"Blood remembers. Even when thrones forget."— Inscription upon the ruined temple beneath the First Keep
Far to the south, beneath a sun half-veiled by cloud, the corridors of the Crest Keep lay silent.
The air was chill for the season, still as breath held in dread. Along the walls hung faded banners that had once borne the proud sigil of her father's reign — now dulled by neglect and dust.
Princess Saphirra moved swiftly through the passage, her steps echoing against the stone. The hush followed her like a living thing.
Behind came Senoria, her maid, small and pale and shaking. The woman's hands worried at her apron, her eyes red from sleepless nights.
At the end of the hall stood the doors of the throne room — tall, dark, and severe. The guards did not speak. They pushed them open without a word.
Within waited the king.
He sat upon the high seat of gold and obsidian, where once her father had ruled. Every time Saphirra saw him there, she felt her stomach twist. The hall smelled faintly of smoke and old blood.
It was the third summons in as many months. Each left her weaker than the last. Her arms bore faint scars where blood had been drawn before.
"Come forward," the king said.
His voice carried a measured impatience, the tone of a man long denied his desire. His eyes were fever-bright — that same hunger that masked itself as duty. Beneath the throne lay the ancient crest of their bloodline, sealed for generations. Legend said it could awaken the will of gods, though none had ever lived to prove it.
Saphirra stopped at the foot of the dais, the marble cold beneath her bare feet. Senoria lingered near, her breath trembling.
"This time it shall work," said the king.
"My lord," Senoria broke in, her fear bursting forth, "the princess is still frail from the last! She cannot bear another!"
The king's gaze cut to her. His voice was quiet, but the words were iron. "She will do what must be done. There is no other heir."
Senoria bowed her head. Saphirra touched her shoulder lightly, bidding her silence.
The chandels stepped forward — robed men whose faces were half-hidden by age and unease.
They carried thin knives and bowls of beaten bronze, and upon the marble they traced their circle: no light, no glow, only the scratch of metal against stone. The sound was sharp and slow, each stroke like a breath before confession.
When all was ready, one chandel approached her and took her hand.
A small blade flashed. A shallow cut.
A drop of blood.
It fell into the center of the circle and spread like ink into the grooves the chandels had carved.
They began their low chant, a murmur too old for the tongue to grasp.
The hall grew heavy. The air thickened, pressing down until each breath came like a weight.
At first there was nothing — only stillness. Then Saphirra felt it.
A deep ache in her chest, a pull beneath her skin. Her heart lurched; pain surged through her arms, her throat, her bones. She gasped.No wind stirred, no light changed — only her body breaking under something unseen.
Her knees struck the marble. Blood trailed from her nose, her lips.
The chandels faltered in their chant, their voices thinning in horror.
"Keep her steady!" the King barked.
But no one moved. The chandels stood frozen as her screams filled the hall, raw and piercing, echoing from the vaults like the cry of something damned.
Senoria fell to her knees beside her, sobbing, powerless.
The princess's hands clawed at the floor, leaving streaks of red on white stone. The pain tore through her as if invisible talons were rending her from within.
Then, as sudden as it began, it ceased.
The silence that followed was worse than the screaming.
Saphirra lay trembling, blood streaked across her cheeks, her eyes wide with shock. Senoria gathered her, whispering her name again and again, though the girl scarcely heard.
The chandels dared not speak. One wept softly, another made the sign of the old faith upon his chest.
The King rose. His face was pale with anger.
"Again," he murmured. "Again, it denies you."
There was no pity in his voice, only frustration — the fury of a man who believed the world itself conspired to mock him. His robes swept across the marble as he turned away.
Saphirra met his gaze from the floor, her breath shallow. And there, in his eyes, she saw it plain: her uncle would see her broken before he yielded his desire.
"We must flee," Senoria whispered. "If you stay, he'll try again. He'll kill you, my lady."
Saphirra's voice was faint, barely more than a breath. "Not yet."
The air reeked of iron and blood. Somewhere deep beneath the throne, a low creak stirred — or perhaps it was only her imagination.
And in that stillness, as her blood cooled upon the marble, Saphirra understood one thing with dreadful clarity: whatever darkness her uncle sought to rouse, it was no longer sleeping.
The princess was carried back to her chambers long after the hall had emptied. The chandels walked in silence, their faces drawn, their hands still trembling from what they had seen. No one spoke of what had happened, and none dared meet the king's eye as he descended from his throne.
