Prologue

  A silent night lay heavy over the dreadful capital of Eldhraen.

  Valmare slept, recovering from the chaos and filth of the day. The air felt heavy—thick with the stench of sweat, fish, and Ale. Night was a relief for most laborers, especially the messengers who spent their days running the veins of the city.

  Erys Cole closed the door of the post office with trembling hands.

  The old man was tired of life itself—of endless labor, of aching bones, of rising before dawn and returning long after dusk. Still, tonight he allowed himself a moment of relief.

  “Father, hurry up. Don’t fall behind,” his son called from the alley.

  Erys smiled faintly. “Don’t worry about me.”

  “As you wish” Voice called out.

  “Just don’t forget to come through the back door,” the boy added. “We’re surprising mother.”

  “I won’t,” Erys answered. “I’ve been surprising her on her name day long before you were born.”

  A laugh echoed from the darkness.

  The old man chuckled as well.

  He turned the final key in the lock and straightened his coat—

  —and felt cold steel press against his throat.

  “Open the office,” a voice whispered.

  Three figures emerged from the shadows as if the night itself had given them shape. Hooded. Faceless. Silent.

  Erys obeyed.

  His hands shook as he unlocked the door and stepped inside. They followed him, closing the door behind them.

  “Paper. Quill. Ink,” another voice commanded.

  Erys fumbled through the chest, found a fresh vial of ink, laid out parchment, and waited—breathing shallow, heart pounding.

  “Write,” the first man said.

  He spoke slowly; each word deliberates.

  “My King,This realm is an ancient fortress that has long withstood decay. But its towers are cracking.Do not fear, my liege. Soon, every battlement shall crumble, and the red banners shall rise once more.”Valmare will have its rightful king again.

  Erys finished writing and stared at the drying ink, his mind racing with questions he dared not ask.

  The men waited. Motionless. Patient.

  When the ink dried, Erys folded the letter.

  “Where… where is it to be sent?” he asked.

  The man before him answered calmly.

  “Where no man returns from. Where madness festers and exiles rot.”

  “To Insula Exilii.”

  Erys hesitated. “That message will take time to arrive.”

  “It is of no concern,” the man replied. “I have waited years already.”

  “So has the man for whom it is written for.”

  Erys said nothing more. He fastened the letter to a falcon’s leg and released it into the night sky, watching until it vanished beyond the rooftops.

  The men turned to leave.

  Then the third spoke.

  “He is a witness.”

  Silence followed.

  Erys dropped to his knees. “Please. I won’t speak of this. I swear it. I have a family—”

  The man stepped closer.

  He asked softly.

  “Yes.”

  “Good,” the man said. “Then they will remember you as the man whose sacrifice freed Valmare from the usurper.”

  The messenger looked up, confused.

  The hood fell back.

  Erys fell back, shocked, eyes wide. “M—my L—”

  Steel flashed.

  The blade opened his throat, and Erys Cole collapsed to the floor, blood pooling beneath him.

  “For the King,” the man murmured.

  The hood was drawn once more.

  The three figures vanished into the shadows as the falcon flew across city of Valmare and disappeared beyond the horizon.

  The sun rose over the capital of Eldhraen. With its light, life returned to Valmare. Golden rays slipped through cracked shutters and broken windows, waking the city from its uneasy rest.

  Morning in Valmare came uneasy. The first sound in the city came from coughing in doorways, chains shifting where men slept too close together, and the wet slap of bare feet over stone that had never been clean. Smoke from a hundred cooking fires rose into the pale sky, thin and bitter, and already the air tasted like yesterday’s grease. The streets were narrow in places, wide in others, and in all of them the gutters were full—rainwater, fish-blood, spilled ale, and the quiet runoff of a city that did not care where filth went so long as it went away from the rich.

  Valmare’s buildings looked old even when they were new. Plaster cracked, roofs stitched together with whatever could be found. The doors, mended countless times through the ages, had become a curious mosaic of timbers—oak scarred by ancient wars, pale ash veined with silver, and dark walnut whispering forgotten spells—woven together like a patchwork cloak guarding secrets within. Above, balconies jutted out over the street, sagging under the weight of years and indulgence, their stone railings slumped like weary shoulders straining to hold up the lives and secrets that played out behind silk curtains. Below, the first vendors dragged their stands into place, clattering, muttering prayers that business would be good and that the city watch would not decide to “inspect” them for coin.

  Smiths were the first to greet the morning, their hammers striking cold iron upon anvils in steady rhythm. Fishermen pushed their boats toward open waters. Laborers dragged heavy crates and sacks freshly arrived at the docks, backs bent beneath their weight.

  The smiths’ district lived by sound. Hammer, hammer, hammer—then the hiss of metal in water, then hammer again. Sparks leapt like fireflies, bright for a moment, gone next. The men and boys working there moved as if they shared the same spine, passing tools without speaking, wiping sweat with forearms blackened by soot. Even those who hated each other worked at the same rhythm; metal demanded that much obedience.

  The fishermen did not waste time speaking either. They moved with rope and net and practiced hands and fingers hard as driftwood, nails split from salt and work. Some boats had names carved into their hulls, though the names were faded. Others had no names at all, as if the sea did not deserve the courtesy. The smell near the markets was sharp and alive—brine, scales, rot, wet wood, tar.

  And the dock laborers—Valmare’s bent backbone—pulled their loads with the resignation of men who had stopped expecting mercy. Some wore rags around their hands to keep the rope from tearing skin. Some had no rags and simply bled. Children worked too, small, and quick, carrying what they could, running messages, moving nails and boards and buckets. They learned early to avoid eye contact with the wrong people.

  From shaded balconies and cushioned chairs, slave owners watched. Men and children hauled carved tables, fine silks, polished furnishings—luxuries meant to satisfy wives who screamed when the work slowed and laughed when the whips fell.

  The balconies belonged to those whose lives were made of shade. Curtains fluttered behind them, soft as clouds, and servants stood at their shoulders holding goblets or fans. The chairs were upholstered, stuffed so thickly they looked like something that had grown rather than been built. From those seats, the owners watched the docks like a theatre. They were not interested in the labor itself—only in whether it was fast enough, quiet enough, obedient enough. Their eyes moved over human backs the way a butcher’s eyes moved over meat.

  The men and children hauling goods did not look up. Looking up invited trouble. If someone thought you were glaring, you could be beaten. If someone thought you were begging, you could be mocked. Better to keep your gaze down and your mouth shut and your body moving.

  These women had a single purpose: obedience and sons. Bear heirs, serve well, and perhaps earn a fragile escape from chains.

  Some of them had once been poor girls themselves, born with nothing but a face that could be sold. Some had been dragged from better homes. Some had been raised in houses with gardens and music and still ended up on these balconies, surrounded by comfort and rot. They wore perfumes that fought the city’s stink and were always lost. Their jewelry shone in sunlight and in the same light you could still see the cruelty in their smiles. Their laughter carried far, like thrown stones.

  Those less fortunate labored from dusk until dawn, scrubbing floors or selling their bodies in brothels where dignity did not exist. Valmare breathed, and it stank.

