Chapter 17;- The Queen of The Forgotten

The great doors of the throne room groaned open, their weight dragging against the stone floor. Rhaegar staggered inside, his breath ragged, his body trembling under the weight of his wounds. The battle had left him a broken man—blood crusted along the gash in his side, his armor dented and smeared with the lifeblood of countless men. Yet, none of that mattered now. He had returned.

The flickering torches cast jagged shadows across the towering walls of the chamber. He barely noticed the guards exchanging nervous glances as they followed his slow, staggering steps toward the throne. He could feel their unease, the way their eyes lingered on his wounds, on the exhaustion carved into his features. None dared to speak. None dared to approach.

The Black Blade, once a thing of pride, now felt like a curse in his grip. The dark metal pulsed with an eerie energy, humming faintly as if whispering secrets only he could hear. It had drunk deeply from the battlefield, feasting on blood and suffering. It had granted him victory—but at what cost?

With a groan, Rhaegar collapsed into his throne, his muscles screaming in protest. His vision blurred, and for a moment, the chamber around him melted into the battlefield once more. He saw Malrath's sneering face, heard the clash of their swords, felt the burn of the wound that had nearly killed him. He clenched his jaw, pushing the memory aside. There was no time for weakness.

A heavy silence hung in the air. Then, from the shadows, a voice broke through.

"I see you have returned, my king," a woman said, her tone laced with amusement and something else—something unreadable.

Rhaegar's grip on the armrest tightened. He knew that voice.

From the darkness beyond the torches, Seraphina Val'keth stepped into the dim light, her midnight-black gown flowing behind her like a river of ink. The Queen of the Forgotten. The woman he had not seen in years.

Her presence alone sent a chill through the room. She was an enigma, a woman whose existence was wrapped in secrets and shadow. Once, she had been the most powerful sorceress in the kingdom, the one who had taught him the forbidden arts, who had guided his hand toward the abyss. And then she had vanished—gone without a trace when he needed her most.

And now, she stood before him once more, untouched by time, her emerald eyes gleaming with something dangerously close to amusement.

"You look terrible, Rhaegar," she mused, tilting her head. "The mighty king returns home, but he is barely standing. How poetic."

He exhaled sharply. "Why are you here?"

Seraphina took slow, deliberate steps toward him, the soft click of her heels echoing through the chamber. "Would you believe me if I said I missed you?"

"No." His voice was cold, but the exhaustion beneath it made it less of a threat and more of an admission of defeat.

She smiled, the same knowing, infuriating smirk that had always made him uneasy. "Then let's not waste time on pleasantries. I felt the ripples of what you did today. The Black Blade feasted well, didn't it?"

His jaw clenched. "I won."

"You survived," she corrected, coming to a stop at the foot of the throne. "There's a difference."

Rhaegar inhaled deeply, forcing the rising anger back. "Again, why are you here?"

Seraphina's gaze flickered to the wound on his side, the dark stains that marred his once-pristine armor. "You're dying, Rhaegar."

A humorless chuckle escaped him. "That's nothing new."

"But you don't have to be." Her voice was softer now, almost gentle. "You sit on that throne, bleeding out, barely able to keep your head upright. The man I trained would never let himself be reduced to this."

Rhaegar leaned forward, ignoring the sharp pain that tore through his side. "I don't need your pity, Seraphina."

"Oh, but you do need me." Her smirk returned. "You just don't want to admit it."

Silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken words. Rhaegar knew she was right. He was hanging on by a thread, and he wouldn't last much longer without intervention. But trusting her again? It was dangerous. She was dangerous.

Seraphina studied him for a long moment before sighing. "Still as stubborn as ever." She turned, gesturing toward the doorway. "Bring him in."

Rhaegar's brow furrowed, but before he could question her, the doors opened once more. A pair of cloaked figures entered, dragging something between them. No—someone.

As they stepped into the torchlight, Rhaegar's breath hitched.

A man, bound in chains, his face battered and bloodied, slumped between the cloaked figures. His dark hair was matted with dirt and dried blood, his once-noble features twisted in exhaustion and pain. Rhaegar knew that face. He had once trusted it.

Theron Dain.

The traitor. The man who had whispered poison into the ears of his enemies. The man who had turned his back on him when he needed him most.

The rage came swiftly, cutting through the pain and exhaustion like a blade. His fingers curled into fists. "What is this?"

Seraphina's voice was silk and steel. "A gift."

Rhaegar's eyes flicked to her, searching for answers.

Seraphina stepped closer, her hand trailing along the chains that bound Theron. "You want vengeance, don't you? You sit here, broken, bleeding, lost in your own darkness. But vengeance, true vengeance, is about control." She crouched beside Theron, tilting his face up with a single finger. He groaned, barely conscious.

"This man was once your most trusted confidant, was he not?" She glanced at Rhaegar. "And yet, he betrayed you. He stood with your enemies. Plotted against you." Her voice dipped lower, coaxing, tempting. "And now… he's yours."

Rhaegar stared at Theron, his heart pounding. He had imagined this moment a thousand times—dreamt of the day he would have the traitor at his feet, helpless, powerless. And yet, now that the moment was here, something about it felt… wrong.

Seraphina watched him carefully. "Take what is owed to you, Rhaegar."

His hand moved to the Black Blade at his side, its weight familiar, its hunger palpable. He could feel its whispers in his mind, urging him forward. Kill him. End this. Take what is yours.

Theron lifted his head weakly, his bloodied lips parting. "Rhaegar…" His voice was hoarse, barely a whisper. "Don't… let her turn you into something worse."

Rhaegar froze.

The room felt colder suddenly, the air thick with unseen forces pressing in on him. He turned to Seraphina, searching her face for the truth. For the first time, she looked… curious.

"You hesitate," she observed.

Rhaegar exhaled slowly. His grip on the Black Blade loosened.

"I am not your puppet, Seraphina." His voice was quiet, but firm.

Something flickered in her gaze. Amusement? Disappointment? It was impossible to tell.

"Perhaps not," she murmured. "But you will be."

And with that, she rose gracefully, stepping back into the shadows. "Decide what to do with him, my king. But don't take too long. The real war is just beginning."

Then, just as suddenly as she had appeared, she was gone.

Rhaegar stared down at Theron, his heart a storm of conflict. The Black Blade pulsed in his hand.

What was he becoming?

The answer was terrifying.

And he wasn't sure he could stop it.

Rhaegar stared down at Theron, his heart a storm of conflict. The Black Blade pulsed in his hand, its whispers growing louder, urging him forward. The hunger within the blade had become an extension of his own, a dark craving that had only deepened after the battle. He had every reason to cut Theron down, to make an example of him, to spill his blood across the cold stone floor as repayment for the betrayal.

