The road to Struttsburg had never felt longer. It wound like an old scar across the land, blackened by fire and pitted by siege. The winds carried the stench of distant ruin, and even the crows—those ever-hungry heralds of death—kept their distance.

  Draumbean had ridden it many times before. In youth, as a scholar seeking court. In war, as a battle-mage with fire on his hands. And once in chains, half-dead, half-mad. But this time was different. This time, the stones seemed to whisper beneath the hooves of his mounts.

  Beside him rode Bhraime Montclef, Lord General of the Oathkeepers, broad-shouldered and silent, his warplate dented and scratched. His crimson cape hung in tatters, and dried blood crusted the seams of his gauntlets. He’d led four legions back from the east. What had begun as a crusade had become a slaughter. Only half remained.

  The gates of Struttsburg creaked open as they approached. No horns. No banners. No cheers. Just the shrill call of a watchtower bell—three low chimes—and the grinding groan of the old iron hinges.

  As they entered the city, the streets seemed to recoil. Shutters closed. Murmurs died on the wind. Even the cobbles underfoot felt cold. War had passed this way, and war had not left kindly.

  In the outer court beneath the Obsidian Arch, the city’s waiting assembly stood.

  Emperor Gregor Willinghelm was first among them, dressed in a black robe with golden thread curling up the sleeves like thorned vines. His face was lined, the weight of rule cutting deeper with every passing moon. His eyes—once sharp with ambition—now swam with weariness.

  At his side stood Empress Cristina, regal and reserved, her gown a deep green that clung to her like ivy. Her hands were gloved and clasped tightly, as if holding something back. Her eyes flicked to the returning party only once, then away. There was something unreadable in her stillness.

  To the left, Lord Protector Ernesto Montclef stood like an old tree—rooted and weathered. His armor was polished, though his eyes were rimmed red from nights without sleep. When he saw Bhraime, his stern face cracked, just slightly.

  General Baraten stood beside him, a tower of muscle and iron, his breastplate scorched, his brow furrowed. General Evangeline, lean and pale in her dusk-colored plate, shifted her stance once, then fell still.

  And apart from them all, lingering at the edge of the square like a shadow unnoticed, stood Nylla the Green. Her cloak of dark velvet fluttered around her in the breeze, and her hands were hidden in the long sleeves. Her hood was up, but not to shield from the wind.

  She was hiding her grief.

  The gates shut behind Draumbean and Bhraime with a shudder that echoed down the spine.

  Without hesitation, Bhraime dismounted and marched toward his brother.

  “Ernesto,” he said.

  “Bhraime.” The Lord Protector broke his stillness and met him halfway.

  Their embrace was hard and brief, full of scars and silence. They pressed forearms, then pulled into a one-armed hug, slapping shoulders twice. A ritual between warriors. Not brothers of blood, but of fire.

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  “You’re thinner,” Ernesto muttered.

  “You’re older,” Bhraime replied.

  Then came Draumbean.

  He stepped down from his carriage with far less grace. The ride had been long, and his bones whispered of sleep and storm. Still, he kept his back straight as he walked to the emperor.

  “How fared your journey, old friend?” Gregor asked, voice low and careful.

  “I will tell you later,” Draumbean said. His tone was even, but there was no warmth in it.

  His eyes, though weary, missed nothing. They flicked from the Empress to the generals, then back to Gregor.

  “The attack,” Draumbean continued. “The Name Day. The betrayal. Is it true? Did Alucarde truly try to kill you?”

  The Emperor said nothing.

  Instead, he glanced again at Cristina, then looked back at Draumbean. “There are… other matters, my friend. More pressing than that.”

  Draumbean’s eyes narrowed.

  “More pressing than the boy betraying his blood?” he asked, louder now.

  Even the wind seemed to hush.

  Baraten shifted. Evangeline did not.

  Draumbean’s gaze moved again to the Empress. This time, he studied her.

  Her lips were drawn, not trembling. Her shoulders, stiff. But her eyes—gods, her eyes—held something he recognized too well.

  Sorrow.

  “What has happened?” he asked, softer this time.

  It was Gregor who answered. “It is best if Nylla tells you.”

  Draumbean turned at once.

  The girl in green stood still, her hands clasped at her belly, the wind curling her cloak about her boots.

  He walked to her, slowly, carefully, as though approaching a beast with a broken heart.

  “Nylla,” he said. “What is it?”

  She lifted her eyes to him. They were glassy, red-rimmed. Her lips parted, but no sound came.

  He placed his hands gently on her shoulders. “Speak.”

  And at last, she did.

  “The Archmage is dead.”

  The world shifted.

  Not outwardly—no earthquakes, no screams—but inward, in him.

  Stewart Spendal. Dead.

  Draumbean’s arms dropped.

  The man who had taught him the high spells. Who had pulled him from the wreckage of his own madness. Who had whispered secrets into his ears by firelight. Gone.

  His knees did not buckle, but the wind felt colder. The city darker.

  “How?” he asked.

  Nylla looked down. “Burned. Torn. There was blood, but no body. Not fully. Something ancient. Something… wrong.”

  Draumbean stepped back. His eyes closed.

  There were no tears.

  There could be none.

  “There is much to be done,” he said after a long silence.

  His voice had changed. It was harder. Edged. As if a piece of him had shattered and reformed.

  He turned, and for the first time, noticed the three standing at the edge of the court, beneath the black marble lion statue.

  Roland.

  Mathias.

  Cassandra.

  They had arrived with the last convoy. Witch hunters in black and grey, dusted from the road.

  Roland stood with arms folded, watching the court with narrowed eyes.

  Mathias rested a gloved hand on the hilt of his blade, jaw tense beneath his worn hat.

  Cassandra stood silent, her youthful face drawn tight, eyes flicking from the Empress to the generals.

  Draumbean strode toward them.

  They bowed slightly as he neared.

  “Our condolences,” Roland said. “We heard… fragments.”

  “I do not need your pity,” Draumbean said. “Nor do I seek it.”

  The statement was harsh—but not cruel.

  Roland only nodded.

  Draumbean continued, “Rooms await you at the Gilded Lion. Take food. Take breath. We will speak again when the sun is lower.”

  His eyes fell to Roland’s.

  “Tonight,” he said. “We meet in the tower. No others.”

  Roland inclined his head. “As you will.”

  Draumbean looked to Mathias next. “Keep your sword clean.”

  Then to Cassandra. “And your heart cleaner.”

  She nodded, quietly.

  With that, Draumbean turned without another word and walked toward the spiral stairs that wound up the black Mage’s Tower at the courtyard’s edge.

  He did not look back.

  Not at the Emperor.

  Not at Nylla.

  Not at the sky where ravens circled silently above the city’s heart.

  As he vanished into the tower’s shadow, a cold wind swept through the court.

  None spoke.

  None moved.

  And far above, in the tower’s shattered top, a bell tolled once—deep and long.

  As if the tower itself mourned.