Saphirra drifted in and out of waking. The corridors passed her like dreams — grey arches, the faint flicker of torches, the smell of smoke and sweat. When at last she was laid upon her bed, the weight of the pain settled over her like a cloak.
Senoria sat at her side, whispering prayers. Her hands shook as she crushed the herbs that the chandel had given her. The bitter scent of them filled the room.
"Drink, my princess," she said softly. "It will ease the hurt."
Saphirra obeyed. The taste was foul, the warmth of it running down her throat like ash. Her body ached in places she could not name.
Outside the chamber, she heard voices.
"Yes, Your Grace. She is resting," came Ser Rodric's voice, low and respectful.
The door opened, and the air changed.
Queen Naerya entered — tall, veiled, and still in her mourning black. Time had gentled her beauty, but grief had sharpened it. Her eyes found her daughter at once, and for a moment, the mask of royalty broke.
"He made you do it again, didn't he?"
Her voice quivered. Not with rage, but with something far deeper — the fear only a mother knows.
Saphirra tried to rise, but the queen pressed her gently back.
"You should not have gone, not while you still bore the marks of the last."
"It is my duty, Mother," Saphirra said. Her voice was thin, each word measured to hide the tremor beneath. "The crest must answer our blood, for the sake of the realm—"
"The realm can rot!" Naerya's voice cracked, sharp as a whip. She caught herself, drawing a long, steadying breath. "Those rites are killing you, Saphirra. You bleed for his vanity, not the realm's salvation."
"He is the king," Saphirra murmured.
"And I was queen before him," Naerya replied, her gaze hard as carved glass.
"That title means little when ambition wears a crown."
The silence stretched between them, heavy with what neither dared to say.
Senoria turned away, pretending to busy herself with the herbs.
"I won't let him break you," the queen said at last. "I swear on it."
Saphirra smiled faintly, though her eyes glistened. "Mother, you cannot fight him. Let it go. It's nothing I cannot bear."
"Nothing?" Naerya's tone softened, but her eyes did not. "Child, you can scarcely stand."
"It is for the good of the realm," Saphirra whispered, though the words felt hollow in her mouth.
Naerya's gaze lingered on her daughter's bandaged arms, the dried blood upon her gown. "You sound like him," she said. "That frightens me most of all."
Saphirra looked away. "You taught me to be strong."
"Strength is not silence," said the queen. "It is knowing when to defy."
She rose then, gathering her mantle around her. "Rest now. I'll speak to your uncle myself."
"Mother, please—"
But the queen was already at the door. Ser Rodric opened it for her, and the sound of her departing footsteps faded down the corridor like the tolling of a distant bell.
When the chamber had grown still again, Saphirra lay staring at the ceiling. The candlelight wavered, casting slow shadows that crawled along the walls.
"Mother should let me attend to my duties. I am no longer a child," Saphirra said, her voice low yet edged with pride.
Senoria turned from the table where she had been folding linen. "Her Grace only cares for you, my princess — as her daughter and her last living kin." She spoke gently, though her eyes were heavy with worry.
"She acts as she must because she loves you. You are still young, and the realm can wait for your service.You have many years ahead before you sit the throne and bear its weight."
Saphirra gave a faint, weary smile. "You think I shall be queen one day?"
"Of course, my princess," said Senoria, returning the smile.
Saphirra looked away, her gaze drifting toward the window where the afternoon light burned pale upon the stone. "I do not think that possible. My uncle is king, and he alone shall name his heir."
"His Grace refuses to take a wife or produce a son," Senoria said softly. "That leaves you as the rightful heir to the crown. You are the daughter of the late king, and his chosen successor."
Saphirra said nothing.
Senoria hesitated, then spoke more boldly, her voice trembling. "After all, it was your father who named you his heir before the tragedy of his death — and your uncle who… who usurped the throne."
"Shh." Saphirra silenced her sharply, her eyes flashing. "Do not ever speak of such again."
The room seemed to tighten around them.
"That is treason, Senoria," she whispered. "Your head could be taken for less."
Senoria bowed her head. "As you wish, my princess. But you know what I meant."
Saphirra's tone hardened, though her face softened with concern. "I shall be queen only if His Grace wills it. Till then, words such as those must never be spoken again."
"Understood," said Senoria, lowering her gaze.
"I would like some time alone," said Saphirra after a moment, her voice quiet once more.
"As you command, my princess." Senoria bowed deeply, then withdrew from the chamber.
