Arcum Nights: Book 2

The sun had barely crested the horizon when Rory, Kieran, and Ash stood before the gathered Fae court.

The pale rays of dawn spilled across the marble courtyard as the fae elders gathered silently, their delicate faces betraying nothing. Outside, rows upon rows of fae soldiers stood at rigid attention, their armor shimmering softly in the early morning glow. Beyond them, the gates stood open, the path stretching toward Arcum.

Rory secured the pack across his shoulder, feeling the tension heavy in the air. Kieran stood by his side, brooding silently. Ash hovered behind them, golden eyes watching the elders with blatant suspicion.

Lady Seraphine stepped forward from the line of nobles, her silver-blond hair perfectly in place despite the early hour. She inclined her head gracefully, her voice cool and restrained. “You leave with our army at your back, as promised.”

Rory’s gaze was unwavering. “Good.”

Her pale eyes narrowed slightly, her elegant poise holding a subtle challenge. “We trust you understand the gravity of this alliance, Prince Rory. You carry the weight of two kingdoms now.”

Rory stood taller, lifting his chin, refusing to flinch beneath her scrutiny. “I understand exactly what’s at stake. And I intend to see it through to the end.”

Beside him, Kieran shifted restlessly, scowling darkly. Rory knew this wasn’t how Kieran would’ve preferred to handle this—he’d have stormed out without another word, leaving the elders to stew in their own indecision. But Rory had learned quickly: diplomacy had its place, even if sternly delivered.

Lady Seraphine studied him for a moment, a subtle respect creeping into her cold expression. “Perhaps we’ve underestimated you.”

“You have,” Rory agreed without hesitation. “But I don’t have time to convince you. The threat we face won’t wait for you to make up your minds.”

A murmuring wave swept through the assembled nobles. The silver-haired elder who’d questioned Rory the night before stepped forward, regarding him with grudging approval. “Then go, Prince Rory. Lead as you see fit. We’ll watch closely, and we will judge.”

Rory held the elder’s gaze firmly, his voice steady. “Judge as you will. But remember, it’s your future too.”

A sharp silence fell.

Kieran finally stirred, breaking the tension with his usual bluntness. “We’re done here.”

Rory turned, feeling the gazes following them. Behind him, Ash fell into step, muttering dryly, “That went well.”

Rory didn’t look back, though he felt every pair of fae eyes on him as he walked away.

Their world was changing rapidly now—shifting beneath their feet. And ready or not, Rory intended to lead them through it.

With or without the fae’s approval.

***

The horses moved at a steady, rhythmic pace through the half-fae village, their hooves soft against the worn path. Rory rode at the head, his spine straight, shoulders back, aware of the fae army marching behind them—an intimidating display of strength that he wasn’t entirely sure he felt comfortable with yet. The villagers gathered along the streets, faces quiet and wary as they watched the procession pass.

Rory caught sight of Silas standing beside Basil and Elisa at the edge of the crowd. Their expressions were reserved, tense with uncertainty, but he sensed no hostility from them. Silas inclined his head slightly, eyes briefly meeting Rory’s in a quiet, meaningful gesture. Rory returned the nod, acknowledging the elder’s silent message of cautious support.

He glanced sideways at Ash, who was uncharacteristically subdued. His golden eyes were fixed ahead, and for once, he made no show of bravado, no playful smirk on his lips. Instead, when Ash noticed Silas watching from the side of the road, he simply nodded, his gaze steady and serious. There was a quiet respect in that exchange, something Rory hadn’t seen from Ash before.

Fisher stood with his arm around the dark-haired girl who’d given them horses just days before. They both watched silently, Fisher’s eyes solemn as they passed. Ash offered another nod, the barest hint of a smile ghosting across his lips, though he didn’t slow or speak.

Rory’s gaze shifted ahead once more, settling on the open road ahead. Anxiety tightened his chest as thoughts of home filled his mind. He worried for his parents, wondering if they were safe, wondering what they would find when they finally reached the castle.

And then there was Desmond.

Rory’s heart clenched painfully as memories flooded him—Desmond smiling gently, his blond hair shining in the warm light streaming through Rory’s little window as they’d sat together up in Rory’s bedroom. Heimdall had been downstairs with Rory’s mother, calmly explaining her son’s impossible destiny, but Desmond had immediately taken Rory under his wing, comforting him through his confusion and fear.