And yet, something held him back.

Theron was barely conscious, his body weak from the wounds he had suffered before being dragged here. Blood caked his once-noble face, bruises darkened his skin, and his breaths came shallow and ragged. His former ally—his former friend—had been reduced to nothing but a prisoner, a shell of the man he once was.

But was that not fitting?

This was the man who had stood with his enemies, who had whispered treachery behind closed doors, who had abandoned him in his darkest hour. Rhaegar had sworn that no betrayal would go unpunished. He had carved that oath into his soul, into his very being.

His fingers tightened around the hilt of the Black Blade, its dark energy curling up his arm like a serpent slithering beneath his skin.

Kill him.

End this.

Take what is yours.

The whispers slithered through his mind like a phantom wind, stroking the embers of his fury, feeding the beast within. The part of him that had clawed its way back from death, the part that had been reborn in darkness, demanded vengeance.

Theron's swollen lips parted, his voice barely more than a whisper. "Don't… let her turn you into something worse."

Rhaegar's grip faltered.

A sharp pain stabbed through his mind, and for a brief moment, the throne room melted away. He was no longer here.

He was back in the past.

He saw himself standing in the war room, surrounded by those he had once called friends—Theron among them. He remembered the way they had spoken in hushed voices, plotting their next move against the growing rebellion. He had trusted them. He had trusted Theron.

And then, he saw the moment everything shattered.

The night of his fall.

The betrayal.

The look in Theron's eyes when he turned his back and walked away as the traitors dragged Rhaegar toward the execution block.

The memory struck like a blade through his chest, the wound fresh and raw despite the passage of time. He sucked in a sharp breath, the weight of it nearly suffocating.

He had suffered. He had bled. He had clawed his way back from the abyss, rising from the ashes like a cursed specter of vengeance. And now, here he was, with his betrayer at his feet, bound in chains.

Everything in him screamed to end it.

But something about Seraphina's words, about the way she had presented Theron to him like a trophy, made him hesitate.

She wanted him to kill Theron.

She wanted him to take the final step into the darkness, to surrender completely to the abyss that had been growing within him.

Rhaegar had never shied away from bloodshed, nor from the power the darkness granted him. He had embraced it when the world had abandoned him. But he would not be her pawn.

Slowly, he exhaled, forcing his grip on the Black Blade to loosen. The whispers in his mind hissed in protest, but he silenced them with sheer force of will.

He would not be controlled—not by Seraphina, not by the cursed whispers, not by vengeance alone.

Instead, he turned his gaze toward the guards standing near the doors. "Take him to the dungeons," he ordered, his voice firm despite the exhaustion weighing down on him.

The guards hesitated for only a second before nodding. They stepped forward, grabbing Theron by the arms and hoisting him upright. The traitor groaned in pain but did not struggle. He merely lifted his head, his tired eyes locking onto Rhaegar's one final time before he was dragged away into the darkness.

Rhaegar remained seated, his body tense, his mind a battlefield of its own. He knew this was not the end. Seraphina would return. She would test him again. She would push him further.

And next time, he might not have the strength to resist.

A low chuckle echoed from the shadows, and he stiffened.

"You surprise me, Rhaegar," Seraphina's voice purred from the darkness beyond the throne. "I was certain you would have taken his head."

He didn't turn to face her. "You underestimate me."

"Perhaps," she mused, her footsteps light as she circled the edges of the chamber. "Or perhaps I know you better than you think. You didn't spare him out of mercy. No… You spared him because you want to break him yourself."

His jaw clenched, but he did not refute her words.

Seraphina laughed softly. "You're playing a dangerous game, my king."

He finally turned his gaze toward her, his golden eyes burning with an intensity that sent a thrill through her. "And so are you."

She tilted her head, a smirk dancing at the edges of her lips. "Oh, Rhaegar, I have been playing this game far longer than you."

Silence stretched between them, a silent war of unspoken challenges and unreadable motives.

Then, just as quickly as she had appeared, Seraphina melted back into the darkness, leaving Rhaegar alone once more.

The room felt colder in her absence.

He exhaled slowly, pressing a hand to his wounded side. He had made his choice tonight, but he knew it was only a temporary victory. The darkness within him was not so easily denied.

And he could not ignore the truth in Seraphina's words.

He had not spared Theron out of mercy.

He had spared him because breaking him would be far more satisfying.

And that, more than anything else, terrified him.

Rhaegar Crowne was no longer the man he once was.

And soon, the world would know it.

Rhaegar's breath came slow and measured as the last echoes of Seraphina's presence faded from the chamber. He felt the weight of the night settling over him, pressing into his bones like the iron shackles of his past. The Black Blade still pulsed in his grip, its whispers growing softer now, retreating into the corners of his mind but never truly leaving.

He had denied it the blood it craved. For now.

The doors of the throne room groaned as they were pulled open once more. A servant stepped in hesitantly, their head bowed.

"My king," the woman said, her voice small in the vastness of the hall. "Your wounds need tending."

Rhaegar's fingers twitched against the Black Blade's hilt, but he forced himself to relax. He had nearly forgotten about his injuries—his body had been running on sheer willpower. Now that the battle was over, exhaustion dragged at him like an anchor.

He pushed himself to his feet, his ribs protesting sharply. The gash along his side burned, the wound still raw from the fight, and his shoulder ached where an enemy blade had torn through his armor. He ignored the pain, stepping forward with a presence that made the servant shrink back.

"Summon the healer to my chambers," he ordered.

The servant bowed quickly before hurrying away.

Rhaegar turned his gaze toward the grand windows lining the throne room. The moon hung low over the darkened landscape, its pale light casting long shadows over the stone floor. The castle was silent save for the distant sounds of the night patrols.

He could feel it in the air—something shifting, something brewing.

This battle was only the beginning.

By the time Rhaegar reached his chambers, the castle's master healer was already waiting for him, standing rigid near the large stone hearth. She was an older woman, her face lined with age and wisdom, her robes marked with the symbols of the ancient healing arts.

"My king," she said, bowing deeply. "You should have come sooner."

"I had more pressing matters," Rhaegar muttered as he lowered himself onto the chair by the fire. The heat licked at his skin, chasing away the cold that had settled in his bones.

The healer said nothing, merely stepping forward with her tools. With practiced hands, she peeled away the damaged layers of his armor, revealing the wounds beneath. The gash along his ribs was deep, crusted with dried blood, and his shoulder bore the imprint of a blade's edge.

"This will hurt," she warned.

Rhaegar didn't flinch as she pressed a damp cloth to his wounds, cleaning away the blood and grime. Pain lanced through him, but he had long learned to endure it. Pain was a constant companion, one he had grown accustomed to.

