Chapter 128

Chapter 128: Chapter 128

The old mill stood at the edge of the eastern territories like a forgotten sentinel, its weathered stone walls covered in ivy and moss, its great water wheel creaking slowly in the morning breeze. It had been abandoned for decades too remote for farmers, too humble for nobles but today, it was anything but empty.

Nyra and Corvin arrived at dawn, their bodies aching from the long night’s journey, their clothes still stained with the blood of Varek’s soldiers. Darian Marquis was waiting for them at the mill’s entrance, his scarred face breaking into a rare smile when he saw them emerge from the treeline.

"You made it," he said, clasping Nyra’s forearm in a warrior’s grip. "I was starting to worry."

"We ran into some trouble," Nyra admitted. "Varek’s soldiers attacked us at an inn. We had to fight our way out."

"Are you hurt?"

"Nothing serious. Corvin made sure of that."

Darian glanced at Corvin, who stood slightly behind Nyra, his expression watchful. "The alchemist. I’ve heard about you. Your father is Lord Eldritch, the royal alchemist."

"I’m aware of my parentage," Corvin said dryly.

"And you’ve been protecting the princess all this time. Alone. Against Varek’s entire army."

"Not his entire army. Just the parts that found us."

Darian laughed a rough, surprised sound. "I like him. Come inside. The others are waiting."

The interior of the mill was vast and dim, lit by lanterns hung from the rafters. The great grinding stone sat silent in the center of the room, and around it, gathered on makeshift benches and crates, were the remnants of the Astrlyn resistance.

There were perhaps forty of them a mix of old soldiers who had served under Nyra’s father, young wolves who had refused to swear loyalty to Varek, and villagers whose families had been destroyed by the usurper’s taxes and cruelty. They turned as Nyra entered, their conversations dying, their eyes fixed on the silver-haired woman who claimed to be their rightful heir.

Nyra felt the weight of their gazes like a physical force. She had faced assassins and poisonings and rogue attacks. She had faced the King himself. But this standing before her own people, asking them to follow her was somehow more terrifying than any of it.

"You’re the princess?" a grizzled old soldier asked, his voice skeptical. "The one who was supposed to be dead?"

"I’m not dead," Nyra said. "And I’m not a murderer. My uncle killed my brother. He tried to kill me. And now he sits on my throne while my people suffer."

"Pretty words," another voice called out. "But words are cheap. The maid testified that you poisoned Prince Thorne. The evidence was presented to the King himself. Why should we believe you?"

"Because I loved my brother." Nyra’s voice cracked, but she didn’t look away. "He was my twin. My other half. When he died, I held him in my arms. I watched the light leave his eyes. And I made him a promise—that I would take back the throne and avenge him."

The room was silent. The old soldier studied her for a long moment. Then he nodded slowly.

"I served under your father for twenty years," he said. "You have his eyes. And his stubbornness."

"My father was very stubborn."

"He was. It got him killed." The soldier rose to his feet. "But it also made him a great leader. If you’re half the leader he was, you’ll have my sword."

One by one, the others rose. Not all of them—a few still hung back, their expressions doubtful—but enough. Enough to form the beginnings of an army. Enough to give Nyra hope.

"Thank you," she said, her voice thick with emotion. "All of you. I know you’re taking a risk by standing with me. Varek will call you traitors. He’ll hunt you the same way he’s hunting me. But I swear to you on my brother’s memory, on my father’s honor, on the blood of the Moon Goddess that flows through my veins—I will not rest until the throne is restored and justice is served."

A murmur of approval rippled through the crowd. Darian stepped forward.

"We have much to discuss. Strategy. Supplies. The timing of our first strike. But first—" He turned to Corvin. "You said you were attacked at the inn. How close were Varek’s soldiers?"

"Too close. They knew we were heading east. They may already know about this meeting place."

"Then we don’t have much time." Darian’s expression was grim. "We need to—"

The door burst open.

A young scout stumbled inside, his face pale and sweating. "Soldiers! Varek’s soldiers! They’re surrounding the mill!"

The room erupted into chaos. Fighters grabbed their weapons. Civilians scrambled for cover. Darian drew his sword, his scarred face hard with determination.

"How many?" he demanded.

"Hundreds," the scout gasped. "They’ve got the whole valley surrounded. There’s no way out."

Nyra’s blood ran cold. A trap, she realized. This whole thing was a trap. Varek knew we were coming here.

"Everyone, defensive positions!" Darian shouted. "Protect the princess at all costs!"

Nyra drew her dagger. Her silver eyes blazed with the beginnings of the Moonblood power. "No. I won’t hide while my people fight for me. I’ll stand with you."

Corvin moved to her side, his own blade drawn. "Together, then."

The mill doors shuddered as something heavy slammed against them from outside. The resistance fighters formed a defensive line. The civilians huddled in the back, their faces white with fear.

And then the doors burst open.

Miles away, on the edge of the royal forest, a lone figure emerged from the trees.

