The summons came on black parchment.
Folded with precision and sealed in crimson wax bearing the royal sigil, it arrived by hand at dawn—delivered not by a courier, but by a silent member of the Royal Guard, cloaked in gold-threaded robes. Bram accepted the message with a bow, but his unease lingered long after the man vanished.
Caelan, still sharpening a blade at his desk, took the letter without a word. He slit the seal open and scanned its contents.
Lord Rael Aurelian,
Her Majesty Queen Elaria cordially invites you to a private luncheon within the inner palace at high noon.
Attendance is mandatory.
–The Chamberlain of the Royal Court
Caelan stared at the last line for a long time. Mandatory. The queen hadn't even bothered to pretend.
"Well," he murmured, "there it is."
"The trap?" Bram asked from the doorway.
Caelan gave a thin smile. "Not the trap. But the first time she shows me the teeth beneath the crown."
The inner palace was not meant for the eyes of common nobles.
Carved of white stone veined with gold, its halls gleamed in unnatural light, blessed and preserved by the old magic of the royal line. Crimson banners hung in still air, each one embroidered with the history of Vireon's bloodline, dating back over seven centuries. Few were allowed within. Even fewer left without a mark.
Caelan passed through the gates with a calm he did not feel, his boots echoing too loudly on the polished floors. Two guards flanked him—silent, armed, and carefully expressionless. They led him through twisting halls, past empty balconies and silent antechambers, until they reached a sunlit chamber framed by white silk and carved glass.
Queen Elaria sat at the center, alone.
No guards. No advisors. Just a table set for two, rich with crystal goblets, polished silver, and chilled fruit soaked in wine.
"Lord Aurelian," she said, without rising. "How lovely of you to accept my invitation."
"I could hardly refuse," Caelan replied, bowing. "Your Majesty honors me."
Elaria gestured to the chair across from her. "Sit. I dislike speaking to people who hover."
Caelan sat.
The queen studied him. Her beauty was the kind that unsettled—a porcelain mask over a predator's mind. Her eyes, a deep amber, flicked over him with idle calculation.
"You've made quite the impression in such a short time," she said.
"I merely intend to serve."
"Yes, and that is what makes you interesting."
She poured him a glass of wine. Deep red. Almost black.
"There's a storm brewing, Lord Aurelian," she said softly. "The outer provinces are growing restless. The merchant lords mutter about grain tariffs. There are whispers of Thaerien ships spotted near the northern isles."
"I've heard the same."
She tilted her head. "And yet, rather than address any of those things, I find myself... distracted. By a man who shouldn't exist."
Caelan said nothing.
She smiled. "Don't worry. I've no intention of executing you. Not yet."
He raised an eyebrow. "How generous."
"Do you know," she said, swirling her wine, "what the worst quality in a noble is?"
"Enlighten me."
"Ambition without allegiance."
She leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "You have ambition. I see it in your walk, your words, your stillness. And I respect it. But I don't know where your allegiance lies."
Caelan met her gaze directly. "To Vireon."
"Ah." A pause. "That's a clever answer. Vague enough to be patriotic, and empty enough to avoid meaning."
She leaned back, studying him again. "You've been in court for only three days, and already half the council watches you. Lys Verenne has aligned with you—don't bother denying it. The eastern military sent word of your visit to the Palace of Blades. And even my son has noticed you."
"Prince Theron is perceptive," Caelan said evenly.
Elaria's smile turned thin.
"You know," she said, tapping her goblet, "when I was younger, I used to enjoy chess. My father taught me. He was brutal. Used to beat me with the edge of the board when I lost."
Caelan said nothing.
"But I learned. Pawns are expendable. Bishops lie. Knights betray. Queens... win."
She set down her goblet and folded her hands.
"So here is what I propose, Lord Aurelian. Let us not be enemies."
"That depends on your definition of enemy."
Elaria's gaze sharpened. "Don't play games. Not here."
"Very well," Caelan said. "Then I accept your offer. We're not enemies."
"Good." She stood. "You will report to the Ministry of Internal Affairs tomorrow morning. I've arranged a post for you—an advisory position within the city's intelligence bureau."
"A test."
"A gesture," she replied. "You seem like a man who prefers truth to ceremony."
"Sometimes the two are indistinguishable."
Elaria gave a soft laugh. "If you survive this, we'll speak again."
Then she walked past him, her perfume lingering like crushed roses and ash.
Outside the palace, the air felt heavier.
Caelan made it halfway down the marble stair before he heard the footsteps behind him.
Not the guards. Not palace staff.
