Shadows Beneath Honor

The grand hall of Velmora’s palace shimmered in golden brilliance. Tall obsidian pillars lined either side of a deep crimson carpet, and guards in silver-plated armor stood motionless. Above all, the throne—carved from iron and brimstone—held the aging yet sharp-eyed King Lauren Veran of Velmora.

Saryna knelt before him, blood from her battle cleaned but her armor still scuffed. She didn’t care for appearances. Only results.

Lauren Veran, the King’s voice rang through the hall. “General Saryna Velka, the Empire recognizes your swift command at Valker’s Hold. You led with fire, returned with victory. Rise.”

She stood.

To his left, the crown prince, Auren Veran,

clapped softly, smile pleasant but too polished. He always appeared charming—especially to Saryna. Too attentive, too courteous, offering her praise even in private council. But behind that warmth was something sad. A watchful eye knowing he will lose. A love she didn’t welcome.

What she didn’t yet know was why the king would always praise her. It wasn’t her brilliance or strength that intrigued him. It was his prince Auren Veran, the quiet, sharp-eyed boy who had once pointed at a battlefield drawing and whispered, “She looks like a queen.”

Lauren’s pride would never allow a soldier to rise so high—but he had seen the way Auren looked at her. And so the king played along, offering support and smiles, not out of admiration—but for reasons much deeper, much more calculated.

In the shadowed corner of the hall, an older man watched Saryna with silent pride. His name was Nayre Mordane, once a legendary tactician, now long-retired but still feared in whispers. To Saryna, he was more than a mentor. He was the closest thing to a father she ever had.

After the ceremony, she found him in the war chamber.

“Your blade grows sharper, but your eyes dull with weight,” he said without turning.

“I don't sleep,” she answered simply.

“You don’t have to. But you must learn to see when you’re being hunted—even by men with crowns.”

She sighed. “You see him too.”

Nayre nodded slowly. “The prince plays games he doesn't know he’s already losing. Be careful where you let him stand.”

Saryna’s side

That night, under the dim orange hue of lanterns, Saryna returned through the dense jungle that separated the palace from her home. A canopy of emerald leaves rustled above her as she walked the silent path known only to few. Beyond the jungle's edge, where light grew dim and wildflowers tangled in thorns, lay her village—small, tucked into a clearing, hidden like a heartbeat.

She stood by the riverbank just outside the village, her reflection flickering in the water. In that stillness, she allowed herself to think—not like a general, but like a woman.

The prince’s kindness disturbed her. It wasn’t real. She had seen how power turned affection into obsession. And then there was Rivaan.

He wasn’t like them. He never played at court. He simply obeyed. But when his eyes met hers on the battlefield—there had been something raw, real, unfinished.

She touched the edge of her blade. Do I regret saving him? Or not saving myself from what began that day?

Rivaan’s Side

The journey home was cold, despite the sun.

He traveled alone, wounds bandaged, thoughts heavier than his pack. The house he returned to stood crooked near the edge of a pine forest, quiet and gray. His mother’s garden was overgrown, the gate creaked as he pushed it open.

She stood on the porch, arms crossed, eyes wild with relief and suspicion.

“You’re back,” she said.

He nodded. “I’m whole.”

Her embrace was brief. Her grip on him tight, as if afraid something might take him again. She had been left once—by Rivaan’s father, a merchant who vanished before Rivaan could remember his face.

His mother’s love was no longer warmth—it was a wall. She feared any woman near him. She feared anyone who could take him away, like his father had taken her peace.

She never said Saryna’s name. But he saw the fear in her eyes whenever he paused too long staring at the mark on his arm—the cut he got while shielding Saryna in battle.

“You're different,” she whispered later that night.

“I’ve seen too much,” he replied.

“Or felt too much?” she pressed, her voice low, almost accusing.

He looked away. The image of Saryna—bleeding but unbowed, fierce and distant—lingered in his mind like a fever. And with it, a question he hadn’t dared speak aloud:

What happens when loyalty begins to feel like love?

Outside, the wind howled.

Inside, Rivaan closed his eyes—and tried not to dream of war, or of the woman who had taught him that orders could wound deeper than swords.

In the palace, Prince Auren paced his study, wine untouched. He tapped a ring against the wood, eyes narrowed.

“Has she responded to my letter?” he asked the shadowed attendant.

“No, my prince. She gave it to her mentor.”

Auren smiled, not kindly. “Good. That means she read it.”

He turned to the window, looking past the jungle. Toward the edge where the trees grew dense—and a village lay hidden.

“She’ll have to come to me eventually. If not as a soldier…” he paused. “Then as something else.”

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