CHAPTER 75: ASHES OF THE VERGE

The hours bled together without notice.

By the time the sun clawed its way to its highest point, the village had fallen into a fragile, uneasy calm. The wounded were sorted, the dead covered. The air still carried the faint tang of smoke, but the worst of the chaos had passed.

Levan had not lifted his gaze from the reports in his hand in what felt like hours. His gloves were smudged with soot, the parchment darkened where his fingers pressed too tightly.

He was crouching beside the burnt frame of a barn, inspecting the jagged scorch along the ground. The trail of it veered into the line of trees beyond the ridge.

"The same pattern as before," said the Captain, crouching beside him. "It wasn’t merely a stray beast that wandered off course. These are the marks of the Blithe."

Levan’s brow furrowed. "Then it’s moving with purpose."

"Aye. If the direction holds, it emerged straight from the Fenrir Verge," said one of the knights, rounding the barn with a grimace after inspecting the trails.

The Captain nodded, sighing, eyes flicking back toward the crown prince wearily. "The Deyliric Expanse then, same as the earlier reports. If they were mindless, they would have moved in a straight line, but—"

He glanced at the ruined village, the blackened timbers and scorched earth stretching behind them. "...they deliberately passed through here. This detour wasn’t random. They seem to be hunting, or testing."

Levan’s eyes scanned the scorched earth, tracing the faint traces of dark energy left in the wake of the Blithe. Even amidst the chaos, the pattern was unmistakable. Clever, he thought grimly. Far too clever.

His mind flicked back to the occurrences in the palace. Lately, the Blithe had been awfully unpredictable. How many times had it outsmarted them? How many times had he seen Ilaria shaken, or worse, hurt because of it? The weight of memory pressing down like the storm-laden clouds overhead.

Even now, as the wind bit against his cheeks and the smell of charred timber filled the air, he could not shake the thought that the same intelligence that had manipulated the palace halls was guiding these monsters through the northern roads.

It was happening again...

All of a sudden, Levan’s chest tightened, a cold, hollow dread curling through his veins. He closed his eyes briefly, trying to will the memories away, but they surged forward anyway.

He still remembered how the Blithe was first detected, its shadow creeping across the kingdom, consuming everything in its path. The panic, the screams, the wards that had failed, the impossibility of stopping it...

And then... his mother.

He rubbed his temple, trying to ease the headache away.

She had been unwell for years before the official declaration. The court had whispered of a lingering illness, of a plague quietly eating at her. And no one suspected what it truly was, not even him, not even his father nor the entire royal family — until one night the truth revealed itself in blood.

Levan had raced through the cold palace halls, heart hammering in his chest, adrenaline rushing down his spine, only to find her chamber plunged in shadows with the stench of blood so strong it made him nauseous.

It had been there.

A humanoid shaped beast, impossibly tall, its form twisting in ways that made his stomach churn. The thing moved with predatory sense, a silent menace that had no right to exist. And the bed was empty, save for the horrifying remnants of what looked like human limbs.

He did not even want to think about it. Not the blood-streaked sheets. Not the empty space where she should have been. Not the way the shadows seemed to twist with intent while mocking him. He forced his mind away from the unthinkable possibility that the thing had not just taken her, but had... devoured her.

The image clawed at the edges of his sanity, and he clenched his fists so hard his nails bit into his palms, trying to shut it out. Even after years later, the memory lingered like a shadow he could never escape. He had fought, yes, he had survived... but the horror of that night had never left.

A bitter taste rose in his throat. He hated that he was reminded of it now, crouching on the ashes of another village, feeling that same gnawing terror. The Blithe had returned, or something like it, intelligent enough to weave its path cruelly through the northern roads and perhaps the whole continent.

The Captain watched him, noting the bowed head and the tension in his jaw. He lowered his voice. "Your Highness... are you well? You’ve been too quiet."

Levan’s gaze did not shift immediately, fixed on the blackened soil streaking toward the forest.

The Captain pressed gently, concern clear in his tone. "If there is... anything troubling you, let us bear it together. The men and villagers follow you, but they need you steady."

Levan straightened then, eyes narrowing as he followed the faint line of blackened soil leading toward the forest. The Verge was known to swallow entire search parties. If the corruption truly moved that way, then they were tracking it correctly.

"I am fine," he said finally, each word measured despite the exhaustion beneath it. "You... keep watch over the village. Ensure the wounded are well and the perimeter remains secure. I will not risk leaving them vulnerable, but neither can we linger here."

The Captain nodded, though the concern did not fully leave his expression. "Understood, Your Highness."

Levan rose fully, his eyes flicking briefly to the darkened sky as he made his way to the center of the square. They would need to reach the edge of the forest and establish camp before the rain hit so he could not afford delays, not with the Blithe’s corruption moving ahead of them.

His eyes swept over the village once again. Knights moved efficiently among the villagers, distributing water, blankets, and rudimentary rations. Caelwyn healers worked tirelessly, their magic glowing faintly as it eased burns, staunched bleeding, and quieted whimpers of pain.