When the door had closed, silence settled like dust. Saphirra leaned back upon her pillow, her thoughts heavy as stone. Through the window came a breath of wind, cold and thin, carrying the faint toll of the castle bells — distant and mournful.
"Your Grace, the queen seeks an audience," the King's guard announced.
"Bring her in," King Daeryn said, his tone steady, almost indifferent.
Ser Stewford bowed. "Your Grace." He stepped back and withdrew from the chamber.
A moment later, Queen Naerya entered. The scent of rain clung to her cloak, dark silk trailing softly over the marble.
Daeryn regarded her from where he stood by the hearth, bare-chested, water still clinging to his skin from his bath. He reached for his robe as she approached.
"It has been some time since Her Grace visited the king in his own chambers," Daeryn said, half in jest, half in reproach.
"Leave us," he ordered his servants.
They bowed in unison. "Your Grace."
To the queen, again: "Your Grace."
Then quietly departed, the chamber falling into a soft hush.
Naerya's gaze lingered on a sculpture beside the hearth — the likeness of a kneeling angel, its face serene beneath a crown of thorns.
"Your Grace," she greeted him, her tone cool yet courteous.
"What calls for this visit, my queen?" Daeryn's voice came from beyond the silk curtain of his robing room, where he stood fastening his robe.
His back was to her, though she could see the faint shape of his movements through the curtain's glow.
"It concerns the princess," Naerya said, still studying the sculpture.
"Speak."
"The wellbeing of the princess is being questioned."
Daeryn paused mid-motion. "In what way — and by whom?" he asked, his tone shifting slightly, a hint of irritation under the calm.
Naerya caught that flicker in his voice. A knowing smirk ghosted her lips. "By the Chandels." she replied, turning toward his silhouette. "They fear for her strength, after the rituals."
From behind the curtains, his silhouette moved slowly. "To my most recent knowing," he replied, "the princess is healthy — and blessed with the strength of the gods."
"You are mostly inaccurate on that," Naerya said, her voice soft but edged.
She reached for a wine glass beside his bed, lifted it to her nose, and quickly recoiled at the sour stench.
"Even your wine has soured, Your Grace. Perhaps the gods are tired of granting blessings in this room."
Daeryn stepped out from the curtain, half-dressed — a robe drawn loosely over his chest, his hair damp and unkempt. "You should have said you wanted wine," he said, his tone light, almost mocking.
"That will not be necessary," she replied, though her restraint was thinning.
"What is it you truly wish to say, Naerya?" Daeryn asked, fastening his belt, his voice dipping with impatience.
"The rituals the Chandels make Saphirra endure…" she began, only for Daeryn to cut across her words.
"What about them?" he asked, reaching for a vial of perfume and dabbing it at his neck.
Naerya's voice hardened. "Those rituals are dangerous. They're harming her. I want you to stop them."
Daeryn smiled faintly — a calm, cold smile. He approached her, eyes fixed upon hers. "You, of all people, should know that the rite is not a whim, but a duty to the realm."
He passed her, moving to the balcony behind her. "You and I both know our house has been weakened since my brother's passing. We lost the Crest with him. Only Saphirra can awaken it, and even you know he meant it so."
"She will," Naerya said firmly. "But when she is queen — and of age to bear its burden."
Daeryn then walked up to her quickly, his jaw tightened until the muscle quivered beneath his skin. His teeth grounded against one another as if his rage were a beast clawing to be freed.
He seized her shoulder—his touch neither cruel nor gentle, but desperate, trembling with years of silence. Their foreheads met, breath to breath, the space between them thick with words unsaid. His voice broke through, low and raw, the sound of a heart torn between love and pride.
"When she becomes queen?" he rasped, "Then what about me? Am I not fit to be king?"
"To be your king?"
She did not move. Her eyes fixed on his, calm and unblinking. She understood him too well — the hunger that drove him, the void he mistook for destiny.
He released her slowly, as though reluctant to let go of something far deeper than her shoulder. The air between them cooled for a heartbeat as he stepped away, yet his eyes lingered on her with the faint curve of a smile—one too soft to be triumph, too pained to be peace.
Reaching for her hands, his touch was gentle, deliberate, a whisper of warmth that spoke where words failed.
"I would relieve the princess of her duties in unlocking the crest," he said quietly. Then, as he moved behind her, his voice sank into something lower, more intimate. His arms crossed over her front—not in possession, but in promise—and his breath traced the line of her neck, steady and warm.
