In the Shadow of the Crown

The dungeon trembled.

Not from an earthquake, not from a storm, but from something far worse.

Power.

Magic.

[Him.]

Eliza felt it in her bones before she heard it the shift in the air, the sudden weight of something ancient pressing against the stone walls. The torches flickered violently, their flames twisting as if trying to flee from the force that approached. The iron shackles around her wrists vibrated, a whisper of movement in the heavy silence.

[Raen is here.]

A breath caught in her throat, but she forced herself to remain still. To listen.

Boots echoed in the corridor above, quick and urgent. Shouts followed, muffled but frantic. She could picture it already guards scrambling into formation, blades drawn, magic wards flaring to life as they tried to hold back the storm crashing toward them.

But they would fail.

They always did.

[Edric had underestimated him. He had set his trap too neatly, too arrogantly. He believed love could be twisted into a weapon, but he had never known the kind of love Raen carried.]

The kind that burned.

A key turned in the iron lock.

Eliza’s heart leapt into her throat.

The heavy door creaked open, and she forced herself not to flinch as Tristan stepped inside. His face was unreadable, but his grip on the hilt of his sword was tight.

“Get up,” he ordered.

She didn’t move. “Are you finally here to kill me?”

Tristan let out a quiet sigh. “Not tonight.”

A flick of his wrist, and the chains binding her wrists snapped open, the metal clattering to the floor. The sudden absence of their weight sent a sharp ache through her limbs, but she ignored it, rubbing her raw skin as she studied him.

“You should run,” he said quietly.

Eliza narrowed her eyes. “Why are you helping me?”

“Because you were right.” A flicker of something crossed his face - remorse, regret, something close to pain. “There’s always a choice.”

And he had finally made one.

She didn’t waste another second. Pushing past him, she stepped into the corridor, the air thick with the scent of damp stone and blood. The torches along the walls flickered wildly, their flames restless.

Tristan followed close behind, his sword already drawn. “We don’t have much time.”

Eliza barely had time to nod before the walls shook.

A deafening crack split the air, the stones groaning as dust rained from the ceiling.

And then she heard it.

A scream, no, a hundred screams.

Metal clashing. The unmistakable crackle of magic colliding, shattering.

And beneath it all, a single voice, low and furious, cutting through the chaos like a blade.

“Where is she?”

Eliza’s breath hitched.

[Raen.]

[He was close. Too close.]

[And he was not calm.]

She could hear it in his voice, feel it in the way the air itself seemed to bend around him. The quiet, ruthless strategist was gone. In his place was something raw, something wild.

Something that had no mercy left to give.

Tristan cursed under his breath. “If he sees you now, like this, he won’t stop.”

Eliza knew he was right.

Raen had never been a man who fought with reason when it came to her. He was a war forged from blood and fire, and Edric had made the mistake of threatening the one thing that kept him tethered.

[He’ll burn this castle to the ground.]

And she would not be the one to stop him.

Eliza turned to Tristan. “Get me to him.”

His jaw tightened. “Eliza...”

“Now.”

Because if they wasted any more time, there would be no one left alive to stop Raen from killing the king.

And despite everything, despite all the pain, she knew one thing with absolute certainty.

If Raen killed Edric now, he would never walk away from it.

He would never be free.

And neither would she.

***

The throne room doors exploded.

Not opened. Not pushed aside. Obliterated.

Splinters of wood and shards of stone scattered across the polished marble as the torches flickered violently, their flames stretching toward the intruder.

Raen stood in the ruins of the entrance, his black cloak torn, his armor streaked with blood that was not his own. His sword, heavy and ancient, dripped crimson onto the floor, each drop echoing in the stunned silence that followed his arrival.

He was breathing hard, his chest rising and falling in sharp, measured movements. But his golden eyes. Those eyes were fixed only on one person.

Edric.

The king had not moved from his throne.

He sat tall, composed, one leg draped lazily over the other, fingers resting against the hilt of his ceremonial blade. He regarded Raen with something that might have been amusement, if not for the slight tension in his jaw.

“Well,” Edric murmured. “You’re early.”

Raen did not reply.

He stepped forward, slow and deliberate, the air around him crackling with magic. The torches dimmed, their flames bending toward him, drawn to the raw power curling at his fingertips.

Eliza barely made it into the room before the air exploded.@@novelbin@@

Magic collided in a violent storm, gold against black, fire against shadow. The force of it sent her stumbling back, but she did not stop, did not falter.

Because Raen was moving.

And he was aiming to kill.

“Raen!”

His name left her lips before she could stop herself.

He froze.

For the briefest moment, everything halted.

His sword, mid-swing.

Edric’s smirk, fading.

The very air itself, holding its breath.

Raen turned.

And Eliza ran to him.

She did not stop. Did not think.

Because if she hesitated now, she would lose him.

And that was something she could not allow.

His arms were around her before she even reached him. A crushing, desperate grip, as if he were trying to pull her into his very soul. His breath was ragged against her temple, his heart a war drum beneath his ribs.

She clutched at him, fingers tangling in his torn cloak. “I’m here,” she whispered. “I’m here.”

He shuddered against her, his hands fisting in the fabric of her dress.

“Eliza,” he breathed.

She pulled back just enough to meet his gaze. His golden eyes, burning and wild, locked onto hers, searching, no, demanding an answer.

But before she could give him one, a voice shattered the moment.

“Well,” Edric mused. “This is touching.”

Raen’s grip tightened.

Eliza felt the shift in him. The slow, dangerous pull of rage curling around his edges once more.

And for the first time that night, Edric did not look amused.

Because Raen was still holding his sword.

And this time, he would not stop.