As she worked, the healer hesitated before speaking again. "My king… There are whispers among the servants. They say the castle grows darker with each passing night."

Rhaegar's golden eyes flicked toward her. "Whispers?"

She did not meet his gaze. "The soldiers speak of unnatural shadows in the corridors. Servants claim to hear voices in the halls when no one is there. Some say the castle itself is changing."

Rhaegar exhaled slowly. He should not have been surprised. The darkness he had embraced had not only altered him—it had begun seeping into the very walls of his kingdom. The Black Blade, the power of the Eclipse Pact… They had come with a price.

"The servants are afraid," the healer continued, carefully stitching the wound at his ribs. "Some are leaving. Others say the Queen of the Forgotten walks these halls."

Rhaegar's fingers curled. "Seraphina."

The healer nodded. "They call her a ghost. A shadow of the past, lingering in the castle she once ruled."

Rhaegar remained silent. He knew better than anyone that Seraphina was no mere ghost. She was very much alive, though she existed in the realm between life and something far worse. She was testing him, watching him, pushing him toward the abyss.

And if he wasn't careful, he would fall.

The healer finished her work, stepping back. "The wounds will heal, but you must rest, my king."

Rhaegar gave a slow nod, dismissing her with a wave of his hand.

When the door shut behind her, he leaned back, his mind still restless.

Seraphina had not shown herself openly tonight, but he knew she was always there. Always watching. Always waiting.

And she was right about one thing.

He had spared Theron not out of mercy, but out of something far more dangerous.

He wanted to see him break.

The wind howled against the castle walls as Rhaegar stood upon the high balcony, his cloak billowing behind him. The view stretched beyond the walls, over the darkened land that had once been his father's kingdom.

The ruins of war still scarred the land. Fields burned and left barren. Villages abandoned or turned to ash. He had taken back what was his, but it had come at a cost.

And it was not yet over.

His enemies were still out there. The ones who had betrayed him, the ones who had plotted his execution, the ones who still sought to destroy him.

Rhaegar would not allow it.

He had clawed his way back from the abyss. He had forged himself anew in the fires of vengeance.

And now, he would reign.

A whisper of movement at the edge of his vision made him stiffen. He turned, his hand instinctively going to his blade.

But it was only a shadow.

Or so it seemed.

Seraphina's voice curled through the air like smoke. "You are troubled, my king."

Rhaegar did not turn. "You are always lurking."

She laughed, a soft, haunting sound. "And you are always searching for something you cannot name."

Her presence shifted, materializing beside him. Her long, dark gown shimmered in the moonlight, and her violet eyes gleamed with amusement. "What will you do with Theron?"

Rhaegar exhaled, his gaze never leaving the horizon. "I will break him."

Seraphina smiled, pleased. "And then?"

He was silent for a long moment. Then, in a voice as cold as the wind, he answered, "Then I will make the world remember why they once feared my name."

Seraphina reached out, brushing a gloved hand over the Black Blade at his side. "You are becoming something magnificent, Rhaegar."

His jaw tightened. "I am becoming what they forced me to be."

She tilted her head, her gaze lingering on him. "Then let them reap what they have sown."

A storm brewed in the distance, lightning flashing through the dark clouds. It was a fitting omen for what was to come.

Rhaegar Crowne was no longer a man seeking vengeance.

He was a king preparing for war.

Rhaegar did not move as the storm rumbled across the sky, rolling clouds swallowing the moon in their endless hunger. His grip on the Black Blade tightened, the weight of it grounding him as the winds howled through the castle walls.

Seraphina did not leave. She never did.

"You think war will ease your torment," she murmured, her voice laced with something unreadable. "That slaughter will bring you peace."

Rhaegar's jaw clenched. "Peace is an illusion."

"And yet," she mused, stepping closer, her presence like silk brushing against his mind. "You still crave it. Even as you deny it."

He turned to her then, his golden eyes burning like embers in the dim light. "I crave only retribution."

Seraphina smiled—a slow, knowing curve of her lips. "Lie to the world if you must, Rhaegar. But do not lie to me."

The Black Blade pulsed at his side, its hunger a quiet hum in his mind, but Rhaegar ignored it. His gaze held hers, searching for an answer in the violet depths of her eyes, but she offered none.

"You want them to suffer," she continued, tilting her head. "But what then? When the last of your enemies has fallen, when their cities lie in ruins, when their blood stains your hands and there is no one left to defy you—what will remain of you?"

Rhaegar did not answer. He did not know the answer.

Seraphina exhaled softly, stepping past him to lean against the cold stone railing of the balcony. She gazed out at the darkened land, her fingers tracing idle patterns along the ancient stone.

"This castle remembers," she murmured. "It remembers what it once was. What it could be again."

Rhaegar's brow furrowed. "And what does that mean?"

She turned her gaze back to him, something unreadable flickering in her eyes. "It means you have a choice."

He scoffed. "A choice?"

Seraphina nodded. "You believe your path is set in stone. That you are bound to darkness, to vengeance, to war. But that is a cage of your own making."

Rhaegar's fists clenched. "And what would you have me do? Forgive them? Forget the blade at my throat, the chains around my wrists, the grave they left me in?"

Her expression did not waver. "No. I would have you decide what you truly desire. Not just what your hatred demands."

Rhaegar turned away, his mind a storm of its own. The castle loomed behind him, its halls filled with the whispers of ghosts, its walls stained with the echoes of the past.

He had spent so long fighting—clawing his way back from death, forging himself into something stronger, something unstoppable. He had embraced the darkness because it was the only thing that had embraced him in return.

But Seraphina's words lingered, sinking into the cracks he refused to acknowledge.

What did he truly desire?

The answer should have been simple.

And yet, it wasn't.

The storm raged on, lightning flashing across the sky, illuminating the ruins of a world he would one day claim as his own.

Seraphina's voice was softer now, almost wistful. "You were not always like this, Rhaegar."

He exhaled sharply. "And yet, here I stand."

She studied him for a long moment before stepping back into the shadows. "Yes," she murmured. "Here you stand."

Then, as quickly as she had appeared, she was gone.

The corridors of the castle were eerily silent as Rhaegar strode through them, his mind restless. The torches lining the walls flickered uneasily, casting long shadows that seemed to shift and writhe at the edges of his vision.

The Queen of the Forgotten.

That was what they called her.

Even after all these years, Seraphina's presence had never truly faded from these halls. The servants whispered of her, the soldiers avoided the places where her shadow lingered.

Rhaegar had dismissed the stories at first. But now, with the castle growing darker, with the Black Blade whispering more insistently, he wondered if the stories held more truth than he had once believed.

As he turned a corner, he found himself in the great hall—once a place of feasts and laughter, now cold and empty, its grandeur tainted by time and war.

His eyes landed on the throne.