"But you will have to be my queen," he murmured, "and give me an heir."
The words hung between them, not as a command but as a confession—half duty, half desire, each syllable trembling with the weight of what should never be spoken
She raised her head, eyes closed, as his breath traced the line of her neck—slow, steady, warm. The world seemed to fall away, leaving only the sound of their breathing mingled in the hush. Then came his words, soft yet thunderous in their meaning.
"You will have to be my queen," he whispered, "and give me an heir."
Her lashes fluttered open, the light in her eyes dimmed with a thousand thoughts, yet her body did not move. She stood there, caught between the past and the present, between love unspoken and duty unforgiving.
The silence stretched—gentle, heavy, endless. Daeryn's gaze searched her stillness for an answer, but none came. The chamber seemed to breathe with them, each passing second carving deeper the space between what was said and what could never be.
Still she did not speak. The quiet was her shield, her sorrow, her final act of grace.
Daeryn took a few steps back, his gaze fixed on Naerya, a faint smirk twisting his lips. Her silence—unyielding and wordless—had pierced through him more deeply than any blade. Frustration burned in his chest until restraint gave way.
His fist shot forward—swift, trembling with fury—cutting through the air toward her face. For an instant, it seemed he had struck her, yet she did not move. Naerya stood still, eyes unflinching, calm as stone. A shattering sound followed—the sharp break of ceramic behind her.
The sculpture she had admired earlier lay in pieces upon the marble floor.
She turned slightly, eyes widening not in fear, but in disbelief. She had always known Daeryn's heart was turbulent, but never imagined his anguish would carry him to this edge.
"You still love him, don't you?" Daeryn's voice broke the silence, rising with restrained fury. "My brother is long dead, yet he still lingers in your heart!"
He stepped closer, pain trembling through his tone. "All I want from you is to see me, Naerya. I'm right in front of you. I've always been—but you hid me in his shadow, even now, long after he's gone."
He turned away sharply, moving toward the balcony, his breathing heavy.
"I see you, Daeryn—I have always seen you," Naerya said quietly.
He froze, one hand on the wall beside the arch, his head tilting slightly as her words reached him.
"I have seen the envy and the disdain your eyes held for my husband—your brother—and the same wrath that still burns toward Saphirra, my daughter," she continued, her voice steady but heavy with sorrow.
"The hatred you nurse against your own blood is a burden I cannot share. Keep your dreams of an heir, Daeryn, but do not ever ask it of me again. Your cruel trials upon Saphirra end tonight. I will see to it."
The silence that followed was cold, stretched thin across the room.
The door burst open suddenly. "Is everything well, Your Grace?" the King's Guard asked, alarmed by the sound of shattering. His eyes swept the room—nothing seemed amiss, though the air hung thick with tension.
The Queen stood still, her back straight and unmoving, while the King remained at the balcony, head bowed.
Naerya's lips trembled, her eyes glistening as a single tear slipped down her cheek. She brushed it away with quiet resolve, stepped past the guard, and left the chamber before the door closed behind her.
Only silence remained—and the broken pieces of the sculpture between them.
The door closed with a soft thud, and the echo lingered like a heartbeat in the hollow room. Daeryn remained still, his palm pressed against the cold stone of the wall, head bowed beneath the dim light. The silence, once shared, now mocked him.
His breath came shallow. He turned, slowly, his eyes finding the shattered sculpture upon the floor — a white likeness of grace now marred and broken, its fragments scattered like the remnants of his restraint. He stared at it for long moments, then lowered himself to one knee beside it.
Ser Stewford stepped into the room once more, his boots echoing softly against the marble.
"The Lord Reach, Your Grace," he announced.
The King's Reach — the man who bore his will beyond the throne — had come to seek audience.
His fingers traced the edges of the fragments, trembling slightly. "Even beauty shatters when touched by my hand," he muttered under his breath, his tone half a whisper, half confession Looking upwards to his advisor the King's Reach.
"I have called a meeting for the small council Your Grace" the Lord Reach said.
A faint breeze crept in from the open balcony, carrying the scent of rain. It cooled the heat on his skin, but did little to quiet the storm beneath it.
"You see me, do you?" Daeryn murmured, a bitter laugh breaking his lips. "Then why does it feel as though you look upon a stranger?"
He rose and stepped out onto the balcony. The night stretched wide before him — the palace gardens dim under the weight of clouds, the torches below flickering like dying stars. He leaned on the balustrade, his knuckles whitening as the first drops of rain began to fall.
