The capital was in mourning.

  White mourning mastiffs fluttered from towers, gates, and high balconies across the city, their pale cloth snapping softly in the cold wind like silent prayers. Even the streets seemed subdued—voices lowered, footsteps slowed—as though Drakhalor itself bowed its head for Queen Tazmerah.

  Zaekharan stood upon the training grounds, surveying the regiment arrayed before him.

  Ranks upon ranks of soldiers stood straight-backed and silent, armor polished, spears grounded, banners hanging heavy. These were the men who had fought at the walls of Kuretsen. The men who had nearly broken beneath the thunder of foreign fire—yet had rallied, held, and forced the invaders to retreat.

  They looked stronger now. Rested. Hardened.

  Yet Zaekharan could still see it in their eyes—the memory of smoke, flame, and screaming metal.

  His own heart felt heavier than his armor.

  Tazmerah.

  His first love. His lifelong companion. His queen.

  Grief pressed against him like a weight he could not set down—but duty steadied him, dulled the sharpest edges of pain. Duty was the tranquilizer that kept him standing.

  Captain Filanz of the regiment stood beside him, helm tucked under his arm. The man’s voice carried an intensity that cut cleanly through the air.

  “Sire,” Filanz said, chest lifted with pride, “your presence honors us. It strengthens us. After Kuretsen, these men are eager—to prove themselves again, to stand for Drakhalor once more.”

  Zaekharan turned and placed a firm hand on the captain’s shoulder.

  “I know,” he said quietly.

  This regiment had not fled when others might have.

  They had stood.

  Filanz had spoken earlier of a young trooper—Rulahn—who had rallied the line when terror threatened to shatter it. A boy who had found courage when battle-hardened men had faltered.

  Zaekharan’s gaze moved across the soldiers’ faces.

  Young. Scarred. Determined.

  He knew sickness had taken some of them since—the coughing fevers that crept through the camps and the city. His physicians blamed it on the arrival of the cold northern winds. Not all deaths came from blades or fire. But each death was a loss. To be mourned.

  He stepped forward.

  “My brave men,” Zaekharan said, his voice low but carrying, “I wished to stand before you sooner. But my wounds bound me to bed.”

  The soldiers listened intently.

  “You faced the fire of the foreigners at Kuretsen. You faced fear itself—and you did not break. You forced those rats to run.”

  A murmur rippled through the ranks.

  “I am proud of you,” he continued. “And I honor those who fell that day.”

  His voice tightened—just for a breath.

  “In honor of the fallen—and of one young man who showed courage beyond measure—this regiment shall henceforth bear a new name.”

  He paused.

  “The Rulahn Regiment.”

  For a heartbeat, there was silence.

  Then the ground seemed to shake.

  Cheers erupted. Fists slammed against shields. Voices roared Rulahn’s name into the cold sky. Pride surged through the ranks like fire catching dry grass.

  Zaekharan allowed himself a single nod.

  His gaze drifted beyond them—to the edge of the training grounds.

  There it stood.

  The massive foreign fire-weapon loomed like a slumbering beast, its iron barrel dark and scarred, its wheels caked with dried mud from the fields of Kuretsen. Once, it had torn through his men with a single thunderous breath.

  Now it stood captured. Silent.

  But Zaekharan did not see a trophy.

  He saw a future.

  He had questioned the foreigner about its workings. The man spoke of powder—of fire sparked within metal chambers. No sorcery. No divine curse. Just knowledge… and mechanics.

  The scholar knew words, not weapons.

  Still, Zaekharan had learned enough.

  These foreigners were men, not monsters. Pale-skinned, yes. With strange customs—but with weapons far deadlier than any forged in Drakhalor or Cenraulia.

  And they had crossed the world to claim lands for their king.

  Fire in their weapons. Death in their breath.

  The Wisest One’s warning echoed in his mind with chilling clarity.

  Zaekharan straightened.

  “I will speak plainly,” he said, turning back to the soldiers. “That fire-weapon you captured is not something to fear. Nor something to despise.”

  He gestured toward it.

  “It is a weapon to be understood. To be mastered.”

  The soldiers leaned forward, listening.

  “And we shall master it,” Zaekharan said, his voice hardening. “We will learn its secrets. And when the time comes—”

  His eyes burned.

  “—we will turn it upon its makers.”

  A thunderous roar answered him.

  The men cheered again, louder, fiercer, stamping their feet against the frozen earth.

  Zaekharan stood amidst the noise, his face carved from resolve.

  He would mourn Tazmerah in silence later, in the quiet hours.

  For now, he would prepare.

  Because he understood that the threat from the west had only just begun—and he would not allow it to triumph while he still drew breath.

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  ---

  The High Council chamber had been summoned in haste, its great bronze doors thrown open before the hour of dusk. Braziers burned low despite the daylight, their smoke clinging to the domed ceiling like a gathering storm.