His throne.

The seat of power he had bled for, killed for, suffered for.

And yet, even as he stood before it, it did not feel like his own.

The weight of the past pressed against him, suffocating. He could almost hear the echoes of laughter, the murmurs of courtiers, the music of a kingdom that had once thrived under his family's rule.

Now, it was nothing but silence.

A hand brushed against his shoulder, and he tensed, turning sharply.

But there was no one there.

Just the cold.

Just the shadows.

Rhaegar exhaled, dragging a hand down his face. He was exhausted. The battle, the wounds, the constant pull of the Black Blade—it was all beginning to take its toll.

But he could not afford to rest.

Not yet.

Not when there was still so much left to be done.

He turned his gaze back to the throne, his golden eyes narrowing.

The world would remember him.

Not as the broken prince they had cast aside.

Not as the exile they had sought to erase.

But as the king who reclaimed his destiny.

And if the shadows wished to whisper, then let them.

For soon, there would be no one left to defy him.

Rhaegar stood before the throne, the weight of his own destiny pressing down on him like an iron chain. The torches flickered along the walls, their glow barely illuminating the vast, hollow chamber. The silence was suffocating, yet it was not empty. He could feel something—someone—watching him.

The Queen of the Forgotten.

Her presence was not loud. It was not forceful. It was a whisper woven into the fabric of this castle, a shadow that never truly disappeared.

He exhaled slowly, running a gloved hand along the armrest of the throne. The cold seeped into his skin, a reminder that this was not the throne he had once known. The one he had sat upon before his execution had been bathed in gold, the banners of his house draped proudly behind it. This one was different—tainted by time, by war, by the ghosts of those who had once ruled.

"Does it not feel right?"

The voice was soft, yet it echoed through the empty chamber as though the very walls spoke to him.

Rhaegar did not startle. He had known she was near. He had known she would come.

Seraphina stood at the edge of the shadows, her form barely visible in the dim torchlight. She had not aged—she never did. Her violet eyes gleamed like gemstones, her silver hair cascading in waves over her shoulders. She did not belong to this world, and yet she lingered, bound to it by something neither of them could fully name.

Rhaegar let out a slow breath. "It is mine."

Seraphina stepped closer. Her movements were soundless, like mist gliding over the earth. "And yet it does not welcome you."

Rhaegar's jaw tightened. "The throne does not choose its ruler. I do."

Seraphina tilted her head. "Do you?"

He turned sharply, his golden eyes blazing. "What are you implying?"

She did not answer immediately. Instead, she took another step forward, stopping just before the dais. She studied him, her gaze piercing yet unreadable.

"This castle remembers," she murmured, repeating the words she had spoken earlier. "And so do I."

Rhaegar clenched his fists. "Then you should remember that I am not the same man who was once cast from these halls."

A ghost of a smile touched her lips. "No. You are not."

Silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken words.

At last, Seraphina lifted her gaze to the high ceiling, where banners once hung in honor of his ancestors. They were gone now, replaced by the tattered remnants of a kingdom long abandoned.

"I have watched kings rise and fall," she said. "I have seen empires crumble under the weight of their own ambition. And I have seen rulers sit upon this throne, only to be consumed by the very power they sought to wield."

Rhaegar crossed his arms, his patience thinning. "If you are warning me, then do not waste your breath. I know what I am."

Seraphina's gaze dropped back to him, sharp as a blade. "Do you?"

Rhaegar exhaled sharply, turning away from her. The weight of the conversation pressed against his already weary body, his injuries throbbing beneath the armor he had yet to remove. He was tired. Not just physically, but in a way that settled deep in his bones.

Yet, he could not afford to rest.

Not now.

Not when the world still owed him a debt in blood.

Seraphina stepped forward, closing the distance between them. She did not touch him, but her presence alone was enough to stir something in him—something dangerous.

"You are fighting for something," she said. "But I wonder… do you even know what it is anymore?"

Rhaegar's eyes darkened. "Vengeance."

Seraphina's lips pressed into a thin line. "Is that all?"

He turned to her fully now, his expression hard. "What more is there?"

She studied him, her gaze searching. "Once, there was more."

Rhaegar let out a cold chuckle. "Once, I was a fool."

Seraphina did not smile. "And now?"

His voice was steel. "Now, I am a king."

Seraphina sighed softly. She lifted a hand, and for a brief moment, Rhaegar thought she might touch him. But she hesitated, her fingers hovering just inches from his arm before she let them fall back to her side.

"I do not doubt your strength," she murmured. "But strength is not enough to hold a kingdom."

Rhaegar's expression was unreadable. "Then what is?"

Seraphina's gaze softened, just slightly. "Purpose."

A flicker of something crossed his face, but it was gone before it could take root.

"I have purpose," he said firmly.

Seraphina studied him for a long moment before she finally stepped back, retreating into the shadows once more. "I hope, for your sake, that you are right."

Rhaegar did not watch her leave.

He did not need to.

She would always return.

Just as he would always find himself standing in the ruins of what once was, chasing a throne that did not yet feel like his own.

The hours slipped by like grains of sand through an hourglass. The storm outside had quieted, leaving behind only the sound of the wind whispering through the cracks of the castle walls.

Rhaegar had not moved from the great hall.

He sat at the foot of the throne, his head tilted back against the cold stone. His armor weighed heavily on him, his body aching from the battle, but sleep refused to come.

The whispers had grown louder.

Not just from the blade at his side, but from the very walls themselves.

This castle remembers.

It remembers what it once was.

What it could be again.

His fingers curled around the Black Blade's hilt, the familiar hum of power thrumming beneath his grip. He could feel it pulsing, alive, waiting.

A weapon forged in suffering. A blade tempered in vengeance.

It had become an extension of him, a part of his very being.

And yet…

Seraphina's words echoed in his mind, refusing to be silenced.

Do you even know what you are fighting for anymore?

Rhaegar closed his eyes, exhaling slowly.

Did it matter?

Did any of it matter, as long as he won?

The answer should have been simple.

And yet, it wasn't.

A sharp knock echoed through the great hall, shattering the silence.

Rhaegar's eyes snapped open.

The doors creaked as they were pushed open, revealing one of his most trusted commanders. The man hesitated only for a moment before stepping forward, bowing his head.

"My lord," he said. "A message has arrived."

Rhaegar rose to his feet, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten. "From whom?"

The commander hesitated.

Then, he reached into his belt and pulled out a parchment, sealed with an unfamiliar insignia.

Rhaegar took it, his fingers lingering over the wax seal. Something about it felt… wrong.

Slowly, he broke it open and unfolded the letter.

His eyes scanned the words.

And for the first time in a long while—

His blood ran cold.

