AZEN

  The wind over Dubas carried the smell of iron.

  Not the clean scent of forged steel, but the rougher one—old rails, wet chains, the breath of machines that had run too long without rest. It clung to the town and crept along the streets like an echo the city couldn't turn down.

  Even at night, it refused to sleep.

  Azen stood at the balcony of the eastern watchhouse, looking down at the slow traffic of wagons moving through the lower gates. Fur traders from the frostlands. Salt caravans from White Sea. With the Imperial Summit drawing near, every household and merchant hurried their trade, eager to earn some coins serving the rare occasion.

  Yet the news he had received lately seemed to wash the joy out of that scene. Hidden waves were lurking beneath the peace, ready to shudder the continent in their wake.

  Azen held his pen against the page for a long while, weighing his thoughts. In the end, he wrote only one word:

  'Hold.'

  He stroked the smooth, white-speckled feathers near the tail of the falcon. A small note was tied to its leg, marked with a thread of burnished copper—the color reserved for the highest addresses.

  The Tower.

  When it was done, he opened his hand and released the bird.

  The falcon leapt into the air, circling once above him as if in farewell, before shooting away toward the southwest like an arrow.

  Footsteps approached behind him.

  Orin stopped beside the railing, one arm resting on the crutch. He followed Azen’s gaze down to the wagons below, then to the letter in his hand.

  “You’ve been staring at that all night.”

  Azen did not look away.

  “Tarth’s handwriting *. Written two days ago. Bad news.”

  Orin shrugged with a smile. “Just another day in the Seeker Corp.”

  “No.”

  Azen turned the letter slightly so the candlelight caught the edge. "The word means differently when it was Elios saying it."

  Orin leaned closer. His expression changed.

  "That bad? What else did he say?"

  Azen handed him the letter. Orin skimmed through the message. With each line his eyes moved down the page, his brow tightened further. For a long moment, neither man spoke.

  At last, Orin broke the silence. “The bastards who caused all this couldn't foresee it would lead to war?"

  Azen’s gaze drifted away, unfocused.

  “Those who sit high above rarely lower their eyes to see the troubles of the world,” he said. “Foolish and powerful. That's the recipe for disasters.”

  Orin’s voice sharpened, heat creeping into it.

  “And no one intended to intervern?”

  Azen replied, “If our nobles had possessed that kind of vision or courage, Veyra’s politics wouldn't have been in such ruin. When the ember hasn’t reached their own courtyard, no one thinks the wildfire is their problem.”

  Somewhere out in the ourskirt, the forge furnaces were being lit one by one. The ringing of hammer against anvil carried through the night, tolling like a distant bell.

  “Then what about Headquarters?” Orin pressed, worry plain on his face. “Is the Captain really planning to act alone?”

  “With his temperament? Most likely,” Azen said. “As for Headquarters… ever since Viltar left, that place hasn’t been neutral anymore. There’s a reason Elios didn’t report this back there.”

  At the mention of the name, Orin’s eyes suddenly lit up. “Then he must be looking for Lord Viltar. If anyone has a solution, it’s him.”

  Azen’s expression did not soften. “An Archon. He’s no longer truly a Veyran.”

  The youngsters tended to forget that.

  Orin shook his head stubbornly. “No. He’s different.”

  Azen glared at him, barely restraining the urge to smack the brat upside the head, then let out a long sigh.

  “Can’t blame you, I suppose. Even Elios worships the man.”

  Orin admired Elios—that much Azen knew. And boys often admired the heroes their heroes admired. Sensing Azen’s mood shifting, Orin immediately grinned and tried to butter him up.

  “Captain can adore whoever he wants. Me? I follow you, old man ”

  This time the knock on his head came without mercy.

  “Ow—what the hell, geezer?” Orin clutched his head, nearly forgetting to steady himself with his crutch.

  “If you keep acting like a brat, you’ll never catch up to Elios,” Azen scolded. “I’m preparing to retire. I can’t watch over you forever.”

