The crackle of flames consumed the night as screams tore through the once-proud kingdom of Eryndor. The crescent moon hung low in the sky, a mocking reminder of the insignia that adorned every banner of the royal house. Princess Althaea Dawnstorm stood at the gates of her palace, bow in hand, her quiver empty, her people falling around her like wheat to the scythe.
"Hold the line!" she shouted, her voice hoarse from hours of command. But the line had already crumbled. The enemy's battering ram smashed through the gates, and armored soldiers poured in like an unstoppable tide.
At her side stood General Kael, her most trusted advisor, his sword dripping with blood. "Your Highness, we must retreat!"
"Retreat to where, Kael?" she snapped, eyes blazing. "Eryndor is all we have."
But even as she spoke, she knew it was futile. The kingdom had been betrayed from within. The enemy had known every weakness in their defenses, every blind spot in their strategy. Someone had sold them out.
A deafening explosion shook the ground as the invaders breached the inner walls. The sky seemed to weep as rain began to fall, turning the blood-soaked earth to mud. Althaea turned to Kael, her voice softer now. "Get the people out. As many as you can. I'll hold them here."
Kael hesitated. "Althaea—"
"Go!" she barked, nocking her final arrow. "That's an order."
As Kael disappeared into the chaos, Althaea took a deep breath and let the arrow fly. It found its mark, felling an enemy captain. But it was not enough. The tide was too great.
When the enemy finally overran her position, she fought like a cornered lioness, her crescent blade slicing through armor and flesh. But even she could not stand against the sheer numbers. A blow to the back of her head brought her to her knees, and the last thing she saw before darkness claimed her was the crescent moon above, blurred by tears.
Althaea woke to the jarring sensation of iron around her wrists. She was bound, her once-pristine armor stripped away, replaced by coarse, bloodied rags. Around her, the survivors of Eryndor her people were herded like cattle, their faces hollow with despair.
"You're awake," a voice said. She turned to see a young boy, no older than twelve, his face smudged with dirt. His wide eyes were filled with fear but also a flicker of hope. "They said you were dead."
"Not yet," she muttered, her voice rough. She tried to sit up, the chains biting into her wrists. The boy helped her, his small hands trembling.
The caravan moved steadily toward the horizon, the once-proud prisoners of Eryndor now reduced to slaves. Althaea looked around, taking in the faces of her people. These were farmers, artisans, mothers, children all now at the mercy of their conquerors.
One of the guards approached, his whip coiled at his side. He sneered down at her. "You're the princess, aren't you? Thought you'd be taller."
Althaea said nothing, meeting his gaze with icy silence.
The guard chuckled. "No crown now, little crescent. You belong to us."
He lashed out with his whip, but before the leather could bite her skin, Althaea moved. Her chains clanged as she raised her bound hands to catch the whip, her eyes never leaving his. The guard stumbled back, startled by her defiance.
"You'll regret that," he snarled, raising the whip again. But another guard intervened.
"Enough," the second guard said. "She's worth more unbroken."
As the caravan continued its journey, Althaea's mind raced. She would not remain a captive. The crescent moon on her shoulder, hidden beneath the grime, was a reminder of who she was. A princess of Eryndor. A warrior. A leader.
That night, as the slaves huddled together for warmth, Althaea began to speak softly in her native tongue. "We will not break," she said, her voice firm. "We will not forget. And we will rise again."
The others listened, their eyes glinting in the firelight. Hope was a fragile thing, but in that moment, Althaea kindled it.
The flashback ends with Althaea, now in Luthadel, standing before a mirror. She traces the crescent tattoo on her shoulder, her reflection a mixture of determination and sorrow. The scars on her body are a map of her journey, each one a reminder of what she has endured and what she must do.
Her resolve hardens as she whispers to herself, "Eryndor may have fallen, but I will ensure its spirit lives on."