The heavy silence of the hall was broken by the hurried sound of footsteps echoing through the cold stone corridors. The door burst open, and Seraphine entered, her breath uneven, eyes wide with urgency.

  Cedric stood up abruptly, his heart already tightening with apprehension.

  “What happened?” His voice was harsh, but there was a trace of fear in it—something rare for a man like him.

  Thorne, still seated, didn’t move a muscle. He merely observed the scene, as if his body no longer had the strength to react to anything. His dark, exhausted eyes fixed on Seraphine with the indifference of someone who had long expected bad news.

  But Seraphine said nothing. Instead, she raised a letter, her hands trembling. The royal seal of Lysanthor shimmered under the flickering candlelight.

  For a moment, the world seemed to empty around them.

  Thorne was the first to grasp what it meant. His expression darkened even further, his mind already racing ahead of the others. Fianna. She had certainly told them what had happened here.

  “Open it.” His voice was low, but firm.

  Cedric hesitated. He knew nothing good could be written there, but he took the letter from Seraphine’s hands. Tearing the seal, he unrolled the parchment with tense fingers.

  The candle flames wavered, casting long shadows on the stone walls. The air inside the room felt heavier.

  Thorne leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes for a moment before speaking.

  “Read it aloud. Whether it’s good or bad, it no longer matters.”

  Cedric swallowed hard and began:

  "My efforts to restore Volcrist to its former glory as a strong and loyal ally have been continuously challenged. I went so far as to send my own daughter, the heir to Lysanthor, to the domain of Volcrist in the hope of strengthening our ties. But you failed even in the simplest of tasks: protecting her. If you could not do so before, you certainly cannot now. From this day forward, Lysanthor will sever all alliances with Volcrist for what you have put my daughter and heir through."

  The silence that followed was deafening.

  Seraphine closed her eyes, as if trying to shield herself from the impact of those words. Cedric lowered the letter slowly, his fingers tightening around the parchment, but his face showed no anger. Only a deep, almost defeated weariness.

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  Thorne, on the other hand, let out a long sigh. His eyes met Cedric’s, but there was no shock in them. Only the confirmation of an inevitable fate.

  “It was only a matter of time.” His voice was barely a whisper. “Fianna would never forgive us… and Reynard would never tolerate such an affront.”

  Cedric ran a hand down his face, his shoulders slumping. Losing Lysanthor was not just a political issue—it was a fatal blow. Without that alliance, Volcrist was even more vulnerable. The other dominions would surely see this weakness. And in the world they lived in, weakness was no different from signing one’s own death sentence.

  He looked at Seraphine, but she only lowered her head. There was nothing left to say.

  Volcrist’s fate was sealed.

  Thorne rose slowly, his muscles stiff from the accumulated tension of the past days. He said nothing—there was nothing left to be said. He simply left, leaving Cedric and Seraphine alone with the crushing weight of that letter on their consciences.

  The castle of Volcrist was drowned in a silent gloom. Torches lining the corridors cast flickering shadows across the cold stone walls, making everything seem even darker. The scent of smoke and iron still lingered in the air—a reminder of the chaos that had consumed the fortress and its neighboring cities.

  Heavy footsteps echoed against the marble floor as Thorne made his way to the room where Aemon lay. His body moved on its own, as if guided by an unseen force. He didn’t know exactly why he was going there—only that he needed to.

  When he entered the chamber, the sight of Volcrist’s prince hit him like a punch to the gut.

  Aemon lay still, unmoving. The pale sheets covered his lean body, marred with wounds that had yet to fully heal. His chest rose and fell slowly, as if every breath were a battle. The deep shadows under his eyes and his pale skin made him look more like a corpse than a warrior.

  Thorne shut the door behind him and took a few hesitant steps toward the bedside. A weary old man collapsed there.

  His knees bent, and he sank heavily into a chair beside Aemon. For a long moment, he simply stared at the young man, as if trying to see into his very soul.

  Then, he began to speak.

  “You know, kid… this isn’t fair.”

  His voice was rough, tired.

  “We’re out here, fighting, trying to keep this damned place standing, while you sleep.”

  He let out a short, bitter laugh.

  “The realms are waiting for an answer. Lysanthor abandoned us. The people demand a leader. And we’re holding it all together, not knowing when—or if—you’ll wake up.”

  Thorne ran a hand over his face, feeling the roughness of his unshaven beard.

  He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

  “I always thought you were strong, Aemon. Stronger than anyone. But now I wonder… are you really?”

  The suffocating silence of the room pressed down on him. Only the faint sound of Aemon’s shallow breathing filled the space.

  Thorne closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the weight of exhaustion. Then, he stood up, adjusted the blanket over the prince’s body, and sighed.

  “I hope you wake up soon, kid. Because I don’t know how much longer we can hold all of this without you.”

  With that, he turned and left, leaving behind only his frustration—and a hope that was beginning to fade.