Zaekharan sat on the moss-covered stump of an old tree in the shadow of the cliff from which Azelrah had fallen.The air was heavy with the damp scent of earth and crushed leaves. His heart throbbed with grief; his blood burned with anger.

  Four days. Four nights. And still no trace of her.

  They had combed the forests below the cliff endlessly, searching for Azelrah herself—not her body.She was alive—she had to be. The thought of her lying lifeless somewhere in these woods was one his mind refused to accept.

  The moment of her fall replayed in his memory like a wound that would not close:Azelrah stumbling back from the arrow’s impact, her eyes wide with shock, her feet faltering… and then that terrible, soundless instant as she vanished over the sheer drop.

  He had rushed to the cliff edge—thirty paces straight down, jagged rock faces streaked with moss, thick forest below, and beyond that, the glimmer of a rivulet winding through the trees.

  They had found a treacherous path leading to the forest floor and descended with care, but there had been no sign—no torn cloth, no trail of blood, no body.He had called her name again and again into the green silence. Azelrah… Azelrah…

  The first night’s search had ended only when exhaustion overtook the men. Before dusk, Zaekharan had sent a message to the capital, demanding an urgent search party.

  At dawn, they began again. By noon, reinforcements arrived from Drakhalor—seasoned soldiers who knew how to track in forest terrain.Three more days had passed. Still, the forest yielded nothing.

  Footsteps crunched behind him.The captain of the search party approached and saluted.“Permission to speak freely, sire?”

  Zaekharan nodded.

  The captain’s voice was steady, though it carried the weight of unwelcome truth.“Sire, the search continues, but… hope fades. The queen had little chance of surviving such a fall. And if she did—injured, as she must be—wild animals could have found her.”

  Zaekharan’s jaw tightened.“Have you found her body?”

  “No, sire.”

  “Then the search continues,” Zaekharan said, each word bitten off through clenched teeth.

  The captain saluted and withdrew.Zaekharan knew the man spoke no lie. But he would not surrender to despair. Not yet.

  Another soldier emerged from the trees—dusty, disheveled, his cloak torn from travel.He saluted and handed Zaekharan a folded letter, sealed with a wax imprint he knew well.

  Zaekharan broke it open. The handwriting was sharp, decisive:

  Zakha, in your grief for Azelrah, do not forget your duty.Drakhalor needs you to protect it from the threat from the west.Love, Tazmerah.

  He looked up. “When did you leave Drakhalor?”

  “At sunrise, sire—immediately after Queen Tazmerah gave me the letter.”

  “You made good speed, soldier.”

  Tazmerah—his conscience keeper, his truth-sayer—had spoken.The threat from the west was no longer a shadow on the horizon. It was here.And yes—he had already sent word to Mirashan in Kuretsen.But even in grief, he could not let Drakhalor stand unguarded.

  He rose to his feet. “Bring me the captain of the search party.”

  The man returned quickly, saluting.

  “You will keep twenty men with you. Search until you find her—alive… or her body.”His teeth clenched on the last words. No. She would not die. She couldn’t.

  He turned to the rest of the men, his voice ringing through the trees.“The rest of us—march to Drakhalor!”

  Zaekharan cast one final look at the deep, shadowed forest. Somewhere in that green labyrinth, Azelrah lay—probably injured, needing help… but alive.She had to be.

  He mounted his horse, set his jaw, and led his men away from the cliff, the forest swallowing the sound of hooves as they began the long ride home.

  --------

  Zaekharan sat in a high-backed chair in Tazmerah’s chamber, his posture stiff but his eyes shadowed with fatigue. The scent of healing herbs lingered in the air. Tazmerah reclined against a mound of pillows, her complexion pale but her gaze steady.

  A knock sounded on the door.

  “Enter,” Tazmerah called.

  Riyan stepped in, his cloak hanging loosely from his shoulders. His eyes moved first to the king, soft with sympathy.

  “The news shatters me, my friend,” he said quietly.

  “She is alive,” Zaekharan replied, his voice firm, almost defiant. “I can feel it.”

  Tazmerah’s eyes shifted to Riyan. “When did you arrive?”

  “Yesterday night, my queen,” Riyan said, inclining his head. “Mirashan insisted there was no need for me there. He said Drakhalor needed me more.”

  Her tone sharpened slightly. “Has he acted upon the Wisest One’s message?”

