the timid bride

# Chapter 71 – Shadows Gather

The cold morning light barely pierced through the thick mist that hung over the royal city. The air was heavy with tension, the scent of ash and steel lingering from the recent battles. Inside the war chamber, silence reigned. Maps and reports cluttered the long table, some marked with blood, others still wet with fresh ink.

Zara stood at the head of the table, her eyes scanning every symbol, every potential weak point in the realm's defenses. Her sleepless eyes were shadowed, but her gaze burned with intensity. The Crown sat heavy on her head, not just in gold but in burden. She had long stopped caring about appearances—what mattered now was survival. And justice.

Damon entered quietly, shutting the door behind him.

"More reports from the coast," he said, setting down a sealed scroll. "The mercenaries we drove out of Merevale have regrouped. They're being supplied—arms, gold, intelligence. Someone is backing them."

Zara broke the seal, her fingers trembling slightly from fatigue. She read in silence before closing her eyes.

"They've taken the fort in Brimcliff," she whispered. "That's barely a day's ride from Velden. They're closing in."

Amara approached from the far end of the chamber, her face pale but composed. "If Velden falls, we lose our connection to the southern ports. The kingdom will be split. We'll be surrounded from three sides."

Damon looked to Zara. "We need to act before they consolidate power."

Zara stared at the map. Brimcliff. Velden. The Blackwood. Each name was a bleeding wound. Each choice was a gamble.

"We strike first," she said finally. "We cut the head off this rebellion. No more waiting. No more reacting. We take the fight to them."

"But you've only just returned from the coast," Amara said, concern flickering behind her steely voice. "Your body—"

"Will hold," Zara cut in. "It has to."

She turned to Damon. "Assemble a team. I want a swift, lethal strike. We ride by nightfall."

---

By evening, the courtyard buzzed with urgency. Warriors mounted their horses, archers tightened bowstrings, and scouts checked their gear. Zara moved among them, dressed not as a queen but as a soldier—dark armor hugging her form, her sword sheathed across her back.

Damon approached her with a slight nod. "The team is ready. Elite riders only. We'll move through the mountain path and strike Brimcliff by dawn."

Zara glanced toward the sky, where the last rays of sunlight kissed the battlements. "We won't let them take Velden."

He studied her a moment, then stepped closer. "You don't have to lead this yourself."

"I do," she said without hesitation. "If I send others, and they fall, I'll carry their blood. But if I ride with them, we fall together—or we rise together."

Damon gave a small nod. "Then I ride beside you."

---

They departed under the cover of darkness. The road was narrow and steep, the trees overhead like silent watchers. Every hoofbeat was swallowed by the dense moss. No one spoke.

By midnight, they reached the edge of the Blackwood—a vast forest that twisted into itself like a knot of secrets. It was rumored to be cursed, the ground soaked with blood from wars long past. But it was also the fastest way to Brimcliff.

Zara dismounted at the edge of the path and crouched low, touching the dirt. "They've passed through here recently. Heavy boots. A dozen at least."

She turned to her soldiers. "We move on foot from here. Stay low. Stay quiet."

The deeper they moved into the forest, the thicker the silence became. Even the wind didn't whistle through these trees. It was as if the Blackwood was holding its breath.

Suddenly, a sharp whistle cut through the quiet. Then—chaos.

Arrows rained from the treetops, and mercenaries burst from the shadows with war cries. Steel clanged against steel as the strike force scattered, defending themselves in the dark.

Zara spun, parrying a blade aimed at her throat. She countered with a swift slash, dropping her attacker. Around her, her warriors held formation, but the mercenaries were skilled—well-trained, relentless.

From behind a fallen tree, Damon shouted, "They were waiting for us!"

"They knew our route," Zara growled, slicing through another foe. "We were betrayed."

A mercenary lunged at her with dual daggers, his movements fast and unpredictable. She ducked the first strike and caught the second with her gauntlet. He snarled, trying to twist free, but she slammed the hilt of her sword into his ribs and sent him sprawling.

From the shadows, a cloaked figure emerged—taller than the rest, armor darker than night, face masked. The mercenary commander.

He moved with eerie grace, cutting down one of Zara's soldiers with a single motion. Then his eyes locked onto hers.

Zara stepped forward, blood on her face, sword raised.

The two warriors collided in a blur of motion. Sparks flew as their blades clashed again and again. He was fast, stronger than he looked, and unyielding.

"You don't belong here," the commander spat, voice gravelly behind the mask. "Queens should die in silk, not mud."

Zara gritted her teeth. "I was never meant for silk."

She struck hard, blade biting into his side, but he twisted away, slashing her shoulder in return. Pain seared down her arm, but she didn't falter.

Around them, the tide began to turn. Damon's voice rang out, rallying the troops. The mercenaries faltered as reinforcements arrived—Amara's hidden archers had flanked the forest under Zara's orders from earlier that day.

The commander saw his numbers thinning and tried to retreat. But Zara blocked his path.

"Face me," she said coldly.

They fought again, breath ragged, strength fading. In the final moment, Zara feinted left and drove her blade into the commander's chest. He staggered, eyes wide behind the mask.

"You were... supposed to be broken," he gasped.

Zara leaned close. "Then they underestimated me."

He collapsed to the ground, lifeless.

---

The battle ended before sunrise. The surviving mercenaries fled into the trees. Zara's forces regrouped, many wounded, several dead—but victorious.

Zara stood in the clearing, blood dripping from her arm, the pendant Damon had given her glowing faintly beneath her collar.

Damon came to her side, touching her wound gently. "You need healing."

"We all do," she murmured. "But first, we send a message."

She looked to Amara, who had just arrived with the final wave. "Burn their banner. Raise ours in its place."

As flames engulfed the mercenary tents, Zara climbed a nearby rock and addressed her warriors.

"We are not just defending a kingdom," she said. "We are building one worthy of the people who bleed for it. Let our enemies watch their shadows—because from now on, we will not wait in silence. We will strike with thunder."

They raised their swords in salute, and for a moment, amidst the dying firelight, she did not feel the burden of the crown.

She felt only strength.

(Word Count: 1,729)