One year.
One year of endless war.
One year of fire, steel, and shattered kingdoms.
One year since Aren's death.
The world had changed.
But Selara had changed more.
Whispers of her name now travelled faster than armies.
Across taverns.
Across royal courts.
Across trembling enemy camps.
They no longer called her commander.
No longer called her knight.
They called her—
The Bloody lioness of the south.
A name born from terror.
Forged in devastation.
Carried by survivors who spoke of her with shaking voices.
"They say she walks through battlefields untouched…"
"They say arrows avoid her…"
"They say death itself marches behind her…"
Kingdoms feared her.
Generals dreaded her.
Enemies prayed never to see her banner rise on the horizon.
Because wherever Selara appeared—
Defeat followed.
Her invasions were relentless.
Merciless.
Precise.
Cities fell like collapsing stars.
Enemy forces shattered like fragile glass.
Entire battalions surrendered at the mere rumor of her approach.
Yet—
Victory brought her no warmth.
Selara stood atop a ruined fortress wall, wind tearing violently at her dark cloak. Below her, soldiers celebrated another crushing triumph.
But her eyes…
Her eyes held nothing.
Because grief had not faded.
It had simply become silent.
Permanent.
Unmovable.
A soldier approached cautiously.
Kneeling.
"My Lady… another letter."
Selara's gaze did not shift.
Did not soften.
"…From the Queen."
Silence.
Heavy.
Unbroken.
The soldier hesitated.
"…Shall I discard it?"
A pause.
Barely noticeable.
"…Leave."
The soldier obeyed instantly.
Letter trembling faintly in his hands.
Because everyone knew.
Everyone understood.
Everyone feared the invisible wound Selara carried.
Back in the kingdom—
Life struggled forward beneath golden ceilings and fragile smiles.
Ophelia sat near the grand window of her chambers, sunlight spilling softly across her pale gown. One delicate hand rested upon the gentle curve of her stomach.
Hope.
Fragile.
Radiant.
"She will be beautiful, Your Majesty," her maid whispered warmly.
Ophelia smiled softly.
But sadness lingered behind it.
Always.
Unavoidable.
"…I wish Selara were here."
Letters lay scattered across her desk.
Carefully written.
Carefully sealed.
Carefully unanswered.
Battle after battle.
Month after month.
Silence.
"She must be busy with the war…" Ophelia murmured quietly.
More to herself than anyone else.
As though repeating it enough times might make it true.
Another letter sat unfinished before her.
Ink still fresh.
Words trembling slightly across parchment.
My dearest Selara,
The palace has felt emptier without you.
I carry joyful news I long to share with my sister.
I am with child again… a daughter.
Her fingers tightened faintly.
Emotion swelling painfully within her chest.
I pray this letter finds you safe.
I pray war has not hardened your heart beyond my reach.
I pray my sister still remembers me.
A tear fell silently onto parchment.
Blurring ink.
Because distance is crueler than war.
Merideth watched quietly from nearby.
Expression soft.
Gentle.
Perfect.
"How painful it must be…"
Her voice laced with tender sympathy.
"To love someone who no longer answers."
Ophelia's smile trembled.
"…Selara has endured too much sorrow."
Merideth's gaze flickered briefly.
Cold.
Unreadable.
"Yes…"
A whisper.
Barely audible.
"…she truly has."
Far away—
Beyond letters.
Beyond longing.
Beyond warmth—
Selara rode toward yet another battlefield.
Banner rising behind her like an omen of catastrophe.
The Bloody lioness of the south.
Feared by nations.
Worshipped by soldiers.
Haunted by ghosts no victory could silence.
And somewhere between kingdoms and war…
Between love and vengeance…
Between past and destiny…
A fragile thread still bound two sisters together.
One writing.
One silent.
Both unaware—
That fate was preparing its next cruelty.