(Virella)
I stood over the corpses of the two fools who attacked my lord, their blood still sizzling on my hands, but my eyes were only on him. Arthur lay crumpled in the gore, one arm torn completely off at the shoulder, the stump ragged and pulsing. Most of his right leg was gone below the knee.
His torso was a ruin of puncture wounds and shattered bone. Blood soaked the ground beneath him in a widening lake. Sahara was cradling his head, her massive axe forgotten, tears cutting tracks through the blood on her face. Selene, Garrick, and Evangeline looked on in stunned horror.
He wasn't breathing, for one terrible heartbeat, the world went silent. My chest tightened with something I hadn't felt in years, panic. The Devourer Prince, my prince. Dead in the mud after everything he had done today. ''No,'' the word slipped out before I could stop it.
Then it happened, a deep pulse erupted from inside his broken form, inhuman, primal, it was something ancient and regenerative. His remaining claws twitched. The stump of his arm bubbled violently as flesh knitted together with wet sounds. Bone began to regrow in jagged spikes before smoothing.
The massive wound in his side stopped gushing blood and started to close, slowly, painfully. He was still alive. Barely. But not in any way that mattered to mortal men. I dropped to one knee beside him, pressing a hand to what remained of his chest. The others stared in shocked silence.
''He's… he's dead, isn't he?'' Sahara whispered, voice cracking.
''No,'' I said, rising slowly while lifting Arthur's broken body into my arms as if he weighed nothing.
His blood soaked into my robes. ''He is no longer human. Whatever has awakened has taken root too deeply. The price of becoming the Devourer, he will regenerate, but it will take time. He'll be out cold for a day, maybe two. Maybe longer. His body is rewriting itself.''
Selene stepped forward, longsword still dripping. ''Can we help him? Anything.''
''Stay back,'' I commanded, my voice carrying weight. ''He is beyond healing right now. Interference could make it worse. I will take him back to camp; the rest of you have work to do.''
I turned, Arthur's limp form cradled against me, his head resting against my shoulder. The wild thing inside him was quiet again, but I could feel it simmering beneath the surface, waiting.
''Listen well,'' I called out, my aura flaring across the battlefield so every surviving soldier, legionnaire, and commander could hear. ''Collect every enemy heart. Gather the prisoners, do not kill them yet. Strip the field of all loot, weapons, armour, and supplies. The horde belongs to us now. Work through the night if you must. When the Third Prince wakes, he will want to see the full fruits of his trap.''
Garrick saluted sharply despite his injuries. ''It will be done, Lady Virella.''
Sahara lingered a moment longer, eyes fixed on Arthur's pale face, before nodding and retrieving her axe. Evangeline lowered her hands, magic fading, while Selene gave me one last worried glance. I didn't wait. I turned and carried him across the corpse-choked plain, my steps steady despite the weight of what he had become.
The cheers of the Legion rose again in the distance as word spread that the prince still lived, but I knew the truth. Arthur had crossed a line today from which there was no return. The man was fading; something far more dangerous was being born in his place. I held him tighter as the camp came into view.
''Rest, my Devourer,'' I whispered against his matted white hair. ''The world can wait a little longer for you to wake.''
***
(King Ragnar)
The heavy doors of the war chamber opened, and a mud-stained scout entered before dropping to one knee. ''Your Majesty. News from the Western Duchy. Prince Arthur has won.''
I set aside the report I had been reading and gestured for him to continue. ''The horde was destroyed at Corpsewood Forest. The Third Prince's trap succeeded completely. Survivors have been captured, their leaders killed, and the western roads secured.''
A low murmur spread through the chamber. The western roads. Not the victory itself, but those three words drew my attention. For decades, merchants, nobles, and governors had complained about the frontier. Every caravan that vanished became a petition for aid. Every raid became an excuse for another request for gold, soldiers, or special privileges.
The western lords had built entire political careers on managing a crisis they could never quite solve. Now that the crisis had been shattered in a single campaign. I watched the reactions around the table. Some of the generals appeared impressed. Others appeared concerned.
They understood the implications as well as I did. A secure frontier meant new settlements. New settlements meant taxes. Taxes meant influence. The Western Duchy would become wealthier within a few years, and wealth inevitably attracted ambitious men. ''How is the victory being received?'' I asked.
The scout hesitated. ''The people are celebrating already. Word is spreading faster than the official reports. Many are calling him the Devourer Prince.''
There it was, not a rank, not a title granted by the crown, a name born on the battlefield; those were always the dangerous ones. A king could bestow honours whenever he wished. Legends were far less obedient. For years, Arthur had embarrassed both himself and the throne.
I had grown accustomed to viewing him as a problem to be managed rather than an heir to be cultivated. Sending him west had solved several difficulties at once. It removed him from court, removed him from the succession debates, and placed him somewhere his recklessness could do limited harm.
Instead, he had returned from the frontier carrying a victory large enough to reshape the kingdom. The western nobility would flock to him. The common people would adore him. Veterans of the Ninth Legion would spend the rest of their lives telling stories about the battle.
A prince with popularity was useful; a prince with popularity, military prestige, and an independent power base required much closer attention. I rose from my seat and walked toward the great map mounted upon the chamber wall. The neighbouring kingdoms would hear of this within weeks.
