A sudden shift in the wind brought with it a bone-chilling presence. The rain had not even fully stilled when a new storm arrived—one made of steel and malice. On the horizon, the figures emerged, dark and menacing. At their center, flanked by the shadowy forms of his warriors, stood King Hazrael. His eyes glimmered with the cold satisfaction of a predator that had cornered its prey, and beside him, robed in the deep, midnight blues of her order, was the Priestess. Her eyes locked on Aerin, lips curling into a knowing smile.

  Aerin’s pulse roared in her ears. The thin thread of magic that tied her to Hazrael’s army, to the twisted power that surged between them, flared with life. It was suffocating, dragging her toward them with a force that made her head spin. She knew if she could just distract the Priestess, even for a moment, she could tear through the binding and reclaim the power that was hers by birthright.

  Kael took a step closer, his hand hovering by the hilt of his blade. The muscle in his jaw ticked as he glanced at Aerin, determination hardening his features. The need to protect her, to fight for her, burned in his veins, threatening to consume him. But there was no room for hesitation. “They’re here,” he said, voice low and steady. “We need a plan.”

  Aerin’s fingers curled into fists, the rain running down her face like rivulets of ice. “I need my magic back,” she muttered, eyes locked on the Priestess who had stolen it from her. The connection between them thrummed, dark and insidious, but she could feel it loosening, like a chain starting to crack.

  Kael nodded, the silent understanding passing between them as naturally as breath. He knew she was about to step into the fire, and he would follow her into it without question. He reached out, fingers brushing her arm, his touch fleeting but grounding. “We’ll make it happen.”

  As Hazrael’s army pressed forward, the shadowy figures of the Shadow Seekers moving like wraiths at the forefront, Aerin’s heart pounded with the rhythm of battle. She squared her shoulders, stealing one last glance at Kael. His eyes burned with fierce resolve, and though the ache between them remained unspoken, it was enough.

  It had to be enough.

  Kael's memories of the Priestess were as dark as the storm clouds gathering overhead. Her face was a constant in his nightmares—a cruel smirk, eyes glistening with twisted amusement as she manipulated and used him, leaving scars that were invisible but ran deep. But he had learned her patterns, studied her strengths and, more importantly, her weaknesses. He knew what haunted her, what could make her slip from her composed, venomous facade. And now, with Hazrael’s forces pressing in, it was time to put that knowledge to use.

  He turned to Aerin, who stood just behind him, her breath steadying, eyes blazing with determination despite the storm of emotions within. Kael's fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword, the leather slick against his palm. “Trust me,” he said, voice rough but unwavering. “We draw her out, and you take back what’s yours.”

  Aerin met his gaze, a flicker of hope igniting in her eyes. She nodded, resolve hardening her features as Elden's voice rang out behind them, sharp and commanding. Their allies had returned, the remnants of the army sweeping in from the east, moving like a surge of steel and battle cries. Elden lifted his sword, its gleaming edge catching the last light of the fading storm. He shouted commands that roared above the wind, sending warriors hurtling forward in a flanking maneuver.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  The ground trembled as the two forces converged, Hazrael’s troops momentarily disoriented as attacks came from two directions. The Shadow Seekers, dark and spectral, moved like shadows across the battlefield, quicksilver in their deadly precision. Kael caught Aerin’s eye one last time, a silent promise shared between them, before they lunged forward, every muscle coiled and ready.

  The Priestess, stationed beside King Hazrael, frowned as her gaze flitted across the chaos. Kael knew that look; she was searching for the source of this unexpected strategy. It was now or never.

  As if sensing the shift, the Priestess took a single step forward, her eyes narrowing. Kael’s voice rang out, sharp and mocking, cutting through the battlefield noise like a blade. “Is that all, Priestess? Have the years dulled your edge?” Her face turned, eyes locking with his, and for a moment, rage flared. He had her attention.

