CHAPTER 4 : SHADOWS ON THE BORDER

The morning sun crept over Maelric Keep, hesitant and pale, as though wary of the darkness gathering beyond the kingdom’s walls. The storm had passed, but its remnants lingered in the cold wind that whistled through the palace courtyards. Ilyana stood in the council chamber, staring at the battle maps stretched across the oak table. Every red mark told a story of villages fallen, of lives displaced by the advancing forces of the Broken Sun.

The room was silent but for the steady drip of water from the cracked ceiling, a reminder of last night’s storm.

Duke Renard stood across from her, arms folded, his expression sharp. "We cannot defend every border, Your Grace."

"We must," Ilyana replied. "Every life matters."

Torvell placed a hand on the map. "But you must decide where your forces will stand strongest."

She closed her eyes briefly, feeling the weight of the kingdom press against her chest. "The eastern villages. They stand closest to the capital. If we lose them, we lose the heart of Avaran."

Renard gave a slow, calculating nod. "Then we will send the Eastern Guard."

"And I will lead them," Ilyana added.

Shock rippled through the chamber.

"Your Grace—" Renard began, but she cut him off.

"I will not command from the safety of these walls while others bleed for my crown."

Torvell’s gaze softened. "Then we ride at dawn."

That night, beneath the fading stars, Ilyana prepared for battle. Marin helped fasten her armor, each buckle tightened with quiet determination.

"Do you fear tomorrow?" Marin asked.

Ilyana offered a faint smile. "Every moment. But I go anyway."

Marin squeezed her hand. "Then you are braver than most."

The Eastern Guard assembled at the gates, banners snapping in the wind. Horses pawed at the ground, sensing the tension in the air. Sir Alden rode beside her, his expression grim but steady.

"Your Grace," he said quietly, "the men respect your courage. But they fear what waits beyond the forest."

"As do I," she admitted. "But courage is not the absence of fear."

With a sharp cry, the gates opened, and the company rode forth into the gray morning, leaving the safety of Maelric Keep behind.

The eastern villages lay shrouded in mist. Houses burned in the distance, their smoldering ruins casting eerie shadows over the abandoned streets. No birds sang. No children played. Only silence and smoke greeted them.

"Spread out," Ilyana commanded. "Find survivors."

They searched through empty homes and ruined barns, finding signs of hurried departure—meals half-eaten, clothes left behind. But no people.

Until the scream.

A sharp cry echoed from the outskirts.

Ilyana spurred her horse forward, Sir Alden and the guards close behind. They found a boy, no more than ten, trapped beneath a fallen beam. His face streaked with soot, his voice hoarse from crying.

She dismounted, lifting the beam with Sir Alden’s help. The boy clung to her, trembling.

"They came in the night," he whispered. "They wore the broken sun. They took my sister."

Her heart clenched. "Where did they go?"

He pointed east, toward the dark line of the forest.

They rode hard, following the faint trail of trampled earth and broken branches. The forest grew thicker, its shadows stretching like claws.

"Scouts ahead," Alden warned.

Figures emerged from the trees—mercenaries clad in dark armor, the sigil of the Broken Sun painted in crimson across their chests.

Ilyana drew her sword. "Form ranks."

The first clash rang through the woods like a bell tolling for the dead.

Steel met steel, cries of battle mingling with the rustle of wind through the trees. Ilyana fought beside her men, each strike a promise, each parry a prayer.

Through the chaos, she caught sight of a hooded figure commanding the enemy ranks—Solara.

Their eyes met across the battlefield.

Solara smiled.

And vanished into the trees.

The battle raged until dusk. When the last of the mercenaries fled, the Eastern Guard stood battered but alive. They gathered the wounded, lighting fires to push back the encroaching dark.

Ilyana sat by the largest flame, exhaustion settling over her shoulders.

Sir Alden approached, wiping blood from his brow. "We held the line, Your Grace. But this was only a taste of what’s coming."

She nodded, staring into the flames. "I know."

That night, sleep eluded her. She walked the forest’s edge, the moonlight casting silver paths between the trees.

A voice spoke from the shadows. "You fight well for a queen without a crown."

She spun, sword raised.

Othric stepped into the light, his robes torn, a fresh wound on his brow.

"You’re alive," she breathed.

"Barely," he grimaced. "They tried to silence me, but truth is not so easily killed."

He handed her a scroll, its seal broken. "I found this before they attacked. It speaks of a final trial—one the kingdom has forgotten."

She unrolled it, reading the faded words:

"When twin heirs rise, the throne shall be claimed not by trials of men, but by the choosing of the Flame itself."

Her blood ran cold.

"The Flame of Veritas," Othric said softly. "It must choose between you and Solara."

She clenched the scroll. "And what if it chooses her?"

"Then the kingdom burns," he whispered.

At dawn, messengers arrived from the capital.

"Your Grace," one said breathlessly, "Renard has called for a vote in your absence. He seeks to name himself Regent."

Her jaw tightened. "He moves quickly."

Another messenger approached. "And the western border reports sightings of a second force."

She turned sharply. "A second force?"

"Yes, Your Grace," the messenger confirmed. "Flying the black banners of the Eclipse Order."

Her mind reeled.

Two enemies. One crown. No time.

She gathered her captains. "We march at once. The capital must not fall."

As they broke camp, the eastern horizon burned with the light of a rising sun—but whether it was dawn or flame, she could not tell.

And somewhere beyond the hills, Solara watched their approach.

"Come, sister," she whispered. "Let us finish what destiny began."