It was a small mercy, but one that kept hope alive amidst the destruction.

And then... his eyes fall onto his wife.

Ilaria moved with astonishing precision and grace among the wounded, kneeling beside a man whose leg was mangled, murmuring softly as light pulsed from her hands. Another moment, she was shifting to a child shivering in fear, pressing her palms to the girl’s forehead to ease the fever.

That made him pause.

From a distance, Levan could see her sleeves darkened by soot and blood, her gloves streaked, loose strands of hair falling around her face, yet her composure remained unwavering despite the obvious tiredness that was etched on her face.

He had been too consumed with the report that he had not realized.

It should have been a simple, ordinary thing. Knowing her, compassion came as easily as breathing. But there was something in the sight that hollowed his chest, something that burned and softened all at once.

Because he had expected fear, maybe hesitation, certainly not this. Not her — his sheltered, bright-eyed princess — daring to kneel in the dirt, offering comfort and healing with the world’s ruin clinging to her skin.

For a fleeting moment, part of him considered delaying, letting her stay a little longer to tend the villagers and maybe rest until she regained her strength. But the rational part of him knew they could not. The storm was gathering, and the corruption would not wait.

Yet... he found himself staring, unwilling to turn away, torn between duty and the desperate desire to protect her from the horrors she was so bravely facing.

Levan exhaled slowly, forcing himself to think clearly. "Aria..." he muttered under his breath, voice catching despite himself.

In his mind, she should not have had to see any of this — the blood, the smoke, the crying. She could have stayed in her palace chambers, surrounded by warmth and laughter. And yet here she was.

So he let her be. Just for a moment more. Let the soft light of her magic wash over the wounded while he watched in silence.

When Ilaria was done, she finally lifted her head, brushing soot from her cheek and letting her sleeves fall back to cover her arms. Her hair was loose from its pins, and the faint shimmer of light still clung to her palms. She spotted him then, and her face lit with a sunbeam of a smile.

"Everyone’s tended," she said cheerfully, wiping her hands on the edge of her cloak as she walked towards him. "The worst is over. Look, even the little ones are calmer."

Levan’s chest tightened unexpectedly, though he did not let it show. His jaw relaxed just slightly as he took a slow step toward her. "I can see that," he said, his voice edged with something like reluctant pride. "You’ve done well."

Ilaria’s grin widened, as if she had been expecting that exact praise though she did not pause to bask in it. "We did well. Together," she said, gesturing briefly to the remaining healers who were still tidying their supplies.

Levan took another careful step then, closing the space between them, his gaze never leaving hers as he noticed the way she hesitated where she stood. He reached up, brushing a streak of soot from her cheek with the pad of his thumb and bent slightly, draping an arm around her shoulders, steadying her as if he were anchoring her to the earth itself.

It was not hard to notice that she was visibly shaken despite how much she was trying to hide it. And Levan was terrible at comforting people, but for her? For her, he will try.

"That was no small thing you did," he murmured, a tether in the chaos as he rubbed her arm up and down, trying to soothe her. "But that’s enough."

Ilaria stayed perfectly still, her chest rising and falling as she watched him, her hands frozen at her sides. She could feel the weight of his presence, the quiet strength in the way he moved around her, and something inside her loosened just a fraction.

Of course, he would notice.

Her fingers came up to press against her lips then, trying to stop them from quivering. Her smile wavered, soft and fragile, and her eyes glimmered wetly in the noon light, but she did not cry. Instead, she nodded once, acknowledging his reassurance.

Oh, this soft-hearted wife of his... How is she supposed to survive the cruel reality of the world?

Levan’s fingers brushed gently against her cheek, wiping away the faintest traces of tears she had not let herself shed.

He still could not understand how she could grieve for those whose names she did not know; how her heart seemed to recognize every sorrow it touched, as if she was born to mend what the world broke. And yet, perhaps that was what made her who she was.

"You must be tired," he draw her even closer. "Do you want to rest for a while?"

Ilaria shook her head. "I... I don’t want to rest. We can’t delay, w-we have to move."

He studied her for a long moment, noting the tremble in her fingers and the way her eyes still lingered on the villagers around them. Then, as he always did, he indulged her resolve, but gently with care.

"If you come with me, there’s an empty tent just over there. You can take a moment to sit and gather yourself. Can you do that?"

She hesitated, the weight of exhaustion pressing at her shoulders, but still she shook her head.

Levan smiled faintly, as if he had anticipated the response. "Then mount with me," he said, coaxing her. "The forest edge is a bit far, and the storm will reach us if we linger before dusk. And if you fall behind, the others will worry more than they should."

"...There would be a storm?" She asked.

"Highly likely," he nodded, squeezing her arm once and gently guide her away. "So come ride with me, yeah? Lean on me until we reach our next destination, you need to save your strength after what you did."

Ilaria’s eyes softened, and she finally relented, surrendering to the quiet authority in his tone. Not because she was compelled, but because she trusted him completely.