ARKENFALL
The royal study was a graveyard of ink-stained scrolls. Parchment piled high in towers that leaned like crooked spires, and half-dried seals dotted the desk like fallen soldiers. In the middle of it all sat King Damon Dragarth — broad-shouldered, dark-eyed, and visibly annoyed — hunched over a petition like it had insulted his ancestors.
Ethan, his ever-loyal right hand and the General Commander of the Kings Army stood nearby with a stack of scrolls. He was going through each one quickly, reading off requests from lords, trade guilds, and naval captains.
"Another trade proposal from Edravon, my lord. And three requests to extend timber rights from Caldrith Vale," Ethan said, setting them aside. "And a demand from the Lord of Braemorin to increase border patrols."
Damon groaned quietly and rubbed his temples. "I'm convinced Braemorin thinks we bleed soldiers on trees."
"You should see the next one," Ethan smirked, holding up a petition with a crimson wax seal. "Lord Halden of Varketh Hold wants to breed his prized hawks with the palace falcons."
"Tell him to breed them with his slippers," Damon muttered. Ethan snorted.
Just then, the great oaken doors of the council room swung open, and two figures entered without ceremony. Leon, commander of the kingsguard, Damon's oldest battle companion. Behind him was Lord Roran of Stonecrest, Master of Whispers, wearing a cocky grin as always.
They both bowed.
Damon didn't look up. "If either of you have come with more parchment, I'll have your heads."
"We come bearing darker fruit," Roran said, dropping into a chair and tossing a sealed note onto the desk. "Lord Vellin of Braemorin. Word is, he's got a side trade — people. Not servants. Not debts. Slaves."
Damon's eyes darkened instantly. Ethan stiffened.
"You're sure?" Damon asked, voice like iron drawn slowly from its sheath.
"My spies traced two wagons — shackled, bruised, kept in desert pits," Roran said. "He's moving them through disguised caravans."
Leon added, "And some of the merchants were whispering about royal blood being involved. Not yours, of course. Just... high coin. Noble buyers."
Damon leaned back slowly, the storm already brewing behind his eyes.
"No trial. No court," Ethan said. "You should show up yourself."
Roran leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "He'll soil his robes the second you step off the horse. You don't even need a blade. Just your overwhelming presence and your death stare."
Leon chuckled. "Remember the poor bastard from Edravon who tried to double-tax the harbor? Damon rode into his banquet uninvited and ate his dinner. He confessed by dessert."
"So what do you suggest?" Damon asked, dry.
"Ride out tomorrow," Ethan said. "Small party. Us. Quiet. Deal with it."
Roran was already flipping through other scrolls lazily, until one caught his eye. His brow arched. "Well, well, what's this?"
He held up a deep green scroll tied with a silver ribbon. The seal of Halemond.
"Don't—" Damon started.
Too late.
"'To the Crown of Arkenfall, in answer to the proposal of alliance...' Oh gods, it's true," Roran howled. "You're actually getting married. Damon Dragarth. Settling down. The sky will split in two."
Leon blinked. "Wait — you sent a petition to Halemond?"
Damon sighed and leaned back. "Lord Velmorn aided me when others turned their back. He's an old friend . I owe him."
"That's... noble," Ethan said carefully.
Roran looked unconvinced. "But Halemond? That's not exactly the jewel of the Bannerlands. They hold no title in court. They have no political pull."
"They have loyalty," Damon shrugged. "Lord Velmorn is an old friend and besides a quiet region is less likely to stir drama."
Leon leaned on the desk. "So who's the lucky girl?"
"Whichever one he sends. I don't care," Damon replied. "I'm ready"
That earned a rare silence.
"You'll what now?" Ethan asked.
"I made a vow," Damon said, quieter now. "One wife. One life. No harems. No heirs from ten mothers. I will not become my father."
Roran looked at him, pride flickering across his face. "Then pray to the gods it isn't Lady Kara."
Damon frowned. "Who?"
"Kara Velmorn. Firstborn. A storm in skirts. She's had half the castle guard in her bed — or so the whispers say." Roran informed.
Leon's grin widened. "In that case, better hope for the second daughter. Does she have a name?"
That was a question that none of them could answer.