?

  Not all knives glint beneath torchlight. Some are hidden behind goblets, cloaked in bloodlines, and slipped between the ribs with words.

  The emperor had called it a quiet dinner. But in Struttsburg, quiet never meant peace.

  The dining chamber chosen was neither the Grand Hall nor the public feasting court, but the narrower West Table—a space used for intimate council, or as intimate as it could be with ten guards posted around the perimeter. Golden tapestries hung above stone-carved alcoves, depicting victories from the Brothers’ War, when Gregor Willinghelm had worn leather armor instead of crown steel. Flames danced in a long hearth carved with stag antlers. The room smelled of roasted boar, lemon butter, and the kind of incense meant to mask the stench of power.

  The table groaned with food—braised pheasant, cream-roasted turnips, honeyed squash, thick black bread with sweet sea salt crusted on its edges—but only one man ate with full appetite.

  Duke Vaeron Bournere, Lord of Lustrumburg, cousin to the emperor, and, by some accounts, the most dangerous man in the room. His red-blond beard curled at the chin and glistened with duck fat, and he was already halfway through his third bottle of blackfruit wine, laughing between bites like a man who’d grown fat on victories no one could verify.

  He made no apologies for his behavior.

  Behind him, against the far wall like a statue carved of shade and muscle, stood Captain Lyssa Dark, his personal bodyguard. She wore black leathers and twin sabers on her back, her face unreadable beneath a half-helm of burnished iron. She never blinked. She never spoke. She listened.

  At the head of the table sat Emperor Gregor Willinghelm, his crown resting on the table beside his trencher untouched. His armor was ceremonial tonight: black with gold lining, lion and sword etched at the chest. His eyes, sharp and weary, watched every word spoken like they were blades thrown across the room.

  Empress Cristina, seated at his left, wore a gown of dark ivory silk. The crest of House Greystone—her father’s sigil—had been embroidered in pale blue thread at her collar. She smiled when needed, laughed when expected, but her eyes followed the threads of tension in the room like a weaver preparing for war.

  Lord Lucian Greystone, her father, and one of the richest men in the realm, leaned back in his chair, rings clicking against a goblet of old Drevnan gold wine. He had not spoken much, but his glances said more than words.

  To the Emperor’s right sat Lord Protector Ernesto Montclef, lean, dark-eyed, and unreadable. His breastplate bore a single scratch down the center—deliberately left unpolished. He had eaten little.

  Next to him was General Baraten, his face like weathered stone. He cut meat with the same precision he did enemies—methodical, unsmiling, and disinterested in politics.

  Then there were the wizards.

  Archmage Stewart Spendal, bent and draped in layers of violet and gray, his once proud voice reduced to whisper and cough. The years had not been kind. His hands shook with every spoon raised. But his mind remained sharp—and dangerous.

  Seated beside him was Draumbean, the Imperial Mage, his protégé and heir in all but name. Draumbean’s expression had grown colder these past seasons, his hair a reddish orange color, that had small streaks of grey in it now, not from age but by the cost of too much knowledge. He watched his old mentor closely, like a son waiting for the moment the tree begins to fall.

  And across from Draumbean, seated with perfect posture, was the emperor’s first son.

  Prince Alucarde, twenty-one winters old, with the dark hair of his father and the sharp cheekbones of his late grandmother. His green eyes shimmered like coins in the dark. He did not speak much—he watched. He measured. His youth was deceiving, but there was iron in him. Whether it had yet cooled or was still being forged remained to be seen.

  ?

  The first hour passed with courtly jest. A laugh here. A tale there. Lord Greystone recounted a dispute with the fishmongers of Dockmere, and Duke Bournere responded with a lewd joke about a whorehouse in Lustrumburg whose motto was “Slippery as seaweed.”

  Everyone laughed. Everyone but Gregor and Ernesto.

  Then the tide shifted.

  “Three border villages gone,” Ernesto said quietly, as if announcing a death. “One razed. Another vanished entirely. And a merchant caravan was found overturned, corpses half-picked clean.”

  Forks paused. Goblets lowered.

  Only Bournere drank.

  “More tales from frightened shepherds,” the duke muttered. “You know how they are down there. Every raccoon looks like a goblin. Every shadow, an invasion.”

  General Baraten grunted. “My men near Hollow Vale counted twelve Black tusk sigils carved into trees. One carried a shaman’s fetlock, still burning.”

  “They’ve been testing our flanks,” Ernesto added. “Then burning what they test.”

  Bournere scoffed. “And?”

  Draumbean’s eyes narrowed. “And you command the south.”