"Brother," he whispered into the night, the word trembling with old hatred and older grief. "You took her heart in life, and somehow you still hold it in death. What does a man become when even love denies him peace?"
The rain thickened, running down his face in cold rivulets. He did not wipe it away. It felt almost like penance — or mercy.
Behind him, the Lord Reach stood quietly by the door, waiting with the patience of one long accustomed to kings.
"You were the Reach to my brother — what is so different between us that he rules my reign even in his death?" Daeryn asked, turning toward Akimbo, the Reach.
"You make a great king yourself, Your Grace," Akimbo said softly. "Even the realm acknowledges it — and remains grateful."
He paused, lowering his gaze slightly. "If you don't mind, the small council awaits your presence in the courtroom."
THE ROUND RULE
Twilight draped itself upon Crest Keep, and the torches of the Round Rule burned low with amber light. The council chamber was a circle of stone and echo — its walls lined with carved emblems of every great House sworn to the crown. At the center stood the great round table — smooth obsidian veined with gold — its edge marked by twelve small crests, one for each seat of the King's Circle. Above it, the banners hung heavy, unmoving, as though the air itself dared not stir before the crown.
When King Daeryn entered, all rose to their feet. At his side walked Lord Akimbo, his Reach and High Regent, the quiet shadow of the throne. Behind them came Ser Stewford, the King's sworn protector, whose eyes missed nothing and whose tongue knew silence well.
"Be seated," said King Daeryn, his tone cold and measured. The scrape of chairs followed. For a moment, only the soft crackle of flame filled the chamber.
Lord Theon Mervail, the Keeper of Vaults, leaned forward, his rings clinking faintly against the table. "Your Grace," he began, "The vaults bear news for the crown."
Before the king could reply, Lord Akimbo lifted a hand slightly. "Before we hear of gold," he said, voice calm, deep, deliberate, "the crown would know where our stands lie with the Iceese."
The chamber tensed at once. The name carried the chill of distance — The Iceese, rulers beyond the Black Sea of Dusk, a realm of iron cliffs and bitter winds. Their ships had not crossed southern waters in decades, not since the treaty of Frosthaven was signed — and broken.
"They have sent word," murmured Lord Coren Daelion, the Master of Tides. "A proposal for peace, or so their letter claims. But their envoy docks unbidden, two nights past. No banners, no heralds."
King Daeryn's eyes hardened. "Unbidden?"
"Yes, Your Grace," said Coren. "Their flagship, The Pale Swan, entered the lower harbor before dawn. My wardens say they fly no royal seal — only a white crest, bare and unmarked. Their intent remains unclear."
Lord Hadrien Vale, Chancellor and Keeper of Seals, shifted in his chair. "Then it is an insult, Your Grace. An envoy who hides his seal speaks either treachery or fear. Either way, we cannot allow them audience without clear parley."
High Chandel Eldric had been silent until now. His voice came softly, almost as if recalling from memory rather than speaking to the living. "In our annals," he said, "the Iceese first crossed the Black Sea bearing olive branches. Yet within a moon, they bore blades instead. Every peace they have offered has come wrapped in ice and shadow."
The king turned to him. "And what say you now, Chandel?"
Eldric inclined his head slightly. "That history repeats only for those who fail to remember it, Your Grace. If the Iceese come in peace, let them prove it where words can be recorded — not whispered."
Lord Theon frowned. "And what of the crown's coffers, Your Grace? Our ships have bled coin for the watch along the Black Sea for months. If this envoy means trade, perhaps it is time we listen."
Ser Deryn Halver, the Sentinel of the Crown, spoke at last — his voice rough, forged by the field. "Trade means nothing if their peace hides knives. We should have sunk their ship before it reached the harbor."
"Then we are divided," said Akimbo quietly. He leaned forward, his gaze moving from face to face. "Some would listen, others would strike. But the realm cannot afford another war across the sea — not while the crown itself weakens from within."
The words hung heavy in the air.
King Daeryn's jaw clenched. "Do you speak of weakness, Regent?"
Akimbo met his gaze without flinching. "Of burden, Your Grace. Of the weight you bear alone."
Silence. The fire popped.
Then King Daeryn rose slowly from his seat, his shadow stretching long across the table. "If the Iceese wish for peace," he said, "they shall have audience. But not in this hall. Let them wait. Let them see how long a king's silence lasts."
He looked over the gathered lords one by one.