He turned, hand drifting toward the hilt of his blade.
The man approaching was cloaked in charcoal gray, his face hidden beneath a smooth silver mask. Not a mask of fashion—but of rank.
A Whisper Knight.
One of the queen's personal assassins.
Caelan stiffened. "Is this part of the test?"
The masked man inclined his head. "A message."
"From Her Majesty?"
"No. From someone watching her."
The man reached into his robe and handed Caelan a folded piece of vellum, sealed not with wax, but with ink—an inked crescent moon, the symbol of the old Loyalist Circle, long thought dissolved.
Then he was gone.
Vanished down the steps and into the milling crowd.
Caelan opened the letter the moment he returned to the safety of his estate.
The Queen plays long games, but not without end. The Library of Dust still breathes beneath the western catacombs. Seek the ledger buried beneath Aegis Tower. It is the first of seven.
–A friend
The Library of Dust.
An old myth whispered among the royal historians and traitor scribes. A hidden repository beneath the palace, built to store records so damning they could never be burned—only buried. Many had tried to find it. All failed. But Aegis Tower was real. It was the old watchtower near the first king's tomb.
If the ledger was there, it could contain details—proof of the queen's early crimes, perhaps even how she orchestrated Caelan's exile. It could also be a trap.
He stared at the message long into the night, mind racing.
Seven ledgers. Seven keys to the past.
Seven steps toward the throne.
The following morning, the Ministry of Internal Affairs was chaos disguised as bureaucracy.
Housed in a blackstone complex just behind the royal courts, it pulsed with clerks, spies, and whisper-keepers running back and forth across corridors. None wore uniforms. All wore masks of pleasantry and politics.
Caelan was escorted to a narrow chamber filled with smoke and ledgers. A thin man with translucent skin and watery eyes greeted him.
"Lord Aurelian," the man said. "I'm Deputy Minister Rohn. Your assignment is simple: audit the movements of minor houses accused of corruption over the last fiscal cycle. All expenses. All patronage. Look for patterns."
"Patterns of what?" Caelan asked.
"Subversion. Treason. Or anything the crown finds inconvenient."
He handed Caelan a stack of sealed dossiers—eighteen, at a glance. Names Caelan recognized: House Meravin, House Thorne, House Dareth. All moderate families with growing influence. And all, coincidentally, on the fringe of loyalty to Prince Theron—not the queen.
So this was her game. She wanted him busy. Or worse, wanted him complicit.
Very well.
Caelan took the dossiers with a slight nod. "When do you want reports?"
"Within the week."
That night, Caelan sat in the dusty war-room of his estate, the table spread with maps, ledgers, and dossiers.
Bram stepped in, carrying a steaming mug of bitterroot tea.
"She gave you something poisonous," the steward muttered. "This post. She means to distract you."
"Yes," Caelan murmured. "But also… she fears me."
He opened the dossier on House Meravin, scanning the expenses: troop movements, grain stockpiles, private correspondences. Then House Thorne—agricultural holdings bordering the south pass. House Dareth—minor sea-trade partners with the Thaerien Isles.
"Interesting," Caelan whispered.
"They're not traitors," Bram said, leaning in. "They're just... inconvenient."
Caelan nodded slowly. "Then I'll give her what she wants."
"What?"
"A traitor."
He tapped the dossier on House Thorne.
"This one. Easy to falsify. Enough movement near the southern border to imply conspiracy with the Reformed Dissenters."
"You'll accuse them?"
"I'll plant a report suggesting as much. Just enough to distract her."
"And then?"
"While she watches Thorne burn," Caelan said, opening the secret missive again, "I'll be at Aegis Tower."
At midnight, Caelan mounted his horse and rode alone.
The city's walls loomed behind him, silent and cold. He took the western road, hood pulled low, cloak flaring with each gust of wind.
Aegis Tower was forgotten now. A relic of the first imperial war, its top shattered during the siege of Threlmore. Ivy choked the stone. Wind howled through arrow slits like the cries of the dead.
He dismounted at the base and entered with only a lantern and a blade.
Inside, the tower was hollow—five levels of rubble, ash, and old banners. But at the third floor, beneath the broken crest of the first king's shield, Caelan found it.
A loose stone.
He knelt, pried it up, and reached beneath.
His fingers brushed parchment.
A ledger. Bound in black leather, sealed with iron thread.
He pulled it out and opened the first page.
And froze.
The ink was faded, but legible.
"Ledgers of the Ironblood Revolt: Testimonies of the Crown's Betrayal."
The first entry bore a name.
Witness: General Corven Draeven.