Xaiden
Sleep evaded me like a hunted thing.
It wasn't unusual—sleep and I had been distant acquaintances for years—but last night felt different. Last night the darkness itself seemed to recoil, leaving me alone with a mind that wouldn't quiet and memories that wouldn't die.
And at the center of all of it stood her.
Serena Hawton.
A ghost I thought I'd buried with her family… yet she kept rising in ways I never anticipated.
Not the Serena from that night—
not the Serena whose tears streaked through ashes,
whose scream split the air as flames swallowed what was left of her world.
No.
The Serena from the southern walls.
The one who had stood with her chin lifted and her blade lowered.
The one who had taken back half a kingdom without breaking a single civilian bone.
The one who'd looked at my soldiers like she could see straight through their fear and into their loyalties.
The one who'd turned mercy into a weapon.
I dragged myself out of bed before dawn, the sheets twisted like I'd fought a battle in my sleep. Maybe I had.
The hallway was silent as I walked, torchlight flickering against the stone walls. Every guard I passed bowed, but their eyes followed me too long—curious, wary, whispering.
Rumors had spread faster than wildfire in a dry field.
"Lord Xaiden looks troubled."
"He hasn't slept."
"He's furious."
"He's haunted."
Haunted.
They had no idea how accurate that word felt.
I shoved my way into the training courtyard, desperate for something physical, something real, something that wasn't her.
The soldiers straightened instantly.
"Lord Xaiden!"
"General on the grounds—"
"Silence," I muttered.
The weapon rack glinted invitingly, rows of steel singing the promise of oblivion. I grabbed a sword—no practice blade, a real one—and swung before my mind could catch up.
The first strike was too sharp.
The second too quick.
The third nearly slipped from my grip.
Every movement was wrong because every thought was wrong.
I saw her in every opening.
Her eyes in every reflection.
Her voice—steady, infuriating, resolute—echoing behind every command in my mind.
Stand down.
You don't have to die today.
Xaiden will not harm you if I stand here.
I gritted my teeth and struck harder.
Why had she said my name like that? As if she knew me. As if she understood me. As if she was certain I wouldn't hurt them.
Why would she ever believe that?
Blades clashed behind me—soldiers sparring quietly while watching me in their peripheral vision. They were terrified to approach but more terrified to ignore me.
I was losing control, and they could smell it like blood in the water.
Calren, my second-in-command, approached with caution fit for a man nearing a wounded animal.
"My lord," he began.
I didn't stop swinging.
"Yes."
"There are… circulating whispers."
I paused mid-strike. "Whispers."
"Yes," he said, swallowing. "Among the soldiers. The court. Even the lower staff." A breath.
"They say you haven't slept. That you seem… disturbed."
I steadied the sword, my jaw tightened.
Disturbed.
That word again. It clung to me like smoke.
He continued cautiously, "Some believe the recapture of southern Eryndale has affected you more than expected."
Affected.
No—Serena had challenged me unexpectedly.
And I despised her for it.
I despised the way my mind kept returning to her courage, her strategy, her voice.
"I am unaffected," I said coldly.
Calren didn't believe me, but he nodded anyway. "General Thorne is waiting in the war room. You asked to question him about the southern breach."
Right.
Thorne had witnessed the takeover.
I needed to know how she had done it so cleanly.
So… brilliantly.
I tried not to use that word. It felt like treason.
---
**The War Room
General Thorne snapped to attention the moment I entered. The war room was dim, lit only by scattered lanterns and a sprawling map of Eryndale that now showed an ugly divide—my emblem in black wax marking the north, hers in red marking the south.
Half the kingdom.
Half mine.
Half hers.
The symmetry of it taunted me.
"Report," I ordered, not sitting.
Thorne cleared his throat. "Lady Serena used… unconventional tactics."
"Explain."
"She placed herself between our troops and the civilians."
A pause.
"She didn't command them to fight. She simply—stood there."
Stood there.
Like she expected to be struck down
but dared us to do it anyway.
"And this stopped you?" I asked, voice sharp.
"Our men hesitated," he admitted. "Because she didn't act hostile. She refused to raise her sword unless forced. She told the civilians to stand behind her. To trust her."
I felt something twist inside my chest.
Trust her.
Her people trusted her instantly.
My soldiers faltered.
Thorne continued, "When we finally advanced, she redirected the civilians into safe zones and surrendered the outer walls… without bloodshed."
My breath stilled.
"She also said something publicly," Thorne added carefully.
I turned fully to him. "What did she say?"
"She told the people, 'You are safe. Xaiden will not harm you if I stand here.'"
The room went silent.
My pulse thundered loud enough to drown out the lantern crackle.
She used my name.
She used it like she believed it.
Like she knew something I didn't.
Or worse… like she remembered a part of me I had tried desperately to bury.
Thorne shifted uncomfortably. "The people believed her, my lord. They were willing to walk through fire behind her."
Of course they were.
Serena Hawton had always been like that.
Even at seventeen, even with ash on her face and loss in her eyes—
people listened to her.
I exhaled slowly. "Dismissed."
Thorne saluted quickly and left.
---
**Alone with the Map
I stayed behind, staring at the divided kingdom laid out before me. The wax seals blurred slightly as my vision unfocused.
Rumors said I was haunted.
Mad.
Unbalanced.
And maybe they were right.
Because no matter how hard I tried…
no matter how deeply I pushed it down…
I couldn't stop replaying her voice in my head.
You are safe.
Xaiden will not harm you if I stand here.
She spoke of me like I was still human.
Like she remembered the boy I was before the night everything burned.
But I didn't deserve that.
Not after what I did.
Not after what she lost.
Yet her words clung to me like a curse—
the kind spoken softly, meant to heal but reopening wounds instead.
I pressed my hands onto the edge of the table, knuckles whitening.
Serena Hawton wasn't a ghost or a nightmare.
She was worse.
She was the crack beneath the crown—
the one threat that didn't need a sword to undo me.
And the most dangerous part was this:
She had no idea what she was doing to me.
None at all.