  “I command Lustrumburg,” Bournere corrected. “Not every patch of moss with a paranoid baron calling wolves orc scouts.

  Baraten leaned forward. “You think the southern watch is crying wolf?”

  “I think they’ve had too much mushroom mead and not enough real fighting. Let them skirmish. That’s what barons are for.”

  Draumbean’s tone sharpened. “By the time the barons finish skirmishing, the green tide will be at your gates.”

  “And then we’ll do what we’ve always done,” Bournere said, lifting his cup. “Crush them.”

  The emperor’s voice came low and cold. “I won’t have my people crushed in the meantime.”

  Bournere turned, wine sloshing. “Your people are always crushed, Gregor. By taxes, by floods, by plague, by war. And now you want to weep for a few lost hamlets? Please. You sit here in your throne hall, warmed by gold and guarded by two dozen men with swords so polished they blind themselves.”

  Gregor’s jaw tightened. “You forget yourself, cousin.”

  “No,” Bournere said. “I remember myself too well.”

  Prince Alucarde stirred. “He has a point.”

  Heads turned. The boy—desperately trying to be a man now—spoke.

  Alucarde’s voice was calm, but firm. “It’s easy to talk of danger while seated at court. But few at this table have stood behind a shield wall, in a very long time.”

  Ernesto leaned forward slowly. “And what would you know of broken shield walls, boy? You’ve never seen entrails steaming in snow. You’ve never buried your brothers by moonlight.”

  “I’ve trained.”

  “In gardens,” Ernesto growled.

  The Empress’s voice rang like silver, cutting through the gathering heat. “We are not at war, gentlemen.”

  “Not yet,” Draumbean murmured. “But we will be. War doesn’t knock politely—it tears the door from its hinges.”

  A rasping sound interrupted him.

  Spendal coughed. Violently. Deep, wracking.

  A hush fell.

  Blood—thick and dark—soaked his napkin.

  “Spendal,” Draumbean said, rising, alarmed.

  “I’m fine,” the old mage whispered, shaking. “Just… the wine disagrees with me.”

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

  “You haven’t touched it,” Draumbean said.

  “I know,” Spendal smiled. “That’s why it disagrees.”

  Draumbean helped him rise. The emperor stood as well.

  “Summon a physician,” Gregor ordered.

  “No,” Spendal said softly. “Let me leave with dignity. I’ve served three kings. I’d rather not die in front of their children.”

  Draumbean bowed. “We’ll go.”

  The two left, robes brushing the stone floor like closing curtains.

  When the door shut, silence stretched long.

  Then Bournere stood.

  “Enough grim talk. I find I’ve lost my appetite. Perhaps I’ll drink with men who aren’t so obsessed with prophecy and peasant tales.”

  “Don’t let the door hit you,” Baraten said without looking up.

  Captain Lyssa Dark followed wordlessly.

  When the doors shut again, Lord Greystone chuckled. “He never could take criticism. I'd bet as a boy, he’d pout when someone else got more goose fat on their plate.”

  Baraten smirked. “That man hates you, Lord Protector.”

  Ernesto snorted. “He’s always hated me.”

  “He wanted your title,” Greystone muttered. “Still does, I’d wager.”

  “Vaeron has always wanted what he doesn’t earn,” Cristina said quietly.

  Prince Alucarde rose.

  “Forgive me, father. I should… speak with him.”

  He left.

  Ernesto watched him go. “Those two spend too much time together.”

  “Agreed,” Gregor said. His eyes never left the door.

  Cristina lifted her goblet. “Well. Now that the knives are sheathed and the boar is cold, shall we enjoy what’s left of the meal?”

  Laughter stirred. Muted. Tired.

  But Gregor only stared into the dark where his cousin and son had vanished.

  The Dimming Flame

  The torches along the corridor sputtered against the pull of the autumn wind, the stone walls breathing cold with every gust. The long hall leading from the dining chamber to the mage quarters was mostly empty at this hour—save for two figures, one tall and steady, the other hunched, every step a whispered struggle against age.

  Draumbean’s hand rested lightly on Archmage Stewart Spendal’s shoulder as they walked in silence, save for the occasional rasp of breath or echo of slippered footfalls.

  They passed beneath a banner of the comets, sigil of the Arcane Assembly, and Draumbean gently guided his master away from the wall when his shoulder brushed the tapestry.

  That earned him a slap.

  A soft one, but sharp all the same.

  “Don’t fret over me,” Stewart muttered. “I can still walk. I don’t need your assistance.”

  “Master…” Draumbean’s voice was heavy with concern. “Should we not go and see the maesters? Coughing blood is a serious matter.”

