The days that followed were marked by an unusual stillness. The kingdom had shifted its focus away from the immediate threat, the war battles becoming fewer, but far more intense. Xypheron and Vexaria had found themselves facing something new—a kind of equilibrium. It was a delicate thing, this balance between them, neither fully understanding it nor fully surrendering to it.
Vexaria still moved through the halls like a storm, fierce and untamable, her presence always commanding attention. But there was something different now. A subtle shift in the way she interacted with Xypheron, an unspoken agreement that neither was willing to acknowledge, but both felt.
Their meetings became more frequent, but the words they exchanged were often clipped, brief. There was a growing tension between them, one that had nothing to do with strategy or war. It was the kind of tension that couldn't be easily dismissed.
Tonight, as the moon hung low in the sky, casting a silver glow across the courtyard, Xypheron found himself standing at the same balcony where so many of their conversations had taken place. His eyes traced the distant horizon, the weight of what was to come pressing down on him.
He didn't hear her approach, but he felt her presence before she spoke.
"Still out here, alone?" Vexaria's voice was soft but edged with that same challenge that had always been there. "You're slipping, Prince."
Xypheron turned to face her, the sight of her taking his breath away for a moment. She was standing there in the moonlight, her silhouette sharp against the night, her eyes locked on his with an intensity that mirrored his own.
"I don't need to be alone," he said, his voice low, filled with a quiet edge. "But sometimes, it's the only place I can think clearly."
Vexaria moved toward him, her steps slow, deliberate. "And what