—a silent harbinger of what was to come.
Finally, Alden spoke, his voice quieter now but laden with resolve. "I'm not blind to the suffering, Na-na. But change isn't as simple as snapping your fingers. The people demand tradition. They demand order."
"They demand lies," Na-na shot back, her voice laced with venom. "And you're feeding them a feast of it while choking on the truth yourself."
Alden's gaze locked onto hers, a mixture of frustration and admiration swirling in his blue eyes. "You always have a way with words," he muttered, a faint smile tugging at his lips despite himself.
"And you," Na-na countered, her tone softening just slightly, "always have a way of dodging the truth."
Their conversation was interrupted by the soft creak of the chamber door. Calla, the young servant girl, stepped in, her wide eyes darting nervously between Alden and Na-na.
"Forgive me for interrupting," Calla murmured, her voice barely audible. "But… there's news from the southern outposts. A messenger arrived."
Na-na's heart skipped a beat. "What news?" she demanded, rising to her feet.
Calla hesitated, wringing her hands. "A rebellion. Small, but growing. The Crescent's mark was seen among the rebels."
Na-na's breath hitched. The Crescent's mark. Could it be? She exchanged a look with Alden, whose face had gone pale.
"If it's true," Na-na said, her voice steady despite the racing of her heart, "then the storm is closer than we thought."
Alden nodded, his jaw tightening. "We need more information. Calla, tell the messenger to wait. We'll speak with him shortly."
As Calla left, Na-na turned back to Alden. "Do you see now?" she asked, her voice tinged with urgency. "The people are already rising. If we don't act soon, the rebellion will spread like wildfire."
"Or be crushed like a flame underfoot," Alden replied grimly. "And if that happens, the suffering will only deepen."
Na-na stepped closer, her eyes locking onto his with an intensity that sent a shiver down his spine. "That's why you have to lead them, Alden. Not against them, but with them. Be the storm they need, not the shield they hate."
He stared at her for a long moment, her words resonating like the deep toll of a church bell. "And you?" he asked quietly. "What will you be in this storm?"
Na-na smiled faintly, a sad, enigmatic curve of her lips. "The wind, perhaps. Or the lightning."
Before they could continue, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed down the corridor. The chamber door flew open, and one of Alden's guards stumbled inside, his face pale and his breath labored.
"Your Highness," the guard gasped, clutching his side. "The Crescent herself… she's here. At the gates."
For a moment, neither Alden nor Na-na moved, the weight of the words sinking in like stones dropped into a still pond.
"The Crescent?" Alden repeated, his voice barely above a whisper. "You mean—"
"Princess Althaea Dawnstorm," the guard confirmed, his voice trembling. "She's alive. And she demands an audience with you."
Na-na's eyes widened in shock. Althaea Dawnstorm. The name was a legend, a ghost of the past. She had been presumed dead after the fall of Eryndor, her crescent moon tattoo a symbol of resistance that had inspired countless rebels.
"Alive?" Na-na murmured, more to herself than anyone else. "How…?"
Alden's expression hardened, his mind racing. "Bring her to the throne room," he ordered, his voice regaining its authority. "And double the guards."
The guard bowed and rushed out, leaving Na-na and Alden alone once more.
Na-na turned to Alden, her face a mixture of awe and apprehension. "You don't understand," she said, her voice urgent. "If the Crescent is here, this isn't just rebellion anymore. This is war."
Alden met her gaze, his expression unreadable. "Then let us see," he said quietly, "if she comes bearing peace… or fire."