Desmond had been his first friend, his first anchor in an unfamiliar, frightening world. His kindness had been Rory’s first real taste of hope. Now Desmond was trapped, consumed by darkness, suffering unimaginable horrors inside his own mind.

Rory glanced again at Ash, a quiet desperation building inside him. He hoped with every fiber of his being that Ash was strong enough to save Desmond—to pull him free from the nightmare. Rory refused to imagine a world where he failed.

Beside him, Kieran was silent, stern, focused only on the road ahead. Rory could feel the tension radiating from him, the grim determination in every line of his face. Kieran was ready for war—ready to reclaim his home. Rory knew he’d follow Kieran anywhere, fight any battle at his side, but he was equally determined that saving Desmond would not become another casualty of this fight.

As they left the village behind and stepped onto the long road toward home, Rory tightened his grip on the reins, his jaw set, determination filling his heart. He would fight. He would lead. And no matter what it took, he would ensure all of them—Kieran, Desmond, Ash, his parents—made it home safe.

He’d already faced death and won. Now it was time to save those who mattered most.

***

The bridge had changed. Rory could feel it the moment they crossed.

It shimmered beneath them, the ancient Fae magic humming softly, thrumming through the stones beneath their horses’ hooves. When he and Kieran had first crossed it, the bridge had been a dying thing—its glow dim, its power flickering like the last embers of a fire. Now, it had been restored. The magic pulsed strong, steady, like a beating heart.

It should have been comforting. But beyond the bridge, the world was dying.

The moment their horses stepped off the last stone, the shift was palpable.

The Arcum wildlands stretched ahead, a vast expanse of forest and rolling hills leading toward the distant castle and village. Just a week ago, when Rory and Kieran had passed through, the land had been alive—lush with green, full of movement and sound.

Now, it felt like they had entered a graveyard.

The trees, once vibrant and full, stood skeletal against the pale gray sky. Their leaves had withered to brittle husks, clinging desperately to lifeless branches. The grass beneath their horses’ hooves had turned yellow-brown, curling in on itself as though retreating from something unseen.

And the silence.

It was wrong.

No birdsong. No rustling in the underbrush. No distant howls of wolves or chittering of small creatures. The forest had emptied.

Rory swallowed, his hand tightening around the reins.

Behind them, the Fae army moved in disciplined silence, their pale armor gleaming against the dying landscape. A hundred strong, they followed without hesitation, their presence a stark contrast to the land they marched through. It was the first time in centuries that Fae warriors had set foot in Arcum territory, and yet, even they seemed wary of what lay ahead.

Kieran was tense beside him, his eyes scanning the treeline with sharp precision. Ash rode slightly behind them, golden eyes narrowed, shoulders coiled like a predator waiting for the first sign of danger.

No one spoke.

They rode for hours, pushing deeper into Arcum land. The silence stretched, broken only by the sound of hooves crunching over dry grass and dead leaves. The further they traveled, the worse it became. The trees continued to blacken, their bark splitting like open wounds. A foul scent clung to the air—something like ash and decay.

Something unnatural.

Rory’s stomach churned. This wasn’t just Helmsfirth’s influence. This was dark magic.

It wasn’t until they crested a small hill that they saw the first real sign of what was happening.

An enemy camp.

Rory reined in his horse sharply, his breath catching in his throat.

It was hastily built—nothing more than a few makeshift tents clustered together in a small clearing, surrounded by hastily dug graves.

Kieran swore under his breath. Ash exhaled slowly, shifting forward in his saddle.

The Fae army halted behind them, waiting. Watching.

Rory dismounted first, sliding from his horse and moving toward the graves, his heartbeat pounding. He had seen death before. He had seen graves before. But there was something deeply wrong about these.

The dirt was fresh. The ground uneven, shoveled quickly, sloppily, and left unmarked.

Kieran was already moving, his boots kicking up dry dust as he approached the nearest grave. He crouched, staring down at the disturbed earth, his fingers tightening into fists. “They were ours,” he said hoarsely.

Rory’s breath hitched. “What do you mean?”

