the timid bride

# Chapter 72 – Blood in the Blackwood

The fire still crackled in the Blackwood clearing, casting long shadows over fallen mercenaries and shattered weapons. Smoke curled up into the canopy like dark whispers, vanishing into the early morning haze. Zara stood amidst it all, her armor smeared with blood and soot, her sword still wet from the final blow that ended the mercenary commander.

Around her, the soldiers moved with cautious efficiency—collecting the wounded, burning enemy banners, dismantling tents. The battle had been won, but the aftermath was just as brutal. Cries of pain echoed through the trees, the groans of dying men mingling with the rustle of wind through ancient leaves.

Zara barely noticed the ache in her shoulder where she had been struck. Her focus was on the faces of her people—brave, bloodied, but still standing. Damon was speaking quietly to the healers, directing them to those in critical condition. Amara was already sketching a revised defense map on a scrap of parchment, her brow furrowed in intense concentration.

Zara's eyes were drawn to a young soldier, barely more than a boy, who sat trembling near a tree, hands shaking as he cleaned blood from his blade. She approached him slowly and knelt beside him.

"Your name?" she asked gently.

He looked up, startled. "Tomas, Your Majesty."

"You fought well, Tomas," she said. "You stood your ground."

"I was so scared," he confessed, voice cracking. "I thought I was going to die."

"So did we all," Zara said. "But courage isn't the absence of fear—it's what you do despite it."

She stood and placed a hand on his shoulder before walking back to Damon. "How many did we lose?"

"Seventeen dead," he said quietly. "Dozens injured."

"And the mercenaries?"

"Broken. Scattered. Leaderless."

Zara exhaled slowly. "Good. But we can't assume they're done."

"We won't," Damon assured her. "You gave the order to send word to Velden, right?"

She nodded. "They'll be reinforcing the port city. If the Circle or any remaining mercenary factions attempt a strike, we'll be ready."

A scout approached at a run. "Majesty! We found something in the commander's tent."

Zara followed the scout through the ruined camp. Inside the largest tent, papers were scattered across a wooden table. The scout handed her one—sealed with a sigil she didn't recognize.

She broke it open.

"What does it say?" Amara asked, stepping in behind her.

Zara's eyes scanned the letter. Her brow furrowed deeper with each word.

"It's not just mercenaries," she whispered. "It's a contract. Someone paid them to target Velden specifically. But not just to conquer it—to raze it. They wanted no survivors."

Amara's eyes widened. "A massacre."

Zara turned to Damon. "This wasn't just about territory. Someone wanted chaos. Fear. They're trying to make the people lose faith in the crown."

Damon took the letter and read it quickly. "The signature—'V.C.'—does that mean anything to you?"

Zara was quiet for a long moment. Then her eyes narrowed.

"Vairen Corshal."

Amara gasped. "He was executed five years ago."

"No," Zara said coldly. "He faked his death. Or someone faked it for him."

Vairen Corshal had once been the head of the Royal Treasury—a brilliant, charming noble who had secretly siphoned funds to rebel groups before being caught and supposedly executed. But now, his name had returned like a curse.

"If Corshal is alive and involved," Zara said, "we're not fighting a fragmented rebellion anymore. We're fighting an organized insurrection. One with deep pockets and deeper hatred."

Damon set his jaw. "Then we hunt him down."

Zara stepped out of the tent and looked at the sky—clouds still hung heavy, but beams of sunlight began to pierce through.

"We return to the capital tonight," she said. "No rest. No celebration. There's more coming, and we must be ready."

As her forces packed up the camp, Zara's mind raced. The storm was far from over. And the shadows were gathering faster than she had feared.

But she would not break.

She would not fall.

She was queen.

And war was her throne.

(Word Count: 1,558)