  “Do you think I do not know this?” Stewart snapped, halting beneath the flickering torchlight. “I have seen them—many times. Over the past few months. Bled by leeches, fed boiled root, bathed in seven blessed oils. None of it has changed the path. The fire in my chest grows regardless of their salves. I’ve had my fill of their care.”

  Draumbean studied him. The great Archmage looked small beneath his layers—shrunken and brittle. His voice still carried force, but only just. The man who once walked with kings now trembled after dinner.

  “My time,” Stewart said, “is becoming shorter. And with this business of Malekith’s impending return…” He paused to catch his breath. “I must remain vigilant.”

  “You need rest,” Draumbean said, gently taking his elbow again. “Combing through books and burning your strength on scurrying spells will only hasten your end.”

  “Then let it come.” Stewart’s eyes flicked to him, iron and fury behind the pale blue. “The danger is too great, boy. If the Lich returns, if he gains even a foothold in the realm, it will take fire, blood, and divine will to dislodge him. And I have seen no gods walking these halls. Have you?”

  They resumed their walk. Slower now.

  “No,” Draumbean answered. “But we may not need them. I may have found something. An ancient text. Written by monks who survived the Last Battle. It could offer insight—how to rid the realms of the Lich and his corruption. Permanently.”

  Stewart’s head turned. “Where?”

  “I’ve reached out discreetly. Letters. Trusted ravens. Old contacts. Most were dead or disbanded. But one responded from Grimm Haven.”

  “Witch-hunters.” Stewart grimaced. “Always the worst-smelling room in any tower. All fire and brimstone and execution orders.”

  “Aye,” Draumbean said with a faint smile. “But I’ve been conversing with Witch Commander Roland Strongmore. He’s not like the rest. Older. Steady. Comes from strong stock. His tales are troubling—and useful.”

  Stewart nodded slowly.

  “Good man, Strongmore. His father was a philosopher before he lost his wits. But the boy turned out ok. Still… tread lightly. The witch-hunters have grown strange. More politics in their order now than witches in their flames.”

  “I will be cautious.”

  “Be invisible if you can,” Stewart said, wheezing slightly as they reached the mage wing arch. “Too many fools there eager to point fingers at anything they don’t understand. And your methods, my dear boy, have always been… unorthodox.”

  Draumbean chuckled dryly.

  “Unorthodox is how we survive.”

  They reached the oak door to Stewart’s chambers, carved with sigils that flickered faintly when the Archmage neared. Stewart placed his palm against the runes, and the door creaked open with a groan that sounded almost like protest.

  Inside, the room was a mess.

  Not a scholar’s mess—an obsession’s.

  Books. Scrolls. Stacks of loose parchment. Scrying stones still glowing dimly in their holders. Three tables buried under ancient tomes. A wall covered in charcoal sketches of dead kings and sealed gates. Even the bed had half a dozen open codices scattered across it.

  Draumbean sighed, closing the door behind them with a whispered word.

  “How long has it looked like this?”

  “Since the day Malekith stirred,” Stewart rasped. “And I’ve not slept a full night since.”

  Draumbean moved the tomes from the bed, gently helping the old man down onto the mattress. Stewart allowed it without protest—perhaps the first true concession to exhaustion he’d made.

  Draumbean pulled a worn wool blanket over him, then turned toward the hearth. The wood had been stacked but left cold.

  He extended his hand, murmured the incantation, and snapped his fingers toward the logs.

  A spark leapt from his fingertips. The hearth ignited at once, flame blooming in hues of red and violet.

  When he turned back, Stewart was already asleep.

  His breath rattled. But he breathed.

  Draumbean stared for a long moment. There had been a time when this man’s words had held back an entire war. When even lords had knelt for the Archmage’s blessing.

  Now he barely stirred beneath the weight of a single wool blanket.

  With a quiet sigh, Draumbean turned and stepped to the door.

  He opened it to find Lukle, Stewart’s young steward, standing outside with a tray of cold tea and folded towels. The boy’s eyes were wide and earnest.

  “Good evening, Master Draumbean,” the boy said, stepping forward. “Is there anything the Archmage needs?”

  Draumbean hesitated.

  “No, boy,” he said at last, walking past. “He’s asleep. Let him rest.”

  He said no more and did not look back.

  But Lukle did. The boy stared after the departing mage until the end of the corridor swallowed him.

  Then he turned.

  And slid into the Archmage’s room, closing the door softly behind him.

