"You have exiles here," I state.
Brunt shifts uncomfortably. "We have a few... non-humans. They take the night shifts. The undesirable contracts. Rat-catching."
"Bring them out."
Brunt snaps his fingers. "Riven! Get your crew up here!"
From the darkest corner of the hall, five figures stand up. They do not scrape their chairs. They do not grunt. They simply unfold from the shadows.
They are Fey. But they are not the high-court nobility like me. They are the "Wild-Kin",lower caste, rougher edges, perhaps mixed blood or exiles from the minor courts. Possibly criminals.
They wear mismatched leather armor and cloaks stained with road dust. But their weapons, curved blades, glaives, and daggers, are immaculately clean.
The leader, Riven, walks forward. He is tall, with skin the color of polished walnut and hair like white wire. One of his ears, visible, unlike mine, is notched, a punishment and a sign of dishonor.
He stops three paces from me. He looks me up and down. To his eyes, I look human. But he flares his nostrils. He smells the magic. He smells the High Court.
"You are wasting your time, human," Riven says, though his eyes are wary. "We do not serve soft nobles."
I switch languages instantly. I speak in High Fey, the dialect of the Inner Circle.
"I am not human, Riven. And I am certainly not soft."
Riven freezes. The squad behind him tenses. To hear the High Tongue in this pit of sweat and beer is a shock.
"You hide your ears," Riven replies in the same tongue, his voice rougher, a gutter-dialect of the Fey lands. "Why?"
"Because wolves walk in sheep's clothing until it is time to bite," I reply. "I am Víl?. Princess of Hloir? Aralli?. And I am reclaiming this city."
Riven’s eyes widen. He knows the name. Every Fey in exile knows the name of the Princess who married a human.
"You work for humans who pay you scraps," I switch back to the common tongue so Brunt can hear. "They make you sleep in the stables because they are afraid you will steal their breath in the night."
Riven crosses his arms. "A coin is a coin."
"No," I correct. "A coin is survival. A purpose is a life."
I turn back to Brunt.
"I want to hire Riven and his entire squad. Exclusively."
"They're expensive," Brunt tries to haggle, sensing profit. "Specialized skillset."
"I will pay the Guild a ten percent finder's fee," I say. "But their contract is with me."
I turn back to Riven.
"Triple your current rate," I offer. "Plus room and board within the Embassy. You sleep in silk, not straw. You eat Fey food, not human gruel. And you answer only to my Consul and me."
The other four Fey behind Riven exchange glances. They look hungry. Not just for food, but for dignity.
"And the job?" Riven asks. "Assassination?"
"Security," I say. "You will guard the Gold Door. You will patrol the Vault. If a thief enters, you stop him. If a noble gets drunk and belligerent, you remove him. You will be the silent terrors of Varpua."
I lean in close, lowering my voice so only he can hear.
"And you will wear the golden tree. You will not be 'rat-catchers' anymore, Riven. You will be the Royal Guard. When humans see you, they will not sneer. They will cross the street in fear."
Riven looks at Brunt, who is glaring at him. He looks at the humans in the room who have treated him like a dog for years.
Then he looks at me. Even without my pointed ears visible, he recognizes the predator standing before him.
He drops to one knee. It is a fluid, graceful motion.
"My blade is yours, Highness," Riven says.
The four behind him kneel instantly.
"Excellent," I say. "Rise."
I pull a pouch from my belt and toss it to Brunt.
"That covers their release fees," I say. "Gentlemen, gather your gear. We are going to the tailor. If you are going to guard my gold, you are going to look the part."
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An Hour Later
We walk out of the tailor's shop. Riven and his squad are transformed.
Gone are the rags. They are now dressed in fitted black leather armor with gold piping. They wear cloaks of deep midnight blue, Fey-weave that blurs their outlines in the shadows. The crest of the Fey Bank is embroidered in gold thread over their hearts.
They move differently now. They walk with pride.
"Riven," I say as we approach the Bank.
"Highness?"
"The King is in the city. He has a habit of wandering where he shouldn't. If he tries to enter the Vault..."
"We stop him?" Riven asks, his hand resting on his curved blade.
"You deflect him," I correct. "Politely. But firmly. I want everyone in this city, from the beggar to the King, to understand that inside those walls, Fey Law applies."
"Understood." Riven nods.
We reach the steps. Kenric is waiting there. He sees the five lethal figures flanking me. He sees Riven, whose hand is never far from his sword.