  Riyan’s lips pressed into a faint smile. “The message reached just as I was preparing for my return journey. I saw the glimmer in his eyes when he read it. I think he sees this as his chance to emerge as the saviour of Drakhalor—a hero.”

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  Zaekharan made a low, noncommittal grunt.

  Riyan went on, “Our trusted men are in place. We will know everything as it unfolds.”

  “What about the assassination attempt on me and Azelrah?” Zaekharan’s voice hardened, anger sparking in his eyes.

  “I’m working on the man the soldiers captured,” Riyan said “He’s tough, but he will break—soon.”

  Zaekharan leaned forward, menace flashing in his gaze. “I want the names of everyone involved in this conspiracy, Riyan.”

  “You shall have them, my king,” Riyan promised.

  Tazmerah reached out, her fingers resting lightly over Zaekharan’s hand. “Stay calm, Zakha.”

  “I am calm,” Zaekharan replied, though the tension in his jaw betrayed him. “The Wisest One named her in prophecy. She cannot die.”

  Tazmerah’s voice was gentle but measured. “Yes, he did. But sometimes prophecies are too cryptic for us to understand fully.” She studied him for a moment. “She was—she is—an indomitable spirit. If anyone can survive this, she can. I hope and pray she does. But we also have other matters at hand.”

  Zaekharan grunted. “The threat from the west. I have already informed Mirashan.”

  “And you trust him to do the job?”

  “What more can I do, Tazmerah?” Zaekharan’s voice cracked with frustration.

  “Focus,” she said, her tone firm now. “Stop thinking only about Azelrah. You are the king. We have been waiting for this threat to materialize for years. It is here now, Zakha.”

  Riyan stepped closer, laying a hand gently on the king’s shoulder. “Let go, my friend. If she survives, she will be found. If she doesn’t… you must still lead.”

  Zaekharan’s head bowed, the weight of loss and duty pressing him down. For several moments, silence hung in the room, broken only by the faint rustle of Tazmerah shifting against her pillows.

  Then, suddenly, he straightened. “Call a high council meeting, Riyan. Let us review what can be done about the threat from the west.”

  He turned to Tazmerah. “Will you attend?”

  She shook her head softly. “I do not yet have the strength to climb those stairs. Riyan will be there. I trust you to do what must be done, Zakha.”

  He gave her a slow nod. “Get well soon, my first queen. I need you.”

  Together, he and Riyan left the chamber, their boots echoing down the stone corridor.

  Tazmerah watched them go, her eyes glistening with love , and a sorrow she could not ease.

  -------------------

  The high council meeting ended in a low murmur of voices and the shuffle of boots on polished stone. As the ministers and generals bowed before departing, Zaekharan motioned for General Leghazi to remain.

  The earlier discussion had been as he expected: unanimous condemnation of the assassination attempt and shared grief over the queen’s presumed death. Voices had risen with vows to uncover the perpetrators. Yet none of them knew the truth—that one of the attackers still lived, hidden away under Riyan’s watch. That secret, Zaekharan would guard until the time came to expose the conspirators.

  The second matter on the agenda had been more productive. The Wisest One’s warning still weighed on them all. That morning, a raven from Mirashan had arrived: he would begin inspecting the western outposts tomorrow. His message brimmed with confidence, declaring himself eager to confront the looming threat.

  The council had hailed the decision to name him Warden of the West as a move of great foresight. Kuretsen—already fortified and well-supplied—was the perfect base for any campaign. Even Riyan had admitted the decision had proven sound.

  Zaekharan had agreed, though he bristled at the sycophantic praise. Their approval mattered little; foresight was not something to bask in, but a burden—one that chained his mind to the uncertain days ahead.

  When the others had gone, Zaekharan turned to General Leghazi.“I want a contingent ready to march at a moment’s notice. I do not mistrust my brother, but I will not be caught unprepared. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sire,” Leghazi replied without hesitation.

  “And keep eyes on everything along the western front,” Zaekharan added.

  “It will be done,” the general assured him, bowing before leaving the chamber.

  Riyan stayed behind.

  “Get regular updates from your men in Kuretsen,” Zaekharan said. “I don’t want surprises—of any kind.”

  “Yes, my king.”

  Zaekharan’s voice hardened. “And those who conspired to kill me and—” He paused, the words catching in his throat.

