The past has teeth.Caelan felt every one of them as he sat before the old ledger, the flickering lantern casting golden shadows over the faded ink.
Witness: General Corven DraevenStatement given under covert commission—Year 714, Month of Second FrostSubject: Events surrounding the Ironblood Revolt and the exile of Crown Prince Caelan Idris Vireon
Caelan's pulse was steady, but only just. He turned the page carefully, fingers brushing against dust that hadn't been disturbed in over a decade.
"On the eve of the Rebellion, orders arrived bearing the seal of the Queen. The 7th Legion was commanded to move into neutral borderlands, under pretense of securing grain routes. In truth, the move was designed to provoke retaliation by the Eastern Clans and spark a fabricated crisis to frame the Crown Prince."
"The orders were false. The seal was real."
"I confronted Prince Caelan before the march. He denied knowledge. I believed him."
"The battle that followed slaughtered 432 soldiers, 287 of them ours. The reports were forged. The prince was branded a traitor. I was ordered to testify against him—or be branded with him."
"I chose silence."
Caelan exhaled slowly. There was no rage in his eyes. No tears.
Only cold.
Measured. Heavy. Familiar.
He closed the ledger and stood, the stone of Aegis Tower groaning beneath his boots. Night pressed in beyond the shattered windows, the wind pulling at his cloak like a voice trying to drag him back to that night—ten years ago—when his name was erased from the court, and replaced with shame.
Corven had lied. Not by speech—but by omission.
Caelan had always believed someone in the council orchestrated his fall, but for a general—his general—to stay silent, even when he knew the truth…
It was betrayal of the quietest kind. The kind that walked beside you, unspoken, day after day, until it festered beneath the skin.
He descended the tower without ceremony and rode into the darkness without looking back.
By dawn, Caelan stood at the edge of the Vireon Barracks' private entrance, the inner courtyard of the Palace of Blades.
The guards at the gate gave a start when they saw him—disheveled, cloaked in mud and frost, his eyes rimmed with weariness.
"I need to speak to General Draeven," Caelan said.
One of the men nodded stiffly. "At this hour?"
"Now."
The tone allowed no argument.
Corven Draeven was a man shaped by war. Even in age, his frame was heavy with muscle, his face scarred by decades of battle. His left hand trembled faintly from an old wound—the price of loyalty, or cowardice, depending on who told the story.
He stood at the edge of the dueling square, running a whetstone along the length of his blade when Caelan arrived.
"You look like hell," Corven said.
"I found the ledger."
The general froze.
Caelan tossed the black-bound book onto the nearby bench.
Corven didn't touch it.
"So it's true," Caelan said. "You knew. You always knew."
Silence.
Then Corven sheathed his sword. "Come inside."
They sat in the war room, the heavy oak table between them bearing maps, reports, and the lingering tension of a decade's lie.
"I wanted to protect you," Corven said, at last.
Caelan didn't laugh. Didn't scoff. He simply watched.
"You were seventeen. The queen had already gathered the nobility behind her. The council was split. If I spoke out then, I'd have been executed. And you... you would've died with me."
"So you stayed silent," Caelan said.
"I thought it was the only way to keep you alive. And you did live. You survived."
"I didn't live," Caelan said softly. "I endured. That's not the same thing."
Corven looked away.
Caelan leaned forward. "Do you know what exile does to a man who was raised to be king? Every sunrise is a reminder of the throne that was stolen. Every night, you dream of a name you're no longer allowed to say."
The general bowed his head.
"I had to become someone else," Caelan whispered. "Just to breathe. Just to think. And all the while, you were here. Silent. Loyal to what? A lie?"
"I wasn't loyal to the queen," Corven said, voice rough. "I was loyal to the empire. And I thought—gods help me—I thought that meant letting her win."
Caelan stood. "It doesn't have to mean that anymore."
Corven looked up, startled.
"I'm going to dismantle her. Piece by piece. And I'm going to start with what's buried in the Library of Dust."
"You found it?" the general whispered.
"One of the ledgers. There are six more."
Corven swallowed. "If the others exist… they could bring down half the court."
"Good," Caelan said coldly. "Let it burn."
"You'll be hunted."
"I already am."
They stared at each other, two men carved from different times—one forged by duty, the other by exile.
Then, slowly, Corven reached into the folds of his cloak and drew out an old iron ring.
He set it on the table.
The signet of the Ironblood Oath—a symbol reserved only for those who had once pledged their lives to the heir of Vireon.
"I buried this when I lied," Corven said. "Swore I'd never wear it again. But if you mean to rise… you'll need more than anger."
"I have strategy. I have allies. And now I have this." Caelan picked up the ring.
Corven met his eyes. "Then I'm with you. Until the end."
That evening, in the city's slums, a child ran barefoot across the broken cobbles of Hollow Street, a sealed scroll tucked beneath her arm.
She ducked under iron balconies, weaving through fish markets and crumbling alleys, until she reached a small red door.
A man opened it. Hooded. Smiling.
She handed him the scroll and disappeared into the dark.
Inside, the man unrolled it beneath a guttering lamp.
It read:
"The ghost has risen. The first ledger breathes. Secure the next. Aegis speaks again."–R
The man smiled.
Then turned, and behind him, six cloaked figures bowed low.
"Begin the sequence," he whispered. "The Ironblood Ring lives again."
Meanwhile, in the Queen's solar, Elaria stared into a basin of still water, the reflection inside warped with pale blue light.
The surface rippled.
And a voice spoke.
"He has touched the ledger."
Elaria's fingers tightened on the basin rim. "Which one?"
"Aegis."
The voice was neither male nor female, but layered—ancient, crawling along her spine.
"You promised me the past was sealed," she hissed.
"And you promised me a kingdom unshaken."
The reflection twisted.
"The boy becomes fire. You must answer."
"I will," Elaria said, her voice like a blade. "He plays at war. I built the battlefield."
The reflection vanished.
And in the stillness, Elaria's hand curled over the ancient necklace at her throat—a fragment of the First Oathstone, tied to the deepest secrets of Vireon's royal blood.
She whispered, "Checkmate isn't declared. It's constructed."
Later that night, Caelan stood on the roof of the Aurelian estate, staring at the palace dome.
The city below was alive with torchlight, and yet, he felt alone.
Bram joined him, setting down a tray of wine and papers.
"You've been quiet."
"I've been remembering."
"Bad memories?"
"All of them."
Bram sighed. "The general's with us now?"
"He's broken. But useful."
"And the ledgers?"
"There are six more," Caelan murmured. "If I can find them, I can expose everything—the queen, the war, the nobles who bought my exile. I can rip the rot from the empire."
"You'll also make enemies."
"I already have."
A pause.
Then Bram handed him a parchment. "This came just now. From Lady Verenne."
Caelan opened it.
The Blood Trials are set to begin. Prince Theron is to oversee them. You must be there.He doesn't know you yet. But he soon will.–L.V.
Caelan's smile was thin.
The Blood Trials—a brutal series of duels, judgments, and challenges held every five years to determine court rankings, inheritance disputes, and noble strength.
They were public. Political. Dangerous.
And they were perfect.
"I'll attend," Caelan said.
"You'll fight?"
"No." His voice was soft. "I'll win."