  The stench was a living thing. It moved through alleys and climbed walls, settled into hair and cloth. It clung under fingernails and behind teeth. It was fish and sweat and garbage, yes—but also old blood dried into cobblestones, urine in corners, and the sour breath of too many mouths that had never known clean water. When the wind shifted, you could smell the tannery district, where hides were soaked and scraped. When it shifted again, you could smell the river and the mud that swallowed whatever the city threw into it.

  “It’s a good thing tomorrow is the Sun’s Coronation,” someone muttered nearby. “We finally get to eat meat.”

  The voice came from a man crouched beside a bakery wall, hands wrapped around his knees as if he could hold himself together by force. His face was gaunt, eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep or too much drink. Around him, others nodded. People listened to when anyone mentioned food. Even those who pretended they were above it listened.

  The Sun’s Coronation came once every eleven full moons—a day without night, when the moon never fell. Priests declared it the birth of the new year.

  In Valmare, priests were not always loved, but they were always heard. Their words were the only part of the city that sounded like certainty. On Coronation Day, banners were hung and red wax was melted over seals and bells were rung until the ears ached. The city dressed itself up like a beggar pretending to be a lord—still a beggar beneath the cloth but trying all the same.

  On that day, the king’s men distributed food to every household: bread, wine, meat. It was said that a family who did not eat well on the Coronation was cursed with misfortune for the year to come.

  People believed that with the kind of faith desperate people always carried. Not because they were foolish, but because hunger made superstition feel like wisdom. Some families saved their best clothes for it. Some saved their last coin. Some planned weeks ahead. And some—those who had nothing to plan with—simply prayed the king’s men did not “forget” their street.

  Irren finished his breakfast, kissed his mother on the cheek, and stepped into the street.

  His home was small, like most homes near the poorer edge of the docks: two rooms, low ceiling, a hearth that smoked when the wind turned. But it was his. It smelled of salt and boiled grain and the faint sweetness of whatever herbs his mother could afford. The bowl he ate had chips in the rim. He didn’t care. Food was food.

  His mother’s cheek was warm when he kissed it. Her hands were rough, her fingers always busy mending, scrubbing, counting what little they had. Her eyes lingered on him the way mothers’ eyes did in Valmare: as if they were always bracing for the day their child did not come back.

  He made his way toward the fish markets, weaving through the crowd with practiced ease.

  He knew where the stones were slickest, where the street dipped and puddles formed, where carts turned too sharply and could crush an ankle. He knew which corners belonged to which boys, which alleyways were watched by the city guard, and which baker would sometimes throw a burned loaf to children rather than sell it as fresh. He nodded at people who mattered and stepped aside for those who would hit him if he didn’t.

  “Irren! Come here—give me a hand with this!”

  The shout cut through market noise like a hook through water. Irren turned at once, already moving.

  “Yes, Father. Right away.”

  He reached the boat where Eldric M’yorn stood ankle-deep in shallow water, trousers rolled up, arms already braced. Eldric was not a tall man, but he was built the way

  dock-men were built—compact, tough, made of work. Salt had bleached the edges of his hair. His face had the weathered look of someone who had spent more time with wind than with comfort.

  They lifted a heavy net with fish from the boat while a merchant counted aloud.

  The net was a living weight—slapping, writhing, slick. Fish flashed silver and grey in the morning sun, scales glittering for a heartbeat before disappearing under bodies. The smell hit Irren’s nose at once, sharp, and familiar. He gripped the rope with both hands, feeling the strain in his forearms. Eldric’s hands did not slip once.

  Around them, other fishermen unloaded too. Some shouted prices. Some argued. A boy nearby gagged as he hauled up a basket of eels, earning a laugh from an older man who had no patience for weakness.

  “How did you know I was working here today?” his father asked. “Or who told you I needed help?”

  Eldric’s eyes flicked toward him, half amused, half tired.

  “Mother sent me.”

  “Of course she did,” the man sighed.

  The merchant finally spoke. “Three gold coins.”

  He said it like he was doing them a kindness. He was well dressed for a deckman—clean boots, a cloak that was not patched, rings on two fingers. His hair was combed, oiled, and his nose wrinkled as if the fish smell offended him despite the fact he made his living from it.

  “Three?” his father scoffed. “You must be out of your mind. Five at the very least—this is four crates.”

  Eldric’s voice carried enough edge to make a few nearby heads turn. People loved to hear someone talk back. It was entertainment in a place where joy was rare.

  “Three gold,” the merchant repeated, voice colder now.

  The merchant’s eyes hardened, and in that hardness was a warning: argue too far and you will regret it.

  “Three gold and four silvers,” Eldric M’yorn countered.

  “You are a stubborn man,” the merchant said. “That will lead you to ruin.”

  “Or to more coin,” Eldric replied.

  The merchant smiled thinly. “Very well. Three gold and four silvers.”

  The coins clinked as they changed hands. Irren could hear the sound clearly; in Valmare, coin had a louder voice than most people.

  Irren watched in silence as if his father lost sixteen silvers’ worth of fish.

  Not because Eldric didn’t know the value. Because he did. That was what bothered Irren. His father was not weak, not foolish. He had watched him haggle before, watched him squeeze extra silvers from men who thought fishermen should be grateful for scraps. So why now?

  “Come,” Eldric said suddenly. “I’m heading to the far docks. Isn’t that where your friends live?”

  “Yes.”

  As they walked, Irren’s thoughts churned.

  They moved along the waterline, past rows of boats and stacked crates. Dockworkers shouted numbers at each other, counting loads, cursing when ropes snagged. A man with missing teeth spat into the water and laughed at something his friend said. Two guards leaned against a post, pretending to watch for trouble while their eyes followed a passing woman.

  The farther docks were rougher. Fewer merchants, more muscle. More men with scars. More men who wore weapons openly and did not fear punishment for it.

  “Father,” he finally asked, “why did you let that merchant rob you?”

  Eldric chuckled.

  He didn’t laugh because it was funny. He laughed like someone who had learned that some questions didn’t have satisfying answers.

  “Because he’s not the sort of man whose bad side you wish to meet.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he is Clovis’s brother.”

  Irren frowned.

  That name was known. Everyone in Valmare knew it. Some spoke it with fear, some with anger, some with careful neutrality people used when speaking about storms.

  “Is Clovis actually deaf?”

  “No,” Eldric said quietly. “They call him deaf because he has no ear for the screams of mothers when he steals their children. No ear for the cries of girls he violates. No ear for young men begging for mercy.”

  Irren swallowed.

  He’d heard stories. Everyone had. But hearing his father say it, calmly and plainly, made it feel heavier—like it wasn’t rumor at all, just weather. Just truth.

  “Why hasn’t anyone killed him?”

  “Because he has power.”

  “Then why not undermine him?”

  “Because his greatest asset cannot be destroyed.”

  Eldric studied his son before continuing.

  There was something careful in that look. Like Eldric was weighing whether curiosity would keep Irren alive—or get him killed.

  “Have you heard of the Galvarad Rebellion?”