Their ambassadors would begin asking questions. Their rulers would begin wondering why a prince once regarded as a disappointment had suddenly emerged as the most celebrated commander in Verona. Some would seek friendship. Others would seek weakness; all of them would pay attention.
''Send royal proclamations throughout the realm,'' I said.
The chamber immediately fell silent. ''The victory will be celebrated in every city and town. The Third Prince and the Ninth Legion have performed a great service for the kingdom, and they will receive the recognition they have earned.''
Several councillors visibly relaxed. Then I continued. ''At the same time, I want reports from the Western Duchy placed on my desk every week. I want to know which nobles seek audiences with Arthur, which merchant houses offer investments, and which military officers begin attaching themselves to his banner.''
No one questioned the order. They understood that the battle itself was finished. What followed would be decided in drawing rooms, council chambers, and noble courts throughout the realm. As for Arthur himself, I found that my feelings remained as complicated as ever.
The resentment had not vanished, nor had the disappointment of years past. Yet for the first time in a very long while, those emotions were no longer the only things I felt when I thought of my son.
***
The world returned to me in fragments, not something I could recognise at first. There was warmth beneath me, the dull pressure of fabric, and the distant, unfocused sense that I was no longer where I had last been. My body felt heavy, as though sleep had been layered over me rather than simply endured, and for a time I did not try to move or open my eyes.
It felt easier to remain where I was, suspended in that uncertain space between recovery and memory. Then I saw her. Anna was standing in a place that did not behave like any room or field I knew, though my mind insisted on treating it as real in the way dreams sometimes do.
There were no edges to it, no clear sky or ground, only a muted stretch of light that made everything feel distant and slightly softened, as though even reality had lost confidence in itself. She looked like I remembered her, which was its own kind of discomfort, because memory is never as neutral as people pretend it is.
For a moment, I said nothing. I simply looked at her, and in doing so, I felt something I had not expected to feel so sharply in a place like this. It wasn't a surprise; it was hurt. It sat behind my ribs in a quiet, familiar way, the kind that does not demand attention but refuses to be ignored.
I had convinced myself, at some point, that I had filed what happened between us into something smaller, something already understood and therefore no longer sharp. Seeing her again made it clear that I had not done that at all. I had only learned how to carry it without letting it show.
''I owe you an apology,'' she finally spoke.
The words landed heavier than I wanted them to. I kept my expression steady, but I felt something in me tighten at the sound of her voice saying them here, as if this place permitted them to exist in a way I could not easily dismiss.
''You don't need to do that here,'' I responded quietly. ''If this is a dream, it doesn't change anything.''
''It changes something,'' she replied, and there was a strain in her voice I did not remember hearing before. ''Because you need to hear it.''
I almost told her I had already heard enough versions of it in my own head. I almost told her I had already rewritten it a dozen different ways until none of them meant anything anymore. But I didn't. I just stayed still and let her continue.
''I handled what happened between us badly, back in camp. I left you in a way that was unfair, and I know that now. I told myself it was necessary, or practical, or that it made sense at the time, but none of that changes what it did to you.''
I felt my jaw tighten slightly, though I did not look away from her. ''You made your choice.''
''I did,'' she admitted. ''And I'm not asking you to undo it or forgive it. I'm telling you it was wrong.''
The silence that followed felt heavier than before, as if the space between us had become more aware of itself. I could feel my own heartbeat more clearly now, not fast, not erratic, just present in a way that made it harder to pretend I was unaffected.
''I want you to be happy, Art,'' she continued after a moment. ''Not because of me, and not despite me. Just… not trapped by what I did.''
I looked at her then more fully, and I hated how much that sentence reached into something I had not permitted to be touched. There was a part of me that wanted to reject it outright, not because it was wrong, but because accepting it would mean acknowledging that it mattered more than I had allowed myself to admit.
''You don't get to decide that,'' I replied, my voice lower than before.
''I know,'' she answered. ''But I can still mean it.''
Another silence followed, and I became aware of how still everything was around us. Even the light felt suspended, waiting. Then she said something that made my attention sharpen differently. ''You need to stop using me as the standard.''
That one landed differently. My eyes narrowed slightly, not in anger, but in something closer to instinctive resistance. ''You're going to compare them to me,'' she continued, quieter now but more certain. ''Selene. Sahara. Evangeline. You're going to measure them against what happened between us, and decide what they are through that.''
I didn't answer immediately because I knew there was truth in it that I did not like acknowledging.
''They aren't the same,'' she added. ''They shouldn't be judged through me."
For a moment, I couldn't bring myself to respond. When I finally did, my voice felt restrained in a way that made it sound steadier than I actually felt.
''That's easy to say, harder to separate.''
''I know,'' she replied. There was no argument in it, no defensiveness. Just acceptance. ''But it still matters.''
The space around us began to loosen then, like the dream itself was losing its grip. I realised that I was going to wake soon. ''That's it, then?'' I asked quietly. ''You say it, and I just wake up and carry it with me?''
''It's already yours.''
That was the part I didn't have an answer for, the edges of her began to fade before I could find one. ''I am sorry,'' she spoke again, softer now, as though the act of saying it had finally reached its limit.
Then she was gone.