Through Flame and Time

Before dawn broke, the monastery bells tolled three times unexpectedly—the code for emergency evacuation in the Eastern Border.

Aveline jolted awake from her slumber, while Lucian was already standing by the window with a sword in hand. His gaze was as sharp as a blade, piercing through the thick snow fog: "They're here."

She quickly put on her clothes, hid The Book of Ashes in a specially made travel bag, and followed him out of the bedroom. Flames were breaking out in the courtyard, and several dark figures were scaling the walls, attempting to surround them from multiple directions.

"Protect her and retreat to the south gate," Lucian ordered the guard captain, then slashed at an approaching enemy with his sword. Gritting her teeth, Aveline followed the escort team through the corridor still covered in unmelting snow.

Monks fled in panic amid the chaos, and the holy land that had once buried secrets had now become a hunting ground for power. Aveline knew these people were not ordinary assassins, but the Regent's privately trained imperial guards, the "Silent Fire Regiment."

When they reached the south gate, more than a dozen men in black blocked the entrance, their blades glinting like a forest. Without hesitation, Aveline drew her short blade, for the first time feeling that she must carve a bloody path for the truth with her own hands.

Lucian arrived close behind, his swordsmanship as fierce as a storm, dropping several enemies in an instant. Just as they broke through the encirclement and prepared to mount their horses, a cold arrow whistled through the air, aimed straight at Aveline's shoulder.

"Your Highness—!" the guard roared.

Lucian was quick to react, pulling her into his arms. The arrow deeply embedded itself in his left shoulder, blood gushing out. Gritting his teeth, he did not fall, only murmuring: "Get on the horse. I can hold on."

Aveline's eyes were blurred with tears, but she did not cry. She knew that vulnerability was only for the night; they could not fall before dawn.

They rode out of the monastery and galloped along a southeast forest path. It was not until sunset that they briefly stopped at an abandoned watchpost.

She removed the arrow from Lucian, cleaned the wound, and stitched it up. Her fingers were stained with blood, but her heart was firmer than a knife.

"Why do you always disregard your own safety?" she asked, looking at him with red eyes.

Leaning against the wooden wall, Lucian smiled, his voice hoarse: "Because I know you're the one who can change all of this."

She suddenly leaned down to kiss him, with anger and determination: "Then don't leave me behind."

He raised his hand to pull her into his arms, taking the initiative to deepen the kiss, passionate and chaotic. She knelt on top of him, her already disheveled, her lips wandering across his chest, her fingertips touching the distinct scars on his abdomen.

Lucian suppressed a low groan, responding to her desire. His pain seemed to gradually melt under her warm skin, replaced by another burning throb.

She took the initiative to push him down on the straw, exploring with her lips and tongue, their moans as low as vows. He whispered in her ear: "You're like a queen now."

She bit his shoulder gently, saying: "Then you're my warrior."

The night wind blew through the broken eaves, and starlight fell like cold fire, illuminating their intertwined shadows.

In the frenzy of surviving this calamity, their vows were repeatedly reaffirmed through kisses and embraces.

That night, they did not sleep. It was not until the east grew pale that Aveline fell asleep in his arms, while Lucian leaned beside her, tightly clutching The Book of Ashes in his hand—he knew the real war had just begun.