  “Yes,” Irren said. “The king was losing until Vaelor arrived. They say the king’s brother started it—and was banished to Insula Exili.”

  Eldric nodded.

  “When Galvaradi warriors reached our lands, the king had almost no army left. He armed the city. Thousands died. Then the Lord of War struck the king down, blade raised for the killing blow.”

  Irren leaned closer.

  “A man stabbed the warlord through the back,” Eldric continued. “That man was Clovis. The king rose. The Aelvaryans arrived. Clovis was rewarded with power.”

  Irren understood.

  So that was the chain. Not law. Not justice. Debt. A king’s life is bought with another man’s brutality.

  “Clovis lives until the king dies,” Eldric said. “And that will not happen for twenty Coronations—unless he is murdered.”

  They reached the end of the docks.

  Here, the water was darker. The posts were older. The ropes were frayed. The men here didn’t smile unless they were about to take something from you.

  “I’m heading out to sea,” Eldric said. “You may come or go to your friends.”

  The sea meant work, cold spray, and Eldric’s steady presence. His friends meant laughter, trouble, and that other hunger Irren carried—the hunger to belong to something that wasn’t just survival.

  Irren chose his friends.

  He slipped through a narrow passage by the shoreline and found them waiting.

  The passage was wedged between two storage sheds, hidden unless you knew how to look. The boards were warped, nails sticking out at odd angles. It smelled like seaweed and old piss. Irren didn’t care. He’d crawled through worse places.

  “Look who finally arrived,” Micah said. “Irren the All-Knowing.”

  Laughter followed.

  They embraced.

  Four boys. Two girls.

  Jon, the butcher’s son.

  Micah, the stonemason’s apprentice—an orphan.

  Arthur, a smith’s apprentice.

  Jack, a farm worker’s boy.

  Another Jack, an orphan who served wine in a brothel.

  Maria, who lived in one as well.

  And Anesya, daughter of a tavern worker.

  They weren’t dressed the same, but Valmare had a way of making everyone look like after a while—dust on boots, salt on sleeves, a tiredness in the eyes that came too early. Jon smelled faintly of blood and fat, even when he washed. Micah had stone dust in his hair, always. Arthur’s hands were burned in small places where sparks had bitten him. Jack the farm worker had sun in his skin even when he stayed in the city. The other Jack had the restless look of someone who listened too hard, too often. Maria’s gaze missed nothing. Anesya smiled like someone who refused to let Valmare take that too.

  “Where were you?” Jon asked. “We waited.”

  “I helped my father.”

  “And before that?” Micah pressed.

  “I was sleeping.”

  “Sleeping?” they echoed.

  “Because he reads all night,” Anesya said.

  “All right,” Irren said. “What’s new?”

  Jon’s expression darkened.

  “You haven’t heard.”

  “Heard what?”

  “Erys Cole was found dead. Throat slit. In his office.”

  Irren froze.

  The name hit like a stone to the gut. Not because he loved Erys Cole. But because it meant something had shifted. Old men who kept their heads down didn’t get their throats slit for nothing.

  “That old bastard had it coming,” Micah said.

  “He was annoying,” Jon replied, “but not worth killing.”

  “Or he saw something,” Maria said softly.

  Silence followed.

  Even though the sea seemed quieter for a moment, the waves gently were gently against the posts. Irren’s mind ran through possibilities like a rat in a maze. Who would want an old messenger dead? Who would benefit? Who would fear what he carried?

  “Enough of this,” Jack said.

  The farmworker’s boy had the habit of cutting through heavy talk. Not because he didn’t understand it, but because he knew what it did to people—how fear could swallow a day whole.

  “There’s a Cweryns tournament tomorrow. You should play.”

  “I can’t afford the entry.”

  “I know a man,” Jack said. “Half the winnings.”

  “And the prize?”

  “One hundred gold coins.”

  A whistle escaped Arthur’s lips.

  Even Maria’s eyes widened, just slightly.

  “Fifty gold is worth the risk,” he said. “If you lose, you lose nothing.”

  Irren looked around.

  Everyone nodded.

  These were not rich children. They didn’t nod because they didn’t care about money. They nodded because they did. Fifty gold coins weren’t comfortable. It was a door. A chance. In Valmare, doors didn’t open often.

  “So be it,” Irren said.

  Micah smirked.

  “Let’s see if you’re half as clever as you claim.”

  “We’ll see,” Maria added.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  Terren