Kieran gestured to a scrap of fabric peeking from the dirt—dark red, bearing the faint insignia of an Arcum soldier. His jaw clenched. “They were Arcum men.”

Rory’s throat tightened.

Ash swung off his horse, approaching slowly. His usual smugness was absent. “So, we’re they mind controlled?”

Kieran exhaled sharply. “I don’t think so. Why would they kill off and bury their own secret weapon.” His voice darkened. “I bet these men were resistors.” He looked up, his expression cold. “They died fighting whatever’s turning these men into mindless puppets.”

A heavy silence settled over them.

Rory felt his pulse hammering. He turned, scanning the area—the abandoned camp, the graves, the land dying beneath their feet. A week ago, the forest had been alive.

Now, it was poisoned. The enemy had taken claim their claim. They weren’t just heading back to Arcum. They were heading into a war zone.

Kieran stood, brushing the dust from his hands. His face was unreadable, his shoulders squared. “This is bad,” he muttered.

Ash let out a low, humorless laugh. “No shit.”

Rory exhaled, steadying himself. “We keep moving,” he said. “We don’t know what’s waiting for us up ahead, but we’re not stopping now.”

Kieran nodded. He turned, facing the Fae army behind them. Their commander, a tall, silver-haired warrior, stood at the front, his glowing eyes impassive. Kieran didn’t hesitate. “We move forward,” he said, his voice sharp, authoritative. “Arcum isn’t just occupied. It’s been taken. And we’re going to get it back.”

The Fae commander inclined his head.

With that, they mounted their horses once more, pushing forward.

As they rode past the graves, Rory cast one last glance at the nameless men.

Who were they? How many more had been taken?

And who was left to save?

His heart ached as he thought of his father… wondering if he was even still alive. A horrible feeling of dread ate away at Rory as they pushed on and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

***

They were four days into their journey, with another two to go. The entire trek through the Arcum Wildlands had been disturbingly quiet, full of unease and unspoken tension.

Rory’s fingers clenched around his reins as his horse crested another ridge. Kieran was just ahead, his posture sharp and alert. Ash rode silently on the other side, golden eyes narrowed as he scanned the valley below.

Rory’s breath caught the second he saw it. Ash cursed under his breath. Kieran immediately held up a hand.

“Hold,” he ordered, his voice sharp, commanding, and the Fae army halted just behind them.

A Helmsfirth camp sprawled below—enemy soldiers crept between tents shaped like jagged teeth, arranged in a ring beneath the bare, withered trees. Flickering torchlight cast long shadows over the clearing and the gathered men, while smoke from their campfires coiled upward in thin, dark trails. Everything about the place felt wrong. Twisted.

And then he saw their prisoners.

A group of Arcum soldiers knelt in the dirt, hands bound behind their backs, heads bowed. Magic slithered between them, black and silver, as a pair of Helmsfirth mages moved like carrion birds around their prey. They were chanting—low, melodic words that seemed to scrape across the inside of Rory’s skull.

A language he didn’t know. Didn’t want to know.

He felt it, though—the persuasion magic. It crept like a fog through the air, brushing up against his own mind before sliding off like oil. It wasn’t meant for him.

It was meant for them.

The Arcum soldiers began to shift. One by one, their bodies went slack, heads rising like puppets lifted by strings. Their faces were… gone. Expressionless. Empty. Eyes wide and staring.

“No,” Rory whispered. “They’re all mind-controlled.”

Beside him, Kieran shook his head, his expression dark. “Not all of them… look.”

Kieran was right. Two of them were still resisting.

One—a large man with gritted teeth and a twisted brow—fought back with every breath, shoulders jerking as if trying to break the persuasion spell. The other—

Rory recognized him immediately.

“Oh, shit,” Kieran hissed. “That’s Ewan Morrow again…”

Dark hair, handsome in a sharp, noble kind of way. Rory remembered running into him and his troops on their first day out of Arcum.

Now, Ewan was on his knees, drenched in sweat, teeth clenched in pain. Still fighting. Still himself.

The mages ignored the blank ones, the ones already turned, and focused instead on the resisting pair. That’s when Rory saw it—a dark, mysterious artifact.

It floated just above the dirt—small, twisted, pulsing with a glow that wasn’t light but hunger.

