CLASH OF STORM AND STEEL

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.”

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