  At night, Valmare slept mostly. The only places that still felt alive were the taverns and the brothels. On that calm and quiet night, chaos broke out in the tavern near the docks. Some old laborers, tired of reality, often went to Ale and wine to escape it. To make reality what they wished it to be in the world, they entered after the ale took over their bodies and minds. They drank and went to young girls to lust over, to try to seduce them. In their minds, they were still these men whom women thirsted over. They were old men whom these girls wouldn’t even glance at. This night was no different. Laborers had driven themselves to the point of mind-twisting, and they had their eyes on a few beautiful young women returning to their homes after a day at the atelier. They followed them down the road and into a dark alleyway. The girls had noticed them and tried to lose them a few times, but the men didn’t give up. They eventually cornered the girls, leaving them nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. The girls begged them to let them go “Please, please don’t. There is a brothel just down the docks, you can find more women there, we will give you money, anything but please don’t do this. The men stopped for a moment, then one of them looked up and asked them, you seem to be worried about your bodies too much to offer us gold instead, are you girls still maidens? The girls nodded, “Yes, please sir. Take all the gold you want” She tossed them a pouch holding 10 gold coins. Enough to hire 10 whores for the entire day. “Very generous offer, young lady, and tempting, but do you know a saying amongst the men? Scared girl shook her head, tears filling her eyes. Nothing gives a man more pleasure than, drinking the best of ale, killing the strongest of soldiers and fucking the most innocent girls. The man let out a laugh, others laughed as well. Girls were now shaking from fear, tears filling their eyes and running down their cheeks. The men stepped closer. The girls screamed, but the city felt as if it was dead. They closed their eyes and accepted their fate when a voice rang out from behind. A boy, a young man walked down the alleyway. “Let them go your grey drunken cunts.” He said mockingly. “Look at you pathetic idiots, calling yourselves war heroes, when you are just drunken old men who can’t seem to break anything more than little girls.” The men turned back, now with confused look on their faces. “Who the fuck are you?” “How old are you boy?” “Shouldn’t you be in bed?” The old men mocked the young man, threw insults at him, girls looked confused and relieved for the moment. The boy didn’t respond, just kept walking forward. He was tall, a muscular hood covering his face, black leather jack covering his chest, torn leather trousers masking his legs. “Go back the way you came boy, or we will give you a turn as well after we are done with them.” The boy didn’t speak, he kept walking, calm, composed, steady, almost like he had it all under control. “That’s it you little shit.” “Time to teach you a lesson.” One of them stepped towards the boy and threw a punch, the boy ducked under it and delivered a punch of his own. The old men fell; ale dulled his senses to the point where couldn’t get up again. The boy approached them, many punches were thrown, many old men lay unconscious on the floor when it was over. The girls stood there, frozen, in disbelief. “Thank you, kind sir.” “I know there is no way to ever repay what you did but, what we can do, we will be glad to offer it.” The young man let out a faint laugh. “I didn’t do this because I wanted a reward, I did it because someone needed my help and I couldn’t go around it.” The hood fell back. Girls looked at him, none of them really recognized who he had and then the oldest girl spoke. “Ter- Terren?” “Is that you?” she asked. “The one and only.” “Hello Alysa, or is it still Ali?” She went up to him and hugged him; other girls stared in confusion. Then she looked back at them and told them “Girls, this is my childhood friend Terren. We grew up together in the orphanage. We were inseparable until… ““Until they sold us to different slavers.” Terren finished her sentence for her. Terren these are my friends; we work together in the atelier. The girls stepped forth one by one and introduced themselves to their savior and friend of a friend. “I am Lysa. Nice to meet you, Terren.” “My name is Melisa, but you can call me Melli if you like.” “Alright Melisa, please stop flirting with my friend.” Alysa said and gave her a hissy look. “I am not flirting, just being friendly. No need to be jealous Alysa unless you love him” “No!!” “No!!” Alysa and Terren said it at the same time. “Nothing to fear then.” Melisa, said. Silence hung in the air. Then Alysa finally broke the silence “Well, thank you Terren for helping me out once again. Where do you live, where do you work? I know we were separated but we’re together again, our friendship can continue, can it not? Melisa sighed” Friendship.” She spoke under her breath. “What was that?” Alysa asked. “Nothing, I didn’t say anything.” Alysa turned to Terren again. “No” Terren started” Our friendship doesn’t have to end. I work at the docks as a guard, I mostly do nothing, not much happening there.” “Just tell me when to come by the atelier and I’ll come by.” “Usually, after sunset.” Alysa replied. “Very well then I’ll see you tomorrow at sunset.” Terren agreed. “Come on, let’s go girls.” Alysa turned to them. They both said goodbyes. “I’ll come with you” Terren spoke. “Terren, you don’t have to.” Alysa started. “After what just happened you mean to tell me I don’t have to. No, I’ll be escorting you three homes, end of the discussion.” “Very well, let’s escort Melisa first then, she lives the closest.” Alysa said. “Lead the way.” They walked down the dark and quiet streets of Valmare. They walked past places which are normally filled with life, noises, and people. Now it was empty and dead silent. They escorted Melisa home. “See you two tomorrow” “And thank you Terren, for saving us today.” She told Terren, then leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. Alysas’ expression shifted but she didn’t dare show it. “Where to next?” Terren asked. “Me and Lysa live together so I guess there is one path.” Alysa smiled at him. “Better for me then, less walking” Terren said jokingly. They walked to the outskirts of the city and reached a tiny hut. “We are here.” Lysa said. “Let’s go Alysa, we must sleep or we won’t be able to wake up tomorrow, it’s way past the time we usually are asleep at. “You go on Lys, I want to catch up with my friend for a while, if he isn’t too tired.” “Not at all. Terren said.” “I’d be glad to catch up on things.” “Very well.” Lysa said. “And thank you Terren, for today.” “No need.” Terren responded. Lysa went inside the hut. “Shall we?” Alysa spoke. “Of course,” They walked across the empty beach. “So, how did you end up here, in Valmare.” Alysa finally broke the silence. “At first, I was sold to a sailor, I was carrying the cargo off the ship and on it whenever necessary. I worked like that for 8 years. One day we were in Isles of Ganndor, were getting ready to leave, we ate, drank, some got drunk, but the captain was really drunk. In that drunken state I approached him and asked jokingly, what would need to happen for me to be free again. Hearing this he laughed, laughed so hard he nearly suffocated. Then he straightened himself up and told me, the only way you will walk free again is if this ship overturns into the sea and all of us die and you live. I was shocked. I knew we would’ve never said anything of possibility, but I didn’t expect that answer. But I still asked him, has that ever happened before? He answered, boy, even if the shadow protector himself came to this wretched realm to do so he wouldn’t be able to. “Novenaris” can’t be sunk by anything, he said,” “What’s Novenaris” Alysa asked. “The name he called that wretched ship of his. Massive, strong, fast for its size. It was one of the biggest and fastest ships in Eldhraen.” “That night we took off for Southwood’s docks. A massive storm came upon us, heavy rain, waves sized cliffs, tides so strong that the ship was being thrown off its course. The captain of course didn’t want to sail out the dangerous waters and turn back, he asked his sailors “are you all afraid of a little water.” We swam right through the tides. We had to use buckets to empty the board of water, because it would’ve sunk the ship if we didn’t. We sailed through and in the horizon shores of Moorveil appeared. We told the captain to let us dock there and we would transport it the next day. He refused, turn to Southwood docks he said. We turned right and towards the docks. As we approached the storm seemed to calm down a bit. We saw the docks of Southwood, the captain started speaking to me “Told you boy, nothing can sink Novenaris. Not even the shadow itself. Those words left his mouth and the storm returned, worse, heavier. And as we got closer a massive Maelstrom appeared in front of the ship. The way of getting to that dock was completely sealed now, the captain said, if the shadow wants the dance with me, he’ll have one, “Open the sails and ready yourselves,” he shouted. We opened all the sails and prepared for what was about to come. We sailed into the Maelstrom, Captain laughing still and shouting at the sky “Is that really all?” We got past a part and looked like we were through, but the wheel slipped out of the captains’ hand and the ship started going down into center of the maelstrom. We had a choice either to go down with the ship or abandon it, abandoning it was just as dangerous, if not worse. I made my choice and jumped first. I managed to swim away from the pulling current of the maelstrom and as I looked back, I only saw how that whirlpool of water swallowed the ship whole and then closed like it was never there. I swam towards the shore but passed out. I woke up on a boat, with two fishermen standing above me. They escorted me back to the land and I started