Valker’s Hold

The morning came cloaked in silver fog. It curled over the hills like coiled serpents, veiling the land in stillness. Horses exhaled steam into the chill air, their riders silent, eyes sharp. Armor clinked in restrained motion, swords strapped and secured.

Saryna sat astride a midnight-black mare, her cloak billowing slightly in the breeze. She wore no helmet, only a braided circlet of iron around her brow. Her gaze cut through fog as if it were smoke.

“Ready the front line,” she commanded.

Rivaan approached, mounted on a lean grey warhorse. His movements were disciplined, expression unreadable. His fingers curled around the reins, knuckles pale. Saryna glanced at him but said nothing until they began to ride.

The company rode in silence.

The trees thinned as they neared the Western Cliffs. The earth was dry and cracked, and the path narrowed between cliffsides that leaned like sleeping giants. Valker’s Hold loomed ahead — a ruin of broken spires and half-sunken towers, its walls choked in wild vines and silence. No birds. No wind. Only that unnatural stillness.

Saryna raised her fist. The company halted.

She and Rivaan rode ahead alone.

“This place reeks of rot,” she murmured.

Rivaan surveyed the landscape. “There.” He pointed to a crumbling archway beside the collapsed west gate. “That opening leads to the old priest quarters. If they’re hiding, that’s where they’ll be.”

“Good.” Her hand moved to her hilt. “Stay close.”

They entered the ruins. Valker’s Hold had once been a temple-fortress. Now it was dust, history, and shadow. Their horses' hooves echoed faintly against stone. Inside the archway, the world shifted: temperature dropped, light dimmed. The scent of iron lingered in the air.

Footsteps.

Not theirs.

Saryna turned sharply. “Draw.”

Steel rasped free. Shadows moved from behind a shattered wall. Three figures, then five. Armed rebels, faces half-masked, eyes desperate.

They didn’t shout. They charged.

Rivaan blocked the first strike, countering with a deadly precision. Saryna moved like a flame—blades whirling, cloak dancing with each motion. Together, they carved through the first wave.

Then came more.

Ten rebels to Fifteen more.

Saryna fought without hesitation, but a blade grazed her side. Rivaan saw the blood, rage flashing in his eyes. He pushed forward, shielding her without command.

“Fall back,” she ordered.

“Not until you do.”

They fought shoulder to shoulder until the rebel leader appeared. Older. Scarred. Eyes bitter.

“You,” he hissed at Saryna. “The butcher of Dalwyn.”

She didn’t flinch. “And you must be the coward who left his men to die.”

They clashed. Her blade met his with fury. Rivaan tried to intervene, but another rebel intercepted him. Blades rang, blood spilled. At last, Saryna landed a fatal blow, her sword through the rebel leader’s heart.

Silence fell again.

Bodies surrounded them, still warm. Rivaan looked to her. Her shoulder bled, but she stood firm.

“You disobeyed my order,” she said.

“I did.”

“Why?”

“Because I didn’t want you to die.”

She stepped close. Their eyes met. Her breath caught for a second, then she turned away feeling something warm in her heart and muttered.

"Weird."

“Next time,” she continued, voice tight, “you die if I say so.”

But they both knew something else had cracked in the ruins that day. Not stone. Not sword.

Something far more dangerous.

Something like destiny.