Soren walked toward the palace gates with the slow, deliberate stride of a predator who had no need to hurry. His clothes were torn and bloodstained the remnants of the pageantry attire he had worn on the night of the showcase, now little more than rags. His dark hair was wild and unkempt. His golden eyes still burned with the remnants of the Lycan hunger.

The guards at the gate saw him coming. They raised their weapons, their expressions wary.

"Halt! Identify yourself!"

Soren stopped. He looked at the guards at their polished armor, their trembling hands, their faces pale with fear. He tilted his head, a flicker of recognition passing through his fractured memories.

"I am Prince Soren Thornridge," he said, his voice rough and low. "Crown prince of the Seven Packs. Heir to the Lycan throne. And I have been away for far too long."

The guards exchanged glances. One of them a young man with more courage than sense stepped forward. "The prince is dead. We saw him die at the showcase."

"Did you?" Soren’s lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. "Then perhaps you’re seeing a ghost."

The guard opened his mouth to respond, but before he could speak, a commotion erupted behind him. The King and Queen had been alerted. They came running through the courtyard, their guards struggling to keep up, their faces masks of desperate hope.

Seraphina reached the gate first. She stopped dead when she saw her son wild and bloodstained and burning with golden fire.

"Soren?" Her voice was barely a whisper. "Is it really you?"

"Mother." The word came out rough, uncertain. As if he wasn’t quite sure it was the right one.

The Queen rushed forward and threw her arms around him. Soren stood rigid for a moment, his body tense, his claws still extended. Then, slowly, he wrapped his arms around her and held her close.

"My boy," she wept. "My precious boy. You came back to me."

The King reached them a moment later. He didn’t embrace his son he was not a man given to public displays of affection but his hand gripped Soren’s shoulder with enough force to bruise.

"You’re alive," Aldric said, his voice rough. "I should have known you wouldn’t let a little poison stop you."

"It takes more than poison to kill a Lycan." Soren pulled back from his mother’s embrace. His golden eyes swept across the courtyard, taking in the guards, the servants, the curious onlookers. "Freya. Where is Freya?"

"She’s at the academy," the Queen said. "She started her training at Silvermoon last week. She’s going to be so happy to see you."

"Freya," Soren repeated. The name felt familiar. Important. But when he tried to picture her face, the image was blurry. Fragmented. Like a dream he couldn’t quite remember.

The King noticed his hesitation. "Soren? Are you alright?"

"I’m fine. Just... tired. The poison took a lot out of me." He pressed his hand to his head. "My memories are... fragmented. There are things I can’t remember. People I can’t picture."

"What kind of people?" the Queen asked, her voice carefully neutral.

"I don’t know. That’s the problem. I can feel the absence. Like a hole in my chest where something important should be. But every time I try to remember—" He winced. "The pain gets worse."

The King and Queen exchanged a glance. The healer’s warning echoed in their minds: If and when the prince wakes up, there may be... consequences. The poison was designed to destroy. Even if he survives, he may not be the same.

"Come inside," Seraphina said, taking her son’s arm. "You need rest. Food. A bath. We can talk about your memories later."

Soren allowed himself to be led toward the palace. But as he walked, his golden eyes kept drifting toward the forest. Something was calling to him out there. Something important. Something he had lost.

He just didn’t know what it was.

Ragnar’s group had been walking since dawn when Roderic stopped dead in his tracks.

"What is it?" Finn asked, his hand going to his sword.

"Tracks. Fresh ones. Dozens of soldiers, maybe more." Roderic knelt and examined the ground. "They’re heading east. Toward the old mill."

"The mill? Why would soldiers be going to an abandoned mill?"

"Because it’s not abandoned anymore." Jasper’s sharp eyes were fixed on the map. "According to this, the mill is a known resistance meeting place. If Nyra was trying to rally support—"

"She’d be walking straight into a trap," Ragnar finished. His scarred face hardened. "How far are we from the mill?"

"Two hours. Maybe less if we run."

"Then we run." Ragnar drew his axe. "Finn, Marek you’re with me. Jasper, Roderic stay back and cover our flank. If we’re not back by nightfall, get word to the academy."

"And what are you going to do when you get there?" Jasper asked.

Ragnar’s grip on his axe tightened. "Whatever it takes."

They ran.

Behind them, hidden in the shadows of the trees, Selene and Valeria watched.

"The mill," Valeria said. "That’s where she is. That’s where Varek’s trap is closing."

"We should let her die," Selene said. "It would solve all our problems."

"Would it? If she dies, Varek wins. He consolidates power. The resistance crumbles. And whoever killed Soren gets away with it."

Selene was silent for a long moment. Then her amber eyes hardened. "Fine. We warn her. But not because I care about her. Because I want Varek to suffer. And because when this is over—when the throne is secure—I’m going to make Nyra Astrlyn answer for what she did."

"Agreed," Valeria said.

They drew their weapons and followed Ragnar’s group into the forest.

The storm was coming. And at the old mill, the first drops of blood were about to fall.