The battlefield was fire and thunder.

Arrows hissed through the night air, striking shields with hollow thuds. Steel clashed, sparks leapt, and the cries of the wounded drowned beneath the steady roar of drums. The storm banners of Kaelen’s house whipped violently in the wind, their silver lightning bolts blazing against the darkness.

Kaelen stood at the front, blade raised, her midnight cloak snapping behind her. She did not wait for commands. She was the command. With a single motion of her sword, her soldiers surged forward as if she had summoned the storm itself.

To them, she was untouchable. Unyielding. The princess born of lightning.

But the enemy line did not break. At its center stood a figure taller than the rest, moving with brutal precision that turned men into corpses with every strike. His presence was like gravity—drawing all attention, forcing all eyes upon him.

Kaelen’s gaze locked on him.

Tharos.

He cut through her guard like the battlefield belonged to him alone. The war paint across his jaw was streaked with blood, his scars illuminated by the flames of the siege. He looked at her not with fear, not with respect—only with the raw defiance of someone who had no intention of bending to any crown.

Their swords met in a shower of sparks.

Steel rang. The world seemed to fall silent.

Kaelen’s arm trembled under the weight of his strike, though her soldiers could not see it. She would not let them see it. She pressed forward, teeth bared, cloak billowing as if the storm itself rose at her back.

“Princess!” her right-hand man, Captain Arden, bellowed from the line, voice hoarse. “End this! Use your power!”

Every soldier’s eyes turned toward her. Expectant. Hungry.

Her chest tightened. If I hesitate—if I fail—they’ll all know.

Tharos’s grin cut through the haze of noise. He leaned in, their swords grinding together.

“Not as strong as they think you are, are you?” he murmured, his breath hot against her ear. “You’re nothing but a weak, entitled brat.”

The words struck deeper than steel. For a heartbeat, Kaelen froze. Her mask slipped, her eyes widening with a flicker of horror she couldn’t hide.

Tharos saw it. His grin widened—triumphant.

But he was too slow.

With a snarl, Kaelen rammed the pommel of her blade into his ribs, forcing the air from his lungs. He staggered, cursing, rage flashing across his face.

She straightened, her expression once more carved from ice. Her soldiers could not hear her, but Tharos did. Her lips curled into a cruel smile as she whispered:

“This isn’t over, Ash-Rat.”

The insult hung in the air—a name spat at all from the lowly Ashen Tribes, the tribe Tharos’s bloodline crawled from.

Before he could recover, Kaelen turned sharply, cloak snapping as she broke from the clash, retreating into the shadows of her guard.

Tharos clutched his side, but his laughter followed her across the field.

“This storm will break,” he growled after her. “And I’ll be the one to end it.”

The corridor was quiet except for the faint hum of wind through the high windows. Kaelen pressed her back to the stone wall, forcing her breathing to slow. Every heartbeat replayed the clash — the sound of steel, the look in Tharos’s eyes, and the cruel twist of his words: “Weak, entitled brat.”

But even louder than his voice were the whispers that had followed her off the field.

“She hesitated.”

“Did you see that? She didn’t use her power.”

“Maybe the princess isn’t as strong as they claim.”

The words slid under her armor sharper than blades. No one dared say them near her, but their echoes reached her anyway — carried on the wind, heavy with doubt.

Kaelen’s jaw clenched. Her hand tightened on the hilt at her side until her knuckles turned white.

From the window above the courtyard, she could still see Tharos — laughing despite the blood on his mouth. The Emberis girl beside him brushed a hand against his arm, her fiery hair catching the light. A small, simple gesture. A reminder.

He had no reason to care about her.

She had every reason not to care about him.

And yet… his last look lingered in her mind — too focused, too aware. Almost as if he knew.

A voice broke through her thoughts. “You shouldn’t have left like that.”

Kaelen turned. Arden stood at the end of the corridor, his uniform still dusted from the training ground. His tone was calm, but his eyes—steady, sharp—held worry.

“I had to,” she said quietly.

“You humiliated him. The Velthar don’t forget that kind of insult.”

Kaelen gave a small, humorless laugh. “Then he’ll fit right in with everyone else I’ve humiliated.”

He didn’t smile. “They’re talking, Kaelen. Even the Thryndal guard. They think you—” He stopped himself.

“They think I what?”

“That you’re holding back. That you’re afraid of losing control.”

Her chest tightened. “I don’t lose control.”

Arden studied her for a long moment, the air between them humming with unspoken tension. “Then make sure they remember that. Before your father decides to remind them himself.”

When he left, silence returned — heavier than before.

The world had always been divided by crests and colors. The Thryndal ruled the skies—disciplined, relentless, born with the storm coursing through their veins. They were trained to command both armies and tempests. Their colors—navy and silver—reflected power, and their crest, a lightning bolt, was both pride and warning.

The Emberis burned brighter. Fierce, prideful, wielding flame like truth—dangerous and beautiful. Their bows and blades carried firelight into every battle, and their loyalty was a weapon of its own. But passion often turned to arrogance; unity often broke under heat.

And then there was Velthar—the hunted tribe, the shadows beneath the sky. Their gray and black banners carried a fractured crest, lightning broken by shards of ice. Mockery to the Thryndal, defiance to themselves. They were stronger in body, quieter in heart. Cautious, secretive, surviving by cunning where others ruled by strength.

Her father called them traitors. Her mother called them inevitable.

“One day, Kaelen,” her mother had said softly, “you’ll learn that storms do not rule the sky — they only borrow it.”

The words echoed in her chest as she stepped back into the dim corridor light.

Her reflection flickered faintly in a wall of polished steel — silver hair, navy eyes, the perfect image of Thryndal royalty.

A flawless lie.

Outside, the sound of Tharos’s laughter carried again, rough and defiant.

Kaelen closed her eyes.

This isn’t over.

But deep down, she couldn’t tell if that was a promise… or the beginning of her undoing.