Crimson Unbound

Thunder cracked like a whip across the skies above Evaris.

The storm had been building all evening, rolling in from the eastern cliffs with clouds colored like bruises. Rain lashed the windows and hissed against stone while the palace torches fought to stay lit, their flames bowing and guttering in the wind. Autumn had brought a chill to the castle that no hearth could quite chase away.

Yet inside the west wing, the air was warmer. It was thick with herbs, salves, and the faint glow of magic. The healer's ward was no longer a battlefield infirmary, no longer lined with cots groaning under the weight of the war's dying. It smelled of rosemary and sage instead of wine and blood, and though there were still groans and curses, most came from sparring wounds and clumsy accidents rather than mortal injuries.

Maeve worked at the long oak table with her sleeves rolled past her elbows. Her hands were steady as she pressed her palms above the gash along a young knight's side. The man's jaw was clenched as he tried, and failed, to hold still.

"You'll live." Maeve spoke gently, her voice like calm water over stone.

The knight huffed. "Doesn't feel like it, my lady."

"I imagine not." Maeve lips tugged into the faintest smile. "But that's what happens when you take a blade to your own sparring partner's ribs."

His ears burned red, though he tried to look stoic. "Didn't think he'd swing back that hard." He muttered.

Maeve pressed more firmly and the knight flinched, sucking in air. Her hands glowed faintly, the familiar warmth of healing light spilling from her palms. The skin beneath her touch rippled and stitched itself back together, blood ebbing as though time were reversing.

The knight's eyes widened while his breath caught. "By the gods..."

Maeve shook her head. "Just practice." She eased her palms away as the the glow began to fade. The wound was gone, leaving only a faint line. "There. Try not to get yourself gutted again tomorrow."

The young man ran a tentative hand over unbroken skin, flexing his side. Awe lit his expression. "You fixed me, just like that? No bandages, no stitches. How—how do you..."

"Magic." Maeve finished for him, tucking stray strands of damp hair behind her ear. "Though I'm sure you've heard less kind words for it."

The knight flushed again as he lowered his voice. "It's just...strange, seeing it here. In the palace. Helping us instead of..."

"Killing you?" Maeve supplied, her tone wry.

All the man could do was give a guilty nod.

Maeve's expression softened. "Times are changing. Mages aren't your enemy." She packed her herbs back into their jars. "We're tired of fighting just as you are."

The knight hesitated, then inclined his head in something close to respect. "Thank you, my lady."

Maeve gave him a tired smile. "Rest. And next time, keep your guard up."

When he left, she let her hands fall into her lap. Two years ago, her presence in the ward would have been met with suspicion, if not outright hostility. Now soldiers sought her out. They were of course hesitant at first, but grateful all the same. The palace had grown used to the sight of mages walking its halls, teaching, healing and building. The war had remade everything.

But peace had not undone grief.

Maeve cleaned her hands and shed her apron, leaving the ward quieter than when she had entered. She moved through the castle with her practiced urgency, her steps unhurried, but sure. Water pooled in the corridors where the storm crept in, dampening the hem of her gown and the hair that clung to her temple but she hardly noticed.

Her path ended before the tall doors of the king's chambers. She paused, drawing one steadying breath, and knocked twice.

Silence, and then a faint, hoarse, "Come in."

Maeve pushed the door open. The chamber was dim, lit only by the hearth's amber glow and the pale flashes of lightning through the balcony doors. The curtains billowed with the storm's breath, and there on the balcony, braced against the rail, stood Darian.

King Darian.

He didn't turn at her entrance. Maeve lingered a moment before crossing the room, her voice gentle. "You'll catch a fever."

Still he didn't move. His arms were rigid while his shoulders were soaked through. Rain clung to the fine velvet of his robes, pulling the now heavy fabric against him. His hair was longer now, brushing past his ears, while streaks of silver threaded through the blond beneath his crown. Time had etched deep lines into his face, but grief remained the sharper mark.

