Chapter 8: The Stillness That Follows

Two days had passed before Raye finally opened his eyes.

It hadn’t been the injury alone that had kept him downs—his wounds were not fatal—but rather the immense mana depletion and the unfamiliar strain he’d forced on his own body. His spirit had burned too bright, too fast, and his vessel hadn’t known how to contain it.

The room was still.

A soft breeze filtered through slightly parted curtains, letting golden sunlight pour into the elegantly adorned chamber. The beams of light danced gently across polished wooden floors and fine white stone walls, reflecting off the delicate gold trimming of the furniture. It was a room of comfort and quiet grace—far removed from a battlefield.

Raye's eyelids fluttered open, the sudden brightness searing after two days of darkness. His vision blurred at first, but slowly, shapes formed. A ceiling. A wall. Light on marble.

Then his mind caught up to his eyes—and the first thing that came to him wasn’t where he was.

It was that moment.

That strike.

The one that sent Vaerond flying.

He had seen it. Just before his body gave in.

Who was that…?

Before he could dwell further, a gentle voice pulled him from his thoughts.

“Oh, you’re finally awake, Prince,” came a soft, almost relieved tone.

He turned his head sluggishly toward the sound.

A young maid stood by the side of his bed, setting aside a bowl of water and some folded cloth. She smiled politely, bowing her head slightly.

“You gave us quite a scare,” she added warmly. “We didn’t expect you to sleep that long.”

Raye pushed himself up slowly, groaning faintly as his muscles complained. He scanned the room with tired eyes—unfamiliar, but not hostile. It was quiet… safe.

The maid glanced over her shoulder, speaking to someone just outside the door.

Her companion, another maid just beyond the doorway, gave a silent nod and disappeared down the hallway.

The soft shuffle of footsteps faded as the second maid left to deliver the news.

Raye exhaled slowly and leaned back against the headboard, letting the quiet settle around him. The sunlight felt warm on his skin—soothing, even. A strange contrast to the blistering fire that still stirred faintly in his chest.

His mind tried to reach back again—toward the battle, the last strike, the blinding storm... and that figure. The one who had appeared from the storm, cloaked in an aura not unlike Vaerond’s. That raw, immense power—it wasn’t something you could forget.

And more than anything, Raye remembered Vaerond being sent flying.

No one had ever done that.

Not like that.

He looked down at his hands—bandaged and pale, yet steady. He clenched them once.

"Not strong enough yet..."

The maid beside him quietly adjusted a nearby pitcher of water and noticed him observing her.

"You’ve been through quite a lot," she said gently. "But you’re safe now. This place... it’s far from the battlefield."

Raye didn’t respond immediately. His thoughts were still wrapped in fire, snow, and shadow.

“How long?” he finally asked, voice rough and low.

“Two days,” the maid replied. “You’ve been resting here since the moment His Majesty brought you in.”

Raye’s brows furrowed slightly. His Majesty? Then is he the one who saved us?

Before he could ask anything more, a soft knock echoed from the door.

The maid stood straighter.

“That would be him now.”

The door opened with a quiet creak.

Boots stepped in first—well-made, travel-worn. Then a figure followed, tall and composed, dressed in dark, clean-cut royal attire that wasn’t flamboyant, but commanded attention. His steps were unhurried. Intentional.

Even though Raye had never seen him before, something about his presence immediately stilled the air. It wasn’t pressure. It wasn’t fear. It was something else.

A quiet assurance.

Safety.

“It is good to see you alive,” the man said, stepping fully into the light, “Prince of Flame.”

His voice was low, but it carried a natural authority. One that didn’t need to be forced.

Raye blinked, sitting up slightly. “I… You’re the one who saved us.”

The man gave a short nod. “Only just in time. How are you feeling?”

“Tired,” Raye admitted. “But… I’m okay.”

“I’m glad.”

There was a pause before the man continued, his voice softening just a little.

“I should’ve introduced myself sooner.”

He stepped forward, hands loosely at his sides—not armoured, not armed, but still carrying a weight that made the room feel smaller.

“I am Caelan V. Eirwyn, King of Aeldenmarch. A kingdom long veiled in the mist of forgotten maps—though clearly not forgotten enough.”

His eyes locked with Raye’s, calm and watchful. He carried the bearing of someone used to battlefields and diplomacy alike. Young, perhaps, but tempered.

Raye immediately moved to get up. “Your Majesty—”

But Caelan raised a hand. “You’ve barely recovered. You don’t need to—”

“I insist,” Raye cut in, gritting through the soreness as he swung his legs over the bed and stood. A bit shaky, but he held.

He gave a formal bow, one hand over his chest. “I owe you my life. You have my respect… and my thanks.”

Caelan looked at him for a moment, then let out a faint breath of a smile. “Well, I’ll take that.”

The room lightened just a bit with the ease of his tone.

Caelan chuckled softly as he settled into the chair the maids had just placed behind him. A low table followed, delicate porcelain cups clinking gently as tea was poured without a word. The maids, sensing the air between the two men, offered a small bow before retreating quietly and leaving them alone.

Silence lingered a moment, filled only by the soft sounds of tea being served.

Raye finally broke it, his voice quiet but steady.

“…The girl. Aurette. Is she alive?”

Caelan glanced at him, studying his face.

“She is. Her wounds were deep, but we had healers strong enough to stabilize her.” He paused, then added, “She’s yet to wake up. But it’s just a matter of time now.”

Raye gave a slow nod. “Good. Would be a waste for a warrior like her to fall like that.”

Caelan raised a brow. “A waste?”

“She held her ground,” Raye said, not looking up. “Fought even when the outcome was clear. I respect that. Nothing more.”

Caelan gave a knowing smile but said nothing. The fire prince’s pride still burned hot—unbothered by sentiment.

“The storm,” Raye continued, tone shifting slightly. “It wasn’t natural, was it?”

“No,” Caelan said, setting down his cup. “It still hasn’t passed. Even now, two days later, it blankets the land where the Ice Kingdom stood. That storm let us get in and out—unseen.”

“So they’re still alive?”

“Most likely,” Caelan replied. “Hidden in mountain paths, old ice caverns. Their people are stubborn. They know how to vanish.”

Raye’s lips thinned into a line. “I don’t care about their survival. But I want to know if the battlefield is still active. If Vaerond’s army is still moving.”

Caelan’s eyes sharpened at that. “They are. And he has new allies.”

“Figures.”

“The Skarnveil Tribe of the North, and the Drelhun of the South. Nomadic warriors, both. Ancient bloodlines, and now—Vaerond’s hounds.”

Raye scoffed. “So even the old world crawls to his feet.”

Caelan didn’t smile. “They’ve aligned willingly, from what we’ve seen. Whether it’s belief or fear, it’s hard to say.”

“What about Vaerond himself?” Raye asked, eyes flickering. “Is he still near the battlefield?”

“No,” Caelan said. “He pulled back. Our scouts tracked movement heading east—toward Caer Serenna.”

Raye’s eyes narrowed. “Wait… does that mean—”

Caelan nodded solemnly. “The largest and most resource-rich kingdom in the land. And now, openly supporting the Empire of Solmira.”

“So they’ve declared it, then,” Raye muttered. “This isn’t skirmishes anymore. This is war.”