Rhaegar's hands tightened around the parchment, his knuckles turning white. His golden eyes scanned the letter again, each word sinking into his mind like a dagger.

The message was brief. Too brief.

But the weight it carried was suffocating.

"To the King in the Shadows,

Your past does not forget. Your sins do not sleep.

The Forsaken Lands are stirring, and the one you thought buried still breathes.

Come, if you dare. Come, if you still believe yourself the master of fate.

The throne is not yours yet. The game is far from over.

We will be waiting."

There was no signature.

No sigil.

Just a seal of black wax, marked with an insignia he had not seen in a decade.

A raven with shattered wings.

Rhaegar's breath came slow, controlled, but inside, something twisted. Something dark.

He turned the parchment over, as if expecting something more. But there was nothing. No trace of who had sent it. No hint of whether it was a warning… or a challenge.

A memory surfaced, unbidden.

The scent of blood. The crackle of fire. The sound of a blade piercing flesh.

And a voice, gasping out its last words.

"You will regret this… the dead do not rest."

Rhaegar clenched his jaw.

His commander stood silently before him, awaiting his response.

"Where did this come from?" Rhaegar's voice was low, steady, but beneath it was a storm.

The commander shifted uncomfortably. "A rider arrived at our gates an hour ago. He left it with the guards and vanished into the night before he could be questioned."

"A coward's move." Rhaegar's fingers flexed around the parchment. "No sign of who sent him?"

The commander hesitated. "None, my lord. But the horse he rode bore a mark—a sigil burned into its flank."

Rhaegar's eyes flicked up. "What sigil?"

The man swallowed. "The same as the seal on that letter."

Silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating.

Rhaegar's mind worked quickly, piecing together fragments of the past. The last time he had seen that sigil, he had been standing over a battlefield littered with corpses.

And he had ensured no one walked away alive.

Or so he had thought.

The blade at his hip pulsed, its dark aura flickering like dying embers. It, too, had not forgotten.

A slow exhale left Rhaegar's lips. He turned, his cloak billowing as he strode towards the grand windows overlooking the ruined courtyard below.

Seraphina had been right.

This castle remembered.

And now, so did his enemies.

The commander shifted behind him. "My lord… do you wish to respond?"

Rhaegar did not answer immediately. His gaze was fixed on the horizon, where the last traces of twilight were swallowed by the night.

He did not need to respond.

He would go.

He would see with his own eyes what ghost had dared to crawl from its grave.

And he would remind them why they had feared him in the first place.

The chamber was cold.

The torches had long since burned low, casting flickering shadows along the stone walls.

Rhaegar sat at the long table, the letter before him, untouched. His mind was restless, caught between the past and the present.

He had thought himself above the ghosts of yesterday.

He had been wrong.

A quiet knock echoed through the chamber.

Rhaegar did not move. "Enter."

The door creaked open, and soft footsteps approached.

Seraphina.

She moved with her usual grace, her violet eyes studying him carefully. "You are troubled."

Rhaegar let out a humorless chuckle. "Observant as ever."

She ignored the sarcasm, her gaze drifting to the parchment on the table. "Who sent it?"

"A dead man."

Seraphina raised a brow. "Dead men do not write letters."

"No. But they leave behind legacies." Rhaegar picked up the parchment, tapping it against the wooden surface. "And this one is calling me back."

Seraphina was silent for a long moment. Then, she stepped forward, settling into the chair across from him.

"I assume you are going." It was not a question.

Rhaegar met her gaze. "Of course."

She studied him, searching for something beneath his hardened exterior. "Is it vengeance that drives you, or fear?"

His eyes darkened. "Fear?"

Seraphina tilted her head. "You have conquered empires, razed kingdoms, crushed armies beneath your heel. Yet this letter unsettles you."

Rhaegar exhaled through his nose. "Do not mistake caution for fear."

Seraphina leaned forward, her fingers tracing the edge of the table. "Then tell me—who is it that dares to call you back?"

For a moment, he did not answer. Then, his fingers tightened around the parchment.

"The Forsaken King."

Seraphina's breath hitched.

Impossible.

Rhaegar had killed him. He had burned his city to the ground, shattered his armies, left his corpse to rot in the ruins of his own throne room.

And yet…

The letter remained.

Seraphina's fingers tightened. "If it is truly him… then this is not just a summons. It is a war declaration."

Rhaegar nodded. "And I intend to answer it."

Seraphina's eyes flickered with something unreadable. "You could be walking into a trap."

A smirk tugged at Rhaegar's lips. "Let them try."

Seraphina exhaled, shaking her head. "Reckless as always."

He leaned back in his chair. "And yet, you remain by my side."

Seraphina's lips curled into the ghost of a smile. "Someone has to ensure you do not burn this world down before you claim it."

Rhaegar chuckled, but the weight of the letter still pressed upon him. He could not ignore the feeling in his chest—the slow, creeping sense that this was not just a call to battle.

It was something more.

Something worse.

He pushed to his feet, rolling his shoulders. "We leave at dawn."

Seraphina rose as well, studying him for a long moment before she nodded. "Then I suggest you rest while you can."

He did not argue. But as she left, disappearing into the corridors beyond, Rhaegar remained where he stood, staring down at the letter in his hand.

This was not over.

It had never been over.

And soon, the world would remember why the Forsaken king feared him in the first place.

Got it! I'll continue from the last line, making sure to expand with rich descriptions, internal monologue, and dialogue to meet the full 2,000-word addition. Here's the extended scene:

Rhaegar remained standing long after Seraphina had left. The flickering torchlight cast shadows across the chamber, distorting his reflection in the polished black stone of the table. He dragged a hand down his face, exhaling slowly. The weight of the letter was nothing compared to the weight of memory.

"The Forsaken King."

The name alone stirred something deep within him.

The past never truly died. It merely waited in the dark, biding its time.

A knock echoed through the silent chamber. Rhaegar did not need to look up to know who it was. The footsteps that followed were precise, measured, lacking hesitation.

"You're awake."

The deep voice belonged to Vaelin, his most trusted general.

Rhaegar sighed. "Sleep does not come easily tonight."

Vaelin stepped forward, his broad frame casting a long shadow across the room. "Nor will it in the nights to come, if this letter speaks the truth."

Rhaegar finally turned to face him. "What do you know?"

Vaelin extended a parchment of his own, this one bearing the seal of their spies in the Forsaken Lands.

"It seems the rumors were not without merit," Vaelin said, his voice steady. "Strange activity has been reported near the ruins of Blackreach."

Rhaegar's eyes darkened. Blackreach. The very city where he had put an end to the Forsaken King a decade ago.

"Survivors?" Rhaegar asked.

"More than that," Vaelin said. "A movement. Someone—or something—is rallying forces in the name of the Forsaken King. Old banners have been raised. Symbols we thought buried have resurfaced."

