The golden sunlight filtered through the cracks of Eryndor’s tent, casting long shadows across the dusty ground. He lay stretched out on his makeshift bed of furs and linens, one arm tucked behind his head, his cursed left hand resting on the hilt of his sword beside him. His long white hair cascaded over his shoulders, contrasting against the dark fabric of his tunic. The soft clink of his golden bangle and jade earrings was the only sound in the quiet afternoon.

The muffled bustle of the camp outside—soldiers preparing, sharpening weapons, and murmuring low conversations—was a distant hum, but Eryndor’s mind was far from the noise. A weathered map lay sprawled across his chest, held in place by his fingers as he absentmindedly traced the lines of the kingdom’s terrain with his thumb. His golden eye glimmered faintly in the dim light, flickering with thought as he scanned over the battle plans. The upcoming siege would be swift, and he already knew the outcome. Victory was all but certain, yet he found himself restless, as if the battles that once gave him purpose now felt like an endless, pointless cycle.

He sighed, shifting slightly on the bed, his eyes narrowing as he reconsidered the attack strategy. Perhaps a different approach to the flanking maneuver would bring some challenge. Something—anything—to break the monotony.

Outside, the faint crash of waves against the shore echoed through the camp, a reminder of how close they were to the enemy fortress. The king’s army was ready, the war drums would soon beat, but in this quiet moment, Eryndor’s thoughts drifted back to the curse pulsing faintly in his arm, the runes glowing with a warning. The beast stirred, always waiting.

His fangs pressed against his bottom lip as he closed his eyes briefly. War was inevitable. But perhaps, this time, there would be something worth remembering.