The Fractured Crown
The war council was a storm of voices, each louder and more desperate than the last. Valencia sat at the head of the table, her fingers drumming against the map of the borderlands. Xyrus stood at her side, his presence a steady anchor in the chaos.
"Lysandra's forces are massing at the Silvercross Pass," a Feron general said, his voice tight with tension. "If they break through, they'll cut us off from Pherr entirely."
"And Nyssa?" Valencia asked, her gaze flicking to the crow-feather banner hanging on the wall.
"She's fortified Pherr's borders," a scout reported. "But her people are restless. They whisper of your return."
Valencia's jaw tightened. "Then we give them something to shout about."
---
The plan was simple: strike Lysandra's forces at the pass, then march on Pherr to reclaim Valencia's throne. But simplicity didn't mean ease. The bond's absence left them vulnerable, their movements slower, their instincts dulled.
As they prepared to ride out, Xyrus caught Valencia's arm. "You don't have to do this alone."
She looked at him, her eyes shadowed. "I'm not. I have you."
His grip tightened. "And if that's not enough?"
"Then we'll make it enough."
---
The battle at Silvercross Pass was a maelstrom of steel and venom. Lysandra's serpent-mounted cavalry charged, their scaled armor glinting in the pale sunlight. Valencia fought at the front, her dagger flashing as she carved through the enemy ranks. Xyrus was a shadow at her side, his sword a blur of silver.
But the real weapon was the land itself.
As the battle raged, Valencia pressed her bloodied palm to the earth, calling on the remnants of the vines. They responded sluggishly, their roots twitching as they dragged Lysandra's soldiers into the soil.
"It's working," Xyrus said, his voice strained.
"For now," Valencia replied, her vision blurring as the vines drained her strength.
---
In the chaos, a figure emerged from the enemy lines—Nyssa, her crow-feather cloak billowing in the wind. She raised a hand, and the fighting stilled.
"Valencia," she called, her voice carrying across the battlefield. "You've lost. Surrender, and I'll spare your people."
Valencia stepped forward, her dagger raised. "You don't speak for Pherr."
Nyssa smiled, cold and cruel. "And you don't rule it. Not anymore."
Before Valencia could respond, the ground beneath her feet *shifted*. The vines surged, not to attack, but to *protect*—their roots forming a barrier between her and Nyssa.
"What…?" Valencia whispered, her hand trembling as she touched the vines.
Nyssa's smile widened. "You're not the only one who can wield them."
---
The revelation struck like a dagger to the heart. Nyssa had taken the vines' power for herself, twisting it into a weapon. Valencia's vision blurred as the roots coiled around her, their thorns biting into her skin.
Xyrus fought his way to her side, his sword cutting through the vines. "We need to go. *Now.*"
But Valencia hesitated, her gaze locked on Nyssa. "She's using them. She's—"
"And we'll stop her," Xyrus said, pulling her to her feet. "But not here. Not like this."
---
They retreated to the border, their forces battered but intact. Valencia collapsed in the war tent, her hands shaking as she stared at the map.
"She's corrupted them," she said, her voice hollow. "The vines… they're hers now."
Xyrus knelt beside her, his hand warm on her shoulder. "Then we find another way."
"There *is* no other way," she snapped, her frustration boiling over. "The vines were our last hope. Without them—"
"We still have each other," he said, his voice steady. "And that's enough."
---
That night, Valencia dreamed of Liora.
The first queen of Pherr stood in a field of ash, her face gaunt and her eyes hollow. "The crown is a root," she said, her voice echoing with the weight of centuries. "But roots can be severed."
Valencia woke with a start, her heart pounding. The answer was clear, but the cost was unbearable.
---