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  Orin's hand stopped. This time, there was real unease in his eyes.

  “So you were serious about that earlier?” he asked. “You’re not even old. At the very least, I still can’t beat you in a fight.”

  “That’s because you’re an idiot,” Azen said flatly. “You’ve been with me for more than a decade and you still can’t deal with a few old cheap tricks.”

  He sighed again.

  “My joints… I should’ve retired last year, but..."

  His gaze returned to the letter in his hand, eyes narrowing.

  “I’ll make this one last trip.”

  Orin reached out and caught his wrist. “Elios didn’t ask us to act in that letter. Only precaution.”

  “And you’d leave him and Tarth to deal with it alone?”

  Orin’s grip loosened. He hesitated before answering.

  “If someone has to go… it should be me. You said it yourself—you’re getting old.”

  Azen snorted and kicked Orin’s crutch aside. Orin staggered, grabbing the railing to keep his balance, but his voice remained stubborn.

  “I may not be able to ride a horse, but I can still take a carriage to the Tower. The rot in my leg’s already been scraped clean. I’ll need to go there for further treatment anyway.”

  He met Azen’s eyes.

  “You won’t object to that, right?”

  “Then what do you plan to do there with that leg of yours?” Azen scoffed. “Washing their dishes?”

  Orin grinned shamelessly.

  “Still better than you. Every time you enter the Tower you look like a drunk waking up in a strange house. You can’t even use an ascension pillar. Without Captain guiding you, I’m convinced you’d be the first Seeker in history to get lost outside of his mission.”

  Azen studied the insolent brat for a long moment before his tone softened.

  “Fine. Go there and focus on healing. I’m not headed there anyway.”

  Orin blinked. “What do you mean? You're not going to meet them?”

  Azen nodded.

  “Whatever Elios intends to do, he’ll eventually come to two places,” he said. “Seeker Corp's Headquarter and the Royal Treasury.”

  He folded the letter once more, his voice calm.

  “I'll go there first–listen, watch, and arrange a few things. Clear the path a little.”

  “Then let me—”

  “Orin.” Azen’s voice turned firm. “You either stay here or go to the Tower. But this time, I can’t afford to look after you.”

  Orin nodded glumly. “Then why do you look after Captain so much?”

  Azen regarded him for a moment, something complicated passing through his mind before he shook his head.

  “You’re a fool, but Elios is a madman. Between the two, the madman usually dies first.”

  He sighed.

  “You know what he’s like. Too decisive, yet not patient enough. Throw him into a monster’s den and he'll handle it better than anyone. But dealing with those crafty nobles? He’s not flexible enough for that.”

  “But... Captain has buried great Houses before.”

  Azen crushed the letter in his hand, then saw it turning into a small sun in the fireplace.

  “That was mostly Viltar’s doing," he said. "He shielded Elios so much in the past that the boy’s never truly tasted failure, never had to learn from it. But this time…”

  He exhaled quietly.

  “I’m afraid he’ll walk straight into the blow himself.”

  Orin clenched his fist. “Then I’ll stand there to take it with him.”

  He paused for a moment, then sighed ruefully.

  “If only Lord Viltar would return.”

  Azen said nothing.

  At first, the thought seemed delightful, but truly, if it ever came to pass, Veyra would likely descend into even greater chaos.

  High Marshal Xal Deyn and High Minister Caldrin hated one another, yet at the very least, they restrained each other tightly enough for the machinery of government to keep moving—however filthy that stability might be. Viltar’s return, on the other hand, would break the balance.

  Orin’s voice cut through his wandering thoughts.

  “What is it? You don't like the idea?"

  Over the years, the boy had become the one person most adept at reading his mind. Azen shook his head slowly.

  "Viltar has my utmost respect for his backbone, but that may exactly be the problem. No one believe the great Viltar would ever compromise. Therefore, direct conflict would be inevitable."

  A purge. Perhaps even a war inside Veyra. Would it end as quickly as it began?

  Unlikely. Viltar was like an undying flame.

