The Great Hall of Riverbend glittered that night with silver goblets and
white linen covering the long banquet table. Flutes and hand drums played from
a small stage while folk dancers twirled in wheat-colored skirts, mimicking the
movement of the river's waves. Laughter rang out, but unevenly—relief on the
peasants' side after the harvest, restrained courtesy among the nobles who wore
their unease like masks. It was a performance everyone played together.
King Alden sat on the high seat, his hair white but his eyes still sharp.
Lines of weariness, however, betrayed the burden on his shoulders. Beside him
sat Princess Elara, her silver-blue gown catching the light. She listened to
the flow of conversations like she was mapping tributaries—where words
branched, where they ran dry, who was stirring the currents.
At the far end of the table stood Duke Roderic Blackmere. His black mantle
bore gold embroidery in the shape of chains coiled around a raven. When a
servant poured him wine, he did not wait to be invited.
"How much longer will we send our grain to Valoria?" His voice carried
without needing to be raised. "How much longer will our people bow, while
others feast on bread baked from Riverbend sweat?"
Whispers spread. A young lord—Edwyn, still clinging to ideals—dared to
answer. "Duke Roderic, the treaty prevents war. This year's harvest was spared
from fire. Isn't that… something?"
Roderic turned, lips curling faintly. "Something we paid with our dignity,
young lord. You may call it peace. I call it a golden chain—shining to the eye,
but a chain nonetheless."
King Alden lifted his hand for quiet. "The grain we give is the price of
peace. As long as peace holds, fathers return home, children sleep without the
sound of war horns. That is the choice I made."
"A choice that feeds fear," Roderic replied softly, his words sharp. "Fear
of Valoria. Fear of a single man who tore down a city's iron wall as if it were
a garden fence." He let the name hang unspoken—Arthur.
Elara felt her skin prickle. She saw how the neutral nobles—those who
normally avoided sides—leaned subtly toward Roderic. No loud cheers, only
glances exchanged: We will speak again, somewhere darker.
Music resumed, but the rhythm faltered. The dancers still spun, but their
steps lost their lightness. Elara sipped her wine only to wet her lips, then
set the goblet down. "Father," she whispered, "this is not a feast. It's a
stage."
Alden nodded slowly. "Leadership often means sitting in the chair everyone
else wants to remove."
A few nights after the banquet, Elara walked into the palace garden. The air
carried the river's chill; night-blooming flowers released faint fragrance. On
a stone bench by the pond, she opened her small notebook—pages filled with
names, signs, impressions. She wrote quickly: Roderic—growing bolder; Ulricnames, signs, impressions. She wrote quickly: Roderic—growing bolder; Ulric
Fenmarsh—seen circling his private barracks; Selene Harrowind—gathering newsFenmarsh—seen circling his private barracks; Selene Harrowind—gathering news
like a merchant gathers spices. She dotted the page like a map forming.
Her mother had once told her Riverbend's peace was born of fair taxes and a
clear-flowing river. Elara stared at the water's surface; the moon's reflection
split on ripples, then joined again. "If this river could speak," she murmured,
"it would warn us before the flood."
Elsewhere, in a dark hall, sharper words were spoken than any blade could
cut. Roderic spread a map of the palace across a wooden table. A lone torch
stretched his fingers' shadows long, as if he already held the city.
Baron Ulric Fenmarsh sat with arms crossed. His clothes reeked of marsh, his
hands scarred. "My men are restless. They keep asking when the torches will be
lit."
"On the night of the harvest festival," Roderic answered without pause. "The
side gate used by traders—that's where the guard is weakest. We'll take Alden
alive. Elara… she must be in our hands. Her name will be the seal on my claim
to power."
Countess Selene Harrowind turned the emerald ring on her finger. "To the
world, Elara must die. A crafted grief is the sharpest tool. People stop asking
questions when they're too busy weeping."
Ulric let out a harsh laugh. "I'll block the underground passages. The river
princess will find no escape."
"Good." Roderic sipped his wine, eyes fixed on the torch. "Riverbend will be
freed from Valoria's shadow. In seven nights, the palace lights will not burn
for Alden, but for me."