living here. What about you? What happened to you the day you were sold? “I was sold off to the atelier. Where I work now.” She responded. “I have been in Valmare for 9 years Terren.” “It’s been a long time” Terren said. “It sure has” Alysa approved. “Well, I better go home, or else I won’t be able to wake up for work tomorrow.” “Of course. I’ll see you home.” Terren said. “No Terren.” Alysa responded. “Go home.” “Farewell then Ali.” “And to you Ter.” They parted ways, both feeling a weird sense of joy. Going through the memories of their childhood and now reunited again. Alysa went back to her hut. Quietly opened the door. Found Lysa sleeping already. She got ready and went to bed, her head full of thoughts, about Terren, these chains of events. On The cliff overlooking the sea Terren was practicing in the ways of the sword. He had stollen a scroll called “The grand style of the sword number 8 GLADI II” He had learnt to read just so he could uncover the secrets of it. He read the moves, the training exercises, The exact number of repetitions needed to master the swing. He worked tirelessly for it. Every single day 2 hours a day 2 hours at night. He had stollen a sword from the set of rusty, dulled patch. He worked with it. As he moved through the moonlight, swinging his sword exactly as instructed for the 100th time of that going he heard footsteps approaching, he moved through and finished the move, completing it for the 100th time. “Your hair strand is out of place maybe you should repeat it.” The figure called out. “Maybe I should repeat it only this time it should end up on your face.” The figure walked closer. “Marilyn” “Terren” They hugged each other. “Where have you been all night, I couldn’t find you anywhere?” “I was coming just your way, when I noticed those girls about to be fucked by some old cunts” “Perverted fucks” Marilyn said. I couldn’t just walk away. “What did you do?” “I walked up to them, told them nicely to let the girls go and they complied.” “Hmm. Did they now?” “And how much help did they need to understand this situation?” “Quite a lot, ye I really had to help them understand, to the last point.” “Interesting” “And the best part is you won’t guess who those girls were.” “Who were they?” Marilyn asked. “Do you remember Alysa from the orphanage?” “Ah. Yes of course, the girl that you liked.” “Yes, that one and her friends.” “You must’ve made hell of impression, and it sounds like one hell of a reunion as well.” “It was.” Terren responded. “Tell me about my brother in arms, is she still as beautiful as I remember?” “That and more” Terren responded. “Is that so?” Marilyn smirked. “I believe it is” Terren smirked back. “Well enough of that. All of that is good but, we have things to do.” “Let’s see what that scroll has taught you” “I promise I won’t hurt you unless you make me” Marilyn said mockingly. “You couldn’t hurt even if your life depended on it, you stupid fuck.” Terren joked. They drew their swords. Marilyn moved first, he fought with no style, no pattern, pure chaos, and relentlessness. Terren stuck to his training, fighting steadily, looking for the openings. Steel rang on steel; they’d been at it for some time and Marilyn was starting to look tired. Terren noticed this and told him, “Someone’s out of breath.” “Shut the fuck up and fight” Marilyn responded. They went on for a while longer, Marilyn was now visibly exhausted from the relentless attacks, now Terren was the one attacking and Marilyn was trying to hold on for dear life, Terren broke through his defenses, deflected last one of Marilyns attacks and performed a perfect counter right to his chest. The swords dull edges hurt a lot but didn’t cut. “Well, well, well looks like that scroll has finally taught you something.” “Or is it that you are getting old?” Terren told him jokingly. “Me? Old? Nonoo. You have learned something, I’ll give you that. “Enough for today. I say we go back to our Keep and get some rest.” Marilyn suggested. “Agreed.” “They went back to the city.” Walking through the city felt weird at that hour, sun was starting to rise, city was starting to wake up and they and only gone now to rest. They went up to some abandoned sewage system, crawled inside and there it was. Two layers of old rugs, a table, and some food. They keep. Marilyn turned to Terren and asked him. “What did her friends have to say about you?” “Did they thirst over you?” He asked. “Mar.” “No woman can say no to those muscles, those green eyes, and that face, I personally think you are one ugly fucker but all the women that I know ask me of my good-looking friend and just until now I had no clue they were talking about you. So be a man for once go and talk to them. They thirst over you, just give them a compliment or two and they’ll have their gowns off and will be sitting on your lap before you even know it. “Maybe my brother, maybe.” “Let’s get some rest now, they can wait for tomorrow.” “Whatever you say.” “Terren lay down on his rugs, turned over and fell asleep instantly.” Terren At night, Valmare mostly slept. The only places that still felt alive were the taverns and the brothels. On that calm and seemingly quiet night, chaos broke out in the tavern near the docks. Some old laborers, tired of reality, often went to Ale and wine to escape it. To make reality what they wished it to be in the world, they entered after the ale took over their bodies and minds. They drank and went to young girls to lust over, to try to seduce them. In their minds, they were still these men whom women thirsted over. They were old men whom these girls wouldn’t even glance at. This night was no different. Laborers had driven themselves to the point of mind-twisting, and they had their eyes on a few beautiful young women returning to their homes after a day at the atelier. They followed them down the road and into a dark alleyway. The girls had noticed them and tried to lose them a few times, but the men didn’t give up. They eventually cornered the girls, leaving them nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. The girls begged them to let them go “Please, please don’t. There is a brothel just down the docks, you can find more women there, we will give you money, anything but please don’t do this. The men stopped for a moment, then one of them looked up and asked them, you seem to be worried about your bodies too much to offer us gold instead, are you girls still maidens? The girls nodded, “Yes, please sir. Take all the gold you want” She tossed them a pouch holding 10 gold coins. Enough to hire 10 whores for the entire day. “Very generous offer, young lady, and tempting, but do you know a saying amongst the men? Scared girl shook her head, tears filling her eyes. Nothing gives a man more pleasure than, drinking the best of ale, killing the strongest of soldiers and fucking the most innocent girls. The man let out a laugh, others laughed as well. Girls were now shaking from fear, tears filling their eyes and running down their cheeks. The men stepped closer. The girls screamed, but the city felt as if it was dead. They closed their eyes and accepted their fate when a voice rang out from behind. A boy, a young man walked down the alleyway. “Let them go your grey drunken cunts.” He said mockingly. “Look at you pathetic idiots, calling yourselves war heroes, when you are just drunken old men who can’t seem to break anything more than little girls.” The men turned back, now with confused look on their faces. “Who the fuck are you?” “How old are you boy?” “Shouldn’t you be in bed?” The old men mocked the young man, threw insults at him, girls looked confused and relieved for the moment. The boy didn’t respond, just kept walking forward. He was tall, a muscular hood covering his face, black leather jack covering his chest, torn leather trousers masking his legs. “Go back the way you came boy, or we will give you a turn as well after we are done with them.” The boy didn’t speak, he kept walking, calm, composed, steady, almost like he had it all under control. “That’s it you little shit.” “Time to teach you a lesson.” One of them stepped towards the boy and threw a punch, the boy ducked under it and delivered a punch of his own. The old men fell; ale dulled his senses to the point where couldn’t get up again. The boy approached them, many punches were thrown, many old men lay unconscious on the floor when it was over. The girls stood there, frozen, in disbelief. “Thank you, kind sir.” “I know there is no way to ever repay what you did but, what we can do, we will be glad to offer it.” The young man let out a faint laugh. “I didn’t do this because I wanted a reward, I did it because someone needed my help and I couldn’t go around it.” The hood fell back. Girls looked at him, none of them really recognized who he had and then the oldest girl spoke. “Ter- Terren?” “Is that you?” she asked. “The one and only.” “Hello Alysa, or is it still Ali?” She went up to him and hugged him; other girls stared in confusion. Then she looked back at them and told them “Girls, this is my childhood friend Terren. We grew up together in the orphanage. We were inseparable until… ““Until they sold us to different slavers.” Terren finished her sentence for her. Terren these are my friends; we work together in the atelier. The girls stepped forth one by one and introduced themselves to their savior and friend of a friend. “I am Lysa. Nice to meet you, Terren.” “My name is Melisa, but you can call me Melli if you like.” “Alright Melisa, please stop flirting with my friend.” Alysa said and gave her a hissy look. “I am not flirting, just being friendly. No need to be jealous Alysa unless you love him” “No!!” “No!!” Alysa and Terren said it at the same time. “Nothing to fear then.” Melisa, said. Silence hung in the air. Then Alysa finally broke the silence “Well, thank you Terren for helping me out once again. Where do you live, where do you work? I know we were separated but we’re together again, our friendship can continue, can it not? Melisa sighed” Friendship.” She spoke under her