The clang of chains still echoed in her ears as Althaea stood, her fingers trembling around the pendant. Her hand, slick with the remnants of sweat from the fevered escape, brushed over the cool metal, the crescent moon glimmering like the pale reflection of a long-forgotten sky. The symbol of her people. Her heritage. She held it up to the firelight, watching the shape of the moon dance against the shadows.
For a moment, Althaea forgot where she was. She wasn't a captive in Luthadel anymore. She wasn't an orphaned princess. She was a woman, bound to nothing but her will and the remnants of a bloodline that had once ruled a kingdom. And yet, the chains that remained on her wrists still felt too real. The weight of the past, of the people she had lost, lingered with her, as haunting as the memory of the fires that had razed her home.
The lock had clicked open just as the fires had opened the gates of her kingdom, just as they had burned away the last remnants of her identity. But now, she had taken back something. A shard of her past. And with it, perhaps, a future.
The night of Eryndor's fall was unlike any Althaea had known. It began with the scream of arrows slicing through the air, the steady thrum of the battle drums in the distance. She had been leading her soldiers in the forests of the southern reach, the winds of winter nipping at her skin. She had been born to fight, bred to lead, but that night, the moon was a silent witness to her kingdom's last breath.
The kingdom of Eryndor had always been known for its wild beauty and untamed forests, its fortresses perched high on the mountains, its people fiercely loyal to their cause. But loyalty could not shield them from the relentless march of the invaders. The Western Kingdom had come with its warriors and riches, driven by the promise of conquest.
Althaea had fought valiantly, her bowstring singing as she loosed arrow after arrow into the advancing ranks. But the tides had turned quickly. The betrayal had come swiftly trusted generals had fallen to greed, aligning themselves with the enemy for the promise of land and power.
Eryndor was surrounded.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, she had found herself at the gates of the palace, the last stronghold of her people. The war cries of her soldiers had become mere echoes in the wind, the clash of steel against steel a lullaby of death.
Althaea had stood on the palace balcony, the flames from the lower town casting a red hue over her face. She had raised her hand to the crescent-shaped pendant hanging around her neck, her fingers brushing against the cold metal, as if drawing power from it.
But there was no power left.
In the distance, the gates of the palace had been breached. The invaders had broken through, and Althaea's soldiers had fought their final battle. She had commanded the last of her men to retreat, but it was futile. There was no escape.
The traitors had come for her her own blood, her own kin. They had turned on her, her throne stolen from beneath her, her freedom lost in an instant.
The soldiers who had once sworn loyalty to her father, to her, were now the ones who held her captive. The chains had been placed on her wrists as though they were nothing more than shackles for a prisoner of war. Her royal heritage, her title nothing mattered now. She had been reduced to a slave.
Althaea snapped out of the reverie, her grip tightening around the pendant as if the very act could pull her back into the fight, back to a place where the fires of Eryndor had not yet been extinguished.
Her breath caught in her throat as she looked around her quarters so different from the cell she had inhabited in Luthadel. She was free, but not truly free. In her soul, there was an unyielding hunger for something more. She had fought for her survival, clawed her way through a kingdom that had tried to strip her of her identity. Yet, here she was, a woman still wearing the chains of her past.
Althaea knew she would never be the same. The scars of captivity, both physical and emotional, ran deep. But her desire for vengeance, for justice, burned brighter than ever. The Crescent had been crushed. But the moon would rise again.
She stood in the shadows of the moonlit room, the light streaming through the cracks in the stone walls like silver veins. Her mind raced strategies, plans, alliances. How could she bring down the forces that had betrayed her? How could she tear down a system that was built on the suffering of her people?
But then, there was the face of Alden Roderic. His image haunted her still. She had come to Luthadel as nothing more than a symbol of subjugation. Yet, somehow, in the darkest hours of her captivity, his presence had been a flicker of something different. Perhaps it was the way he had looked at her, the way he had seen her not just as a slave, but as a person. She was more than just a piece in a political game to him.
Would he ever understand her struggle? Would he ever understand the weight she carried?
Althaea's thoughts swirled around the man, and for the first time in a long while, she felt an unfamiliar stirring. Could he be more than just an obstacle in her path? Could he be an ally? Or, perhaps, something more?
She clenched her fists, the moon pendant dangling in her palm. No matter where her heart wandered, no matter how the winds shifted, Althaea was bound by a singular truth. She had been born to rule. And the time for her return to power had come.
The night of her escape had come just as silently as the dawn that followed the fall of Eryndor. It was an act of desperation, of will. Her captors had underestimated her resolve, and in that moment, Althaea had tasted freedom once more. She had slipped through the cracks of the prison, the same cracks she had once seen as barriers. She had found a way out not just physically, but emotionally.
The chains had been her prison, but the darkness of that night, the moonlit escape those had been her salvation.
She remembered how the key had been taken from the guard in a way so swift and silent it could have been the work of a shadow itself. One quick motion. The guards were none the wiser, lost in their drunken stupor. Althaea had known this was her only chance.
She had never looked back. The gates of Luthadel had been opened, and the light of the crescent moon had guided her way out, just as it had done in Eryndor so many years before.
And now, here she stood, not just a survivor but a woman reborn, with the weight of a kingdom's future resting on her shoulders.
The air in the room shifted again, and Althaea took a slow breath, steadying herself. This wasn't just about her survival. It was about something greater. And now, she had the power to take it all back.
Her chains may have been broken, but her battle was just beginning.