Trapped

Meloris, mother of Argider, sat inside the confines of a tent, tied up so tightly it was as if every limb was tangled in a particularly unforgiving vine.

There was not a single flicker of light that dared to intrude on the darkness. She couldn't see a thing, but she reckoned it was probably midnight—the witching hour—as a chill bit through the tent's entrance.

With it, a breath of icy wind seemed to slide right under her skin.

Hunger clawed at her stomach, her body worn and withered from the pitiful scraps the Peliotus Tribe begrudgingly allotted her.

Afterall, mercy was a concept they reserved for stories or perhaps for those lucky enough to be long buried.

In the Midward Region, on the country's wild western edge, the Peliotus had swept across the villages like a raging storm, scattering families and shattering lives.

As she pondered her bleak future, fear crept in like a spider skittering over her thoughts, imagining what awaited the women who had fallen to the tribe in this village where she was captured.

The Peliotus were not known for their kindness. They would turn men into slaves and women into playthings.

She almost managed to close her eyes against the terror when, suddenly, a dim light flickered in the darkness, and the crunch of boots on rocks broke the silence. Meloris tensed, her heart leaping—until she glimpsed the visitor.

It was Isolde.

She was as elegant as ever, moving with a sort of effortless grace. She wasn't tall, but her slender frame made her seem even more poised. Her eyes, a piercing shade of blue, could cut like a dagger or soothe like a warm fire.

But Meloris could hardly feel the warmth now; bitterness weighed on her voice.

"What do you want?" she demanded, a jagged edge to her words. She could hardly believe the betrayal, the treachery of it all. Isolde, her trusted ally, had switched sides, crossing the line to the very people she despised.

Isolde just smiled—a soft, dangerous smile—and held out a tray with water and some kind of food. "I've brought you something to eat," she said simply, setting it down just out of reach.

Meloris's gaze flickered between the tray and Isolde, her mind struggling to grasp this bizarre act of kindness. But her stomach had no such qualms; it growled audibly, and her pride was losing a battle to hunger. She sighed, eyes narrowing. "What is it that you want, Isolde?"

"Nothing but to bring you food," Isolde replied with unsettling calm.

"Oh, you bring food now? After turning against me?" Meloris's words cut the air. "Why, Isolde? Why would you do this after all we've been through?"

With a sigh, Isolde stepped closer, untying the ropes that bound Meloris's wrists. Her expression remained unreadable, but Meloris watched her like a hawk. There was a flicker of emotion, though—a shadow in those ice-blue eyes.

Then, Isolde's voice softened. "I fell in love with the tribe's leader."

Meloris's jaw nearly dropped, a laugh bubbling up that she didn't dare let escape. "You? In love? With him?"

"Maybe I've just been…lonely," Isolde said, a flicker of doubt in her eyes. It was as though she couldn't quite believe herself.

"Isolde, you never cared about my son not reciprocating your feelings," she pointed out. "You always prioritized your family. You wouldn't fall for a wild, barbaric man! If anything, he's worse than my own son!"

Isolde's eyes turned sharp. "And you, Lady Meloris? Why do you care so much about these people? Why risk your own life for them?"

Meloris's expression darkened. "You wouldn't understand," she murmured. "For years, I tried to flee from Argider's father, only for him to find us, time and again. I lived on scraps. I would not wish that life on anyone."

"You're too kindhearted for your own good," Isolde said, almost fondly.

"Or perhaps just a fool," Meloris replied bitterly. A hint of regret surfaced as she admitted, "I failed my son. He's become a man who chases after anything in a skirt. Maybe I wasn't the mother he needed."

There was a silence, but the old bitterness seemed to soften in the air between them, just a little. In that dark tent, where both betrayal and loyalty twisted in equal measure, neither woman dared to claim they truly knew each other anymore.

*******

Whoosh!

Clank, clank, clank!

Argider was a whirlwind of force and fury, striking with every ounce of strength she could muster. Her wooden sword slashed through the air, a relentless storm that had Uzak scrambling backward, barely able to parry her blows. Each strike pressed him closer to the edge of his own limits.

But then, in the heat of her fervor—snap! Her sword splintered, leaving her gripping nothing but a jagged shard of wood. She froze, caught off guard by her sudden defenselessness.

"Your Imperial Majesty..." Uzak murmured, extending a hand to steady her, but she swatted him away before he could even lay a finger on her.

— [Congratulations! Your Strength Reached Level Three!]

.....

— [WARNING]

— [Your Neuroticism Is Slowly Depleting. You Lost 30EXP In Total!]

"Then let the soldiers handle it," Uzak countered, his voice calm but insistent. "You are an empress, Argider. Your people need you to lead, not to throw yourself into danger."

"Oh, I think it's perfectly reasonable," came a voice, smooth as silk and laced with mischief.

Argider whipped around, her gaze settling on Denzelle, who had drifted into the fray as casually as if he were joining her for tea. His eyes gleamed with a strange, knowing light, and his mouth curled in a faint, infuriating smirk.

Her fingers twitched with the urge to strike him, just once—strike him? She caught herself, surprised at the violence bubbling up in her mind. Since when had she felt like this?

Unperturbed, Denzelle continued, his tone maddeningly nonchalant. "Why shouldn't Her Imperial Majesty join the battle? A bit of warfare might do her good—she'd be in excellent company."

Just what on earth was this man planning? If anything, Argider knew it wouldn't be pleasant.