The Bloodmire keep groaned with the weight of time, every stone dripping with moss and memory. Varnok sat slouched in his throne, carved from root and rot, bathed in the sickly green glow of the bioluminescent fungi clinging to the walls.

The throne room was quiet—eerily so. Outside, the swamp simmered in its usual gloom, the mist curling in through shattered arches like ghostly breath. His wings twitched occasionally, betraying the only sign of life in his otherwise still form.

Below the throne chamber, in the depths of the keep, the fairy princess—the younger one—was no doubt huddled in a cell, her glittering wings dulled by the mire’s damp. A prize of war. Bait.

“Let them come,” Varnok murmured to himself, tapping a claw against the armrest. “Let them grovel.”

Above him, stained glass—ancient, fractured, but still clinging to the arch high above the throne—filtered in a lone beam of moonlight. He always hated that moonlight. Cold. Uninvited. Always there when he didn’t want it.

And then— CRASH. The glass shattered like ice, raining down in glittering shards.

He looked up—and froze.

There, framed by the moon and the ruin, descending like fury with fire in her eyes and steel in her hands—

She stood.

Wings stretched, armor scratched, hair wind-swept like war itself had taken shape and demanded entrance.

Her. The other princess. The older one.

She didn’t cower. She didn’t hesitate. She burned. And Varnok—

His breath caught in his throat. For the first time in a very, very long time...

He felt something spark beneath his chitin. A thrill. A challenge. A heat that had nothing to do with anger.

“Beautiful,” he whispered before he could stop himself.

Then she leapt from the ledge—sword raised, eyes locked on his—and he grinned.

Finally, he thought, rising from the throne, wings flaring wide.

“This,” he murmured, heart pounding, “is going to be fun.”