One of the mages stepped forward and raised it over the first resistor. The large one who was trembling, still fighting the magic.

“No,” Rory said again, louder this time. “They’re going to—”

The mage plunged a hand forward and the soldier screamed. His body jerked violently, but it wasn’t the scream that broke Rory’s heart.

It was what came next.

A shimmer. A wisp. A glowing thread of light tore free from the soldier’s chest—and shot upward. It didn’t go into the artifact. It went through it. Straight into the sky. Like it had been sent somewhere on an urgent delivery.

They had just taken the man’s soul. And to add insult to injury, the second mage stepped up and casually cut his throat. The man collapsed, blood pooling beneath him.

Gone. He was completely gone.

Kieran swore under his breath. “They’re taking their souls. Looks like they’re sending them somewhere else though.”

“But to where?” Ash murmured.

Kieran couldn’t answer.

Because the mages turned to Ewan next.

The dark-haired knight was still resisting—fighting with every ounce of strength he had left. His breath came in gasps now, eyes fluttering open and shut. The persuasion magic wasn’t working, he was still resisting.

And one of the mages stepped forward. The artifact lifted again.

“No,” Kieran growled, his magic thrumming to life beneath his skin. He stood in his stirrups. “Fuck this. Not him, too!”

Ash grabbed his arm. “Wait—”

It all happened so fast, Rory barely had time to react before Kieran kicked his horse into motion and his voice rose like thunder. “Move, now!”

Then he was gone, tearing down the slope toward the enemy encampment, his horse’s hooves thundering against the dry, brittle earth.

Rory snapped out of his shock, kicking his own mount forward, heart pounding. Behind him, the Fae army surged in a coordinated wave of silent, terrifying precision.

The Helmsfirth soldiers scattered, shouting in surprise as Kieran burst through their ranks with his sword drawn.

Rory followed closely him, directing his horse toward the prisoners, magic flaring bright around him. “Don’t kill the Arcum soldiers!” he shouted to the Fae warriors storming around him. “They’re mind-controlled! Round them up, but don’t hurt them!”

The Fae hesitated only briefly before quickly adjusting their attack, swiftly corralling the blank-faced Arcum soldiers, immobilizing them without harm.

Rory whipped around, searching the chaos for Kieran—and found him already kneeling beside Ewan, rapidly cutting through the soldier’s restraints. As the bindings fell away, Ewan gasped and stared up at him, eyes wide in recognition.

“Prince Kieran?” he said hoarsely, clearly stunned. “Is that you?”

Kieran grunted, nodding sharply as he helped Ewan to his feet. “Yeah. Long time, Ewan. Didn’t think I’d find you like this.”

Ewan grimaced, holding his head as he steadied himself. “Neither did I.”

Behind them, Ash was already crouched by one of the subdued Arcum soldiers. His golden eyes narrowed in deep concentration as shadows flowed from his fingertips into the soldier’s chest. Rory held his breath, waiting for Ash to speak.

Finally, Ash shook his head, clearly frustrated. “I cut the tether controlling him, but there’s nothing left inside. He’s empty—just a shell.”

Kieran’s jaw tightened, his gaze dark. “Because their souls were ripped away. But why? What does Helmsfirth want with a bunch of souls?”

Ash rose slowly, eyes thoughtful. “Souls hold an immense amount of magical energy. Maybe Helmsfirth is storing them somehow, harvesting their power for something big.”

“But then…” Rory swallowed hard, feeling hope bloom despite the horror around them. “If they’re storing souls somewhere, that means we might be able to get them back.” He turned sharply to Kieran, gripping his arm. “We can still save them.”

Before Kieran could respond, Ewan stepped closer, voice strained but urgent. “He’s right. They are gathering strength for something huge. We’ve seen it firsthand.”

“Explain,” Kieran ordered.

Ewan glanced at his soulless soldiers, immobilized with magical restraints, pain flickering across his handsome features. “King Lachlan left Arcum totally vulnerable after he declared you and the half-fae traitors and gathered his army—”

“Rory,” Kieran corrected firmly. “He’s my bonded husband and he has a name.”

Ewan blinked, clearly shocked, eyes darting between Kieran and Rory. “Bonded…husband?”

“Yes. Husband.” Rory lifted his chin defiantly. “Lachlan never could accept that Kieran and I were destined for each other.”

