Fury and Fracture

As the sun rose over the training grounds, anticipation filled the air. Princess Liora strode onto the field, her expression fierce, her armor polished to a mirror shine, and her long, ornate spear glinting with faint traces of magic. Across from her stood Lyraeth, dressed in practical, flexible attire that allowed her unrestricted movement. Her black outfit blended with the shadows, and the elegantly curved daggers in her hands spoke of precision and lethality. The king presided over the sparring match, his watchful eyes ensuring fairness, while Edric stood at the sidelines, his gaze fixed protectively on his wife. Nearby, Sir Alden stood vigilant, ready to defend the princess if needed.

As the king signaled the start of the duel, Liora surged forward with intense energy, her spear slicing through the air in a series of grand, sweeping strikes. Her attacks were powerful and theatrical, showcasing the strength and skill honed under the finest masters. Yet, her movements lacked the grounded practicality of a seasoned fighter. Lyraeth, by contrast, was a picture of calm calculation. Her daggers danced as she deflected and countered each attack, her movements fluid and efficient, refined through years of survival in the shadows.

Liora’s frustration grew as Lyraeth evaded her flashy strikes with ease. The princess channeled magic into her spear, the weapon glowing faintly as she unleashed a flurry of blows. Lyraeth responded by vanishing into a swirl of dark mist, her shadow magic allowing her to reappear behind Liora. With one swift motion, she disarmed the princess, sending the enchanted spear clattering to the ground. Liora’s eyes widened in disbelief as Lyraeth’s dagger hovered just inches from her throat.

The crowd gasped, tension thick in the air. Sir Alden’s hand tightened on his sword hilt as he took a deliberate step forward, his posture radiating protectiveness. Across from him, Edric’s eyes narrowed, his shoulders stiffening as he moved with deliberate precision to place himself between Sir Alden and Lyraeth. His mind churned with a fierce resolve: no one would threaten his wife.

The king, sensing the escalating unease, raised his hand sharply. “Enough!” His authoritative voice cut through the rising tension. “Lyraeth is the victor. Both of you fought admirably, but the match is over.”

Edric’s stance eased slightly, though his gaze remained locked on Sir Alden, a silent warning exchanged between the two men.

Liora’s cheeks flushed with anger, and she stormed off the field, her pride wounded. Sir Alden hesitated before following her, concern etched on his face.

Back in her chambers, Liora paced furiously, her frustration twisting her features. “She’s nothing special. He should have married me!” Her voice quivered with resentment. “That witch took him from me.”

Clenching her fists, she turned to Sir Alden, who had entered the room quietly. She eyed him sharply, a dangerous idea forming in her mind. “Bring her to me,” she commanded, her voice low and dangerous.

Sir Alden hesitated, sensing her intentions. “Your Highness, are you certain? Such a plan could—”

“Just do as I say!” she interrupted, her voice trembling with barely concealed rage. His jaw tightened, but he nodded, concern flickering briefly in his eyes.

Meanwhile, Lyraeth and Edric prepared to leave the palace early the next morning. As they waited for their carriage, the king approached them. “Are you certain you won’t stay a bit longer?” he asked, a hint of worry in his gaze.

“We would, but there are matters we must attend to,” Lyraeth replied, offering a polite smile. The king nodded, though his expression remained thoughtful.

Soon Neryssa and Aldrin arrived, their presence a welcome sight. “We’ll escort you back to Bearhold,” Neryssa said with a grin. Aldrin nodded, his usual bright demeanor slightly more serious. “I’d say a little extra caution wouldn’t hurt.”

As the pair boarded the carriage and began their journey, Lyraeth leaned against Edric, her thoughts lingering on the duel. “Princess Liora’s pride—it’s fragile,” she murmured.

Edric reached for her hand, his voice steady. "Whatever palace troubles there are, they’re behind us now." She nodded, resting her head on his shoulder as the carriage moved steadily toward Bearhold. Yet, a secret danced at the edge of her thoughts—one she hadn’t yet shared with Edric. She had wanted to tell him she was pregnant, but each moment hadn’t felt quite right. She decided to wait for a better time, perhaps when they were home, safe within their chambers, where she could share the joyous news in private. For now, she allowed herself to enjoy the comfort of his presence, her unease gradually giving way to a quiet anticipation.