breath. “What was that?” Alysa asked. “Nothing, I didn’t say anything.” Alysa turned to Terren again. “No” Terren started” Our friendship doesn’t have to end. I work at the docks as a guard, I mostly do nothing, not much happening there.” “Just tell me when to come by the atelier and I’ll come by.” “Usually, after sunset.” Alysa replied. “Very well then I’ll see you tomorrow at sunset.” Terren agreed. “Come on, let’s go girls.” Alysa turned to them. They both said goodbyes. “I’ll come with you” Terren spoke. “Terren, you don’t have to.” Alysa started. “After what just happened you mean to tell me I don’t have to. No, I’ll be escorting you three homes, end of the discussion.” “Very well, let’s escort Melisa first then, she lives the closest.” Alysa said. “Lead the way.” They walked down the dark and quiet streets of Valmare. They walked past places which are normally filled with life, noises, and people. Now it was empty and dead silent. They escorted Melisa home. “See you two tomorrow” “And thank you Terren, for saving us today.” She told Terren, then leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. Alysas’ expression shifted but she didn’t dare show it. “Where to next?” Terren asked. “Me and Lysa live together so I guess there is one path.” Alysa smiled at him. “Better for me then, less walking” Terren said jokingly. They walked to the outskirts of the city and reached a tiny hut. “We are here.” Lysa said. “Let’s go Alysa, we must sleep or we won’t be able to wake up tomorrow, it’s way past the time we usually are asleep at. “You go on Lys, I want to catch up with my friend for a while, if he isn’t too tired.” “Not at all. Terren said.” “I’d be glad to catch up on things.” “Very well.” Lysa said. “And thank you Terren, for today.” “No need.” Terren responded. Lysa went inside the hut. “Shall we?” Alysa spoke. “Of course,” They walked across the empty beach. “So, how did you end up here, in Valmare.” Alysa finally broke the silence. “At first, I was sold to a sailor, I was carrying the cargo off the ship and on it whenever necessary. I worked like that for 8 years. One day we were in Isles of Ganndor, were getting ready to leave, we ate, drank, some got drunk, but the captain was really drunk. In that drunken state I approached him and asked jokingly, what would need to happen for me to be free again. Hearing this he laughed, laughed so hard he nearly suffocated. Then he straightened himself up and told me, the only way you will walk free again is if this ship overturns into the sea and all of us die and you live. I was shocked. I knew we would’ve never said anything of possibility, but I didn’t expect that answer. But I still asked him, has that ever happened before? He answered, boy, even if the shadow protector himself came to this wretched realm to do so he wouldn’t be able to. “Novenaris” can’t be sunk by anything, he said,” “What’s Novenaris” Alysa asked. “The name he called that wretched ship of his. Massive, strong, fast for its size. It was one of the biggest and fastest ships in Eldhraen.” “That night we took off for Southwood’s docks. A massive storm came upon us, heavy rain, waves sized cliffs, tides so strong that the ship was being thrown off its course. The captain of course didn’t want to sail out the dangerous waters and turn back, he asked his sailors “are you all afraid of a little water.” We swam right through the tides. We had to use buckets to empty the board of water, because it would’ve sunk the ship if we didn’t. We sailed through and in the horizon shores of Moorveil appeared. We told the captain to let us dock there and we would transport it the next day. He refused, turn to Southwood docks he said. We turned right and towards the docks. As we approached the storm seemed to calm down a bit. We saw the docks of Southwood, the captain started speaking to me “Told you boy, nothing can sink Novenaris. Not even the shadow itself. Those words left his mouth and the storm returned, worse, heavier. And as we got closer a massive Maelstrom appeared in front of the ship. The way of getting to that dock was completely sealed now, the captain said, if the shadow wants the dance with me, he’ll have one, “Open the sails and ready yourselves,” he shouted. We opened all the sails and prepared for what was about to come. We sailed into the Maelstrom, Captain laughing still and shouting at the sky “Is that really all?” We got past a part and looked like we were through, but the wheel slipped out of the captain’s hand and the ship started going down into center of the maelstrom. We had a choice either to go down with the ship or abandon it, abandoning it was just as dangerous, if not worse. I made my choice and jumped first. I managed to swim away from the pulling current of the maelstrom and as I looked back, I only saw how that whirlpool of water swallowed the ship whole and then closed like it was never there. I swam towards the shore but passed out. I woke up on a boat, with two fishermen standing above me. They escorted me back to the land and I started living here. What about you? What happened to you the day you were sold? “I was sold off to the atelier. Where I work now.” She responded. “I have been in Valmare for 9 years Terren.” “It’s been a long time” Terren said. “It sure has” Alysa approved. “Well, I better go home, or else I won’t be able to wake up for work tomorrow.” “Of course. I’ll see you home.” Terren said. “No Terren.” Alysa responded. “Go home.” “Farewell then Ali.” “And to you Ter.” They parted ways, both feeling a weird sense of joy. Going through the memories of their childhood and now reunited again. Alysa went back to her hut. Quietly opened the door. Found Lysa sleeping already. She got ready and went to bed, her head full of thoughts, about Terren, these chains of events. On The cliff overlooking the sea Terren was practicing in the ways of the sword. He had stollen a scroll called “The grand style of the sword number 8 GLADI II” He had learnt to read just so he could uncover the secrets of it. He read the moves, the training exercises, The exact number of repetitions needed to master the swing. He worked tirelessly for it. Every single day 2 hours a day 2 hours at night. He had stollen a sparing sword from the junk set of them. He collaborated with it. As he moved through the moonlight, swinging his sword exactly as instructed for the 100th time of that going he heard footsteps approaching, he moved through and finished the move, completing it for the 100th time. “Your hair strand is out of place maybe you should repeat it.” The figure called out. “Maybe I should repeat it only this time it should end up on your face.” The figure walked closer. “Marilyn” “Terren” They hugged each other. “Where have you been all night, I couldn’t find you anywhere?” “I was coming just your way, when I noticed those girls about to be fucked by some old cunts” “Perverted fucks” Marilyn said. I couldn’t just walk away. “What did you do?” “I walked up to them, told them nicely to let the girls go and they complied.” “Hmm. Did they now?” “And how much help did they need to understand this situation?” “Quite a lot, ye I really had to help them understand, to the last point.” “Interesting” “And the best part is you won’t guess who those girls were.” “Who were they?” Marilyn asked. “Do you remember Alysa from the orphanage?” “Ah. Yes of course, the girl that you liked.” “Yes, that one and her friends.” “You must’ve made hell of impression, and it sounds like one hell of a reunion as well.” “It was.” Terren responded. “Tell me about my brother in arms, is she still as beautiful as I remember?” “That and more” Terren responded. “Is that so?” Marilyn smirked. “I believe it is” Terren smirked back. “Well enough of that. All of that is good but, we have things to do.” “Let’s see what that scroll has taught you” “I promise I won’t hurt you unless you make me” Marilyn said mockingly. “You couldn’t hurt even if your life depended on it, you stupid fuck.” Terren joked. They drew their swords. Marilyn moved first, he fought with no style, no pattern, pure chaos, and relentlessness. Terren stuck to his training, fighting steadily, looking for the openings. Steel rang on steel; they’d been at it for some time and Marilyn was starting to look tired. Terren noticed this and told him, “Someone’s out of breath.” “Shut the fuck up and fight” Marilyn responded. They went on for a while longer, Marilyn was now visibly exhausted from the relentless attacks, now Terren was the one attacking and Marilyn was trying to hold on for dear life, Terren broke through his defenses, deflected last one of Marilyns attacks and performed a perfect counter right to his chest. The swords dull edges hurt a lot but didn’t cut. “Well, well, well looks like that scroll has finally taught you something.” “Or is it that you are getting old?” Terren told him jokingly. “Me? Old? Nonoo. You have learned something, I’ll give you that. “Enough for today. I say we go back to our Keep and get some rest.” Marilyn suggested. “Agreed.” “They went back to the city.” Walking through the city felt weird at that hour, sun was starting to rise, city was starting to wake up and they and only gone now to rest. They went up to some abandoned sewage system, crawled inside and there it was. Two layers of old rugs, a table, and some food. They keep. Marilyn turned to Terren and asked him. “What did her friends have to say about you?” “Did they thirst over you?” He asked. “Mar.” “No woman can say no to those muscles, those green eyes and that face, I personally think you are one ugly fucker but all the women that I know ask me of my good-looking friend and just until now I had no clue they were talking about you. So be a man for once go and talk to them. They thirst over you, just give them a compliment or two and they’ll have their gowns off and will be sitting on your lap before you even know it. “Maybe my brother, maybe.” “Let’s get some rest now, they can wait for tomorrow.” “Whatever you say.” “Terren lay down on his rugs, turned over and fell asleep instantly.”