That same night, at the lower docks, Roderic addressed two dozen
mercenaries. The old warehouse smelled of rope and salt, barrels served as
seats. "You are not tools," he said, his voice low, almost personal. "You are
pathfinders. Your children will not grow beneath foreign banners. When morning
comes, you will be called heroes. And heroes do not go hungry." Small sacks of
coin slid across the floor, clinking like a promise.
While Riverbend nursed its shadows, Valoria sharpened its watch. Hadrick,
head of intelligence, sat at a desk littered with scrolls. A candle burned low;
he hadn't blinked in hours. The last report was brief: unusual movements in
Riverbend. Private troops gathered. The name Roderic whispered. Hadrick shut
his eyes, weighing his choice. Intervene too soon, and Valoria would be accused
of pulling Riverbend's strings. Too late, and the flood would break the bridge.
He wrote to Arthur: "A calm river hides currents. Strengthen the border,He wrote to Arthur: "A calm river hides currents. Strengthen the border,
not with proclamations, but with readiness. Our eyes need time, yet time isnot with proclamations, but with readiness. Our eyes need time, yet time is
what the enemy seeks to steal." He sealed the letter, then studied the
great map of Etheria. The blue line of the Riverbend spread like veins. "If
this vein is choked," he muttered, "blood will seek another path. And that path
is always more dangerous."
Close to midnight, Elara returned through the palace halls. Torches
flickered, her shadow stretching across the stone floor. Two servants froze
mid-conversation when she appeared. "We were just… checking linens, Your
Highness," one stammered, bowing too deeply. Roderic's name had almost slipped
from their lips, but drowned when Elara stepped near. She didn't press. She
simply noted the pattern: when people fear to speak, someone has taught them
fear.
That same night she knocked on her father's study door. Alden sat over the
map of the river, tracing lines he knew by heart.
"Father," Elara began, "I've seen meetings that shouldn't happen. Roderic is
gathering his men. Selene is sending messages outside the city under pretense
of cloth orders. Ulric lingers around private barracks." She paused to steady
her breath. "I fear the storm is already at our door."
Alden looked at her for a long moment, then placed his hand on hers.
"Politics has always been full of shadows. We cannot arrest shadows." He
paused, then added quietly, "But we can prepare spare candles for when the
lights go out."
Elara nodded, warmed but unsatisfied. "Then let me strengthen the palace
wings—servants who are loyal, guards who swear to Riverbend alone."
"Do it," Alden said. "But carefully. The loudest voice often hides the
quietest dagger."
By the next dusk, the river's wind carried the smell of wet earth. In the
marketplace, rumors spread like dry leaves: grain prices rising, taxes
changing, someone promising to "save" Riverbend from its burdens. The word save
shifted from mouth to mouth, gleaming differently on each tongue. Elara walked
among the stalls, listening to how the word clung to people's ears. She studied
the fishmongers' faces, the mothers carrying infants, the children chasing
shadows of birds—they cared little who gave speeches in the Great Hall; they
only cared that bellies were filled and nights were safe.
On a brick rooftop, a raven perched, watching. Elara followed it with her
gaze, sensing the Blackmere crest had stepped down from banners into living
flesh, eavesdropping.
The seventh night drew close. On his balcony, Roderic stared at the torchlit
palace. Wine swirled in his goblet, dark as intent. From afar, the guards'
serenade faded into silence. He raised the cup to eye level, as if toasting the
walls he meant to claim.
"In seven nights," he whispered, "those lights will not shine for Alden…
they will shine for me."
River wind carried small sounds—flags tapping poles, leaves brushing tiles,
horses nickering faintly as a hatch closed carefully. Riverbend, usually fast
asleep under the moon, felt tonight like someone with eyes shut but mind
restless.
In her chamber, Elara stood at the window, notebook in hand. The last page
she left blank. "For tomorrow," she finally wrote, "if tomorrow isshe left blank. "For tomorrow," she finally wrote, "if tomorrow is
different from today." She blew out the candle, letting the dark reclaim
the room's honest shapes.
In Valoria, Hadrick watched the sealed letter depart by courier, bound for
Arthur before dawn. He had not closed his eyes. One thought repeated: the
calmest river is the one most likely to overflow when its banks are weakened
from within.
And through it all, Riverbend kept flowing, reflecting the moon as though
the world weren't being redrawn by hidden hands. But the water knew more than
it spoke. If one pressed an ear close, one might hear: a ripple already
promising to become a wave.