  Zaekharan sat at the head of the chamber, one hand resting on the carved stone of the council table. His gaze moved slowly over those assembled before him.

  General Leghazi sat rigid at his right, parchment tucked beneath his arm. First Minister Cheyak, Tadoral—newly raised to Minister of Coin—and Pankherand, Minister for City Affairs, occupied the adjacent seats to the king’s left.

  And beside them—

  Queen Azelrah.

  She sat where Queen Tazmerah once had, spine straight, hands folded with careful composure. The seat still looked too large for her—or perhaps the memory of its former occupant made it so.

  One chair remained conspicuously empty.

  Riyan’s.

  His cough had lessened, Cheyak had said, but weakness still clung to him like a second illness.

  At a slight inclination of the king’s head, General Leghazi began. He bowed once, fist to chest.

  “My King,” he said, his voice rough but controlled. “At dawn, the foreigners launched an attack on the regiment encircling them near the marsh fort.”

  The chamber stilled.

  “They brought the full force of their fire weapons upon our men, killing and wounding many,” Leghazi continued. “They carved a path through our soldiers and broke containment.”

  A murmur rippled through the council.

  Zaekharan’s fingers curled slightly against the stone.

  “But,” Leghazi added, lifting his chin, “our men regrouped swiftly and pursued them along the Kuretsen road. Even now, they flee.”

  Zaekharan spoke without raising his voice. “Have the forces at the Kuretsen wall been informed?”

  “Yes, My King. A pigeon was sent the moment the breach occurred. The wall stands ready.”

  “They are trapped,” Leghazi concluded. “Between the wall and our pursuing army.”

  A low murmur of satisfaction passed through the council.

  Zaekharan inclined his head once, acknowledging the words—but not celebrating them.

  “Send reinforcements from the capital if necessary,” he ordered. “We cannot afford arrogance. Not against weapons that breathe fire.”

  Leghazi bowed. “It will be done.”

  “And remember,” Zaekharan added, his gaze hardening, “capture as many of their fire weapons as possible. Intact. We need more than victory—we need understanding of these weapons… and eventual mastery.”

  “Yes, my King.”

  Zaekharan turned then to Cheyak. “What of the Mystics?”

  The air in the chamber shifted.

  Cheyak straightened. “They have been brought to the capital, sire. Confined to a high-security prison beneath the eastern barracks.”

  “Their leader?”

  “Him as well, sire. He attempted escape during transport,” Cheyak said flatly. “He broke the lock of his carriage—the guards say through sorcery—and fled. He was struck down by an arrow before reaching the treeline. Captured alive.”

  A voice cut through the tension.

  “How is he now?”

  The question came softly—from Queen Azelrah.

  Zaekharan turned, surprised.

  Her face remained composed, but something in her eyes was too intent.

  She followed quickly, as if anticipating the question her concern invited.

  “We need him alive,” she said evenly. “If he holds the secret of the weapon, we cannot afford his death.”

  Cheyak nodded. “He is recovering. The wound was not fatal. We have begun questioning him, though he remains… uncooperative.”

  Zaekharan noticed Azelrah’s fingers tightening together in her lap.

  “What has he told you so far?” the king asked.

  Cheyak’s lip curled faintly. “Lies. Delusions. He claims to be from an ancient clan of Mystics—survivors of an order wiped out over a thousand years ago. He says the power we witnessed at Kuretsen that day was not a weapon at all, but the strength of his spirit.”

  Leghazi snorted. “The Mystics were outlawed fourteen centuries ago, after they turned against the Creator himself. King — eradicated them to the last child. If this man is what he claims, then he is evil by blood and must be executed immediately.”

  Pankherand leaned forward, his voice trembling. “Sire… rumours are spreading through the city. The sickness that began in the army camps—now it is everywhere. The people say it is a curse. That this Mystic Sage has brought ruin upon us.”

  Something in his words tugged at Zaekharan’s mind, but he had no time to dwell on it as Tadoral spoke sharply.

  “Superstition. The sickness existed long before his capture. General Riyan fell ill weeks ago. And Queen Tazmerah too—” He stopped abruptly, afraid to remind Zaekharan of his loss.

  The chamber fell silent.

  Zaekharan spoke at last, his tone measured and deliberate. “He is lying.”

  All eyes returned to him.

  “The power I felt that day,” Zaekharan continued, “was real. But if he truly wielded such strength, no chain would have held him. He would not be rotting in our cells now.”

  He turned to Cheyak. “Interrogate him thoroughly. Strip him of stories and myths. I want the truth.”

  Cheyak bowed deeply. “It will be done.”

  “And when we have what we need,” Zaekharan added coldly, “he will be executed before the people. Let all see that no ancient shadow stands above the law of Drakhalor.”

  The council nodded in grim agreement.

