The first arrow flew before dawn. Silent. Swift. It embedded itself in a wooden post with a low thunk. Then another. Then ten. Until the sky rained iron.
Lucien's sword was already in his hand.
"Shields!" he roared, voice slicing through the chaos.
His soldiers moved in perfect synchronicity, steel snapping up in defense as arrows slammed into them like thunder on stone. Commander Rane was beside him, bellowing orders to the rear flank. Lucien didn't wait. He surged forward, his blade catching the first enemy mid-sprint.
The battle broke open like a storm.
Steel rang against steel—the clash of bodies, the roar of commands, the grunts of pain. Lucien fought with brutal efficiency, a specter in motion—his sword finding necks, legs, and hearts. He barely blinked as blood sprayed across his armor.
And then, it happened.
An enemy soldier—young, gaunt-eyed, almost frantic—lunged at him with reckless abandon. Lucien's blade met the man's chest with ease.
But the man didn't fall.
He gripped Lucien's sword with bloodied hands and shoved himself deeper onto the blade, his mouth curling into a feral grin. Red dripped down Lucien's knuckles, seeping into the seams of his gauntlet.
Lucien's brow furrowed. Why…?
The man collapsed with a gurgling laugh. Nothing about him looked right. There was madness in his eyes—not fear, not even loyalty.
Lucien wiped the blade and moved on.
But the feeling wouldn't leave him.
The battle raged on, and soon the enemy broke formation, scattering like ants under a heel. The tide had turned. Lucien issued the order not to pursue it. "Let them run."
He stood still for a moment, catching his breath. The adrenaline ebbed slightly.
And then his vision… shifted.
The edges of the battlefield blurred. The sunlight above flickered strangely, like candlelight through water. Lucien blinked—once, twice.
Nothing cleared.
He turned toward Rane, but the man's face looked smeared, as if shadows dragged across his features.
Lucien's stomach twisted.
"I—" he muttered, one hand reaching out. His sword felt heavier now.
Rane caught him before he could stumble. "Lucien?"
"I can't see," he said lowly, his voice grave. "Not clearly."
The commander's face paled. "What?"
Lucien's knees nearly buckled. He grabbed onto his comrade with one hand while the other went to his eyes as if wiping them could clear whatever strange film clouded his vision. But it wasn't dirt. It wasn't blood.
The memory of that crazed soldier surged forward.
The blood. On his hands. In his skin.
Poison.
"They used something," Lucien hissed under his breath. "In the blood."
The world dimmed by the hour.
By the time they reached the field camp, Lucien could barely make out the shapes around him. The flames of the torches flickered like dying stars, swallowed at the edges by an ever-thickening darkness.
He sat on the edge of a cot in the command tent, his armor peeled away piece by piece by the physician's careful hands. Every scrape of metal sounded louder than it should have—his senses sharpening as if to make up for his failing sight.
"I don't see any visible wounds that could've caused this," the physician murmured, his brow furrowed. "Just the usual bruises and cuts. Nothing deep."
"It wasn't a wound," Lucien said, voice hoarse. "It was the blood. A man threw himself onto my sword. Forced it in."
The physician stilled. "You think it was deliberate?"
"I know it was deliberate." Lucien turned his head toward the sound of the voice, though the shape of the man was now no more than a gray blur. "His blood got into my skin. That's when it started."
He could hear the scribble of a quill—notes being taken.
Rane entered the tent then, his steps heavier than usual. "The scouts confirmed. That soldier was alone. No insignia, no personal effects. Whoever sent him didn't want him traced."
Lucien let out a quiet breath. "Of course not."
The physician stepped away, his tone laced with apology. "There's no telling what sort of substance it was. We'll need time to identify it. For now… it's attacking the optic nerves."
"Will it spread?" Rane asked.
The man hesitated. "It's hard to say."
Lucien remained silent, jaw clenched. Losing his sight was bad enough—but uncertainty? That was worse.
He stood slowly, despite the physician's protest. "I want word sent to the capital. Quietly. No rumors."
"To who "
Rane raised a brow. "Not the king?"
Lucien didn't answer.
He didn't trust the crown. Not anymore.
And if his instincts were right, the snake that set this trap had scales of silk and a golden smile.
As the others busied themselves with preparations, Lucien turned his head toward the sound of distant wind flapping against the tent flaps. The darkness was full now, save for faint hints of light he could no longer follow.
"This is the only chance."
Those five words echoed in her mind, looping in rhythm with the horse's hooves. She hadn't seen who he was talking to—just caught the tail end of his voice through a cracked door as a maid led her away. But the tone had been sharp. Urgent. And it hadn't felt like courtly chatter.
Now, seated at the breakfast table the next morning, she stirred her tea absently, watching the steam curl upward.
Celeste sat across from her, sipping from her cup, her expression unreadable. The Earl, ever engrossed in the morning paper, barely looked up when the servants brought in fresh fruit and toast.
"You're quiet," Celeste finally said, glancing at her over the rim of her cup.
"Am I?" Isadora feigned mild surprise, resting her chin on her hand.
"Yes. And I've known you long enough to know that when you're this quiet, it usually means you're thinking about setting something on fire."
Isadora gave a soft snort. "Tempting."
Celeste arched a brow. "Did the meeting not go well?"
"It was… fine," she replied, pushing fruit around her plate. "The prince was pleasant. A little too polished. It felt like I was being interviewed."
Celeste hummed. "That's the court. Everyone smiles as they measure you for chains."
Isadora blinked at her. "You're supposed to reassure me, you know."
"I'm being honest. Besides, you didn't hate him, did you?"
"I didn't like him, either."
Celeste studied her for a moment but said nothing more.
Isadora hesitated. She almost told her mother about the conversation she'd overheard—about Alaric's sharp voice, the feeling that something was off—but she held back. There was no proof. And if she was wrong…
No, better to watch. To listen more next time.
And she would.
Isadora set down her teacup with a gentle clink and met Celeste's steady gaze.
"I'm alright," she said softly. "I'll keep my ears open."
Celeste gave a small, approving nod. "Good. Let me know if anything else troubles you."
Isadora offered her a tight smile and returned to her breakfast, determined to watch and wait rather than jump into action.
Meanwhile, far from court intrigue, in a dimly lit command tent at the front lines…
The firelight in the command tent danced across Lucien's face, turning the crimson embroidery on his cloak to a deeper red. His hands shook slightly as he swallowed a draught of water. Every muscle in his body screamed for rest, but his eyes—his eyes betrayed him, blurring until the world became nothing more than shifting shadows.
The physician, Master Carrow, knelt beside him, peering into Lucien's empty stare. "Your Grace, your optic nerves are still deteriorating. There's no local antidote I can administer here."
Lucien clenched his jaw. "What must be done?"
Master Carrow exchanged a grave glance with Commander Thorne. "You must return to the capital. The royal apothecaries and the court's scholars have resources we lack in the field. If there's any hope of a cure… it's there."
Lucien nodded once, faintly. "Prepare the fastest horse."
Within hours, a small escort bore him away from the camp, the clattering hooves echoing across silent plains. As they rode, the physician applied soothing poultices to his temples while Lucien merely stared ahead, vision fading with every passing mile.