  At present, the man’s influence within Veyra had been cut down severely by High Marshal and High Minister. Yet unlike the so-called factions of the noble houses, Viltar’s force had never been built on bargains and favors. In truth, there were many who would return to him the moment he called. Elios, undoubtedly, for example.

  The struggle among these three great powers could keep drawing blood for weeks, months, perhaps even years, before any clear victor emerged.

  After a moment of consideration, Orin asked carefully.

  “But with the threat of war looming from the north, couldn't they set their feud aside and unite against the crisis?”

  “No. Viltar’s opponents fear him even more than Frothena. They cast him out once, and he rose stronger. They wouldn’t stop at anything to make sure he’s gone for good this time.”

  "But Lord Viltar—?" Orin pressed.

  "Could he stand up to the Frothena and save the kingdom? Maybe. But would he? I doubt it."

  Viltar—even if he were a saint—was not the kind of man to fight alone against a firestorm, baring his back to the enemy’s blade. More likely, he would leave the flames run their course. Let half of Veyra burn to ashes, perhaps, until the other half had no choice but to beg for his return.

  Orin shook his head lightly, saying,

  "I see. It seems you truly don't like Lord Viltar.”

  “How?" Azen laughed. “I’m not in any position to hate him. If anything, he even has my gratitude.”

  That much, at least, was the truth. As a Seeker, he owed the man a debt of sorts.

  Before Viltar’s time, Seekers had been little more than a loose profession—independent wanderers driven by adventures and the promise of rewards, much like bounty hunters. But when the Seeker Corp was formed, it grew into a force feared across the realm for its skills and reputation.

  It was as if they had all risen to a new height.

  Thinking that, he added,

  “But, I wonder—why do you think a man who has already climbed to the very peak of the Tower like Viltar would ever choose to return to Veyra and struggle again? Doesn’t he have a far easier life up there?”

  Orin answered after a short pause.

  “No one stays an Archon forever," Orin said. “Next year he’ll have to step down anyway."

  Azen clicked his tongue. “Step down, yes. Becoming an Elder. Hardly much of a fall.”

  “You really think so?” Orin frowned. “No leaving the Tower. No contact with your homeland. Nobody but old folks like yourself for company.”

  “What’s wrong with that?” Azen chuckled. “I’m old and ready to retire. I’d gladly settle for such a life, boy.”

  “As if you'll have a chance,” Orin curled his lips, shaking his head. “But Lord Viltar is different. I can’t picture such a proactive man living happily in a cage like that.”

  “All right,” Azen waved a hand. “I may not get the chance to choose—but neither will your beloved Viltar. The Tower’s rules have stood for centuries. If you boys want to visit us later, you’ll have to circle halfway across Veyra to do it.”

  Orin grinned immediately. “You never know. Maybe one day Captain will rise high in the Tower and gets you a place in the Outer Rings.”

  The thought flickered through Azen’s mind for a moment—then faded.

  “Forget it. Elios's ideal was never about power and rank. I’d wager he’ll choose to be a Seeker for the rest of his life.”

  “Then there’s still me,” Orin shot back. “I still have plenty of time.”

  “You? Rising to a high title?” Azen scoffed. “Seems you’re even more stupid than I thought.”

  “Oh, just you wait, geezer,” Orin said with mock pride. “On that day, I’ll bring the prettiest maidens in Veyra right to your door. We’ll show you such a good time that you’ll be desperately praying to the gods to turn you thirty years younger—then die of envy watching me.”

  “Brat. The only one dying of shame will be you, when a man thirty years older steals the girls right out of your hands.”

  They both burst into laughter.

  The sound was wrong and uneven, like a harp with snapped strings. Their smiles were stiff as though soaked in icewater. Both of them were trying too hard to look cheerful.

  Because they both knew, if the war came, there would be no feast. No maidens. No high title. Azen might not even be able to lay down his work.

  But the truth he feared most was simpler than all that. In war, old men like him were usually not the ones to die first.

  Young men were.