  Zaekharan did not see the sudden pallor that washed over Azelrah’s face, nor did he notice the way her breath caught—just for a heartbeat—before she mastered herself once more. Her eyes fixed straight ahead, her expression composed, as though his words had not landed heavily within her at all.

  ---

  Azelrah paced her chamber.

  The tall lamps burned low, their flames wavering as she crossed the length of the room again and again, her steps soundless upon the rugs. Outside, the palace lay hushed—but inside her, nothing was still.

  The Sage would be executed.

  The words repeated in her mind like a tolling bell.

  She pressed a hand to her chest, forcing herself to breathe. Images rose unbidden—the Sage, the Mystics, Pagol.

  They had pulled her back from the edge, when her body had nearly surrendered to death after the fall.

  The Mystics had saved her—nursed her back to health.

  She owed them her life.

  But she had given the Sage her word.

  A promise spoken in gratitude—that she would not reveal them. That she would protect their secret as they had protected her.

  But that promise had been made to shield them from harm.

  Now they faced annihilation.

  Her fingers curled slowly.

  Zaekharan did not know. Not the truth. Not who the Mystics were—nor what they had done for her. He believed them to be relics of treachery, shadows of an evil past, wielders of some corrupted power.

  If he knew…

  If he heard everything…

  Her heart twisted painfully.

  Zaekharan was many things—ruthless when he needed to be, unyielding in war—but he was not unjust. Not blindly so. He deserved the truth. And perhaps, hearing it, he might stay his hand.

  Even if it meant breaking her oath.

  Her pacing slowed. Then stopped.

  Her mind settled. A decision made.

  “I will tell him everything,” she whispered to the empty room.

  She turned toward the door, resolve straightening her spine.

  Her fingers had barely brushed the latch when a knock sounded.

  Sharp. Formal.

  She froze, the sudden noise breaking her chain of thought.

  Another knock followed, measured and respectful.

  “My Queen.”

  Azelrah opened the door.

  A female soldier of the Queen’s Guard stood outside, helm tucked beneath her arm, posture rigid. Her expression was composed—but something in her eyes suggested uncertainty.

  “Yes?” Azelrah asked.

  “My Queen,” the soldier said carefully, “a man and a boy arrived at the castle gates shortly before dusk.”

  Azelrah’s eyes registered curiosity.

  “The man left the boy at the gates and departed immediately,” the soldier continued. “He said the boy was known to you.”

  A pause.

  “We searched for the man, but he could not be found.”

  Azelrah’s breath caught, a wild hunch forming in her mind.

  “The boy,” the soldier added, “is waiting in the outer guardroom. Would you… wish to see him?”

  The world seemed to narrow.

  Could it be…?

  “Yes,” she said, her voice firm despite the sudden tightness in her throat. “Take me to him.”

  The soldier blinked, surprised by the urgency, then inclined her head and turned at once.

  They moved swiftly through the corridors, footsteps echoing faintly against stone.

  They reached the guardroom.

  The door opened.

  A boy stood inside, small against the stone walls, his clothes travel-worn, his hair untidy, watched over by a guard. He turned at the sound—and for a moment simply stared.

  Then his face split into a wide, radiant smile.

  “Azelrah!”

  Pagol. Azelrah’s heart leapt.

  He ran to her without hesitation, arms flinging around her waist, pressing his face into her robes.

  The guard and the soldier accompanying Azelrah stared, openly astonished.

  “He seems to know you well, my Queen,” the soldier said softly.

  “Yes,” Azelrah replied, her voice unsteady as she brushed a hand through Pagol’s hair. “He is… known to me.”

  The boy looked up at her, smiling—then reached inside his clothes and drew out a folded paper. He placed it in her hand, then hugged her even tighter, as though reassured by her presence.

  She opened it and read the few words written there.

  They said:

  You might be tempted to tell the truth and save us. But I do not think it can. If you wish to do anything for us, save Pagol.

  She sank into a nearby chair, suddenly weary.

  This was the Sage’s message.

  He was asking her not to tell the truth to Zaekharan.

  No.

  She could explain everything. Zaekharan would understand. He would stop the execution.

  Wouldn’t he?

  But what of Pagol?

  Her mind filled again with doubt. The boy was heir to the Kuretsen kingdom—possessor of an unimaginable power of the Spirit, a power Zaekharan and the others deemed evil.

  Indecision clawed at her.

  “My Queen, are you all right?” the soldier asked, concern edging her voice.

  The truth, she decided, would not protect Pagol.

  She met the soldier’s gaze and rose slowly to her feet.

  “Yes,” she said evenly. “This is Palias. He is my Bajja’s grandson."

  She took Pagol’s hand and led him back toward her chamber.

  --------

  That's the end of Chapter 25. Do let me know your thoughts on the chapter. Comment freely. Drop a like if you enjoyed reading it.

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