Aelric's ears caught it first—a distant burst of laughter carried lazily on the sea breeze, like a song from a dream. Joyful, reckless laughter. The kind no one dared make unless they thought themselves truly free.
Brows furrowed, he tugged his reins, guiding his steed toward the sound. "Easy, girl," he muttered, patting the horse's neck.
The path grew rough, the rocky embankment rising where land met sea in jagged, weathered cliffs. Waves crashed below, white spray clawing at stone. Aelric dismounted, boots crunching against the rocks as he climbed, every step stirring dust and sea air.
Then he saw it.
The sun's golden light poured over the beach below like a blessing, illuminating seven figures sprawled across the sand—bodies tangled in exhaustion and laughter. The sight was so surreal it halted Aelric mid-step. For a moment, it looked like a painting—too perfect to be real.
But as his gaze sharpened, faces formed from the blur.
Among them, Aelric's gaze caught the two elves—elegant, effortless, as if the sun itself favored them. Nearby, the dwarves sat solid as stone, laughter booming like distant thunder.
The cloaked wizard lingered on the edge, while a young figure—boy or girl, it was hard to tell—crouched with a scrappy, furred creature curled protectively at their side, and then—her.
Mei-Ling.
Radiant, head tilted back in pure laughter, eyes sparkling as if the sea itself reflected in them. Aelric's breath caught; his chest tightened until he thought his heart might tear free of his ribs.
He was moving before he knew it—slipping, stumbling over the last few rocks until the words burst from his throat. "MEI-LING!"
The sound cracked across the beach like a thunderclap.
The laughter stopped. Heads turned. Mei-Ling froze, the color draining from her face, then returning in a brilliant blush.
"Ayl-REEK?" she gasped, her voice breaking like waves on stone.
The whole group blinked at Aelric, and then Feredis—half-buried in sand—snorted, "Hells, tell me we all see that or did I finally drown?"
Fror wiped a tear from his eye. "He looks half-mad. Probably been talkin' to his horse all week."
"Would explain the smell," Gror grinned.
But Mei-Ling was already on her feet, running, feet barely touching the sand as she closed the distance.
"You found me," she breathed, colliding into him so hard Aelric stumbled back a step—but his arms were already around her, crushing her against him as if she might disappear again.
"I'd have torn the whole damn world apart if I hadn't," he choked, burying his face in her hair. "You... you're real. Gods, you're real."
Their lips met—desperate, laughing between kisses, a mix of relief and disbelief.
"Took you long enough," Mei-Ling teased, breathless against his lips. "We've had breakfast already."
Aelric grinned, finally pulling back enough to see her. "I was busy chasing ghosts and incompetent guards. But none of them smelled half as good as you."
"Oi!" Feredis called out. "If you two start undressing, I'm swimming back."
"I say we let him," Honzo muttered, smirking.
Mei-Ling laughed, resting her forehead against Aelric's. "You're late... but you're here."
"And I'm never letting you out of my sight again," he vowed, voice low, fierce.
Fror clapped his hands loudly. "Right then! Since we've had our romance and our near-death experience, I say we find a tavern."
"Agreed," Gror grinned. "Someplace dry. And no fish."
Mei-Ling grinned up at Aelric. "Race you to it?"
"If you win," Aelric smirked, "I'll buy the first round."
Feredis groaned. "Gods, just kiss her again and let's go before someone starts singing."
They all laughed—loud, wild, alive. The sea roared with them, and for once, Aelric felt the world was exactly as it should be.
Meanwhile...
Within the gilded chambers of Zlatnomirheim Palace, Lady Auelia stood draped in ivory silk, the wedding gown clinging to her like a suffocating shroud. Diamonds glittered in her golden hair, each gem mocking her turmoil, while a ruby necklace rested heavy on her throat—its blood-red gleam a mirror of the rage simmering beneath her porcelain skin.
A trembling servant placed the crown delicately atop her head. The soft clink of jewels was the last straw.
"Enough." Auelia's voice was ice.
With a sudden snarl, she tore the crown free and hurled it across the room. It crashed against the marble, scattering diamonds like stars falling from the sky. "What is this—this farce?!"
Breathing hard, she seized a jar of face powder and flung it at the mirror. The glass shattered instantly, splintering her furious reflection into a hundred fractured, mocking versions of herself.
"How dare he do this to me?!" Her scream ripped through the air, raw with betrayal.
The guards stationed nearby stiffened, eyes wide, unsure if they were meant to answer.
Auelia's gaze snapped to them like a blade. "Where. Is. Prince. Aelric?" Each word struck like a whip.
