CHAPTER 80: LOOSELY KEPT SECRETS

Two years had passed since the fall of the Byzeth king.

The moon hung low in the dark sky, spilling silver light across the roads of the Byzeth Kingdom.

The land, once restless with fire and rebellion, now lay under a heavy stillness. But beneath that stillness, secrets stirred, carried on the cold night air like whispers too dangerous to be spoken aloud.

A man in a worn, dark cloak rode swiftly along the northern road, his horse’s hooves pounding the frozen earth in an unrelenting rhythm.

His silhouette looked carved from shadow, an outline that seemed to flicker and dissolve with each turn of the road.

The wind carried with it the faint smell of tilled northern fields, their soil dark and rich, but he gave no thought to the scenery. His eyes, hidden by his hood, were fixed forward.

His purpose was singular.

There was no hesitation in his pace, no falter in his grip as he urged the beast onward. He pressed through winding paths, cutting past villages that slept beneath the watch of the moon.

Farmers’ cottages and small provincial towns drifted behind him like passing dreams. Occasionally a lantern flickered from a window, but no one stirred.

The messenger moved too swiftly for anyone to truly notice him.

Hours passed before fields gave way to cobblestone streets. The proud towers of the capital rose ahead, black against the silver horizon. Walls loomed high, watchtowers crowned with iron spires, their surfaces glinting faintly with embedded crystal wards. These were not the walls of the Byzeth he had once known. They were newer, harder—reminders of a kingdom reforged in the fire of war.

He entered the city without challenge, the gates yawning open as the watchful guards let him pass. Perhaps they had been told to expect him. Or perhaps they were simply too cautious to stop someone who rode with such determined urgency.

The streets of the capital were quieter than he remembered.

The hour was late, yet the silence carried a different weight, one born not from peace but from discipline. The people of Byzeth had learned to whisper since the new king’s reign. Whispers were safer than shouts.

Still, the rider did not slow.

His destination still ahead—the castle, its spires jagged and piercing, stabbing into the heavens as though daring the moon itself.

At the gates, he was halted at last. The guards here were unlike ordinary men of steel. Their armor shimmered faintly, strange devices clasped to their arms and chests.

Runes etched into plates pulsed softly with light, mana crystals glowing from within the mechanisms like caged stars. The air hummed around them, heavy with restrained magic.

"Halt," one commanded, his voice cold, clipped.

"State your purpose."

The cloaked man raised his head, though the shadows of his hood kept his face hidden. His voice was steady, deliberate.

"I bring an urgent message for the king."

The guard scoffed, exchanging a skeptical glance with his companion. "No one simply rides into the castle and demands an audience with the king. Who are you?"

"I am a messenger," the man replied calmly. "And my message is for the king’s eyes only."

Tension lingered in the night air. The guards studied him, mana-light flickering across their armor. At last, one nodded sharply, vanishing into the castle doors.

Minutes dragged.

The messenger sat silent, unflinching, while the remaining guard’s hand never left the hilt of his weapon. Finally, the heavy doors opened again, and he was ushered inside.

They led him through echoing corridors of stone, the torchlight flickering against old banners and new sigils. Strange runes burned faintly along the walls in hidden patterns.

The castle had changed—layered now with both steel and sorcery.

At last, they emerged onto a balcony that overlooked the city, moonlight casting silver across the roofs below.

There, waiting for him, was Serina.

She stood like an unbroken blade, her robe of flowing silk and dark cloth swaying in the breeze. Her hair, long and raven-black, spilled to one side, but her eyes—sharp, assessing, unyielding—were what commanded the moment.

"And what message do you carry?" she asked, voice smooth but edged with steel.

The cloaked man bowed his head slightly. "I cannot say. The message is for the king."

Serina’s eyes narrowed. "And yet, here you stand. You may as well deliver it now."

For a long moment, silence hung between them.

The messenger weighed his chances. At last, with a quiet sigh, he reached into his cloak and withdrew a sealed letter. He offered it to her reluctantly, like one offering a blade to an enemy.

Serina broke the seal and unfolded the parchment. As her eyes moved over the words, her expression hardened.

A faint tremor ran through her fingers, though her voice remained calm when she spoke.

"Do you understand the gravity of this accusation?" she asked, low and dangerous. "Treason is not spoken lightly—least of all when it touches royal blood. To carry such a message is to wager your life."

The messenger inclined his head. "I am only a carrier. The words are not mine. They come from the Draken Imperiality. The king should not shoot the messenger."

Her lips curved in something too sharp to be a smile. "He’s shot men for less."

She turned to the guards. "Take him to a chamber. He does not leave until I say so."

They seized him and led him away. Serina watched him vanish into shadow before she turned, letter clenched tightly in her hand, and moved deeper into the castle.

The doors to a secluded courtyard opened at her approach. Guards bowed her through without question. Moonlight fell across stone paths lined with trimmed hedges.

At the center stood a great steaming bath, carved from marble, filled with scented herbs that perfumed the night air.

There, reclining in the water, was Aric.

His head tilted back, his eyes closed, his frame—honed from training and war—rested as though carved from iron. Steam curled lazily from his skin, haloed by the pale moonlight.

For a moment, he seemed far from crowns and burdens.

Serina stepped forward, her presence breaking the stillness. She extended the letter.

"We have a matter of significance," she said.

Aric opened his eyes slowly, reaching for the parchment. His brow furrowed as he read. When he finished, he exhaled, a faint cloud of steam rising with his breath.

"How certain are you of its authenticity?" His tone was calm, though heavy with calculation.

"The man bore the mark of the Flame Crusaders," Serina replied. "The mark of dragons."

Aric’s gaze lingered on her, then drifted to the moon above. Silent contemplation stretched long enough that the water around him cooled.

At last, he rose.

Water streamed from his body, steam rising like smoke from steel newly quenched. In the silver wash of the moon, he looked less a man than something half-forged by fire.

Serina moved with practiced grace, lifting his robe from a chair. She draped it over his shoulders, her touch lingering faintly against damp skin before retreating.

"Call the council," Aric said, fastening the robe. His voice was quiet, but iron lay beneath it. "It seems the time for my return to the Imperial City has come."

Serina bowed her head slightly, concealing the flicker in her eyes, and left with the letter still clutched in her hand.

Aric remained alone in the courtyard, staring at the moon.

Two years of silence had passed since the war’s end, yet silence never lasted forever. The time had come for the next step. And with it, secrets would no longer stay kept.