Chapter 4 The Quiet Rebellion of Elyndor

In time, Azeal worked in her garden, fetched herbs, and learned the language of the Elyndori dialect. He spoke little. But he watched much.

And from the broken whispers of her patients and travelers, he learned something else.

Elyndor had no king.

But it had enemies.

Enemies from the east. Raiders from the north. Lords who taxed the starving. Children who bled for scraps.

Injustice clung to this land like rot to bark.

And for the first time since fleeing the palace, Azeal felt the weight of purpose gather behind his silence.

This land would not crown him.

But perhaps, just perhaps, it would need him.

And perhaps-he needed to be needed.

Mairell had watched him with careful curiosity. She never asked where he came from, never pushed. Perhaps she too had secrets of her own. Elyndor had many such faces: those who had fled, those who had been forgotten, and those who chose to forget.

Still, she saw the fire in his eyes-the kind not easily hidden. Azeal's silence held thunder.

He trained in the forests at dawn when the mist still curled like ghost-breath between the trees. He had found a broken blade in a trader's scrap heap and sharpened it until it gleamed with memory. Mairell saw him slash the air with it when he thought no one was watching. But she watched.

"You fight like a man trying to erase himself," she once said.

He didn't answer. Not with words.

But with time, the healer began to trust him with more than chores. She brought him to the sickbeds of the dying, asked his opinion on herbs, and let him listen to the cries of the brokenhearted. Through their agony, Azeal heard echoes of Westonia-of its loss, its betrayal, and its cruel throne.

He did not know when it started, but the people began to nod at him when he passed. Mothers gave him thanks. Children ran to him for stories. The land had no king, but in quiet hearts, it had begun to notice the stranger with the solemn eyes.

Then came the fire.

It started in the eastern ridge where the Drymark raiders had struck again. An entire farming outpost was burned, livestock stolen, families slain. Elyndor's council-what little remained of it-argued for days. No army. No unity. No plan.

Azeal stood in silence at the back of the room, watching them bicker while smoke still curled from the horizon.

"You speak of taxes and policies," he said finally, "while the bodies of your children still smolder."

They turned on him, this foreigner.

"What would you have us do?" spat one of the councilmen. "You? A nameless wanderer?"

"My name is mine to give when I choose," Azeal replied coldly. "But I have buried my kin. I know the weight of fire and death. And I will not stand idle while your people scream."

Then he left.

That night, he rode out with nothing but the sword he had shaped and a cloak of ash-stained wool.

Mairell wept as she watched him disappear beyond the border trail.

Two days later, he returned.

Not alone.

Behind him were freed villagers-those taken by the raiders. Bloodied, battered, but alive. The crowd gathered in disbelief as mothers screamed the names of their lost children and collapsed into grateful tears.

And at the edge of the market square, as if conjured by fate itself, came the thundering hooves of royal horses.

They bore a banner of black and silver-the sigil of House Zarethian.

And atop the lead horse rode a woman of striking posture. Her hair was the sheen of midnight steel, braided back in a crown of thorns. Her eyes, bright as sapphire, surveyed the chaos below like a hawk weighing its prey.

Princess Veressa. The younger sister of King Zazeal.

Her arrival in Elyndor was no accident. Her gaze found Azeal at once-bloodied, proud, and unyielding.

And she smiled.

"Who is this man?" she asked aloud, loud enough for all to hear .

Mairell stepped forward, uncertain.

"A... traveler. A friend of Elyndor."

Veressa dismounted slowly. Her boots struck the stone like a drum of destiny.

"Friend, is he?" she said, sauntering to Azeal. Her voice was silk wrapped in blades.

She circled him, eyes never leaving his.

"You," she said with a whisper that curled like smoke, "look like you've seen war."

"I have," he said evenly.

"And fled it?"

He didn't answer.

She smiled wider. "Good. Then you know what makes a man dangerous."

She stepped closer, eyes locked to his lips.

"Tell me, stranger... Do you kneel to any crown?"

Azeal's voice was iron.

"No."

"Good," she purred. "Neither do I."

And with that, she turned to her guards. "Prepare him a room in the citadel. Feed him. Clothe him."

"Why?" one asked.

She glanced back at Azeal, a glint of mischief in her eye.

"Because he's mine now."

The square erupted in murmurs.

And Azeal stood still-one hand on his sword, the other tightening at his side.

The storm had found him again.

But this time... it wore perfume.