The news reached Alpheria three days later.
The thirty-six survivors stumbled into the capital at dawn, gaunt and bloodstained, their armor dented and dulled. The King was in the council chamber when they arrived. He saw their faces and knew.
"Where is she?" he asked.
Silence.
It was Captain Marek, Fiora's oldest companion, who knelt before the throne. His voice was hoarse. "She bade us live, Your Majesty. She bought our escape with her life."
The council erupted — some in grief, others in outrage. Lydia sat frozen, her veil trembling with the force of her breath. Carrie stood beside her, eyes wide, as though she had not yet heard the words.
"She cannot be dead," Carrie whispered.
"She is," Lydia said, her voice flat, though her eyes burned.
The King dismissed the court and locked himself in the war room. For hours, the sound of crashing furniture echoed through the halls. When he emerged, he was a different man — older, heavier, as though the crown itself had grown sharper.
Fiora's death struck Alpheria like a hammer. The soldiers mourned their general; the people whispered of omens; the enemy celebrated. Jericho paraded the news through their streets, and Grandthrest's markets sold trinkets forged from the armor of "the fallen Ghost General."
But the greatest wound was that her body was never returned. In Alpheria, the dead were honored with fire — their ashes scattered in the wind. Without her body, Fiora could not be given the rites she deserved.
That absence became a wound the kingdom could not close.
After a few days the king ordered a full investigation. The remaining imposters were hunted down, interrogated, and exposed.They infiltrated as victims of the war and decided to become soldiers. They were housed, fed and clothed yet they betrayed Alpheria. Their confessions revealed the truth: Grandthrest and Jericho had plotted the betrayal. A prince from Grandthrest had masterminded the infiltration.
The king's grief turned to fury.
"They will pay," he roared. "I will burn Grandthrest to the ground."
Carrie stood beside him, her fists clenched. "Let me build the weapons. Let me finish what Fiora started."
But Lydia stepped forward, her veil fluttering like a warning flag.
"If you do this," she said calmly, "you will not avenge Fiora. You will bury her legacy beneath the rubble of a fallen kingdom."
The court fell silent.
Lydia's voice was steady. "This is what they want. Rage. Revenge. War. If you strike now, you will not only fight Grandthrest and Jericho—you will provoke the entire continent. They will unite against us. And we will fall."
The king's eyes burned. "Then what do you suggest?"
Lydia's lips curled into a q
uiet smile. "Let me marry into Grandthrest!!"