Caden’s POV
By the third day, the pattern was undeniable.
Alexander was not recruiting blindly. He was not gathering the desperate or the reckless alone. He was choosing carefully—Verdanan men and women who already believed the union had stolen something from them. Old soldiers. Displaced nobles. Sons of families who had bled during the first wars. People who remembered borders not as lines on maps, but as graves.
Nationalism was his weapon.
I stood in the strategy chamber, staring at a series of reports pinned along the wall. Every marked village shared the same history: once fiercely loyal to Verdana, once resistant to Verloreni rule, once promised glory by men who never stayed to clean the blood afterward.
“He’s framing this as restoration,” I said quietly.
James nodded. “They believe they’re reclaiming honor.”
“They’re being used,” I replied. “And they don’t even see it.”
That was the danger. Alexander did not need to convince them to hate Verloren. That hatred had been inherited, whispered from father to son, mother to daughter. All he had done was give it a voice again.
I dismissed James and went to find Elara.
She was in the eastern solar, standing at the window, hands braced against the glass as she watched the capital move below. She looked composed to anyone else. To me, she looked brittle—holding herself together through sheer will.
“I know how he’s recruiting,” I said as soon as I entered.
She turned, eyes immediately sharp. “Tell me.”
“He’s using Verdanan identity. Telling them the union erased their culture. That they’ve been ruled instead of represented.”
Her jaw tightened. “And people believe him.”
“Yes.”
She closed her eyes briefly. “We need proof. Something undeniable.”
“I know,” I said. “And we have prisoners.”
Her gaze snapped to mine. “Interrogations?”
“Yes.”
She hesitated only a second. “I’m coming.”
We descended into the lower chambers together, the air growing colder with each step. The prisoners were held in separate cells, guarded heavily. Most were young—too young to fully understand the cause they claimed to die for. Others were older, eyes hardened by years of resentment.
The first interrogation yielded nothing.
The second ended in silence so stubborn it bordered on fanaticism.
By the third, frustration burned hot beneath my skin.
“They won’t speak,” Elara said quietly after another failed attempt.
“They will,” I replied. “Everyone breaks.”
She looked at me sharply. “Not everyone.”
I met her gaze. “Not you.”
She said nothing, but she didn’t turn away either.
The fourth prisoner was different. He sat slouched against the stone wall, lips curled in a faint, mocking smile. Verdana’s colors were stitched crudely into his tunic.
“You’re wasting your time,” he said before we spoke.
“Tell us who you answer to,” I demanded.
He laughed. “You already know.”
Elara stepped forward. “You’re being used,” she said calmly. “Alexander does not care about Verdana. He cares about power.”
The man’s eyes flicked to her, something dark and calculating there. “You wear our crown,” he sneered. “But you weren’t raised by us.”
I felt tension spike instantly.
“Watch your mouth,” I warned.
He surged forward suddenly, lunging for Elara with a feral shout.
I moved without thought.
Steel flashed as I shoved myself between them, my hand striking his chest hard enough to slam him back against the wall. Guards restrained him immediately, dragging him away as he spat curses in Verdanan.
My heart hammered violently.
“Elara,” I said sharply, turning to her. “Are you hurt?”
She shook her head, but her hand had latched onto my sleeve.
I didn’t pull away.
For a long moment, the world narrowed to the sound of her breathing, to the way her fingers tightened as if grounding herself in my presence.
“They’re getting bolder,” she said quietly.
“They won’t touch you,” I said without hesitation.
She looked up at me then, really looked at me. “You didn’t even think.”
“No,” I admitted. “I didn’t.”
Something shifted between us—not soft, not gentle, but solid. A reminder that whatever distance war tried to wedge between us, we were still strongest together.
She reached for my hand. I let her.
We interrogated two more prisoners that night. Most remained silent, even under pain. But the last one finally broke—not from torture, but from fear.
“You don’t understand,” he whispered hoarsely. “This isn’t just about Alexander.”
Elara leaned forward. “What do you mean?”
He laughed weakly. “He has a future. A bloodline.”
My grip tightened on the table. “Explain.”
“Alexander has an heir,” the man said. “Someone he’s preparing to rule after him.”
The room went deadly still.
Elara’s fingers tightened around mine. An heir.
Alexander was not fighting alone. He was building a legacy. And the war had just grown far more dangerous.