"It doesn't matter." His voice was soft. "I know you'll heal me."

Maeve let out a quiet sigh as she fell in line by his side. Her hand rested at his back, not timidly but with the easy weight of someone who had done so a hundred times before. For the smallest moment, he leaned into her touch, as though grounding himself there.

"Your advisors are asking for you again." She murmured.

Darian gave a dry scoff. "I'm sure they are."

"You're still avoiding them?" She asked, although she already knew.

He only shrugged. "He still hasn't come back, Maeve."

Her gaze followed his out to the storm-drenched village below. Lanterns flickered in the gloom, guiding his people as they rushed to shelter. Cloaks were pulled tighter, children splashed through puddles, dogs darted through the mud. The city endured, even in storm.

But beyond the gates, along the forest path, there was nothing.

No Edmund.

"Can you blame him?" Maeve said softly. "He's been through so much. We all have."

"I just wish he would stop. She's not coming back, Maeve."

Maeve turned to him. "Darian, you have to understand. You may have known Lyra since you were children. But Edmund...he never had that."

His expression flickered, though he said nothing.

"I remember just watching how gentle he was with the children, it came so naturally to him." Maeve looked out at the kingdom below at their own people stuck in a memory. "He never stopped talking about the sister he'd once lost." Maeve's voice softened. "But he always believed she was out there, somewhere. Even when no one else did, he never gave up—not once."

A flash of lightning lit Darian's profile. Rain had carved tracks down his face, though whether water or memory, Maeve could not tell.

Silence stretched between them, broken only by the storm. Maeve did not move her hand from his back, and he did not ask her to. Over the years, their grief had learned the shape of the other's presence, and in that shared weight, they had found something steady. Something...else.

"He'll never stop searching for her, Darian." She finally said.

And then came the sound: hoofbeats. Distant at first, then closer, then faster.

Maeve's breath caught as the lone rider burst from the treeline, soaked and cloaked. All while his horse pushed hard through the rain as lightning split the sky above them.

"He's back..." Her breath broke on the words.

She didn't wait for Darian to see if he followed. She was already running, her skirts flying behind her like stormclouds. Guards stepped aside without question, opening the doors just as she reached them.

The downpour was cold as it stuck her skin. Drenching her instantly, but she didn't care. She didn't stop.

The rider dismounted, handing his reins to a stablehand without a word. Maeve nearly slipped on the slick steps as she rushed forward, throwing her arms around him.

The man grunted from the impact. "Nice to see you too."

She pulled back all while the rain dripped from her lashes, and looked into his exhausted face. Edmund. His brown hair plastered to his forehead, blue eyes still bright, though shadowed by months of searching.

"You've been gone two months!" She said breathlessly as they crossed the threshold into the palace. The storm eased its grip on them at once. "Tell me you have news?"

He shook his head, handing his cloak to a servant. "Nothing. I went past the border, through three provinces. No one's seen her."

Maeve's face fell.

"I even tried sensing her magic, but I'm no longer bonded to her." Edmunds voice held dread the longer he spoke. "I asked every merchant, every traveler. Either she's hiding or..."

He faltered, choking on his words. Maeve could tell he was trying to stay hopeful. But hope can only travel so far. She touched his arm gently, letting her palm lay flat against his soaked sleeve. "She just needs time, Edmund."

"I know." He raked a hand through wet hair, shoulders slumping. "But how much time?" Edmund looked at Maeve with those shattered blue eyes of his, as if the sea inside them was only one drifting cloud away from breaking open into a storm. "I just... I need to know she's safe. If I could just see her."

Before Maeve could reply, another voice cut across the hall. "It's good to see you."

Both Edmund and Maeve turned sharply.

Darian stood at the top of the grand staircase, with his rain-damp robes clinging to his body. Darian's posture was composed but behind his eyes betrayed the weight within. His gaze remained locked on Edmund has he descended slowly with each step more deliberate than the last.

Edmund's jaw tightened. His hands curled into fists at his sides. "I wish I could say the same."

