"When the world forgets its promises, the gods send reminders in the shape of men."
— Saying of the Old South
The dawn at Crest Keep came dressed in glass.
Mist rolled in from the Nareth, thick as milk, gilded at the edges by the waking sun. From the high towers, the city below seemed half-dream, half-memory — its spires wreathed in white, its bells muffled beneath the fog's breath.
In the royal gardens, the Princess Saphirra walked alone.
The grass was still wet, jeweled with dew, and her slippers soaked through before she had gone ten steps. She did not mind. Her face, pale beneath her silver-blonde hair, was turned toward the east where the light broke through the clouds.
There was something unearthly about her at sunrise — something that made the handmaid trailing behind keep her distance.
The Princess rarely spoke these days. Not since the ritual.
But in the quiet, her eyes carried that soft distance — as though she were listening to something no one else could hear.
The queen's voice came faintly from behind her, calm but edged with care.
"You'll catch your death, child."
Queen Naerya moved slowly, her gown whispering against the stone path. She was still beautiful — the kind of beauty time does not wither but polish. She placed a hand on Saphirra's shoulder, feeling the thinness of the girl beneath the silks.
"You were dreaming again," Naerya said.
Saphirra nodded once, eyes still on the horizon.
"The same dream. The sea burning, and a shadow that sings."
Naerya stilled.
"Dreams are only dreams, my dear. Leave the shadows to the Chandels."
"The Chandels do not dream," Saphirra whispered. "They only remember."
⸻
Later that day, the Round Rule convened once more.
The council chamber — its wide oaken table carved in the likeness of a sunburst — shimmered with the heat of the morning. Lord Regent Akimbo, ever solemn, stood beside his chair as the King entered. His bald head gleamed faintly in the light from the tall windows. Behind him came Lady Cyrayne, the Veilwarden, her pale eyes cool as moonlight.
At the far end of the hall, the guards announced:
"The envoys of Iceese have entered the Nareth mouth, Your Grace. Their sails are white upon the horizon."
A low murmur ran through the council. For weeks, the name Iceese had been spoken like a tide waiting to turn — rich, powerful, but perilous.
The King leaned forward, fingers steepled. "Then let them come ashore by sundown. And let no man speak of war at my table."
Cyrayne smiled faintly. "Even peace has its price, Your Grace. I wonder if they come to collect it."
Akimbo's dark gaze cut toward her. "The price of peace is honor, my lady. The price of vanity is ruin."
The King's eyes shifted between them, weary but sharp. "Enough of riddles. We will receive them as friends. The realm needs coin, not quarrel."
No one argued.
Yet as the meeting adjourned, Akimbo's eyes found the Cyrayne — a silent exchange heavy with knowing.
Beyond the great windows, gulls wheeled over the silver river, and the sails of the Iceese ship drew closer — bright, perfect, and silent against the morning mist.
⸻
Meanwhile, from the balcony above the gardens, Saphirra watched.
Her handmaid whispered of guests and gifts and new beginnings, but Saphirra barely listened. Her gaze was fixed on the horizon where the ships appeared — tiny white teeth on the gleaming water.
For a moment she thought she saw something else behind them. A darker shape in the fog, moving without sail or oar. Then the mist swallowed it whole.
Saphirra blinked once, her reflection rippling in the marble basin beside her — her pale face distorted by the trembling water.
And softly, almost without sound, the water went still.
The Gathering Dusk
"Mind the hour when dusk gathers thick, for the river grows curious then. It listens, it hungers, and it carries back more than stories."—Old Ferrymen Warning
Evening came slower than it should have. The sun hung low, bleeding gold through the fog, and the harbor below Crest Keep throbbed with motion. Flags cracked, horns bellowed, and from every terrace came the scent of salt and flame. The Iceese had arrived.
From the Round Rule's eastern balcony, Lord Akimbo stood watching.
Below, the white sails of the foreign ships unfurled like wings. The largest bore the sigil of a swan veiled in frost — a symbol that shimmered, even in shadow. The dockyards were already lined with the King's banners; soldiers moved like ants, straightening the walkway carpets and clearing the onlookers.
Behind Akimbo, the King's voice carried softly.
"Does it trouble you, my friend?"
Akimbo turned slightly. "It troubles me that they come with silence, Your Grace. And that silence travels faster than truth."
King Daeryn smiled, but there was no warmth in it. "You think me blind, old friend?"
"I think you too proud to squint."
A flicker of laughter crossed the King's face, brief as a candle in wind. "You speak as though you were still Reach to my brother."
"And I still serve his blood," Akimbo said. "Yours… and hers."
The King's eyes cooled, the light fading. "The girl dreams too much."
"She dreams because her soul remembers what ours have forgotten."
A long pause. Then Daeryn turned back to the harbor, his jaw hardening.
"Let her dream, then — but keep her dreams away from the council."
He left without another word, the guards falling in behind him.
Akimbo remained, watching the ships draw closer. He felt the wind shift — cold, carrying something faint and metallic. A taste like old blood.