Rhaegar tapped his fingers against the table. "And you believe it is him?"

Vaelin hesitated. "If it is, then death was not enough to silence him."

Rhaegar's jaw clenched. He did not believe in ghosts.

But he believed in vengeance.

"If it is him," Rhaegar said, voice like steel, "then I will finish what I started."

Vaelin studied him, eyes unreadable. "We should prepare the army. If this is a war—"

"No." Rhaegar shook his head. "Not yet. If I march with an army, it will confirm to the world that I see him as a threat. No, I go alone."

Vaelin's brows furrowed. "Alone?"

"Not entirely," Rhaegar amended. "I will take Seraphina and a small unit. I need to see with my own eyes what has risen from the ashes."

Vaelin exhaled sharply. "This is reckless."

A smirk tugged at Rhaegar's lips. "Since when have I been anything else?"

Vaelin let out a quiet chuckle but quickly sobered. "At least allow me to send scouts ahead. If there is an ambush—"

"There will be," Rhaegar interrupted. "But let them come. I have unfinished business with the Forsaken Lands."

The Journey to Blackreach

Dawn had barely broken when Rhaegar and his chosen warriors rode from the castle gates. The wind was cold, carrying the scent of damp earth and distant rain.

Seraphina rode beside him, her hood drawn over her silver hair. "Do you feel it?" she murmured.

Rhaegar did.

Something was wrong.

The land itself felt... awake. As if it had been lying dormant all these years, waiting for his return.

The trees whispered in the breeze, their skeletal branches twisting toward the sky like clawed fingers. The road ahead was eerily silent.

Too silent.

"Stay sharp," Rhaegar muttered.

The warriors flanking them nodded, their hands tightening on their weapons.

They rode for hours, the tension growing thicker with each passing mile. By midday, they reached the outskirts of Blackreach. The ruins loomed ahead—broken towers, crumbling walls, the remnants of a once-great kingdom reduced to nothing but dust and memory.

But something stirred within the ruins.

Movement.

A flicker of shadow against the stone.

Rhaegar pulled his horse to a halt, his golden eyes scanning the darkness.

And then, a voice.

Cold. Familiar.

"You should not have come, Rhaegar."

Rhaegar's blood turned to ice.

From the ruins, figures emerged—clad in black armor, their faces obscured. But it was not them he focused on.

It was the man who stepped forward.

A man he had killed.

A man who should not be standing before him now.

The Forsaken King.

His form was shrouded in darkness, his once-regal armor tarnished but still fearsome. His face was a mask of shadow and bone, his eyes burning with an unnatural glow.

"You..." Rhaegar breathed.

A low chuckle. "Surprised?"

Rhaegar dismounted slowly, his fingers wrapping around the hilt of his sword. "I watched you die."

"And yet, here I stand," the Forsaken King said, spreading his arms. "Did you think death was the end?"

Rhaegar took a step forward. "If not, then allow me to correct that mistake."

The Forsaken King laughed—a hollow, grating sound. "You cannot kill what has already been reborn."

Rhaegar's blade whispered from its sheath. "Then I will teach you what it means to truly die."

The Forsaken King's eyes glowed brighter. "Come, Reaper King. Let us see if you are as powerful as they say."

And then, the battle began.

The Clash of Kings

The first strike came fast—too fast.

Rhaegar barely had time to parry as the Forsaken King's sword came crashing down. The force sent a shockwave through the ground, cracking the very stone beneath them.

Rhaegar twisted, bringing his own blade up in a vicious arc. Sparks flew as steel met steel.

The Forsaken King grinned. "You have not lost your touch."

Rhaegar gritted his teeth. "And you have not learned how to stay dead."

They moved like wraiths, their blades carving through the air, each strike laced with lethal intent.

Around them, their warriors clashed—Seraphina's magic flaring as she cut through the enemy ranks, Vaelin's war cry echoing through the ruins.

But Rhaegar had eyes only for his opponent.

The Forsaken King was stronger than before. Faster. His movements were unnatural, as if he no longer obeyed the laws of mortal flesh.

Rhaegar ducked under a swing, his own blade slicing across his enemy's side—only to find no blood, no wound.

The Forsaken King smirked. "Did you think I would return as I was?"

Rhaegar's grip tightened. "No. But you will fall just the same."

The Forsaken King raised his hand. Dark energy crackled between his fingers. "Let us test that theory."

A blast of shadow erupted toward Rhaegar. He barely had time to react, raising his sword to absorb the impact. The force sent him skidding backward, his boots digging into the cracked stone.

Pain lanced through his ribs.

But he did not fall.

Not yet.

The Forsaken King watched him, amusement flickering in his inhuman eyes. "Still standing?"

Rhaegar spat blood onto the ground. "Disappointed?"

The Forsaken King chuckled. "No. It will make breaking you all the more satisfying."

Rhaegar exhaled sharply, steadying himself. This battle was far from over.

And he would not fall here.

Not now.

Not ever.

Rhaegar's breath came ragged as he steadied himself, his black blade glistening with the Forsaken King's blood. The battlefield around them was a graveyard of shattered steel and broken bodies, the ground soaked with the remnants of war. Above them, the sky churned with a storm, dark clouds swirling as if the heavens themselves bore witness to their hatred.

The Forsaken King sneered, his eyes glowing like molten embers beneath his cracked, blackened crown. He staggered back, one hand clutching his side where Rhaegar's sword had found purchase. His armor, once pristine in its abyssal gleam, was now fractured, blood seeping from the deep cracks along his plated chest. Yet despite his wounds, his voice still carried the weight of defiance, laced with venomous contempt.

"You fight like a mongrel that's tasted its first kill," the Forsaken King spat, his voice guttural and thick with malice. "All fury, no finesse. No matter how much power you steal, you are still nothing but a dethroned wretch playing at sovereignty."

Rhaegar wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, his lips curling into a cruel smirk. "And you are a rotting corpse pretending to be a god," he growled, his voice as sharp as the edge of his blade. "How many centuries have you sat upon your hollow throne, deluding yourself into thinking you still matter? You rule over ruins and shadows, a king of nothing."

The Forsaken King laughed, a broken, rasping sound that sent a chill through the air. He lifted his blackened sword, its jagged edge humming with unholy energy. "And yet, you came crawling to my doorstep, begging for war. Tell me, Rhaegar, did you truly believe you could kill me? That you could erase my existence as if I were some nameless beast?" His expression twisted into something wicked. "You are but another fool with a blade and a grudge, and like the countless others before you, you will fall."

Rhaegar's grip on his sword tightened, his knuckles turning white. "You mistake vengeance for ambition," he said coldly. "I did not come here to erase you—I came to remind you that monsters like you do not reign forever. Even the night must bow to the dawn."