  “I will find them, my king,” Riyan said quietly, sparing him the need to finish.

  Zaekharan’s gaze drifted to the council table—to Tazmerah' s empty seat where Azelrah had sat in her place during the last meeting.“She isn’t gone, Riyan. I can feel it.”

  Riyan gave a steady nod. “Then we will find her, my friend.”

  He placed a reassuring hand on his friend's shoulder as they left the council chamber together, their footsteps echoing in the cavernous silence.

  ------------

  Viranis hungrily tugged at the girl’s dress, hands sliding over warm skin he had longed for all week. She was from the forest tribes of these forsaken lands—wild and beautiful, her laugh sharp as river water. He had first seen her while fetching water on duty, her eyes catching his and refusing to let go. A secret courtship had begun: glances, then whispers, then stolen touches when no one was watching.

  Only a handful of troopers knew of their trysts, but they covered for him, amused by his luck. She was not just beautiful—she was bold, quick to smile, and quicker still to pull him into the shadows when the chance arose.

  They often met in a secluded grove near the river, hidden by thick trees and the hum of cicadas. Today was no different: their passion erupted in gasps, grunts, and the rhythm of bodies pressed together. Her cries of ecstasy mingled with his heavy breathing until both were left sprawled against the grass, flushed and sated.

  He kissed her lips once more, murmuring promises he wasn’t sure he could keep, before rising reluctantly. Duty called. Adjusting his tunic, he hurried back toward the clearing where the watchtower loomed.

  Unlike the crude wooden outposts in the foothills, this one was sturdier—a permanent bastion of stone and mortar, doubling as a supply base for the smaller towers nearby. It was manned by three troopers in each rotation, enough to allow him the occasional stolen hour away.

  He was still half-smiling when he heard it.

  A thunderous crack split the forest air. Birds shrieked skyward in a frenzy. Another crack followed, then more—echoing with shouts.

  Viranis froze.

  Through the trees he glimpsed movement—pale figures, dozens of them, no, more than a hundred, surging toward the tower. Their clothes were strange, their weapons stranger. One lifted a long tube of black iron, braced it on his shoulder—

  Fire and smoke burst from its mouth with a deafening roar.

  Viranis stared in horror as one of his comrades atop the tower screamed and toppled from the parapet, blood spraying. More thunderclaps followed. Men shouted in an alien tongue as they swarmed the base.

  “By the Almighty…” Viranis whispered. “What are they?”

  He crouched low in the underbrush, heart hammering, as he watched his brothers cut down one by one. The fire-weapons barked, each shot dropping another soldier. The tower’s defenders barely had time to loose arrows before they were silenced forever.

  Viranis’s stomach turned. Were these the attackers the king had feared? The ones from the West?

  His thoughts raced. The green smoke—he had to light it. The signal would warn the others. But it was too late. The invaders already controlled the base, and his comrades were dead.

  Only he remained.

  Viranis pressed his back to the tree, forcing his breath steady. He had to reach the stables. If he could steal a horse, he might outpace them and carry word to the nearest garrison.

  Slowly, carefully, he crept through the undergrowth. A branch rustled above him. Then—

  Crack!

  A thunderclap split the air. Bark exploded from the tree inches from his head.

  He froze, eyes wide. Someone shouted in that harsh, guttural tongue. Had they seen him—or only heard the noise?

  Another shot rang out. Leaves shredded near his shoulder.

  Viranis bolted, darting deeper into the trees, legs pumping, lungs burning. The shouts behind him grew louder, mixed with the clatter of boots. They were searching.

  He zigzagged between trunks, every turn guided by instinct—he knew this forest much better than they did. He ducked through thickets, splashed across shallow streams, scrambled up a rise carpeted with moss. Shots rang out again, distant now, striking bark and earth - probably firing at random noises.

  His chest ached, sweat pouring, but he did not stop. By the time the shouts faded, his lungs were fire, but he was still running.

  The horse was lost. The tower was lost. But if his legs held, Drakhalor would not be.

  “Run,” he told himself between ragged breaths. “Run, or all is lost.”

  And so Viranis plunged deeper into the woods, forcing his failing body onward, so that the kingdom would know—before it was too late—that the enemy had arrived.

  ----------

  That's the end of Chapter 16. Do let me know your thoughts on the chapter. Comment freely. Drop a like if you enjoyed reading it.

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