Ewan raised a dark eyebrow.

“I’m actually the one who ended his life,” Rory said, casually dusting off his sleeve. “And in my opinion, Lachlan was way more a traitor than Kieran and I. We were already making plans to escape and get help, but then…he just had to force our hand.”

Ewan stared at Rory with his mouth open.

Kieran laughed bitterly, though there was no humor in it. “It’s true. Lachlan is dead. Rory finished him off.”

For a long moment, Ewan stared at them both, speechless. Finally, he nodded slowly, the smallest smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Well… okay then.”

It was oddly funny in a grim sort of way, and Rory felt himself relax just slightly.

“Finish your story,” Kieran prompted.

Ewan nodded again, sobering. “After you fled, Lachlan abandoned Arcum and Helmsfirth marched in without resistance. They took the castle first, then the village. Anyone who resisted… was either killed or turned into what you see here.” He gestured to his men, pain clear in his expression. “The poor recruits were among the first to fall. Helmsfirth targeted them directly. Arcum’s last line of defense is now fully under enemy control.”

Kieran’s fists clenched at his sides, fury rolling off him in waves. “Shit…” His entire body went rigid, eyes sparking with rage—and something deeper. Hurt. Guilt. “I trained those idiots. They trusted me. They were my responsibility—”

Rory quickly reached out, gripping Kieran’s wrist firmly. “They’re not dead, Kieran. You haven’t failed them yet. They’re waiting for us to save them.”

Kieran exhaled slowly, visibly forcing himself to relax. But Rory saw the fire in his eyes—this was personal now. He wasn’t just a prince, he was Arcum’s protector, their leader, and he was done running.

Ewan glanced at the restrained, mind-controlled soldiers once more. “Whatever you’re planning—I want in. I owe you, and I owe it to my men.”

Kieran nodded firmly. “Good. Because we already have reinforcements.” He gestured behind him to the waiting Fae army. “We’re heading back to Arcum. We’re taking our home back.”

Ewan’s eyes widened in relief, and Rory saw determination harden his expression.

“But we’re taking my men with us,” Ewan said quickly, tone brooking no argument. “We’re not leaving them like this.”

Rory’s lips twitched in a faint, tired smile. “Then we’ll put them to sleep and float them along.”

Ash groaned, rolling his eyes. “Great. Now we’ve got a floating army of unconscious puppets.”

“Better than leaving them behind,” Rory shot back lightly.

Ash sighed dramatically but couldn’t hide his reluctant amusement. “Fair enough, I guess.”

Rory shared a quick look with Kieran, seeing the resolve there—the fierce determination to protect their people, their home.

They were coming back stronger now. Ready to fight. Ready to win.

And this was just the beginning.

Just as Rory was starting to believe the fight was over, a small group of Fae soldiers approached from the far edge of the clearing. Two of them carried a thick cloth between them, bundled tightly around something pulsing faintly with red light.

Rory’s breath caught. It was the artifact. The one the mages had used to rip the soldier’s soul away.

One of the Fae knights bowed slightly to Kieran, his expression wary. “We found this near the center of their spellwork. It… thrums with dark energy. My men didn’t want to touch it directly.”

Kieran eyed the cloth-wrapped object grimly. The faint light beneath the folds pulsed again, slow and steady—like a heartbeat.

“That’s the thing they were using,” Ash muttered, stepping closer but not too close. “It’s the conduit. The thing that opened the portal, sent the souls through.”

“It’s foul,” the Fae knight added quietly. “Old magic. Corrupted.”

Kieran’s expression was grim. “Wrap it tighter. Bind it with steel if you have to, but keep it sealed. I don’t want anyone getting curious.”

“Yes, Your Highness.” They moved swiftly to obey.

Kieran turned back toward the valley, the fading fires of the Helmsfirth camp casting long shadows behind them. “We’ll study it later,” he said, voice low. “Figure out what we’re up against. But for now… we move.”

Rory’s eyes lingered on the wrapped artifact as the soldiers carried it away. His chest ached for the souls it had already stolen—but hope stirred beneath the sorrow.

They weren’t lost yet. They still had a chance to bring them back.

And Rory would fight like hell to make sure they did.