The Forsaken King's eyes burned hotter. "Dawn?" he repeated mockingly. "Do you see the sky, boy? There is no dawn here. Only the eternal dark, the abyss from which I was born and to which I shall return." He took a step forward, his presence a suffocating force. "You have damned yourself by stepping into my domain, and I will ensure you do not leave it alive."

Rhaegar chuckled, though there was no humor in it. "You think I fear damnation?" he asked. "I have walked through hellfire, carved my way through the throats of gods and men alike. Whatever abyss you claim as your own—I have already seen worse." His eyes darkened. "And unlike you, I have crawled back."

The Forsaken King's lips curled into a snarl. "Then let us see how long you last."

With a roar that shook the ruined battlefield, the Forsaken King lunged, his sword descending like a black star crashing from the heavens. Rhaegar met him head-on, their blades clashing with a force that sent shockwaves rippling through the ground.

Sparks erupted from the impact, the air humming with the raw, unfiltered power of their hatred. They moved like phantoms through the battlefield, steel singing as they exchanged blows with merciless precision. Each strike carried the weight of centuries of bloodshed, each parry a silent promise of destruction.

The Forsaken King swung low, his blade carving through the air like a viper. Rhaegar barely dodged, twisting his body as the cursed steel grazed his side, drawing a line of crimson across his ribs. Pain flared through him, but he did not falter—he had endured worse.

"You bleed so easily," the Forsaken King taunted. "How pitiful."

Rhaegar smirked through the pain. "And you talk too much for a dead man."

He retaliated with a vicious upward slash, his blade catching the Forsaken King's shoulder and cutting deep. The ancient tyrant hissed, his black blood dripping onto the desecrated earth, but his grip on his weapon remained unyielding.

"You think this is pain?" the Forsaken King spat. "I have endured torment beyond your comprehension. I have suffered, I have burned, I have been torn asunder and remade in the void's image. Your pathetic scratches are nothing."

"Then let's see how much 'nothing' you can withstand," Rhaegar growled.

With a sudden burst of speed, he surged forward, feinting left before twisting his blade and striking true. His sword plunged deep into the Forsaken King's side, piercing through layers of cursed armor and flesh. The tyrant let out a guttural snarl, his body shuddering as the cursed steel of Rhaegar's blade devoured his strength.

For a moment, silence reigned.

Then, the Forsaken King's lips curled into a bloodstained grin.

"You think this is victory?" he rasped, his voice barely above a whisper. "You truly are a fool."

Rhaegar felt it before he saw it. A surge of abyssal energy erupted from the Forsaken King's body, tendrils of darkness lashing out like starving serpents. The force of it sent Rhaegar flying, his body crashing against the rubble of a fallen tower. He barely had time to recover before he felt something cold wrap around his throat.

The Forsaken King stood before him, wounded but grinning like a demon, his hand clenched around Rhaegar's neck.

"You are strong," he admitted, his voice a whisper of death. "But strength alone does not kill a god."

He lifted Rhaegar effortlessly, slamming him into the ground with bone-crushing force. Stars exploded in Rhaegar's vision as pain shot through his spine.

"Do you hear them, Rhaegar Crowne?" the Forsaken King murmured, his voice dripping with cruel amusement. "The dead whisper your name. They call for you to join them."

Rhaegar's vision blurred, but he gritted his teeth, forcing his body to move.

With the last of his strength, he drove his knee into the Forsaken King's ribs, forcing the tyrant to loosen his grip. Summoning what remained of his energy, he grasped his sword and swung upward in a desperate, final strike.

The blade sliced cleanly through the Forsaken King's face, cutting from the corner of his mouth to his ear. The tyrant reeled back, black ichor spilling from the wound as a monstrous snarl tore from his throat.

Rhaegar did not waste another second.

Gritting his teeth against the pain, he turned and fled, his body screaming in protest with every step. He could hear the Forsaken King's roar behind him, feel the abyssal power clawing at his back, but he did not stop.

He could not stop.

Not yet.

Not until the Forsaken King was dead.

The Forsaken King's lips curled into a sneer, his crimson eyes burning with malice. "You truly believe you can stand against me, boy? After all you have lost? You crawl back from the abyss like some wretched specter, thinking yourself worthy of vengeance." He scoffed, shaking his head. "Pathetic."

Rhaegar gritted his teeth, tightening his grip around the hilt of his sword. The weight of his wounds, the exhaustion clawing at his bones—none of it mattered. He had come too far to falter now. "And you think your reign will last forever?" he shot back, his voice laced with venom. "Kings fall, empires crumble. Yours will be no different."

The Forsaken King chuckled darkly, taking a slow, deliberate step forward. His armor groaned with each movement, the darkened steel pulsating with the corruption that coursed through his veins. "You speak of fate as if you have any control over it," he mused. "As if the gods themselves have not abandoned you." His gaze flickered downward, scanning the blood seeping from Rhaegar's side, the torn fabric clinging to his battered frame. "You can barely stand, yet you challenge me? How laughable."

Rhaegar exhaled sharply, his breath ragged but his resolve unshaken. He straightened, forcing his body to endure the pain, to push past the agony clawing at his muscles. "I don't need gods to dictate my fate," he spat. "I carve my own path. And it leads straight to your demise."

The Forsaken King's expression twisted into something almost amused. "Is that so?" he murmured. With an effortless flick of his wrist, the dark energy swirling around his form lashed outward like tendrils of living shadow, seeking to ensnare Rhaegar.

Rhaegar reacted in an instant, twisting his body and bringing his blade up in a swift arc. The edge of his sword met the darkness head-on, slicing through it with a sharp hiss, the corrupted tendrils recoiling as if burned. "You'll have to try harder than that," he growled.

The Forsaken King's grin widened. "Oh, I intend to."

In a blur of movement, he lunged. The force of his assault sent shockwaves through the ground, the sheer power behind each strike reverberating through the chamber. Rhaegar met him blow for blow, steel clashing against steel, sparks flying as their weapons locked. The sheer force of the impact sent cracks spiderwebbing across the stone beneath them.

"You're nothing but a relic of a dead kingdom," the Forsaken King snarled, his strikes growing more ferocious. "A shadow clinging to the past, desperate to rewrite history."

"And you," Rhaegar grunted, parrying a brutal overhead swing, "are a coward who hides behind corruption and fear." He twisted his blade, forcing the Forsaken King to stagger back. "You rule through terror because you know you'll never have loyalty."

The Forsaken King's face darkened. "Loyalty?" he echoed, his voice dripping with disdain. "Loyalty is for the weak. Power is the only truth. And I wield it absolutely."

