The courtyard had gone silent in the way only dread could command, until the small, desperate cry shattered it.
“Please, Brother!”
Elara burst from the castle steps, her white skirts billowing, curls bouncing wildly around her tear-bright face. She ran like the world would end if she didn’t reach him in time, her tiny hands grabbing onto the hem of Theron’s cloak with all the strength her little frame could muster.
“Zander didn’t do it!” she cried, her voice cracking under the weight of belief. “He wouldnever?—”
Her lavender eyes, so like Zander’s, but softer, unguarded, pleaded up at the prince regent, shimmering with heartbreak.
Theron barely spared her a glance. He didn’t break stride, didn’t even slow.
“Return to the castle, Elara,” he said coolly. “Court matters are not your concern.”
I turned, the ache in my chest piercing, just as a new figure stepped forward with her dark armor. She was trimmed in storm-blue steel, her crest glinting against her chestplate.
Lirane, Commander of Stormforge.
She moved like thunder, fast, unflinching, stepping directly into Theron’s path.
“What is the meaning of this?” she demanded, her voice ringing through the courtyard.
Theron stopped.
Only for a moment.
His gaze slid to her like oil on ice. “You are practically a traitor too,” he said, cold and dismissive. “Return to your banner. I will address the crowd shortly.”
But it was too late.
The silence broke.
Murmurs turned into shouting as guild leaders pushed forward from the edges of the grounds. Crownwatch, Stormforge, Iron Fang, and Warborn were each yelling, demanding answers. Some backed Theron. Others didn’t. Accusations flew like sparks, and the tension fractured like glass.
Then someone shoved.
Then someone else shoved back.
And suddenly, the courtyard erupted into chaos.
Steel rang as blades were drawn, not to kill, but to posture. Guild colors clashed, voices rose, hands gripped hilts. The guards flanking Zander closed ranks, pulling him farther away, and Elara screamed again as two attendants pulled her gently but firmly from the scene.
Even Theron looked momentarily startled.
Because he’d lit the match.
But now the fire was out of his hands.
The chaos rippled outward like a storm breaking across the Ascension Grounds. Yelling, the clash of armor, and the scraping of drawn blades all folded over each other into one deafening roar of unrest. But through the chaos, one voice still rose.
“Zander!”
Elara had broken free of the attendants, her small frame darting through the tangle of shouting guild members like a thread of silk through iron. Her golden curls streamed behind her as she ran straight to her brother, who stood still amidst the guards, chained, unmoving, until she reached him.
Then he dropped to his knees.
The clang of chains hitting stone was gut-wrenching, but his eyes never left her face. Elara flung her arms around his neck, her small hands gripping his sleeve with a desperation that quieted something in all of us.
I couldn’t hear what Zander whispered to her. His lips barely moved above the rising din, but his cheek brushed against hers. The moment hung there, fragile and aching.