Days into their journey, as the sun dipped below the horizon, peace shattered suddenly. A sharp thud echoed through the carriage—a deadly arrow embedded itself into the wall where they had just been sitting. Edric quickly pulled her down to the floor, shielding her.

“We’re under attack,” he murmured urgently. “Stay low—I’ll handle this.”

Lyraeth, already alert and holding her daggers, exchanged a determined glance with him. “No. I'll help.”

The attackers struck with precision and coordination, far beyond what common bandits could achieve. Archers fired from the trees, while swordsmen rushed in from all sides. Edric and Lyraeth moved in perfect sync: she deflected arrows and cut down nearby foes, while he focused on the distant archers, each strike swift and precise.

A towering knight emerged from the shadows, clad in black armor. His face was obscured by his helmet, and his movements were deliberate, betraying immense strength and training. He carried a greatsword with ease, the weapon’s weight seemingly inconsequential in his hands. Unlike the others, he was no common criminal.

Lyraeth’s heart tightened as the knight’s focus fixed on her. His presence radiated a deadly intent that sent a chill down her spine.

Realizing she couldn’t match his raw strength head-on, she relied on her agility, evading his brutal strikes as she awaited an opening. But the knight’s skill and relentless assault gradually pushed her farther from Edric, her defenses slipping. Her mind raced as she dodged another blow. I’ve faced death before, but this… I'm in trouble.

Finally, the knight struck a vicious blow, slashing her arm. Pain flared, blood dripping from her hand and she dropped one of her daggers. Before she could react, he seized her remaining arm. “You’re not so dangerous after all.” he taunted, his voice cold and disdainful.

She began to cast a spell, desperate to escape, but he struck her temple hard, and her vision blurred as everything faded.

The knight hoisted her unconscious form over his shoulder, carrying her toward his horse. Just then, Edric broke through the crowd, fury blazing in his eyes. Seeing his wife limp in the knight’s grasp, a fierce protectiveness surged within him, and he launched himself at their attacker without hesitation. Caught off guard, the knight dropped Lyraeth, and Edric caught her before she could hit the ground.

Holding her close, Edric turned to face the knight, his voice low and deadly. “You’ve made a grave mistake.”

With Lyraeth cradled in one arm and his sword gripped tightly in the other, Edric fought with desperate ferocity. Every strike from the knight sent shockwaves up his body, each parry costing him precious strength. A brutal blow fractured his arm, agony exploding through him, but retreat was not an option. The knight was a towering force of deadly precision, his greatsword cleaving the air with relentless power. Edric’s mind raced, filled with dread as he struggled to maneuver, his injured arm weakening his grip.

I can’t fail her. I won’t lose her, he thought, every fiber of his being focused on shielding Lyraeth. Yet, with each clash of steel, the reality of his disadvantage pressed down on him. He couldn’t fight at full strength, not with her unconscious in his arms. A grim resolve settled in his chest—he would protect her, no matter the cost.

The knight, sensing Edric’s struggle, pressed harder, his strikes calculated and merciless. Who sent you? Why target her? Questions burned in Edric's mind, unanswered as his fractured arm throbbed with every movement.

At last Aldrin and Neryssa broke through and rushed to their side, dispatching the remaining bandits. The knight, sensing his defeat, withdrew with the remnants of his force, his parting glance at Lyraeth cold and calculating.

As the dust settled, Aldrin and Neryssa hurried to their wounded lord and lady. Without Lyraeth’s healing skills, they did their best to stabilize her injuries, but she and Edric required more care.

“We need a healer, we need to get her home,” Edric ordered, his voice tight with pain, his gaze fixed on Lyraeth’s unconscious face. His heart ached at the sight, and even through his exhaustion, his grip on her hand remained firm, unwilling to let go.

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