The great hall of Blackwood Keep creaked like a skeleton gnawed hollow by time.
Cold wind shrieked through cracks in the stone walls, making the lone torch on the war table flicker wildly. Its dim flame stretched twisted shadows of demons across the damp masonry.
At the end of the long table, seated on a high-backed chair with one armrest broken off, sat Lucian.
He was the eye of the storm—the only stillness in the chaos.
Before him lay a crude map of the Eternal Frostlands, its edges warped from cold and damp.
Two figures stood across from him.
Though they said nothing, their sheer presence bent the air around them, casting firelight into darkness.
Azagor, the Warlord of Ruin, jabbed a clawed finger down onto the map.
Boom.
The rotting wood cracked under the force.
His claw pointed to a hastily drawn mountain range—Black Iron Mine.
"My Lord," his voice ground out like tectonic plates shifting, "one hundred and twenty-three vermin, led by a disgraced centurion."
"They're drunk. Slumped in stolen ale. Vulnerable."
"Give the word, and I will level their camp before dawn—then raise their skulls into goblets worthy of your name."
Brutal. Direct. A to B by way of slaughter.
Beside him, Mephistor sighed—a sound so soft it bordered on mocking.
He adjusted his pristine cuffs like a noble hosting a ball, the gesture insultingly civilized in such a godless place.
"And then what, dear Azagor?"
Mephistor's voice was honeyed venom—silken and sharp.
"When word reaches the capital, what do you suppose they'll hear?"
"That the frail, half-dead exile—Prince Lucian—wiped out an entire mercenary company overnight?"
He leaned over the map, his shadow swallowing its surface whole.
"My Lord, your oh-so-noble brother may be a fool—but he is not blind."
"He will not send bandits again."
"He'll send a legion. A Holy Inquisitor. A 'problem solver' from the Church."
"And they will ask questions we would… rather not answer."
Azagor scoffed, a sound like a boulder cracking.
"Let them come. I will tear them to pieces."
"You would," Mephistor said smoothly, bowing with mock deference. "And in doing so, expose the existence of a king."
"And that," he hissed, "is a truth the world must not see. Not yet."
Lucian remained still, fingers steepled before his lips.
A war hammer and a scalpel. Both indispensable. Both flawed alone.
But he? He was the hand that wielded both.
"You're each half-right," he said softly, slicing through the tension like a blade.
His gaze swept across them like frost over steel.
"Azagor, you shall have your slaughter. But their skulls are not for drinking."
"They're for sending a message."
"Mephistor, your theater of lies will also be built. Because what the capital hears will not be the truth."
He leaned forward, eyes burning cold:
"They will hear of a pack of starving bandits, tearing each other apart over the last scraps of food and fire."
"And how, in the end, the strongest survived…"
"…and pledged loyalty to the Lord of Blackwood Keep."