Chapter 3
986words
Their clandestine meetings became shadows within shadows in the capital's nights. Sometimes in forgotten library corners where dust motes danced in moonbeams; sometimes atop windswept battlements where icy gusts howled. Like grandmasters, they positioned their pieces across a kingdom-sized board, with Lucien's destruction as the prize.
"Without Lunaria support, Lucien has lost half his military backing," Seraphina said one frigid night, sliding Lucien's marker toward the northern border on Tristan's tactical sand table. "What he craves now is a 'perfectly timed' victory to restore his reputation. The northern barbarians' winter raids offer his ideal stage."
Tristan's gaze sharpened. "You suggest he'd manufacture a war?"
"No," Seraphina replied, a cold smile playing at her lips. "He'll weaponize others' strength. He'll strike a deal with the barbarians, permitting a controlled raid, then swoop in like a savior to 'defeat' them. In my previous life, that's precisely what he did."
Tristan fell silent. He believed her. Her uncanny insight into Lucien's mind wasn't mere speculation—it felt like... firsthand knowledge.
"Should we stop him?"
"Stop him?" Seraphina looked up, her eyes gleaming with dangerous allure. "No. We should 'help' him. Let's fan his little flame into an inferno—one that will reduce him to ashes."
Their conspiracy took shape with meticulous precision. Tristan, the tactical genius, transformed Seraphina's audacious schemes into executable military directives. Seraphina, master of psychological warfare, forged "correspondence" between Lucien and barbarian chieftains—perfect in both arrogant tone and handwriting mimicry.
In these letters, she transformed a tacit agreement for "minor raids" into a treasonous plot to "fracture the kingdom." The payment wasn't mere gold, but kingdom weaponry Lucien had allegedly promised—conveniently stored in his private Silver Mine.
On another midnight, as they finalized their scheme, Seraphina stared at Lucien's chess piece—now trapped in checkmate. The flames of vengeance scorched her soul, paradoxically leaving her chilled to the bone.
A large, warm hand covered her frozen fingers.
Tristan stood beside her, his voice deep and resolute. "I don't know what hell you've endured, Seraphina. But I swear, I will never let you return to such darkness again."
In that moment, the hardest layer of ice around Seraphina's heart cracked. She looked up into his intense, determined eyes and slowly nodded. This was no longer a mere alliance of convenience, but a bond forged in blood and fire.
Two weeks later, devastating news struck the capital like lightning.
The northern stronghold of Winterhold had fallen to barbarian hordes! Soldiers and civilians alike slaughtered, with casualties in the thousands! Such devastation hadn't been seen in a century.
The kingdom's council chamber descended into chaos. All accusing eyes turned to Army Commander-in-Chief Duke Tristan.
Tristan's deputy "helpfully" explained: "The Duke ordered the Third Patrol diverted to the western pass two weeks ago, based on intelligence suggesting larger enemy forces there..."
Everything sounded reasonable—yet suspiciously convenient.
As the council erupted in argument, Prince Lucien stepped forward. Resplendent in silver armor, face etched with practiced grief, he delivered an impassioned plea to personally lead troops northward to avenge the slaughtered innocents.
In that moment, he transformed into the lone hero willing to shoulder responsibility. He basked in the nobles' admiration, feeling the crown drawing ever closer.
He failed to notice Tristan watching him from beside the throne—with the cold eyes of an executioner regarding the condemned.
"The Prince's courage is commendable." Tristan's quiet voice somehow silenced the entire hall. "But before marching to war, perhaps we should determine whether this tragedy was misfortune—or treason."
He bowed to the King and produced a stack of wax-sealed letters.
"These are correspondences between the Prince and a captured barbarian commander. Found on the prisoner's body."
The blood drained from Lucien's face.
Tristan gave him no chance to speak, reading the letters aloud. In them, Lucien "promised" the barbarians free rein to plunder, agreeing to deliver weapons as payment at his Silver Mine after the city's fall.
"Lies! Forgeries! A conspiracy!" Lucien's desperate roar echoed through the chamber.
"Indeed?" Tristan replied with deadly calm. "Then explain this military equipment manifest my men discovered in Your Highness's Silver Mine warehouse. It bears your steward's signature. And these weapons, meant for our frontline troops, were last seen in the valley outside Winterhold—the night before the massacre."
The second damning piece of evidence landed like a hammer blow.
Deathly silence blanketed the hall. The nobles who moments ago had admired Lucien now regarded him with horror and revulsion.
Tristan descended the dais, approaching the shell-shocked prince with measured steps. He didn't shout or rage—his ice-cold voice cut deeper than any scream could.
"For your own glory, you sold our borders and sacrificed thousands of innocent lives. Lucien, you are no hero."
Each word fell like an executioner's axe, shattering Lucien's reputation and future with methodical precision.
"You are a traitor."
The final verdict dropped like a guillotine blade. Lucien's legs buckled, and he crumpled to the floor.
Through the ensuing chaos, Seraphina observed from the crowd's edge, her face impassive. Her eyes met Tristan's across the chamber.
They had won.
That night, Seraphina stood alone on the castle terrace, night wind playing with her hair. From behind, a heavy cloak—still warm from its wearer—settled gently around her shoulders.
She didn't turn, already knowing who stood behind her.
"It's over," Tristan said, joining her at the balustrade, his voice carrying the faintest hint of exhaustion.
"No," Seraphina whispered, "this is just the beginning."
She turned to face the man who had crafted this intricate web of destruction alongside her. On her frozen path of vengeance, he had become her only ally.
Tristan said nothing. He simply reached out and tucked a windblown strand of hair behind her ear. This simple, almost awkward gesture of tenderness carried more weight than a thousand vows. Their alliance, in that moment, became something more.