  Corven

  The morning came uneasy that day in Valmare. Sunbeams shone through the windows of the throne room, where the Lord of Wealth and the Whisper monger discussed various matters concerning the state of the city.

  King Eldric Valmor, third of his name, King of Eldhraen and Protector of Eleven Kingdoms, sat upon the throne most prominently known as the Void Core.

  The throne rose from a circular dais of black stone veined with gold, carved entirely from Miren. Its surface was rough and uneven, not polished smooth but left deliberately jagged, as if the stone itself resisted being shaped. Light was swallowed by the dark mass.

  From the back of the seat, jagged spires of Miren climbed upward like broken blades frozen in place, framing the throne in a crown of black stone. Gold ran through the structure in controlled, deliberate lines—ancient scriptures nobody could decrypt. Each vein of yellow metal reinforced the Miren, holding the fractured stone together, as if without it the throne might collapse under its own weight.

  At the heart of the backrest was set a single crystal: an Aelvaryan Blood Diamond, cut into a sharp, angular prism. Its crimson depths glowed faintly even in low light, the color rich and unnatural, forged in serpantfire and bound to the throne itself.

  The seat was broad, elevated, and unforgiving. No cushion softened it. The armrests ended in broken, angular edges. Whoever sat upon this throne did not rest—they endured.

  It was not made as a comfortable seat; it was made for a warrior, a king who would be constantly reminded that sitting on that chair was not comfortable. It existed to remind all who stood before it that power in Eldhraen was heavy, sharp, and paid for in blood.

  “My lord, the docks have sent us a parchment.”

  “They say the docks require exigent repairs,” said Arthur Demegrad, Lord of Wealth, and Warden of Solmere.

  “And what do you think, my Lord of Wealth?” the king asked.

  “Are they speaking the truth, or merely trying to make their workplace a touch more comfortable?”

  “Under normal circumstances, I would say they are attempting to fool us, but I have been there recently, Your Grace. They are not lying.”

  “The Lord of Wealth speaks the truth, my king,” the Whisper monger agreed.

  “Very well, then. How much do we need to fund?” the king asked.

  “Three hundred thousand gold coins, Your Grace,” Arthur spoke quietly.

  “Three hundred thousand?” The king was left speechless. “Since when we pay this much to builders?”

  “They have been working tirelessly for a long time, Your Grace,” the Whisper monger replied.

  Eldric, unable to contain his frustration, raised his voice. “So what?” he shouted, his tone echoing through the hall. “Send word to the docks that we will pay no more than one hundred thousand. If they refuse our terms, let them know they will regret not accepting, for they will wish they had done the work for nothing.”

  Both council members lowered their heads.

  Silence descended upon the hall.

  The sound of the massive hall gates creaking open broke it. Heavy wooden doors groaned on their hinges, drawing the attention of everyone present. All eyes turned toward the entrance, anticipation and uncertainty filling the air as the next moment unfolded.

  A man walked into the hall.

  His massive figure overshadowed both council members.

  A tall man, black-bearded, with eyes like a sea after a storm, dressed in a leather robe of red and black, bearing a mark upon the right side of his chest. A sigil made of Miren, shaped like a bear’s head—its teeth carved through a narrow opening forming its mouth, the teeth etched with diamond engravings, its eyes filled with embers.

  The council members bowed their heads.

  “My Lord Hand,” they said.

  “Corven,” the king spoke. “I hear you went out for a hunt.”

  “To clear my mind, Your Grace. I have been troubled since hearing of the unexpected death of my grandson,” he said.

  “You have my condolences, Corven. If you wish, I can pardon you to go to Ashforde and attend the funeral,” the king offered.

  The king rarely showed kindness or respect. He always wished to remind others that he stood above them.

  Only when it came to Corven did his stone-cold heart soften.

  Corven Hale and Eldric Valmor grew up together. Their fathers had been close friends as well. Eldric’s father, Raidon, had been king before him, and Corven’s father had served as Hand. Just like them, their sons now stood as king and hand.

  “No, Your Grace. I have duties here in the capital.”

  “What has happened has happened. I cannot change it,” he replied.

  The king’s expression shifted from commanding to admiring.

  “You are a good man, Corven. A better advisor, and an even better friend,” the king commended.

  “You honor me, Your Grace.”

  The Whisper monger spoke again.

  “Your Grace, I am sure you have heard of the unfortunate and unexpected death of our Head Messenger.”

  “Ah yes. Poor old Erys. He was an annoying cunt, but he did not deserve to die—especially not like that, killed in his own office, his throat slit on his wife’s name day.”

  “A horror indeed,” Corven added.

  The Whisper monger continued. “Your Grace, we need someone to take his position. But worry not, I have already selected my best messenger from the Citadel. We will not disappoint you.”

  “That is very kind of you, Lord Corleth, but I fear I have already resolved that problem by placing one of my own as Head Messenger.”

  Everyone’s gaze shifted toward Corven.

  “Your Grace, this is a serious position. We require an experienced messenger to lead operations.”

