The Arch General Vjetromor had watched Aurelia from the very beginning, his calculating eyes ever alert. Long before the grand coronation, he had sensed it—a subtle yet inexorable shift in Aelric's gaze, an imperceptible dimming of the once-fiery resolve in his eyes. And ever since Aurelia had nestled at the king's side as his enigmatic advisor, a quiet, relentless unease had taken root in Vjetromor's soul.
He had served under the banner of two kings, battled fiercely through four brutal wars, and taken lives for crown and country. Yet the burden of peace proved weightier than that of war when creatures dressed in silk carried venom in their whispers.
Aelric—the young ruler Vjetromor once shielded amid blood and clashing steel—had transformed. The boy who had once stood fearless on the turbulent battlefields now wore the heavy mantle of indecision, his mind tormented by restless dreams and his presence diminishing with every passing moon. And ever by his side loomed the frost-kissed enchantress, Aurelia; graceful and serene, her ever-present smile concealing a chilling, calculated watchfulness.
Vjetromor maintained invisible eyes throughout the palace, his network of informants alerting him to every tiny change: the moment when servants shifted their routines, when an extra barrel mysteriously appeared in the wine cellar and remained untouched, when the palace guards began furtively delivering supplies to the long-sealed dungeon beneath the eastern wing—an oubliette that had held no prisoner since the downfall of the Dark Court.
At first, the changes were as delicate as a whispered secret—a slight alteration in the schedules, a once-familiar corridor now abruptly forbidden, a delicate layer of frost silently accumulating along a locked door. Then arrived the moment Vjetromor had been both dreading and anticipating.
At dusk, the guards methodically brought down food and water, their lanterns casting wavering shadows along the cold stone walls as they departed. Vjetromor waited in the gloaming before he moved like a phantom through the silent, labyrinthine corridors. He navigated through defenses layered like pelts of ancient magic until he reached the hidden cell.
There, against a wall kissed by perpetual frost, was the witch, bundled and broken like a wilting blossom. Mei-Ling lay curled, her body chained to the icy surface. Her face bore fresh bruises and her lips were cracked from the cold; her silk gown was sullied and torn, stiffened by mingled blood and frost. Yet, despite her battered state, her eyes burned with an indomitable, stubborn fire.
As the heavy door creaked open, she raised her tear-streaked face. The moment her gaze fell upon him, her body tensed like a wildcat poised to strike.
"You," she spat, voice low and venomous. "Come to finish the job?"
Vjetromor paused in the threshold, his heart tightening at the echo of her venom. "I had orders. From the late king. You know that."
Her laugh was bitter, a rasp laced with blood as she replied, "You tried to kill me. And Aelric. You would have slit our throats if you hadn't been stopped."
"I didn't have a choice," he murmured, his tone as cold as the dungeon's stones.
She laughed once more—a sound of despair and disgust. "That's what all cowards say."
"I serve the realm," he replied evenly.
"Then serve it somewhere else," she hissed, her voice a sizzling threat. "I'd rather rot here than crawl out with a dog like you."
Her words, sharp as splintered glass, carved wounds in the silence. Vjetromor stood there wordlessly for a heartbeat longer, the sting of her contempt lingering like a bitter frost. With a slow, measured turn, he stepped back into the darkness. "If you don't believe me, then die down here. I won't stop you," he declared, his voice resolute, before he disappeared into the shadows.
That night, sleep eluded him as thoughts churned like a winter storm. Later, under the celestial glow of the palace garden, Vjetromor found Aelric. The king stood beneath an ancient starwillow, its luminous branches whispering secrets of old—a silent witness to countless evenings spent waiting for Mei-Ling. The delicate scent of lotus and jasmine, heavy and bittersweet, drifted about like spectral memories.
Dropping to one knee behind the troubled monarch, Vjetromor spoke with urgency, "Your Highness."
Aelric remained still, his gaze fixed on the dancing shadows beneath the willow. "What do you want, General? If it's politics, I'm off the clock."
"My king, I have urgent news. About the witch," he pressed.
At those words, Aelric's countenance froze. Slowly, he turned, eyes narrowing as though peering into a past drenched in sorrow. "What about the witch? How do you know about the witch?" he demanded.
"She's in the dungeons. Captive. Barely clinging to life. Aurelia herself confined her there," Vjetromor confessed with a heaviness borne of grim certainty.
Aelric's eyes widened in a mix of disbelief and dread. "You're certain?" he questioned softly.
"I saw her with my own eyes," the general affirmed.
Without further inquiry, Aelric moved with determined resolve. Together, they raced through the ancient, echoing halls toward the forbidden depths of the dungeons.
There, in the midst of the cold, dim chamber, Aurelia was already present—an apparition in flowing robes shimmering like freshly fallen snow. Her presence was calm, calculated; her eyes glittered with hidden ambitions as she stepped gracefully in front of the cell. "Your Majesty," she purred with icy elegance, "there is nothing to see here—only an intruder, a sorceress betraying our sacred trust."
Unmoved by her words, Aelric brushed past her and saw Mei-Ling for himself, layed chained to the frost-kissed wall, her pallid form almost merging with the icy backdrop. With a cry that resonated through the dungeon's stone corridors, he commanded, "Unchain her. Now!"
At once, the guards scrambled into action, their clattering chains echoing through the silence as they tumbled to the floor. Aelric sank to his knees beside her, his hands trembling as they hovered above her fragile form. Before she could surrender to collapse, he caught her, cradling her as if she were the most delicate treasure in the realm.
Her head drooped, her eyes closed in eternal sleep, and her cracked lips parted ever so slightly, conveying a stillness that defied the tumult of the moment. "Mei-Ling," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the pounding of his heart, "please... wake up."
But there was no response.
Aurelia's tone grew sharp, laden with accusation. "She is a danger to the realm. She bewitched you. She—"
Aelric rose slowly, still holding Mei-Ling tenderly. His voice turned icily authoritative as he addressed the enchantress, "You will pack your things and leave this palace tonight. Alternatively, I will imprison you in this cell and throw away the key."
Aurelia's eyes narrowed, a delicate frost crystallizing on her fingertips as her lips curled into a warning. "You're making a mistake. You will regret this."
"Go. Now," Aelric commanded without hesitation.
Within the span of an hour, Aurelia had disappeared, yet her parting words clung to the air like a promise of impending retribution: "I will return—with fire and rebellion."