Three weeks after the arrow found Star's chest, the army stood on the ridge above Blackthorn Pass.
Below them rose Varyn's stronghold: a black iron fortress wedged between two sheer cliffs, its walls bristling with ballistae, its banners snapping in the icy wind. The rebel lord had chosen well. One narrow road in, one narrow road out. Storm it head-on and thousands would die. Starve it out and winter would kill the rest.
Star sat his horse beside Elandor at the front line, bandages still tight beneath his armor, pain a dull companion with every breath. The healers had begged him to stay in camp. He had smiled, kissed Elandor in front of them all, and walked out anyway.
Elandor had not argued again. He had simply handed Star his own spare sword and said, "Then we end this together."
Now the king turned to him, green eyes fierce under the war helm. "Last chance to change your mind."
Star grinned, reckless and alive. "Not a chance."
Elandor's answering smile was sharp as steel. "Good."
The plan was madness, and it was Star's.
While the main army hammered the front gates with catapults and siege towers (loud, brutal, impossible to ignore), a tiny force would slip through the old smuggler tunnels Star had learned about from Mira's documents. Ten men. Lila disguised as a camp follower to carry messages. And at the front of the ten: Star and Elandor themselves.
They left at moonset.
The tunnels stank of rot and bat dung, walls so narrow their shoulders scraped stone. Star led, lantern low, birthmark on his shoulder glowing faintly under the linen like it knew what was coming. Elandor followed so close Star could feel his breath on the back of his neck.
Half a mile in, the passage split. One way smelled of fresh air and death. The other of smoke.
"Trap left," Star whispered. "Varyn's too clever for the obvious path."
Elandor trusted him without question. They took right.
They emerged inside the fortress kitchens: huge ovens still warm, copper pots gleaming. A scullery boy dropped a tray when ten armed shadows stepped out of the wall. Lila caught him before he screamed, hand gentle over his mouth.
"We're not here for you," she murmured. "Point us to the lord's tower and you live."
The boy pointed, trembling. Up the servants' stair.
They moved like ghosts: silencing guards with pommels, not blades; tying, gagging, hiding bodies behind tapestries. Every heartbeat felt borrowed.
At the top of the spiral stair stood a single iron door. Two of Varyn's personal guards: elite, massive, loyal to the death.
Elandor looked at Star.
Star looked back.
No words. Just the same thought: together.
They attacked.
Steel rang. Sparks flew. Star fought left-handed to spare his wound, but fury made him fast. Elandor fought like a storm given flesh. In thirty seconds both guards were down, one unconscious, one bleeding but alive.
Elandor kicked the door.
Lord Varyn stood alone in the center of the chamber, scar livid in the torchlight, black cloak swirling. No guards left. No escape.
He smiled like a wolf finally cornered.
"Took you long enough," he said. "I wondered which of you would come to die first."
Elandor stepped forward, sword raised. "Your war ends tonight."
Varyn's eyes flicked to Star, cold and glittering. "The peasant lives. Pity. I had such elegant plans for your corpse."
Star's grip tightened on his sword. "Keep dreaming."
Varyn drew his own blade: thin, black steel, poisoned tip glinting green. "The prophecy says one must fall. Let's see whose heart stops first."
He lunged.
The fight was brutal, beautiful, and short.
Varyn was faster than any man had a right to be, every strike meant to kill. Elandor met him blow for blow, raw power against surgical grace. Star circled, waiting, watching.
Then he saw it: Varyn's tell. A tiny shift of weight before every killing thrust.
Star moved.
He stepped inside Varyn's guard, took a shallow cut across the ribs rather than let Elandor take the poisoned blade, and slammed his sword hilt into Varyn's wrist. Bone cracked. The poisoned sword spun away.
Elandor roared and drove forward. One beat, two. His blade slid under Varyn's guard and punched clean through the traitor's chest.
Varyn staggered, blood bubbling on his lips. Surprise widened his eyes, as if death itself had betrayed him.
He looked at Star one last time.
"You were never… the weakness," he rasped. "You were… the end."
Then he fell.
Silence crashed in.
Elandor's sword clattered to the stone. He stared at the body, chest heaving, then turned and crushed Star against him so hard the wound screamed.
"It's over," Star whispered into his neck. "It's really over."
Elandor's arms shook. "You're bleeding again."
"Worth it."
Below, the fortress bells began to ring: not alarm, but surrender. The rebels saw their lord dead on his own tower. The fight drained out of them like water from a broken cup.
Lila appeared in the doorway, eyes wide. "The gates are opening. They're laying down arms."
Star laughed: breathless, half-mad with relief. Elandor kissed him right there above the corpse of their enemy, tasting blood and tears and victory.
Later, when the sun rose red over the cliffs, the army cheered itself hoarse as Elandor and Star rode out of the fortress side by side. Varyn's black banner was torn down. In its place rose the royal stag and, for the first time in history, a simple silver star on blue.
The war was won.
But in the quiet that followed, as Elandor cleaned and re-bandaged Star's new wound by candlelight, they both knew the hardest part still waited.
One shall fall so the realm may stand.
The prophecy was not finished with them yet.