"Prepare the harbor watch. No man from the Black Sea walks my court without my leave. Until then, you will hold your tongues — and your trust."
The council remained still after the King's decree, the air thick with the weight of his words.
When at last the silence broke, it was Lord Theon Mervail, the Keeper of Vaults, who rose.
"If it please Your Grace," he said, his tone sharp but respectful, "the vaults bear brighter news. The crown's coffers have begun to fill once more. The grain tariffs from the lower provinces have doubled, and the mint at Darnwall now forges its first gold in six years. With trade steady, our debts to the Western Marches may be settled before the year's turn."
King Daeryn's eyes softened a little, and a faint smile touched his lips. "A realm that fattens its purse fattens its people, Lord Theon. You have done well."
Theon bowed, pride gleaming faintly through his modesty. "I serve the coin, Your Grace — and thus the crown."
Before another could speak, Lady Cyrayne Volare, the Veilwarden, leaned forward in her chair, her gloved fingers steepled. "And speaking of the crown, Your Grace," she began, voice smooth as silk, "my informants whisper of a proposal from House Valceryn of the Riverlands. They seek to bind their blood to ours — through the Princess Saphirra."
The council stirred at once.
"Valceryn?" murmured Lord Theon. "They are rich beyond counting. Their silver mines run deeper than any in the South."
"And their banners," added Ser Deryn Halver, the Sentinel, "command a thousand swords. Their pledge would steady the realm, Your Grace."
The murmurs swelled — names of other Houses floated across the table. "House Arvayne of the East… House Mallore, with its fleets… House Thorne, old and proud…" Each name carried a promise of coin, of soldiers, of advantage.
King Daeryn listened, eyes narrowed, as the lords bartered his niece's future like spice upon a merchant's stall.
Lord Akimbo, the High Regent, said nothing. He sat with his hands folded, his gaze heavy upon the table.
Only when the talk began to sound like laughter did he rise.
"Enough," he said quietly — but his voice carried through the hall like a bell through mist.
All eyes turned.
"She is sixteen." His words came slow, deliberate. "A child, not a bargaining chip for your ledgers and your banners. The Houses you name are filled with men twice her years. You speak of peace and profit — but where is your honor?"
Lord Theon frowned. "You mistake prudence for cruelty, Regent. The realm bleeds. A strong pact may—"
"A strong pact?" Akimbo's tone sharpened. "And who bleeds for this pact? A girl who should still be learning her letters, not her husband's name?"
He looked around the table, his eyes cutting from face to face — men who flinched but did not answer.
"The duties of the realm," he continued bitterly, "have been laid upon the shoulders of a little girl while you cocksuckers drink your wine and count your fortunes."
The words struck like a hammer. Even the flames seemed to shrink back.
King Daeryn's brow furrowed. "Watch your tongue, Akimbo."
"My tongue speaks only truth, Your Grace," said the Regent, unmoved. "No House will wed the princess — not while her skin bears the marks of your Chandels' rituals. You speak of alliances, yet the realm whispers already. They say the King burns his blood to waken ghosts."
A flash of something crossed King Daeryn's face — not rage, but shame. His knuckles tightened upon the table's edge.
"We shall not speak of this again," he said sharply. "The princess is unwell. There will be no pact until her full recovery."
He sank back into his seat, his tone quieter now. "See that it is so."
For a long moment, no one spoke. Then Lord Hadrien Vale, the Chancellor, cleared his throat softly. "If I may, Your Grace… the envoy from the Black Sea will require quarters. I suggest the lower halls beneath the eastern tower — far from the princess's chambers."
The King nodded faintly. "So it shall be."
High Chandel Eldric added, "I will send a chronicler to attend their words when they are received. History has long ears, Your Grace — better that it listens truthfully."
The King gave a small nod of assent.
As the council's talk shifted to lighter matters — tax levies, harvest shipments, the repair of the western road — Akimbo remained silent. He stared at the flames, his mind far from the hall, his heart still with the girl whose cries haunted the stones of Crest Keep.
When at last the King dismissed them, the chamber emptied slowly, leaving only embers and silence.
And in that silence, the truth lay heavy — that the realm's greatest battles were not fought with swords, but with words spoken in rooms where mercy seldom entered.
The hall of the Round Rule had long emptied, but its echoes lingered — sharp words clinging to stone like ghosts that refused to fade.
Lord Akimbo, the High Regent, walked in silence through the shadowed corridors of Crest Keep, his boots dull against the marble. The torches had burned low; the air smelled faintly of smoke and rain. Behind him, the distant hum of court life dwindled — servants whispering, guards changing post, the muffled clang of the gate closing for the night.