  Hazrael’s eyes shifted to the Priestess, irritation flickering as he noted her distraction. Kael surged forward, heart pounding as he met Aerin’s gaze and gave the slightest nod. She sprinted toward the chaos, each step burning with purpose, her focus solely on the woman who had stolen her power.

  Just as the Priestess raised her arm to strike, a brilliant burst of flame erupted to the right of Hazrael’s forces, an inferno so sudden that even the hardened warriors of the Shadow Seekers recoiled. Gasps and shouts erupted, eyes turning to see the impossible: a figure bathed in fire, unrecognizable at first until they stepped forward from the blaze.

  It was Aerin’s uncle, who had been roaming in the background, gathering forces. But now he stood, eyes aglow with raw, unleashed fire magic, the very air around him crackling with heat. His outstretched hands sent torrents of flames crashing into the advancing Shadow Seekers, searing them into ash with each wave.

  The Priestess’s eyes widened, the cold mask slipping as panic momentarily flickered across her face. The opening was all Aerin needed. She lunged, fingers brushing the tendrils of magic binding her to the Priestess. It thrummed, dark and stubborn, but as Aerin focused, she felt a surge, as if Serin’s fire had sparked something deep within her.

  With a roar, she pulled at the connection, ripping it free. The backlash sent the Priestess staggering, a scream tearing from her throat as she fell back, her hold on Aerin’s magic shattered.

  Kael rushed forward, his blade clashing against a Shadow Seeker who lunged at Aerin. Their eyes met for a split second, and this time, victory burned between them.

  King Hazrael’s eyes darkened with fury as his army faltered, the tide of battle shifting.

  Talon’s blades were a blur of motion, slicing through flesh and armor alike. He fought like a man possessed, his movements wild and unrelenting. Blood mixed with rain, streaking down his face, but he didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. Every strike, every life taken, felt like a hollow attempt to fill the void Mara had left behind.

  When one of Hazrael’s monstrous soldiers lunged at him, Talon didn’t hesitate. His scream tore through the storm as he drove both blades into the creature’s chest, twisting them with a savage fury. “You took her from me!” he roared, his voice cracking.

  Aerin saw him from the ridge, her heart twisting at the sight. Talon wasn’t fighting to survive—he was fighting to die. She vaulted down the muddy slope, her boots sinking into the sodden ground, and reached him as he dispatched another enemy.

  “Talon!” she shouted over the din.

  He turned to her, his face a mask of rage and despair. “Stay out of my way, Aerin.” His voice was hoarse, his breathing ragged.

  “You’re going to get yourself killed!” She grabbed his arm, her fingers burning against the cold steel of his armor.

  “And what does it matter?” he snapped, wrenching free. “She’s gone, Aerin! Gone! And if I can take every one of these bastards with me, then so be it!”

  Before she could respond, another wave of Hazrael’s forces surged toward them. Aerin’s magic flared instinctively, a wall of ice rising between them and the enemy. She turned back to Talon, her voice softer but no less urgent.

  “Mara wouldn’t want this. She wouldn’t want you to throw yourself away.”

  His jaw clenched, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Don’t you dare tell me what Mara would want. You don’t know what I lost.”

  “I know what we’ve lost,” Aerin said, her voice trembling. “And if you die here, we lose you too. I can’t lead this fight without you, Talon. Please.”

  For a moment, the fire in his eyes dimmed. But the chaos around them left no time for mourning. The enemy broke through the ice, and Talon turned back to the fight, his blades rising once more.

  “I’ll finish this,” he muttered, “but don’t think for a second I’m doing it for me.”

  Talon didn’t wait for Aerin’s response. His blades flashed again, cutting down a soldier who had barely raised his shield in defense. Blood sprayed across his armor, but he didn’t falter. Each swing of his swords came harder, faster, driven by a primal need to hurt, to destroy, to make someone—anyone—pay for the gaping wound Mara’s death had left in him.