  Shadows from Dorcheim

  The fire crackled low in the west wing dining chamber, casting long shadows behind the tapestries of dead emperors and bloodied banners. The scent of roasted duck and clove wine still hung heavy in the air, but the appetite in the room had thinned.

  It was after Bournere’s storming departure, after the Archmage’s bloodied coughing fit, and after Prince Alucarde had slipped away into the dark.

  What remained was a strange quiet—a breath held before a cough, or a pause before thunder.

  Then came the soft step of boots behind Lord Protector Ernesto Montclef, swift and purposeful. The soldier wore no armor but bore the wolf-and-sword pin of the inner legion. He bent low beside Ernesto, whispering only a few words.

  Whatever was said, it froze the man’s features into steel.

  Ernesto nodded once. The soldier vanished without fanfare.

  Emperor Gregor Willinghelm looked up from his half-eaten plate, brow furrowed.

  “What is it?”

  Ernesto answered with the calm of a man used to bad news.

  “A raven from Dorcheim, Your Majesty. Sealed with Duke Von Martz’s crest.”

  The name darkened the room more than the setting sun.

  Cristina, ever composed, raised one thin brow. “Can it not wait until after dinner?”

  Before Ernesto could reply, General Baraten let out a long breath through his nose and muttered into his goblet. “By the look on Ernesto’s face, I’d say no, my lady.”

  Ezabella Rell gave a sharp nod. “I’d wager a gold stag it’s not good tidings. That man only sends letters when his claws are out.”

  The Emperor leaned back, his gaze still fixed on Ernesto.

  “What does Duke Von Martz want now?” he asked, the irritation clear. “A new title for one of his bastards? Another fortress ‘in need of royal coin’? Or is he complaining about the peasantry again—how they pray too loudly or eat too much?”

  Ernesto offered a thin-lipped smile.

  “I couldn’t say, Your Majesty. I haven’t read the message.”

  Gregor grunted, standing. He reached across the table and took Cristina’s hand. She held it with quiet strength, her rings cool against his calloused fingers.

  “I’ll return shortly.”

  Cristina nodded once. “Take your time. I’ll see the generals finish eating for once.”

  As the Emperor turned, Ernesto fell in step behind him, boots echoing off the stone like a drumbeat of unease.

  General Baraten, whose instincts were rarely at rest, made to stand as well.

  But Cristina’s voice rang like polished silver. “Oh no, you don’t.”

  Baraten froze mid-rise.

  “We are finishing our meal,” the Empress said smoothly. “There will be no more talk of war. No more interruptions. And if anyone so much as mentions orcs or fortresses or ravens, I shall personally throw their plate into the fire.”

  There was a beat of silence. Then Ezabella cracked a smile and reached for the pheasant.

  None argued.

  In the Corridor of Antlers

  The Emperor and his Lord Protector walked briskly beneath the vaulted stone of the Corridor of Antlers, named for the hunting trophies mounted on its pillars—stags, boars, wolves, even a great horned shadow elk taken in the third year of Gregor’s reign.

  The corridor had no guards.

  It was a place for emperors and emperors alone.

  Gregor’s voice came low as they walked.

  “I’ve had enough of Vaeron’s poison tonight. And now this? Duke Von Martz couldn’t have waited until morning to send whatever grievance is burning his oversized gut?”

  Ernesto said nothing.

  The emperor went on.

  “I’ll wager it’s about Dorcheim’s borders again. Or that tax dispute with the millers near Vein Bridge. Or perhaps he’s heard a shadow flapped over his keep and now demands I send him twelve battlemages to chase ghosts.”

  He turned his head slightly.

  “What’s the tone of the seal?”

  “Black wax. His iron helm pressed into it.”

  Gregor slowed.

  Black wax was rare. Used only for matters considered urgent—or personal. From Duke Regon Von Martz, that could mean war. Or something worse.

  “I don’t like it,” the emperor muttered.

  Ernesto didn’t either. But he said nothing still.

  “Fetch it,” Gregor ordered. “Bring it to my study. I want it read in private.”

  “As you wish.”

  They reached the fork in the corridor where the servants’ wing passed beneath the throne spiral. The emperor paused a moment, hand resting on the carved stag skull at the column’s base.

  “If it’s trouble,” he said, eyes unreadable, “we may need to act sooner than planned. I’m tired of being the last to know when my realm begins bleeding.”

  Ernesto’s jaw tightened. “Then let’s open the wound and see what pours out.”

  The two men parted.

  But already, across the city, far beyond the dining halls and marble, a second raven was flapping over the walls of Struttsburg. It bore a different seal, from a different lord—and that one would not be read until it was too late.