Elias figured Arthur wouldn't fold. Not in a million years.
He could still picture those hellish training days Alden Blackwood put his kid through. From toddler steps on, Arthur's whole gig was scripted: haul ass back to the capital, scrub the family name clean, and pick up where Dad left off.
Alden had clocked it up close—the King's immortality jones was gutting the realm like a fish on a line. Endless cash-sucks for the [Royal Arcane Guild]'s wild hunts? He'd gone toe-to-toe, begging for the dirt-poor peasants scraping by while the crown chased fairy tales.
It nuked him. Job, kin, wheels—poof.
Still, the old man had shoved his last kid down that same meat-grinder road. Elias never got it. But Arthur? That steel-spine grit was hammered in grief's forge. Couple of road-rash monsters? Laughable detour.
Arthur's mug stayed cool as marble. "Got it," he said flat. Then: "Our county's got two other hopefuls. They pushing pause?"
Pugh clocked the angle. "M'lord, this ain't the same game. Mags are burying it to dodge a stampede. Those two? Clueless. Plus," he dropped his voice like contraband, "they ain't carrying your weight."
"You're missing the point."
Arthur pivoted, strolling to a low knoll, hands locked behind him, eyes drilling the smoggy ridges yonder.
"Dad's boot from court? Band of cutthroats jumped our ride on the highway. Mom, bro, sis... carved up. Servants, guards—the works. Pops ate a knife for me. That's my golden ticket."
He wheeled back, gaze frosty shards.
"Who sent 'em, Pugh?"
Hatred flashed raw on the clerk's face. "The throne's own monster—who else?"
"King's a hack with a blade, sure," Arthur said, voice like a scalpel. "But this? Not his style. He'd already aired Dad's dirt public. No need for ninja bullshit. They iced everyone, down to the piss-boy. Zero loose lips. Politics? Nah. Vendetta. Some court snake wanted the Blackwoods wiped off the board."
Elias and Pugh swapped loaded stares. "Who?" Pugh breathed.
"Wish I knew," Arthur admitted. "Four years old—total blur. Pops filled in blanks later. Allies? Enemies? Zilch to chase."
He closed the gap, snapping back to now.
"Pugh, yearly—how many make Trials, how many no-show?"
Hesitation. "Most show, m'lord. Qualifying's a life's grind. Odds crap? Still, you'd crawl through glass."
"Bingo."
Elias's snort cut sharp, mocking. "He ain't sweating glory, dummy." Arthur's glare could've peeled paint. Elias just shrugged, zipped it.
Arthur unpacked: "Pugh, thousands flood the capital for Trials. 'Arthur Blackwood'? Needle in a haystorm. Ghost. But no-shows? That's a short roll-call. Easy scan."
He let it simmer.
"My tag on that list? Spotlights anyone sniffing Dad's ghost. Thinks he snuffed the line fifteen years back. Way riskier than some mangy strays."
Pugh's shoulders sagged, checkmate. "M'lord, your logic... airtight." Defeated sigh. "Brought the rig, just in case. Knew you'd dig heels in."
Curtains yanked tight, the ride hid the lordling from rubberneckers. Pugh, brim low like a fugitive, whipped the reins himself, merging onto the King's Highway.
In the rocking gut of the coach, Elias scooted close. "Spill—who's the suit, for real?"
Arthur mulled. "County council's rite-wrangler. Runs the knight picks."
A clerk? Elias's grin split wide. Local trial boss, Dad's ride-or-die. Wonder if Arthur's high scores were all sweat, or a nudge.
Old Alden? Chess-mastering this forever.
Late afternoon dumped 'em in county town, skirting the hustle for a dead-end lane. Pugh reined up at a squat, forgettable brownstone.
"Stashed this for you," he said, hustling 'em in. "Low profile till go-time. Grub and gear drop at the door—you snag it, Elias."
Pugh bounced—Trials prep called. Last tips dropped, he vanished.
Hours dragged. Dusk bled to night, stars splattering the black like buckshot.
Post chow and scrub, Arthur parked on the stoop, fresh as a daisy, head craned at the glittering void.
Faint whiff teased from the rear—sweet, sneaky, near-miss. Kitchen glow flickered, pot bubbling soft. Elias scheming.
Curious, Arthur padded in. Elias hunkered by the hearth, poking sticks at the blaze. Pot chugged lazy over the coals.
"Whatcha brewing?" Arthur prodded.
"Grab-and-go," Elias muttered, eyes glued down.
Snack? They'd just scarfed. Arthur knew better. He lunged for the lid.
"Oi! Hands off!" Elias yelped, springing up.
Too slow. Lid popped. Steam whooshed, laced with that shy perfume. Arthur fanned it clear, peered in. Rice-ish grains, beefier, see-through. Each cradled a tiny purple pulse, like trapped fireflies.
Elias snatched it back, clang! "Bookworm it up. Not your jam."
Arthur's peepers bugged, awe rare as hen's teeth. "No way... Elven Grain? The ten-gold-an-ounce rocket fuel?"
Elias arms-crossed, smug as sin. "Bingo. Jealous?"
Locked in, Arthur pried the lid again, mesmerized. Books only—grown in hush groves by ghost-masters, magic-soaked kernels. Normie nibble? Day's chow. Fighter or spell-slinger? Turbo-boost, straight power drip.
Bank-breaker. Nobles' toy.
Arthur clicked it shut, smirk tugging. "Bitch about broke, then flash this?"
Elias jabbed the pot, beard-tuft quivering. "Three ounces, tops! Barely a nibble! Master's goodbye swag—hoarded for doomsday. But with [Royal Arcane Guild] sniffing escorts? Can't chance a bag-pat. Gulp now, dodge the 'how's a broke-tower hack afford this?' grill."
Arthur barked a laugh. Tiny stash, yeah. "Virgin taste here. Holler when it's chowtime."
He bailed.
Elias flapped a lazy bye, hunkering back by the flames.
Pot's bubble eased to murmur. Elias lolled against chill stone, boredom gnawing. Then—freeze. Body locked, needle-prick stiff.
Eyes slitted, pinned on the steam curl.
Nah. Through it.