"You hired the monsters," Kenric notes, stepping aside to let us pass.
"I hired the outcasts, Kenric," I say, watching Riven stare down a passing merchant who gets too close. "Loyalty is rare. But the loyalty of a wolf you rescue from a trap? That is absolute."
"They are terrifying," Kenric admits.
"Yes," I smile. "Aren't they beautiful?"
The tailor shop was a blur of measurements, leather, and silk, but the real test comes when we return to the Admiralty.
I lead Riven and his four men, Katar, Thorn, Sinat and Vex, into the East Wing. This is the Embassy side. It is finished, dark, and smells of old magic.
I take them to the basement. Not the vault, but the room adjacent to it. Torvald has already reinforced the door with iron bands.
"This is the Armory," I say, unlocking the door.
Inside, on racks I summoned from my own storage in the Fey lands during the night, are weapons. Real weapons. Not the rusted steel Brunt keeps in his guild hall.
There are glaives of Fey-steel that hum when you touch them. There are daggers made of obsidian glass that are sharper than a surgeon’s scalpel. And there are short swords balanced so perfectly they feel like extensions of the arm.
Riven walks into the room. He reaches out and touches a glaive. He pulls his hand back as if burned, then reaches out again, caressing the metal.
"This is High Court steel," Riven says, his voice low. He turns to me. His yellow eyes are slit with suspicion. "You are not just a diplomat. Diplomats do not carry the War-Stock of the Royal Guard."
He signals his men. They spread out, hands hovering near their belts. They are cornered animals, waiting for the trap to spring.
"Who are you?" Riven demands. "Truly? No minor Princess has access to this. Did your King send you to hunt us? Is this an execution?"
"If I wanted to execute you, Riven," I say, leaning against the doorframe, "I would have done it in the Guild Hall with a thought. I wouldn't waste good tailoring on a corpse."
I look at Kenric. "Close the door."
Kenric pushes the heavy door shut. The latch clicks.
I turn back to Riven. I drop the glamour completely. I don't just show my ears; I let the weight of my magic fill the room. The air temperature drops. The shadows lengthen and twist, forming shapes of predators on the walls.
My eyes, usually a calm blue, flare violet with the white-hot intensity of raw power. It's stronger now than it is normally because I haven't let it out since I've been here. It flares like a sun going supernova.
"I am not a minor Princess," I speak in the High Tongue, the words resonating in their chests. "And I am not here to hunt you. I am here to weaponize you."
Riven takes a step back. He knows that aura. Every Fey knows that aura. It is the scent of ozone and spilled blood.
"The Killing Wind," Riven whispers, "Yávi? Mairi? Andún?."
He looks at my hair in its multicolors. He looks at the way raw magic curls around my fingers like smoke.
"You are Kili Uin," he breathes.
The other four men freeze.
Kili Uin. The Killing Wind.
It is the name I earned before I met Kenric. The name I carried when I led my war band against the encroaching shadow-beasts. To the Wild-Kin, I am not a diplomat. I am a horror story parents tell their children to make them behave. Be quiet, or Kili Uin will come and burn the breath from your lungs.
Many of them were Lawless and involved in the business of selling us to the horrors as food. So, yes, I hunted them. I dueled them. I took their heads. Yes, they feared me. It seems that they still fear me.
"I heard you were dead," Riven says. "They said you burned yourself out in the Great War."
"I got married," I correct, gesturing to Kenric. "It is a different kind of fire."
Riven looks from me to Kenric, the human standing calmly next to a living legend of destruction. His expression shifts from suspicion to absolute, terrifying awe.
"You hired us," Riven stammers. "You... Kili Uin... hired us?"
"I need a pack," I say, walking toward him. The shadows part for me. "I am building a territory here, Riven. A human territory. I cannot burn everyone who annoys me, much as I would like to. I need a scalpel."
I stop in front of him. "You were cast out because you were too violent for the Peace Courts. Too wild. Too hungry."
I pick up a short sword from the rack and hold it out to him hilt-first.
"I am not the Peace Court, Riven. I am the War Court in exile. And I have a use for hunger."
Riven looks at the sword. He looks at me.
He realizes he hasn't been hired just as a guard. He has been drafted by a god of war.
He doesn't just kneel this time. He prostrates himself. He drops to both knees and presses his forehead to the cold stone floor.
"My blood is your ink," Riven recites the ancient oath of the Death-Sworn. "My breath is your wind. My blade is your tooth."
