King Mansis did not sleep.
Nights stretched long and thin before him — endless corridors of thought, haunted by footfalls that never came. He would lie awake in the royal chambers, staring at the carved ceiling where golden cherubs leered down like judges. The fire burned low in the hearth, and every crackle made him start.
The city whispered of him now. He could feel it, even through the walls of marble and silk. Every cough in the courtyard, every rustle of skirts in the corridor, every shifting shadow in the torchlight — all of them *knew*.
And worse, all of them spoke of *him*.
Darian Duskbane. The outlaw knight. The people's phantom.
Sometimes Mansis thought he could hear the man's name murmured in the crack between one heartbeat and the next, a ghost that stalked his waking hours.
He had doubled the guard. Tripled the patrols. He'd ordered secret searches of the barracks, the servants' quarters, the stables. Every man and woman was questioned. And yet, somehow, every morning a new rumor crawled through the city like mist under a door.
Some said Darian had been seen near the Fountain District again, saving the innocent. Others swore they'd glimpsed him in the high towers themselves. A butcher's boy turned legend, now the knife poised at a king's throat.
And though Mansis denied it aloud, a small part of him — the part that still remembered Eleyna's scream — believed it.
He sat in his war council chamber now, hunched over a map of Harta, ink staining his fingers. The parchment was scarred with marks — red circles, black lines, little notes scrawled in his quick, jagged hand.
*Suspect loyalties. Watch this quarter. Burn this one if needed.*
The door creaked.
He looked up sharply.
Queen Nina stood there, veiled as ever, her hands clasped loosely before her. Behind her, Silas lingered like a shadow, his expression unreadable.
"You sent for me, Majesty?" Nina's voice was calm, the perfect measure of duty and distance.
Mansis waved her closer, his tone clipped. "I hear the market women are whispering of rebellion again. They call me a butcher, not a king."
"How strange," she said softly, "given that you once took a butcher's boy to your brother's court."
His head snapped up, eyes narrowing. "Do you mock me, Nina?"
"I remind you," she said, "that the people remember what you wish forgotten."
Her defiance struck like a spark. Mansis rose so quickly the table shuddered, ink spilling across the map. He stalked toward her, his robes whispering like snakeskin.
"You think I don't know what they say?" he hissed. "That I am a monster, a tyrant, a murderer? They would have me as another shadow in the tombs before the year's end if they could. And yet—" He grabbed her arm, his grip bruising. "They *still obey*. Because they fear me more than they love him."
Her eyes met his through the veil, cold and steady. "Fear burns bright, my king. But it burns fast."
For a heartbeat, he almost struck her. Then, with a sudden snarl, he released her and turned away.
"Leave me."
She inclined her head. "As you wish."
When she left, Silas lingered a moment longer. Mansis didn't look up.
"She'll turn on you," Silas said quietly. "It's in her eyes."
"So will you," Mansis murmured. "If I ever give you reason."
Silas's lips twitched, not quite a smile. "Then we understand each other."
---
By dawn, the king's orders spread like poison through the veins of the city. Spies were doubled, curfews enforced. The gallows by the southern gate was rebuilt, higher this time, "for visibility."
In the streets, the people no longer looked one another in the eye. Fear had found its true form — not in the king's decrees, but in their silence.
---
That afternoon, the palace received an unexpected visitor.
The guards at the outer gate had not been warned. They saw the royal crest upon the carriage and stepped aside before they even thought to question it. The wheels clattered on the cobbles, the horses snorted, and when the door opened, the scent of lavender filled the air.
Dowager Queen Serena descended slowly, her steps deliberate, her bearing regal even in mourning black. Her veil shimmered like night silk, her eyes sharp as cut glass. Behind her, two attendants carried a small chest — her only luggage.
The news reached Mansis before she reached the throne room.
He froze when he heard her name.
"Impossible," he whispered. "She should have stayed at Westvale. She swore she would never return."
Silas's tone was mild. "Perhaps she heard rumors of your… difficulties."
Mansis glared at him. "If you're suggesting my mother returns to gloat—"
"I suggest nothing, Majesty," Silas interrupted smoothly. "But perhaps you should greet her. A queen mother can calm the whispers… or fan them."
---
The throne room doors opened wide as Serena entered, her footsteps echoing like a heartbeat through the hollow air. The courtiers, gathered in uneasy clusters, bowed low. Even the guards seemed smaller in her presence.
Mansis waited on the dais, forcing his mouth into a smile that didn't touch his eyes.
"Mother," he said, his voice honeyed and brittle. "To what do I owe this honor?"
She looked at him — long and slow — as if assessing something faintly unpleasant. "To blood, my son. A mother's duty does not end when her child takes a crown."
"I thought your duty ended when my brother died," he said coldly.
"Your brother's death began mine anew," Serena said. Her tone was quiet, but it carried through the chamber like the sweep of a blade. "For now, I must watch the ruin he left behind."
The air in the room shifted. Mansis's knuckles whitened on the arm of his throne.
"You speak boldly," he said. "Careful. I could still have you confined to your chambers."
"You could," she agreed. "But then who would your courtiers whisper to when the nights grow long and the city restless?"
Silas, standing to the side, watched her with wary admiration. She was not a woman to be silenced — not by power, not by fear.
Mansis exhaled slowly, forcing composure. "Very well. Stay, then. Haunt your son as you haunted your husband's court. But remember this — you live under my rule now."
Serena inclined her head. "And you, my son, live under the eyes of your people. Try not to forget who gave you both."
She turned and left before he could reply, her black skirts whispering across the marble. When the doors shut behind her, Mansis slammed his fist against the throne.
"Find me the spy," he growled. "Find me the butcher knight. I'll hang him from my brother's tomb if I must."
Silas gave a low bow. "And if he's already in your walls, Majesty?"
Mansis's eyes flashed. "Then I'll burn the walls."
---
That night, the palace felt colder than usual.
Darian Duskbane crouched upon the roof of a watchtower, the wind biting at his cloak. Below him, the torches of the courtyard burned in neat, trembling lines. He could see the glow of the throne room window, where Mansis paced like a caged wolf.
He didn't know yet that the Dowager Queen had returned. But he could feel something shifting — like the deep tremor before a quake.
"Too many crowns," he murmured to himself. "And none fit the heads that wear them."
Behind him, Brann's voice was low. "You sure this is wise, my lord?"
"Not my lord," Darian said absently. "Just a man with a purpose."
Brann grunted. "Aye. But men with purpose tend to die fast."
"Then I'd best make it count."
He rose slowly, the outline of his frame massive against the moon. In his eyes burned not rage, but patience — the patience of a hunter who knows his prey is starting to bleed fear.
Below, the palace bell tolled once — a long, hollow note that shivered through the air.
Serena, alone in her chamber, looked up at the sound.
Mansis paused in his pacing.
And somewhere deep beneath the city, in a candlelit crypt, Queen Nina lifted her quill and began the next line of rebellion.
---