One guard, pale and sweating, found his voice. "I—I don't know, my lady. He... he left the palace—"
Before he could finish, Auelia crossed the chamber in a blur, seizing the man by his collar. "Liar," she spat. "You think me blind? Deaf?!" Her grip tightened until the man gasped, his boots scraping against the polished floor.
"P-please, my lady—I swear it, I speak true!"
With a snarl, she released him, shoving him backward. "If you knew nothing, you should have said nothing."
Her eyes snapped to the others. "Guards. Seize him."
The man paled. "No—no, my lady, please! I swear, I only—"
The other guards obeyed swiftly, grabbing him by the arms. He struggled, but it was useless. "Mercy, please—!"
Auelia's lips curled into a cold, cruel smile. "Mercy is for brides. I am not one today."
The pleading guard was dragged out, his desperate cries fading into the stone corridors, leaving behind only silence—and the sound of Auelia's ragged breathing.
She turned back to the shattered mirror, staring down her fractured reflection. "Run, Aelric. Run to your little peasant whore." Her voice was soft, venom-laced. "But I will have her. And when I do, I'll carve my wedding gift from her screams."
Auelia's chest heaved as she forced a smile, bitter and broken. "No one humiliates me. Not him. Not her."
The crimson rubies glinted in the light like fresh blood, as Auelia stood alone—queen of ruin, already plotting her revenge.
****
King Aezaric stood in the grand hall, his heavy gaze locked on the towering portrait of his late son—Prince Aerendor, the pride of the realm, once the commander of the king's elite guard. The painted eyes seemed to watch him, a silent accusation lingering in every brushstroke.
Grief clawed at Aezaric's chest. "I was supposed to give you a kingdom," he murmured, voice hoarse. "Instead... I buried you beneath it."
The weight of his own ambition pressed harder than the golden crown upon his brow. Greed, power—his endless hunger had cost him everything. Aerendor's death was no battlefield glory, but the casualty of Aezaric's relentless pursuit of dominion.
Now, only Aerendor's son—Aelric—remained. And that witch.
Aezaric's jaw clenched. News had arrived—Aelric had tracked the witch. They were already en route to Vjerniskógur Outpost. Aezaric should have felt relief, but instead, dread knotted in his gut.
As if summoned by his turmoil, the grand doors creaked open. Arch General Vjetromor entered, regal and composed, though a shadow lingered in his eyes. He bowed deeply. "Your Majesty."
Aezaric's gaze was cold steel. "You failed me, Vjetromor."
The words struck like a blade. Vjetromor straightened slowly, lips pressed thin. "I know, my king. I accept full blame. Perhaps... I trained him too well." His tone was hollow, edged with guilt.
A bitter laugh escaped Aezaric. "A father's skill passed to his son." His eyes returned to Aerendor's portrait. "He is every inch his father's son. Defiant... proud... and blind to the cost."
A heavy silence fell.
Then, Aezaric's expression hardened, resolve overtaking regret. "Ready the army."
Vjetromor's head snapped up. "My king?"
"We march south to Vjerniskógur Outpost," Aezaric said, voice devoid of warmth. "They've defied the crown. There will be no mercy—not for him, not for the witch." He exhaled slowly, his next words cold as the grave. "I will drag my grandson back in chains if I must. This ends now."
Vjetromor hesitated—a flicker of something unspoken—but then bowed stiffly. "As you command."
The Commander turned, leaving the hall with heavy steps. Once behind closed doors, his composure cracked. Rage warred with sorrow on his face. Vjetromor grabbed a quill and parchment, his hand trembling slightly as he scribbled furiously:
"Aelric—danger approaches. Flee if you value your lives. You cannot face this alone. The king comes for you."
He sealed the message, eyes dark with grim purpose. "Raven. Now."
A loyal aide took the scroll and sprinted off, leaving Vjetromor alone with the storm brewing in his heart. Duty demanded he lead the march—but honor, honor clawed at him, howling that facing Aelric on the battlefield would be his undoing.
"Gods help me," Vjetromor muttered, staring at his gauntlets, "I may be ordered to kill the boy I once called kin."
Donning his resplendent golden armor, he mounted his steed—a towering black destrier gleaming under the midday sun. Before him, the might of the Elven host stood ready. Rows upon rows of soldiers in shimmering gold, their banners fluttering like molten rivers in the wind.
Vjetromor inhaled sharply. "Forward!" His voice thundered across the plains.
The ground trembled as thousands moved as one. A river of gold spilled across the land, their march set for Vjerniskógur Outpost—and the inevitable clash that would decide blood, loyalty, and the price of a kingdom.