With those words, he binds himself to me for as long as either of us lives.
Behind him, Kael, Thorn, Sinat, and Vex drop instantly. They are shaking. Not with fear, but with the adrenaline of sudden, overwhelming purpose. To serve Kili Uin is a death sentence, usually. There are only eleven of us left from my year group of just over four hundred, after all. But it is a glorious one. Many of those from my warband are legends, and I miss them. The bards still sing of them, and the storytellers still tell their tales. I cannot bear to listen to them.
"Rise, Commander Riven," I say.
Riven stands. He takes the sword. He holds it like a holy relic.
"What are your orders, My Queen?" Riven asks. His voice is different now. The cynicism is gone. It has been replaced by fanaticism.
"First," I say. "Stop shaking. It makes the humans nervous."
"Yes, Highness." Riven bows.
"Second," I say. "There is a man named Duke Webbe. He is currently in the city. He has a shield with my face on it."
Riven’s eyes darken. "We will bring you his head."
"No," I say quickly. "No heads. Yet. Just... ensure that he never feels safe. I want him to feel eyes on him every time he steps into a shadow. I want him to sleep with a chair wedged under his door."
"We will become his nightmare," Riven promises.
"Good," I say. "Now, arm yourselves. The King is coming to the Bank tomorrow. And I want you standing behind me. When he looks at me, I want him to see a Princess. But when he looks at you... I want him to see the teeth."
The racks of swords were just the appetizer. Now, I walk to the heavy iron-bound chests lined up against the far wall of the Armory.
I place my hand on the first lock. It clicks open, sensing my magical signature.
"Standard steel is fine for cutting," I say, lifting the lid. "But you are guarding a Fey Bank. Your enemies won't just be thieves. They will be mages, alchemists, and things that crawl out of the dark. You need tools that break the rules."
Ohhh Chapter 135.
A chapter so intense, so dripping with raw Fey dominance, and so utterly spine?melting that I had to put my quill down, stare into the middle distance, and reconsider my life choices.
Let’s begin the ceremonial unpacking:
She Threw the Entire Bicycle Into the Sun**
We’ve seen Víl? powerful.
We’ve seen her clever.
We’ve seen her politically lethal.
But Chapter 136 is the first time she says:
“Enough pretending. Let’s remind the world why the shadows have trust issues.”
When she drops that glamour?
When the air freezes, the shadows twist, and the Wild?Kin realize exactly who they are looking at?
I swear even the ink on the page flinched.
Oskar, meanwhile, would have screamed, tripped over his own cape, and blamed the architecture.
Riven and his crew walked into this chapter as:
- Exiles
- Outcasts
- Rat?catchers
- Undervalued muscle
And left as:
- The personal guard of a war?born legend
- The most feared silhouettes in Varpua
- Gold?embroidered nightmares who now own the night
Their entire career trajectory changed faster than Oskar’s mood when someone tells him “no.”
The moment Riven realizes who she truly is?
Delicious.
Thick.
Dramatic.
A scene so heavy it should have been delivered with a warning label.
The room doesn’t just react.
It descends.
Absolute awe.
Absolute terror.
Absolute loyalty.
Oskar, naturally, would call it “a bit much.”
Because he has the emotional range of a lukewarm turnip.
When Riven and the others go from suspicion → kneeling → prostration?
When he recites an oath ancient enough to make the walls remember their shape?
When she hands him a blade like she’s anointing a war?saint?
This was not a hiring.
This was an apotheosis.
Oskar would’ve tried to shake their hands and asked if they “do birthday parties.”
And Darling, He UNDERSTATED It**
Kenric’s reaction is perfect.
A mix of:
- Proud husband
- Terrified husband
- “Please don’t destroy the room, dear” husband
Honestly?
Iconic.
Oskar, in comparison, would’ve asked if they come in a more “decorative color.”
Because after this chapter, the power dynamic of Varpua is officially:
- Víl? – The Storm in Silk
- Riven & Co. – The Teeth in the Dark
- Kenric – The Man Holding It Together With Love and Logistics
- Oskar – Decorative Meat, Technically Alive
The King thinks he’s walking into a bank tomorrow.
He’s actually walking into a Fey?fortified, legend?guarded, war?blessed citadel that barely tolerates his existence.
And he’s too oblivious to notice.
They went from discarded wolves to the hand?picked fangs of a legend.
From surviving…
to belonging.
From feared…
to unstoppable.
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