Elara stood at the eastern gate, the leather map clutched in her hand, its crude lines guiding her toward the harpy-guarded cliffs. The mist hung thick, the air sharp with the tang of pine and the faint, acrid scent of sulfur, a prelude to the danger ahead. The pouch of gold at her waist felt heavy, a reminder of her bargain with Sylvi, while the pendant at her throat pulsed with a warmth that mirrored her racing heart. Draven's kiss lingered in her mind, a beacon of love amid the deceit, but the mission to retrieve dragon's breath resin was her only shield against the court's relentless scrutiny.
She adjusted the blade at her hip, its weight unfamiliar but grounding, and stepped into the forest. The trees loomed like silent watchers, their branches clawing at the mist, and the ground grew rocky as she ascended toward the cliffs. The harpies' cries grew louder, a discordant wail that sent shivers down her spine. She reached a jagged outcrop, the resin's source—a glistening amber pool guarded by three harpies, their leathery wings spread, talons glinting in the pale light.
Elara ducked behind a boulder, her breath shallow, and studied them. Their eyes glowed red, their screeches piercing as they circled the pool. She needed a distraction, drawing on the village tales of outsmarting beasts. She gathered dry twigs, striking a flint to spark a small fire, then tossed it downslope. The flames caught, crackling and drawing the harpies' attention. Two swooped toward it, their talons raking the earth, while the third remained, its gaze fixed on the pool.
Seizing the moment, Elara crept forward, her blade ready. The harpy turned, its shriek splitting the air as it lunged. She rolled, the talons grazing her arm, and slashed upward, the blade catching its wing. The creature howled, staggering, but its companion returned, claws slashing. Elara parried, her arm burning from the cut, and drove the blade into its chest. The harpy collapsed, its body dissolving into ash, leaving the pool unguarded.
Breathing hard, she scooped the resin into a vial, its warmth seeping through the glass, a triumph tainted by pain. But the third harpy's return forced her to flee, its talons grazing her back as she stumbled down the slope. She reached the gate, collapsing against the stone, the vial clutched tight, blood seeping through her torn cloak.
Draven found her there, his golden eyes widening with alarm. "Elara!" he roared, lifting her into his arms, his scales rough against her skin. He carried her to his chambers, the firelight revealing the extent of her wounds—shallow but numerous. "Why didn't you tell me?" he demanded, his voice a mix of anger and fear as he tended her cuts with a cloth dipped in warm water.
"I had to protect us," she whispered, her voice breaking. The truth hovered—her common roots, the forgery—but she buried it, meeting his gaze. "I couldn't lose you." Her hand brushed his, and he paused, his expression softening.
"You're my heart," he murmured, his fingers tracing her cheek. He leaned in, his lips capturing hers in a kiss that held desperation and devotion, his hands framing her face as if to anchor her. The warmth of his touch melted her defenses, and she clung to him, the pain fading beneath the intensity of their connection. When they parted, his forehead rested against hers, his breath ragged. "I'd face the abyss for you," he said, his voice raw.
But the moment shattered as a guard burst in, his face pale. "Sire, a message from the south—Lord Cedric claims the true princess lives, held by him. He demands Elara's surrender or her family dies." The words hit like a blow, and Elara's blood ran cold, the forgery's fragility exposed.
Draven's eyes darkened, his grip tightening on her hand. "We'll meet this," he vowed, but the revelation hung between them, a crack in their bond. Alone later, Elara stared at the resin vial, its amber glow a mockery. Cedric's claim meant her lie was unraveling, her family's lives the price. She needed to confront him, to protect Draven, but the thought of facing her past—and losing him—tore at her soul.
The next day, she sought Sylvi, finding her in the stables, the shadow wolf Kael at her side. "Cedric knows," Elara said, her voice trembling. "The true princess is alive. We need a plan—can the resin strengthen the forgery?"
Sylvi's eyes narrowed, her fingers pausing on Kael's fur. "The resin can bind a ward-spell, but it requires a ritual—your blood and Draven's, mingled with it. It might fool magic, but if Cedric brings the true heir, no spell will hold." Her tone was grim, a warning of the stakes.
Elara nodded, her mind racing. "I'll do it. When?" The ritual was a gamble, but it might buy time. Sylvi sketched a circle on the ground, marking it with runes. "Tonight, in the ritual chamber. Bring Draven—unwillingly if need be."
That evening, Elara approached Draven, the resin vial in hand. "I need your help with something," she said, her voice steady despite the fear. He agreed, unaware of the ritual's depth, and they descended to the chamber, its walls etched with ancient sigils. Sylvi waited, her chant beginning as Elara pricked their fingers, mingling their blood with the resin. The air thrummed, the ward flaring with golden light, sealing the forgery—for now.
But as they left, a shadow moved—Sylvi's betrayal or Cedric's spy?—and Elara wondered if the ward would hold, or if her love with Draven would crumble under the weight of truth.