Crowned in Crimson Cinders

Chapter 1: Inescapable Duty (Revised)

The castle exhaled a breath of stillness after sunset, the dim halls swallowing sound. My own footfalls were ghosts as I navigated the familiar corridors. These stolen hours, in the castle's post-dusk slumber, were my window – a fragile truth learned through countless clandestine journeys.

The hood, a shadow clinging to my face, was a constant, silent accusation. Each time I donned it, I acknowledged the transgression, the potential for a king and queen's displeasure should my nocturnal wanderings be discovered.

My worn leather boots, a testament to necessity over status, whispered against the stone. Such practicalities were rare for someone of my standing.

Years of repetition had etched this path into my very bones. My feet knew the way to the hidden tunnel beyond the stables, a secret passage woven into the castle walls. I was no spy, no warrior steeped in shadows, yet the art of unseen movement had become a reluctant second skin.

The disguised door awaited, a seamless continuation of the stonework. Even in daylight, finding the latch was a tactile puzzle. Now, shrouded in near-absolute darkness, my fingers became my eyes, tracing the cold, rough surface.

Just as my fingertips brushed against the familiar indentation of the latch, a voice, unexpected and sharp, sliced through the silence from my left.

"A few months gone, and your discipline unravels?"

The initial jolt of fear gave way to a different kind of tremor. That voice, laced with a familiar blend of concern and exasperation, was unmistakable.

I turned, seeing Brock emerge from the deeper shadows. His arms were crossed, a habitual barrier, and even in the gloom, I could discern the familiar waves of his brown hair.

His return from the Fronts had been only yesterday. Each departure was a knot of anxiety within me, each return a fragile reprieve.

Perhaps I had grown too accustomed to that absence. His past discoveries of my escapes had bred a necessary caution. Without him, it seemed, I had become careless, the familiar routine lulling me into a false sense of security.

"It's not unraveling, Brock. I've simply... adjusted to the quiet," I replied, withdrawing my hand from the latch as he approached. His stance remained the same, arms crossed like a guardian confronting a trespasser.

Close now, I saw the fleeting curve of a smile touch his lips before vanishing, replaced by a shadow of regret. Brock's moods were a shifting landscape, bright peaks giving way to sudden valleys of quietude. Had my words already cast a pall?

"That... saddens me to hear, Aleah." His gaze held mine, a weight of unspoken understanding passing between us. A pang of guilt resonated within me. It wasn't his fault he was so often called away.

"It's not your fault," I echoed, mirroring his posture, crossing my own arms in a silent show of solidarity. "This war wasn't your doing."

He knew this, intellectually, but the weight of responsibility always settled upon his broad shoulders. He carried the burdens of others as readily as his own.

This endless conflict, sparked by Prince Flynn of Trithia's disappearance – a presumed kidnapping for which we were unjustly blamed. Our vehement denials were met with accusations of attempted regicide against Father. Their aggression had ignited a war that had become a ravenous beast, consuming lives, draining resources, and staining our land with the crimson of our fallen.

"I know, Aleah," Brock said, his voice heavy. "But the fight... it's wearing us down. My soldiers... their spirit is gone. The drive has bled out of them. We're losing ground."

His words struck me with the force of a physical blow. Despite the whispered legends of our bloodline's unique magic, Atalar had teetered on the edge since the war's inception. Trithia, a kingdom of formidable strength and wealth, possessed a military that reflected its power. Our defiance stemmed from their brutal attack on Father, a wound to our pride and our sovereignty that demanded retribution.