  “The man who leads now has done an excellent job. I do not believe it wise to replace him yet.”

  His words hung in the air, emphasizing stability and continuity. The room fell silent as each advisor weighed experience against change.

  “Yet” the Whisper monger added.

  “What am I to make of this?” the king asked.

  “My Hand tells me one thing, my Whisper monger another. Corven, the man’s job is messaging and whispering. Do you not think it wise to trust him on these matters?”

  “Under normal circumstances, yes, Your Grace. But the man I have appointed is one of the most experienced messengers from Ashforde. Difficult to rival such experience.”

  “I must agree, Your Grace,” Arthur added. “Adris Hildreth has been a messenger for a long time.”

  “Then it is decided,” the king said.

  “But Your Grace—”

  “Not another word. This matter is finished.”

  The king stepped down from the elevated throne and began walking toward his chambers.

  “Oh, and Corven—go to the Head of my Kings guard and tell Ser Nikkos to replace the old and rusty men with new blood.”

  “It will be done, Your Grace.”

  Corven Hale walked out of the throne room and into the inner garden of the castle. Red roses, yellow dandelions, and bright violet violas adorned the paths, their colors standing in sharp contrast to the black Miren walls surrounding them.

  The Hand of the King stepped down among the garden paths, his gaze drifting over every face present. Gardeners and knitters sat scattered about, enjoying their brief rest periods. Whenever they were there, knights gathered nearby laughing, boasting, flattering the young women with lavish compliments, fawning over them openly.

  The women smiled in return. They knew that only young knights frequented the gardens, and many dressed deliberately to catch their attention, hoping to find themselves abed with one of them before night was done.

  The knights rarely refused. They were not Kings guard; they held no vows forbidding families or beds. None of them knew how long their youth—or their lives—would last.

  At the center of the garden, upon a massive swing of carved oak and iron chains sat the queen.

  Mariel Valmor.

  She read quietly, as she often did, surrounded by the low hum of the garden. A true Eldhraen beauty—tanned skin, ember-colored eyes, brown hair falling to her waist, her figure elegant without effort. She was intelligent, well-read, and fluent in both Dorzaltan and the Common Tongue.

  She could sit there for hours, finding peace in a city built on dread.

  She looked up as Corven approached.

  He noticed her smile and returned it.

  Then he passed on.

  Corven left the garden and descended the enormous stone stairs leading to the training grounds. The air there was thick with sweat, blood, and metal. Hundreds of young men—sons of great houses—trained beneath the watchful eye of Ludwig Beristrom, the legendary Master-at-Arms, once a warrior of renown, now passing his knowledge down through spear and axe.

  Corven walked through the chaos of clashing steel and shouted commands and entered the tower of the Head of the Kings guard.

  He climbed the narrow staircase, dark and spiraling, until he reached the commander’s chamber.

  He entered without knocking.

  The Head Commander emerged from the adjoining room and stopped short upon seeing him.

  “I do not recall leaving my door open, my Lord Hand,” Ser Nikkos said evenly. “Nor inviting anyone inside.”

  “Oh,” Corven replied dryly, “was I not supposed to enter?”

  “I seem to remember knocking being customary,” Nikkos returned.

  “Ser Nikkos, with all due respect, I do not care for your customs. I am here on the king’s orders.”

  Nikkos’s expression shifted—but he kept his calm.

  “And what orders would those be?”

  “The king commands the replacement of the old men within the Kings guard. We need fresh blood. Stronger men. The old ones are tired.”

  “Tired?” Nikkos said sharply. “Those men hold more experience than all your chosen boys combined—tenfold. They are superior in any true fight.”

  “Those boys are too young to stand anywhere near the king,” he added.

  “You mistake me, Head Commander,” Corven replied. “This is not a request. It is a command.”

  Nikkos studied him closely. He had never trusted Corven Hale—never shaken the sense that something was deeply wrong with him. As he stepped closer, his eyes caught something.

  “I take orders from my king,” Nikkos said. “I will go to him myself. I will inform him of this decision, and I will act only if he still deems it wise.”

  “I am his sword. His loyal servant.

  “So am I,” Corven replied.

  “Are you now, Lord Corven?”

  “Are you accusing me of something, Head Commander?”

  “No, not at all,” Nikkos said calmly. “It is simply that I recall a rather strict rule forbidding members of the King’s Council from carrying weapons within castle walls.”

  “And I see you have a rather elegant dagger hanging from your belt.”

  Corven glanced down.

  The blade was small—easy to miss—engraved in Miren and crimson gems, perfectly matching the Hand’s robes.

  “I have recently returned from a hunt, Ser Nikkos,” Corven said coolly. “It must have slipped my mind.”

  “I am certain it did,” Nikkos replied.

  Silence stretched between them.

  Corven turned and walked toward the door.

  “Lord Corven,” Nikkos called.

  Corven did not turn back.

  “The enemies of my king are my enemies,” Nikkos said. “And my enemies rarely keep their heads for long.”

  “I am sure they do not,” Corven replied as he exited.

  Outside the chamber, Corven halted. His fists tightened. His jaw clenched. He stood unmoving for a long moment before continuing down the stairs and exiting the tower.

  “Uncle.”

  He turned.

  Maelor, the king’s eldest son, approached—dark hair falling to his shoulders, posture confident, arrogance woven into every step.

  “My mother wishes to see you.”

  “Did she say if it was urgent?”

  “She seemed upset.”

  “Upset?” Corven asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I will speak with her,” he said. “Is she still in the garden?”

  “Yes. On the swing. Reading about the War of Three Worlds.”

  Corven left without another word.

  Knights watched him pass with wary eyes, as though he were something unnatural.

  He climbed the marble stairs and returned to the garden.

  “You wished to speak with me?” he asked gently.

  “Yes,” Mariel replied.

  “Why did you refuse the king’s pardon?” she asked. “You could have gone to Ashforde.”

  “I have duties here,” Corven answered. “I am the king’s hand.”

  “He was your son, Corven. Your only son. He needed you.”

  “Is that why you called me here?”

  “No,” Mariel said. “I wished to speak of your decision regarding the messenger. Your puppet.”

  “I have been meaning to ask you about this for days, but you vanish after sunset.”

  “I am busy,” Corven replied. “Nothing more.”

  “Promise me that.”

  “I promise you, my queen. Nothing else.”

  “Then avoid Nikkos,” she warned. “He does not like you.”

  “He will come around.”

  “I doubt that” she said softly. “He is not a man who judges without cause.”

  “So, you take his side?”

  “I warn you only because I care.”

  “I will be cautious.”

  Corven departed for his chambers.

  The halls were lined with marble pillars and Miren-black walls, swallowing light, and sound alike. That was why they called the throne the Void Core.

  His chamber awaited—quiet, dark, overlooking the sea. Candles burn low beside parchment and ink.

  He stepped onto the balcony as the sun dipped low.

  A falcon landed nearby.

  No marks. No signs.

  Corven removed the letter.

  It bore no seal.

  He read it once.

  Then again.

  He lifted his gaze toward the dying sun.

  “Magnificent.”