He had spoken harshly in the council, harsher than a man of his station should. Yet every word had been true.
He passed the royal chapel — its doors closed — and remembered the days when laughter echoed here instead of counsel. Saphirra had once run through these same corridors barefoot, a crown of garden flowers upon her head. She would tug at his sleeve, begging him to lift her high enough to touch the banners.
Now, she was sixteen — and carried the sorrow of sixty.
He reached her chamber door. Two guards stood at watch. They bowed as he approached.
"She is resting, my Lord Reach ," one said softly.
"She will see me," Akimbo answered.
The man hesitated, then opened the door.
Inside, the light was dim. Candles burned low around the bed where Princess Saphirra sat upright, a robe drawn close over her shoulders. Her skin still bore faint traces of the ritual's cruelty — red lines fading but not yet gone. Senoria stood by, folding cloths into a basin of cool water.
When she saw him, Saphirra's eyes softened. "My lord Regent," she said, voice gentle but tired. "You should be at supper."
"I've had enough supper for a lifetime," he replied with a weary smile. "May I sit?"
She nodded. He took the chair beside her bed.
For a moment, neither spoke. The only sound was the soft drip of water into the basin.
"You heard them," she said at last, her gaze distant. "In the council. They spoke of me again, didn't they?"
Akimbo hesitated. "They did."
"And what price do they fetch for my name this time?" Her tone was calm, almost resigned.
He sighed. "Too high for any man to pay, and too cruel for any king to ask."
Saphirra smiled faintly — a ghost of the child she once was. "You always did speak in riddles, my lord."
"I speak truth, little one," he said, his voice softening. "Though I see you're no longer so little."
Her eyes glistened, though she looked away. "My uncle thinks otherwise. To him I am a vessel — nothing more. I see it in his eyes each time he calls me to the throne."
He reached for her hand — calloused and warm from the candlelight. "He is a man burdened by ghosts. Your father's most of all."
"My father…" she whispered, her lips trembling. "He trusted him."
"As did we all," Akimbo said quietly. "But trust is a fragile coin, Princess. Easy to spend, hard to earn again."
They sat in silence.
Finally, Saphirra spoke again, her voice steady but laced with pain. "Why do you still serve him, lord Reach? Why do you not hate him as I do?"
Akimbo looked into her eyes — the same clear blue as her father's. "Because hatred poisons only the vessel that carries it," he said. "And because if I do not stand beside him, no one will stand between him and you."
Her throat tightened. She reached out, her fingers resting lightly upon his sleeve. "You have always protected me."
"And I always will," he said simply.
He rose then, smoothing his cloak. "Rest, my princess. Let the world spin without you for a night."
As he turned to go, she called softly after him. "Lord Akimbo?"
He paused at the door.
"When the world forgets my father," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, "will you still remember him?"
He looked back, his eyes shadowed with memory. "Child," he said, "I remember every man who died with honor — and every man who lived without it."
Then he left her in the quiet glow of the candlelight, her eyes following him until the door closed behind.
Outside, the corridor was still.
The wind from the open windows carried the scent of the Black Sea far beyond — cold and endless. And in that wind, Lord Akimbo felt what he had feared all along:
that history was turning again, and the girl in that room was its next chapter.
Her words followed him even after the door closed.
"When the world forgets my father, will you still remember him?"
The corridor beyond her chamber was long and empty. The torches guttered low, throwing restless shadows along the stone.
Akimbo stopped halfway down, his breath catching. He pressed a hand to the wall, his fingers brushing the cool surface as though steadying himself against a memory that would not fade.
He had served two kings in his life — one out of love, the other out of duty — and the line between them had grown faint.
He remembered the late king's laughter echoing through the court, his hand resting on Saphirra's small head. "You'll watch over her, won't you, Akimbo?"
He had sworn it — not before gods, but before a dying friend.
And now, every time he looked upon her, he saw that promise burning like a brand he could never lay down.
He walked on slowly, the keep's walls whispering faintly with wind from the sea. Somewhere beyond them, the bells of the lower quarter tolled for the changing watch.
He thought of Daeryn — the man who sat a stolen throne but still bled the same. There had been a time when Akimbo believed the younger brother might heal what the elder left undone.
Now he knew better. Ambition was a sickness that even grief could not cure.
