The wind howled through the trees like a dying beast, scattering snowflakes across the bloodstained forest. Beneath the twisting branches of the ancient Darkgrove, six Veytharyn soldiers pressed through the snow, their breaths steaming in the frigid air. Each man bore blood on his blade, some their own, most not. They formed a tight circle around a woman—her face pale, her cloak soaked, her hand resting protectively on a swollen belly just beginning to show.
Elyria Veytharyn was four months pregnant. Her breath came in short, exhausted bursts, but her eyes held the iron will of someone who had stared down both emperors and monsters. Still, she stumbled now and then. Snow clung to her robes, mixing with dirt and dried blood.
Behind them, far too close, came the sound of pursuit.
Soldiers from House Drakharon.
Their armor bore the sigil of the twin serpents, and their cruelty was as famous as their blades. Once allies of the Empire, they had led the surprise assault against Blackthorn, the proud clan of her husband, Garrick Veytharyn. Now they hunted the last remnant of that bloodline with fanatical resolve.
"Go!" shouted Captain Thomas, one of the Veytharyn soldiers, his face grim and jaw clenched. He turned to the two youngest of the group. "Knox, Ryker, Jace, Dax—take Lady Elyria and don't stop until you reach safety."
"Captain," Dax protested, stepping forward. "We can hold them all if—"
"No!" Thomas snapped. "Protect her. That's our only order now. She's the last hope of the Veytharyn name."
Thomas and his closest friend Marcus turned on their heels, blades already drawn, and disappeared into the snow-draped trees. Within minutes, the clash of steel erupted behind them, followed by the guttural screams of dying men. Elyria flinched but didn't look back.
"Keep moving," Knox whispered.
They did.
---
The journey through the Darkgrove took three days. Snow and exhaustion slowed them, but they pressed on, hunting wild game to survive and stopping only when Elyria's legs refused to carry her.
She slept little. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the flames engulfing Blackthorn Hall, heard the war horns of the Empire, and felt Garrick's hand as he shoved her onto the escape route before turning back to face the Royal Commander.
By the time they stumbled into a nameless village nestled between the forested cliffs, Elyria could barely stand. Her vision blurred. Her hands trembled. Her body fought against the cold and the child growing inside her.
Villagers stopped what they were doing as the group entered. A woman hanging laundry stared at them, eyes wide with suspicion and fear. Children peeked from behind doors. The sight of four bloodstained soldiers supporting a pale, obviously pregnant woman didn't exactly inspire trust.
A stout woman in her forties, dressed in patched wool and carrying a basket of dried herbs, approached cautiously. Her voice was gentle, but wary.
"Who are you? What happened to her?"
Knox stepped forward, one hand on his sword. "Stay back."
The woman raised both palms. "Easy, soldier. Name's Tilda Moss. I live here. I don't mean trouble. That woman needs help, and I've got healing hands."
Ryker looked at Elyria, then back at Tilda. Finally, he stepped aside.
"She says her name is Lisa," Ryker said cautiously, picking up on the lie Elyria had prepared during their march. "We were attacked by bandits on the road."
"Bandits," Tilda repeated, her eyes narrowing slightly, but she nodded. "Well, bandits or not, she's not going to survive another night in this cold."
Elyria—now Lisa—tried to speak, to offer thanks, but her knees buckled. Tilda caught her with surprising strength and gestured for the soldiers to help carry her.
---
Tilda's home was modest but warm. A fire roared in the hearth, filling the space with the scent of dried pine and smoked meat. Blankets were piled high on a straw mattress where Elyria lay. She drifted in and out of sleep, her dreams filled with Garrick's stern face and the roar of collapsing towers.
The next day, Elyria woke to the low murmur of voices and the faint light of dawn.
"Ryker, Jace, Dax, Knox," she said weakly.
The four men entered at once.
"From now on," Elyria said, her voice stronger than expected, "my name is Lisa. We are from a far village. The Blackthorn clan is dead. We are farmers. Hunters. Nothing more."
The men exchanged glances but nodded.
"We understand, my lady—Lisa," Ryker corrected quickly.
Elyria rose later that morning and found Tilda in the herb garden behind the cottage. The snow had melted in spots, revealing tough winter roots and sprigs of frostleaf.
"I owe you my life," Elyria said.
"You owe me nothing," Tilda replied. "But if you're staying, I could use help gathering herbs. And maybe your... friends can chop some firewood, help tend the fields. This land isn't easy."
Elyria hesitated. "My friends?"
Tilda gave her a sideways look. "You look at them like soldiers. But they follow you like kin. Seems like friendship, if not more."
Elyria smiled softly. "Yes. Friends. Their names are Ryker, Jace, Dax, and Knox."
Over the next five months, they settled into the rhythms of village life. Ryker built fences. Jace hunted elk and taught the local boys how to track quietly. Knox helped repair rooftops, while Dax charmed the baker's daughter and sang old Blackthorn songs in secret.
Elyria—Lisa—picked herbs with Tilda, cooked meals, and shared stories under candlelight, careful never to speak of war. Each night, she whispered lullabies to the child inside her, prayers wrapped in sorrow and hope.
The villagers came to trust them. A new well was dug. The winter ended early. Spring brought new crops, and with them, smiles.
Then one cold, stormy night, Lisa's labor began.
The pain came in waves, stronger than any battle wound. Tilda stayed by her side, hands steady, voice calm. The four men paced outside, blades sharpened—useless here.
At dawn, the cries of a newborn pierced the air.
Elyria held him close, tears streaming down her cheeks.
"Kaelric," she whispered. "Kaelric Veytharyn."
The boy opened his eyes.
And in them, she saw Garrick's fire. Her fire. A legacy forged in flame and blood—and now hidden in silence.
The world thought the Veytharyn line broken.
But in a nameless village deep in the forest, a mother held a future that would burn empires to ash.