"Then you're already doomed." Rhaegar surged forward, striking with renewed fury. His blade sliced through the air, finding purchase against the Forsaken King's shoulder plate, cracking the darkened steel. A snarl tore from the king's throat as he retaliated, his gauntleted fist slamming into Rhaegar's ribs with enough force to send him skidding backward.

Pain flared through Rhaegar's chest, but he refused to give the bastard the satisfaction of seeing him fall. He dug his heel into the fractured stone, using the momentum to pivot back into stance. His breaths came in ragged bursts, but his eyes remained locked on his foe.

The Forsaken King rolled his shoulder, his lips curling in distaste as he examined the damage to his armor. "You're persistent," he admitted. "I'll grant you that much. But persistence alone does not win wars."

"No," Rhaegar agreed, wiping blood from his mouth. "But conviction does."

With a roar, he launched himself forward, his blade a blur of silver and crimson. The Forsaken King met him mid-strike, their weapons colliding with a resounding clang. The sheer force of the impact sent shockwaves rippling through the chamber, the torches lining the walls flickering violently in response.

"You think this battle will change anything?" the Forsaken King hissed, his voice filled with bitter amusement. "That your vengeance will bring back what was lost?"

"No," Rhaegar admitted, his voice a low growl. "But it will make sure you never take anything from me again."

The Forsaken King snarled, his patience wearing thin. With a guttural incantation, he slammed his palm against the ground. The chamber trembled violently as jagged spikes of dark energy erupted from the stone, racing toward Rhaegar like serpents seeking prey.

Rhaegar reacted on instinct, pushing his body past its limits as he maneuvered through the onslaught. He twisted, dodging the deadly spikes by mere inches, feeling the heat of dark magic grazing his skin. His muscles screamed in protest, but he couldn't afford to slow down.

"You cannot win," the Forsaken King declared, his voice laced with triumph. "You are alone."

Rhaegar's eyes blazed with defiance. "So were you, once," he countered. "Before you sold your soul for power."

The words struck a nerve. The Forsaken King's expression twisted with fury, his control slipping as rage clouded his judgment. He lashed out with reckless abandon, his attacks losing their calculated precision.

Rhaegar seized the opening. With a burst of speed, he closed the distance between them, ducking beneath a wild swing and driving his blade forward. The tip of his sword found flesh, piercing through the cracks in the Forsaken King's armor.

A guttural snarl tore from the king's throat as he stumbled back, dark ichor seeping from the wound. "You—" he began, but his words faltered, his breathing ragged.

Rhaegar didn't let up. He pressed forward, his strikes relentless. "This is for every life you've stolen," he spat, his sword a blur of motion. "For every kingdom you've razed. For every family you've destroyed." His final strike sent the Forsaken King crashing to one knee, blood dripping from his wounds.

For the first time, the king looked uncertain.

Rhaegar loomed over him, his blade raised. "Your reign ends here."

The Forsaken King laughed, a low, grating sound. "Perhaps," he rasped. "But you forget—monsters like me do not die easily."

Before Rhaegar could react, the king's body dissolved into swirling darkness, his form vanishing into the shadows. His laughter echoed through the chamber, taunting and hollow.

Rhaegar cursed under his breath, lowering his sword. The battle was not over. Not yet. But he had struck a blow.

And next time, he would make sure the Forsaken King did not escape.

Rhaegar stood still, his chest rising and falling with heavy, ragged breaths. The shadows of the Forsaken King's departure still lingered in the air, tendrils of darkness curling against the stone like the last remnants of a nightmare. His grip on his sword tightened until his knuckles turned white, the sting of battle and exhaustion barely registering beneath the sheer fury boiling within him.

That bastard had escaped. Again.

His teeth clenched, a growl rising in his throat before he spat, "That fucking coward."

The words echoed in the empty chamber, venomous and raw, filled with the kind of loathing that could burn through steel. His body trembled—not from weakness, but from sheer, uncontained rage. He had wounded the Forsaken King, had driven his blade into that wretched body, and yet the monster still lived. It was like trying to kill a shadow, something that would always slither away, lurking just beyond reach.

Rhaegar exhaled sharply, tilting his head back and staring at the cracked ceiling above. He had failed. Again.

A bitter laugh escaped him. "Is this my fate?" he muttered, his voice hoarse. "To chase ghosts until my own body turns to dust?"

No. He refused to accept that.

Shaking off the haze of anger, he forced his body to move. Each step was agony—his wounds throbbed, his muscles screamed, and the deeper cuts on his side burned like embers pressed into flesh. He had pushed himself beyond his limits in that battle, and now his body was demanding its due.

He sheathed his sword with a sharp click and turned toward the entrance. The chamber reeked of blood and dark magic, the air thick with the remnants of battle. He needed to leave before his own strength abandoned him completely.

The journey back to the castle was grueling.

The night stretched around him like an endless void, the cold wind biting at his exposed skin. His cloak was torn, barely clinging to his shoulders, and his vision blurred at times from the sheer exhaustion weighing down on him. But he pressed forward, step by agonizing step.

By the time the castle's towering silhouette appeared in the distance, his legs felt like lead. His breath came in uneven gasps, but the sight of those stone walls—his walls—filled him with just enough resolve to keep moving.

The gates creaked open as he approached, the guards rushing forward at the sight of him. Their expressions flickered from relief to alarm as they took in his condition.

"My lord—!" one of them started, but Rhaegar raised a hand to silence him.

"I don't need coddling," he muttered, voice gruff. "Just… get out of my way."

He staggered inside, ignoring the murmurs and worried glances that followed. His only goal now was to reach his chambers before his body finally gave out.

The halls were dimly lit, torches casting flickering shadows along the stone walls. He moved through them like a ghost, each step echoing in the silence. He could feel the stares of the castle's inhabitants—servants, knights, and advisors alike—but none dared to approach. Not when his expression was carved from stone, his aura still radiating the remnants of battle and bloodshed.

Finally, he reached his chambers. The door shut behind him with a dull thud, sealing him away from the rest of the world.

With a heavy sigh, Rhaegar leaned against the wall, closing his eyes. The pain he had been suppressing crashed into him all at once, a brutal reminder of his own mortality. His fingers trembled as he reached for the clasps of his armor, peeling the battered plates away and letting them drop to the floor with a series of metallic clangs.

Blood. His hands were covered in it—his own and his enemies'. It stained his skin, seeped into the fabric of his clothes, a reminder of the battle he had barely survived.

And yet, despite everything, despite the agony coursing through his body and the weight of failure pressing against his chest… he wasn't done.

He couldn't be.

The Forsaken King had escaped, but not unscathed. Rhaegar had left his mark, had driven his blade deep enough to wound even that wretched monster. And next time—

Next time, there would be no escape.

He swore it.