He stopped by a narrow window, the night stretching out before him — the gardens below washed in silver, the horizon lost in the dark shimmer of the Black Sea of Dusk.
He thought of Saphirra's face, pale in candlelight, her hands trembling as she asked a question no child should ask.
And for the first time in years, he found no ready answer.
He whispered it to the night anyway, as though the sea might carry it to her father's ghost.
"I will remember him," he said. "I will remember all of you — though remembering has never once saved anyone."
The words sank into the quiet like stones into deep water.
He lingered there, eyes on the horizon, until the torch behind him sputtered out.
Then he turned back down the corridor, his shoulders heavy, his mind already at war with itself.
Tomorrow he would wear his calm again — the measured voice, the steady gaze, the unbending regent of the realm.
But tonight, in the dark heart of Crest Keep, he allowed himself the smallest truth:
He was tired.
Tired of kings who forgot what crowns cost.
Tired of men who mistook cruelty for strength.
Tired of watching children pay for the sins of their fathers.
And beneath all that weariness lay something worse — a quiet, unbearable love for the girl he had sworn to protect.
He did not name it, nor could he. But it drove him onward through the keep's shadowed halls, toward the black windows and the waiting storm.
For in his heart, Akimbo knew this:
the realm might yet be saved — but not by kings.
Whispers Before the Dawn
The night over Crest Keep was still.
Rain had passed, leaving the courtyards glistening like mirrors, the torches reflecting in puddles where the stone dipped.
In the upper tower of the eastern wing, far from the King's chambers, a single candle burned — faint and unmoving.
It belonged to Lady Cyrayne Volare, the Veilwarden of the realm, mistress of the unseen and unspoken.
Her chamber was a study of silence — walls lined with scrolls, ledgers, and maps pricked with tiny iron pins. Each pin marked a whisper: a movement, a debt, a secret.
She stood by the window, her back to the room, watching the dark stretch of the Black Sea of Dusk beyond the cliffs.
A soft knock came at the door.
"Enter," she said.
A boy slipped inside — small, thin, his eyes darting like a frightened bird's. He closed the door behind him without a sound.
"Speak," said Cyrayne, not turning.
"They've come, my lady," the boy whispered. "The Iceese."
Her hand paused upon the window's sill. "When?"
"Just past dusk. Docked at the low harbor, under the fog. No banners, no horn. The guards at the lower gate say they saw three men disembark — cloaked, hooded. One bears a wound on his face."
She turned then, slowly. The candlelight caught the silver clasp at her throat — a veil-shaped brooch, glimmering faintly. Her face was calm, unreadable.
"And the city?" she asked.
"They think it's traders, my lady. Your order to keep it quiet still holds."
"Good."
She walked to her desk, fingers brushing lightly across a map of the coast. The pin marking the lower harbor trembled as she touched it.
"Did they send word to the Keep?"
"Not yet, my lady. The King's men do not know they've landed."
Cyrayne smiled faintly — not from joy, but from understanding. "Then the King shall learn it when I wish him to."
The boy hesitated, his voice shrinking. "Shall I send word to… the other side?"
She looked up. "You mean the Chandels?"
He nodded.
Cyrayne studied him for a long moment. "No," she said at last. "Let them sleep in their scriptures. I would see what truth the Iceese bring before the High Chandel begins to write it into lies."
She turned back to the window. The wind pressed against the glass, making the candle flicker. "And the girl?"
"The Princess?"
"Yes."
"She still rests, my lady. Lord Akimbo visited her not long past."
Cyrayne's smile faded. "Akimbo…" she murmured. "He plays the loyal regent well. But loyalty and truth are seldom bedfellows."
She moved to her chair and sat, eyes lost in thought.
"Keep watch at the harbor. I want to know where those Iceese sleep, what they eat, and whose wine they drink. Every word they speak is to reach me before the dawn."
The boy bowed, stepping back toward the door.
"And, Joren," she added softly, stopping him mid-motion. "If the King learns of their arrival before I do…"
He swallowed hard. "He won't, my lady."
"Good."
The door closed behind him, the sound faint as a breath.
Cyrayne sat alone for a long time, her gaze on the dying candle. The flame wavered — thin, pale, but stubborn — refusing to die.
Outside, the sea whispered against the cliffs, and somewhere in that endless dark she imagined the shape of the Iceese ship — its sails black against the horizon, its secrets colder than the waters that carried it.
She leaned back and whispered to the quiet:
"The realm sleeps, and yet the game begins anew."