"Edmund—" Maeve began softly, but he raised a hand, cutting her off.

"If you'll excuse me, your Majesty." His tone was clipped, edged with bitterness.

The guards nearby stiffened, hands began twitching toward their sword hilts, but Darian lifted a hand and stilled them without looking away from Edmund. "It's alright. Let him pass."

Edmund's glare burned hot a moment longer, watching the soldiers obey Darian's every command. "Must be nice," his low voice bit with each word, "not feeling the consequences while the rest of us pick up the pieces."

Edmund turned sharply with his boots striking hard against marble, splashing through puddles as he strode away. A door slammed somewhere down the corridor, the sound echoing like the very thunder surrounding the kingdom.

The hall fell silent again, except the pounding of rain above.

Darian's shoulders were heavy as he dropped his gaze. His voice was barely audible. "He still hasn't forgiven me."

"Give him time." Maeve stepped closer with her hand brushing his arm. Darian didn't flinch, instead Maeve tilted her head, studying his profile. The storm-light caught the silver in his hair and the exhaustion in his eyes.

"Did Lyra ever tell you where she might go?" She asked gently.

Darian shook his head slowly. "No. One moment she was there. The next...she wasn't."

Maeve's chest ached at the quiet resignation in his voice.

"We'll find her," she whispered. "She's strong. She's out there somewhere, Darian. We'll bring her home."

Darian's gaze drifted past the rain-streaked palace doors, out toward the dark horizon where the forest swallowed the land beyond the gates. Somewhere beyond border and kingdom, beyond memory and myth, Lyra lived like a ghost. But ghosts always left a trail.

He shifted his eyes back to the corridor where Edmund had disappeared, the sound of the slammed door still ringing in his ears.

A long pause settled between them. Maeve didn't speak again, only let her hand rest there, trying to ground him. He finally exhaled, a breath caught somewhere between grief and resignation.

Darian's jaw tightened as though the words had struck somewhere raw. His reply came low, almost reverent, as if speaking to something unseen.

"Home?" He let the word linger, bitter on his tongue. "Maeve... her home is buried in the fields behind this castle. And no matter how far she runs, she'll never forget it. "He turned toward her again, his gaze catching on Maeve's brown eyes, deep and gentle and full of a hope that pressed against the bruised edges of his grief. "She will never forget him."

Maeve's breath caught. For a moment she said nothing, only watched the shadows pull tight across his face. She didn't need him to explain for she knew who he meant. She knew which grave the rain fed each spring, and which name Lyra would never say with happiness aloud again.

He was right.

Two years had passed since the battle that broke Evaris. Two years since the throne room had run red with blood and death. Lyra had vanished in the aftermath, as if the shadows had claimed her too. Her chamber in the west wing had been sealed by her own hand, the mirrors within all shattered, cracked, or covered.

Maeve remembered the way Lyra could not bear to look at herself anymore.

Maeve's voice softened, but her hand stayed firm on his arm. "Then she shouldn't be out there alone. You know what grief does, Darian. It festers and twists, until there's nothing left but the pain. Lyra has carried more of it than anyone should, and if we don't find her..." She hesitated, her throat tightening, but the truth pressed through anyway. "It'll consume her.

Darian's gaze dropped, heavy with memory. His voice was low and fragile in its honestly, nearly swallowed by the storm outside. "Eron was the only one who could keep the fire inside her from consuming her. Without him... I fear she'll ever find that again."

For a moment, the storm outside seemed distant, the wind and rain mere background to the tension and warmth of the space between them. Maeve's hand rested lightly on his arm as his blue eyes drifted down meeting hers, and for a heartbeat, the storm outside faded, leaving only the quiet closeness between them.

She offered no words, none were needed. In that glance, he understood that she saw the cracks in him and would not let him fall, just as she trusted he would stand with her. A slow exhale slipped past him, and carried with it was a fragile, unspoken relief. They both knew that no matter what storms came next, they would face them together.