The stone walls of Vaelthorn Castle echoed a silence only wealth and age could produce. Deep inside one of the rarely-used council chambers, lit by crystal lamps and quiet firelight, a seat of power sat in discussion.

  King Thorne lounged in his high-backed chair, holding a goblet of red wine with an unreadable expression in the flickering light. To his right sat his two sons, Kaelen and Darian — one sharp-eyed and ambitious, the other more cautious but equally perceptive. Around the table were advisers: a duke, a royal mage, and several of the kingdom’s trusted voices.

  “Two days,” the younger prince Darian said, tapping his fingers on the table. “That’s when the blacksmith is scheduled to present the ceremonial sword.”

  The royal mage Vael, dressed in midnight-black robes embroidered with silver runes, gave a dry nod. “Yes. The so-called Master Smith. This is the test. Either he’s the real deal or a well-polished fraud.”

  “And if he is the real thing?” the king asked, voice quiet but heavy. He raised the goblet to his lips and took a sip. “What then?”

  The room paused.

  The elder prince leaned forward. “There are only five known Master Smiths in the world. If we have a sixth… in Vaelthorn?”

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  The Vael’s eyes sparkled with interest. “Then we have leverage. Influence. A symbol to the other kingdoms.”

  “Or a weapon,” the Darian added.

  The duke, lounging in his seat with casual arrogance, waved one hand dismissively. “Give him a title. Tie him to the throne. He’ll stay where we want him that way.”

  The king raised an eyebrow. “What kind of title?”

  Duke Alaric blinked. He hadn’t expected his offhand comment to land. “Well… not a knighthood. That would tie him to requests from every noble with a sword to sharpen.”

  “Too public,” murmured the mage.

  The duke stroked his beard, reconsidering. “He needs prestige, but autonomy. Something valuable. Strategic.”

  The elder prince spoke again, thoughtfully. “An earldom.”

  The duke straightened, eyes narrowing. “Yes… yes. A landed title. We have two such seats currently unfilled. We have one earldom and two baron titles yet to be filled. The Earldom is that wildland area that is mostly unexplored and unused.”

  The king set his goblet down with a soft clink. “An Earl Blacksmith. Hm. Has a certain edge to it, doesn’t it?”

  The room murmured in agreement.

  “But first,” the king said, reclining again, “let’s see if this David Robertson truly earns the weight of metal we’re preparing to place on his shoulders.”

  The fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the chamber walls. For a long moment, no one spoke. Then the younger prince leaned back in his chair, his face unreadable but his eyes sharp with a hint of doubt.

  “And if he’s a fraud?” he asked quietly.

  No one responded at first. Then the king chuckled softly, with no humor. He lifted his goblet once again.

  “Then we’ll break him like cold iron and find someone else.”

  Silence returned, heavier than before. Outside, the bells of the upper watchtower rang softly—two days remaining.