Morning light spilled over the courtyard as the keep stirred back to life. The long supper of the day before lingered only in remembered laughter and in the empty jugs stacked neatly beside the kitchens. Today, Alfareth East returned to work.

  Petric rose early and walked the outer wall. From the battlements, the sweep of the Eryndral Coast stretched vast and bright, gulls dipping toward distant waves, sails faint against the horizon. The calm surface of the world meant nothing. He knew every house beyond those waters sharpened steel.

  Behind him came the ring of practice blades and the rough bark of laughter. Nell was already in the yard—bare-armed, a practice hammer in one hand and a tankard in the other. He traded blows with two guards at once, shouting over the clash.

  “Come on then! Hit me like you mean it, or I’ll take the both of you with one hand!”

  He dropped one man to a knee, tossed back the last of his drink, and called for another challenger.

  A few paces away stood Jorlan—calm where Nell was storm. Sword in hand, he corrected a recruit’s grip with patient precision. Then, as if remembering only after the fact, he flicked two fingers. Gravity bent. The recruit stumbled a step lighter than he’d expected before the pressure settled again.

  “You see?” Jorlan said mildly. “Physics is mercy if you understand it. Abuse it, and you’ll end on your back.”

  Kelara crossed the stones with Jerric and Lysa in tow. Jerric’s eyes went immediately to Nell’s duel, practically itching to jump in. Lysa’s gaze drifted north, toward the pale fringe of the Frostmarch Peaks.

  Kelara touched Petric’s arm.

  “First full day with all of us under one roof,” she said. “What’s your call?”

  — — —

  They gathered at the long table—bread, pears, and steaming cups of chicory set out for the morning meal. The hall still carried the warmth of last night’s laughter, but the map already lay unrolled on the sideboard, pins catching its corners.

  Petric ran a finger along the inked roads.

  “We set our plan for the week. We need eyes—quiet ones.”

  Jerric leaned in first.

  “Everveil. Virella won’t sit in her grove forever. If she moves first, we’ll be late.”

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  Petric didn’t look up.

  “She doesn’t move first. She makes others move. She can turn a whisper into a knife and a kindness into leverage. We don’t drift near her patrols unless we’re ready for what follows.”

  Lysa tapped the northwest edge of the map, where the Pyrethorne Range rose like broken spears.

  “Macrelith. Janric’s drilling day and night. If anything sparks, it’s there.”

  Kelara folded her arms.

  “Or Cavaryn. Lorenya keeps her crown and her counsel. When she’s quiet, she’s measuring. And Frostmarch—Luthgar’s banners have been scarce on the roads. Silence there isn’t peace. It’s the sound of a blade being honed.”

  Petric’s mouth thinned.

  “We don’t poke a sleeping bear,” he said, sliding his hand away from Frostmarch. “Not yet.”

  He weighed the map a moment longer, then nodded toward Lysa.

  “Macrelith. But do not go farther than necessary. Stay out of sight. If you’re seen, you’re gone before anyone names what they saw.”

  Lysa straightened, her bow already in hand by habit.

  “Understood.”

  Petric crossed to a small chest, lifted the lid, and returned with a slim glass vial sealed in wax. The liquid inside caught the light like quicksilver.

  He set it gently in Lysa’s palm.

  “One draft only. Halfway out, not before. It’ll buy you speed—not invincibility. Don’t waste it.”

  Lysa turned the vial once, a grin flickering and gone.

  “I’ll be home before anyone misses the olives.”

  Kelara smoothed a stray strand from Lysa’s braid.

  “Eyes open. Feet quieter than your brother’s pride.”

  Jerric tried—and failed—not to smile.

  By midmorning, the gate lifted and Lysa slipped through, cloak neat, quiver light. She did not look back.

  — — —

  Evening settled over the courtyard. The kitchens sent up the last scents of lamb and rosemary, and the day settled into its quieter temper. In the war room, Petric and Jorlan sat across a chessboard scarred by decades of hands.

  Jorlan moved a bishop, then leaned back.

  “If we were pieces on this board, you’d be the knight.”

  Petric raised a brow. “Why the knight?”

  “Always charging forward,” Jorlan said, “even if the board isn’t ready for you.”

  Petric’s mouth twitched.

  “And you?”

  “Boring answer.” Jorlan tapped a place on the board. “The one who sees three moves others miss.”

  Outside, laughter rose from the training yard. Nell had planted his elbows on a barrel, sleeves shoved to his shoulders, grinning like a man about to make trouble. Jerric slid into place across from him, fingers laced, knuckles white.

  “You sure, kid?” Nell asked. “I’ve dislocated elbows for sport.”

  “You think I’ve never had mine popped back in?” Jerric shot back.

  They strained. For a heartbeat the world was nothing but wood, bone, and breath. Nell’s grin widened. Jerric shifted, found a better angle, teeth gritted with effort. The press wavered—then slammed to the barrel with a thud that drew a chorus of whoops from the wall guards. No one was entirely sure who’d won, which only made the noise louder.

  Kelara watched from the steps, shaking her head, amused despite herself. Petric stepped to the doorway just long enough to watch Jerric rubbing his forearm while Nell clapped him on the back as though victory were something shared.

  He returned to the board. Jorlan hadn’t shifted from his seat.

  “Your turn,” Jorlan said. The candle between them guttered once, then steadied.

  Night gathered. The yard emptied. The map waited on its table. And somewhere on the far side of the realm, the mountains held their breath as a single rider slipped among their shadows.