The parchment from Silas lay on William's desk like a venomous insect, its bloody script a stark counterpoint to the crisp, calculated lines of his ledger. The victory over Harald was ashes. In its place bloomed a darker, more diffuse threat, one immune to the logic of bargains and troop movements. The kingdom was not convalescing; it was undergoing a fevered metamorphosis, splitting into hostile factions.
William's orders had set wheels in motion, but they moved through mud. Captain Brann's army sat across from Ferdinand's archers at Stonebridge, a costly, silent game of stare-down that consumed supplies and morale. In the Riverlands, the bounty on Purifier bands had sparked not a unified response, but a sporadic, ugly war of opportunistic violence. Ambitious minor lords hunted fanatics for coin, while others, sympathetic to the Purifiers' message or simply terrified, turned a blind eye. The region was a patchwork of petty terror, not a battlefield.
And Elyse was preparing to leave.
Her departure was a quiet, relentless erosion of William's spirit. She did not argue, did not reproach. She moved through Blackcliff's halls like a ghost, sorting possessions, giving quiet instructions to the few servants loyal solely to her. Her calm was more terrible than any outburst. It was the tranquility of a river that has carved its course and will not be diverted. William avoided her when he could, the sight of her packing a physical pain.
He threw himself into the other crises, seeking refuge in the arithmetic of containment. He met daily with Jonas Hiller, whose merchant network was now their primary source of intelligence from the fractured south.
"The bounty system is… creating perverse incentives, sire," Hiller reported one grim afternoon, his fingers steepled. "Lord Garret of Millford turned in twelve 'Purifier' heads. Our agent there confirms at least eight were drifters with no ties to Silas, murdered for the price. Meanwhile, a genuine cell of fanatics burned a shrine near Willowbrook, and no lord lifted a finger—the bounty isn't worth the fight against fanatics entrenched in a marsh."
"So we are financing murder and receiving no security," William concluded, the bitterness thick in his throat.
"In essence. The Purifiers, for their part, are consolidating. They've abandoned Riverton—it's a plague-ridden ruin now. Silas has moved his core followers into the Blackweald, the deep forest south of the Whitefall. It's impenetrable, easy to defend. From there, his preachers range out, not just raiding, but converting. They offer simple answers: purity, purpose, divine favor. To starving, frightened peasants, it's more compelling than your promise of lawful hanging and merchant loans."
William rubbed his temples. "And the church? Bishop John?"
"Doing noble work with the sick. But against heresy? His sermons are gentle, theological. Silas offers fire and brimstone and a white hand banner to rally under. The common folk understand the banner better than the scripture."
It was a war for hearts, and William was armed with ledgers. He needed a different weapon. He needed a symbol, a story. But the only stories he had were of hangings and sealed mines.
The summons from Duke Daerlon and Count Maurice came not as a request, but as a formal, written petition delivered by a liveried servant. They wished to present a "unified front of the ancient estates and the faithful" to address the "spiritual crisis." It was Maurice's theocratic council idea, now wrapped in Daerlon's political velvet.
William had them brought to the solar, a slightly less austere room than his study. He received them standing, with Hiller present as a silent witness.
"Your Majesty," Daerlon began, his tone one of grave concern. "The realm bleeds from a wound no surgeon can stitch. The Purifier heresy spreads not because men are inherently evil, but because they have lost their moral compass. The Crown's authority, at this moment, is seen as… secular. Concerned with taxes and trade, not with the soul of the nation."
Maurice took up the thread, his hands clasped as if in prayer. "A great council is needed. A Convocation of Estates and Clergy. Let the lords temporal and spiritual gather here, in Blackcliff. Let us deliberate, pray, and issue a unified proclamation of faith and fealty. It would remind the people that the kingdom is more than a commercial enterprise. It is a covenant under God."
It was a brilliant, dangerous gambit. If William agreed, he would be hosting a parliament where his enemies—Daerlon, Maurice, their allies, and the high clergy—would hold the stage. They would shape the narrative, likely issuing demands that curtail his power, enshrine noble privilege, and condemn his "innovations." If he refused, they would decry him as a tyrant afraid of the light of counsel, further fueling the Purifiers' claim of an unholy reign.
William looked from Daerlon's polished face to Maurice's pious one. They were offering him a poisoned chalice, knowing he was dying of thirst. "A convocation," he said slowly. "To address the spiritual health of the realm. An interesting proposal."
"It is the traditional remedy for such crises," Maurice said, a hint of triumph in his eyes.
"Tradition has its place," William conceded. He paused, letting the silence stretch. "Very well. I will issue the summons. A Convocation of Estates and Clergy, to be held here at Blackcliff, two months hence."
Daerlon's eyebrows rose slightly, surprised at the easy victory. "Two months gives time for all to prepare. Wise."
"But," William continued, his voice hardening, "the summons will not come from me alone. Nor will it be framed solely as a spiritual matter. The realm faces a triple threat: heresy, invasion, and economic collapse. Therefore, the Convocation will have three chambers. One for the Lords Spiritual and Temporal, as you suggest. One for the Commons—elected representatives from the major towns, guilds, and freehold farmers. And one," he looked at Hiller, "for the Merchant Consortium and the Master Trades. All three will deliberate. Their findings will be presented to the Crown. We will address not just the soul, but the body and the purse of the kingdom."
The color drained from Maurice's face. "The commons? Tradesmen? Deliberating with lords and bishops? Your Majesty, this is… unprecedented! It is an offense to the natural order!"
"The natural order is currently on fire, Count," William said flatly. "The Purifiers recruit from the commons. The merchants fund the realm. To exclude them is to ignore the pillars holding up the very roof we are trying to save. You wanted a council. You shall have one. A full and complete one."
Daerlon recovered faster, his mind racing to calculate the new angles. He saw a threat, but also an opportunity. The merchant and commoner chambers would be fractious, inexperienced. The lords could still dominate through sheer political skill. And the very chaos of such an assembly could discredit William's rule entirely. "An… ambitious design, Your Majesty," he said, his tone neutral. "It will certainly be a historic gathering."
After they left, Hiller let out a low breath. "You have just lit a fuse to a powder keg, sire. A parliament? Here? With Purifiers at the gates and Ferdinand on the bridge?"
"The powder keg is already lit," William said, gazing out the window at the gathering dusk. "This way, at least, the explosion happens where I can see it, and perhaps direct some of its force. Better a controlled detonation than being slowly torn apart in the dark."
The following week was consumed by the mechanics of the impossible. Scribes worked day and night drafting summonses. Riders were dispatched to every corner of the fractured kingdom, carrying invitations to a gathering many believed could not, or should not, happen. The reaction was predictable outrage from the nobility, stunned disbelief from the towns, and cautious interest from the merchants.
In the midst of this bureaucratic storm, Elyse found him. It was late. He was in the map room, staring at the Blackweald, trying to divine Silas's next move. She entered without knocking, dressed for travel in a dark, sturdy cloak.
"I leave at dawn," she said. Her voice was calm, final.
William turned. The words were a physical blow, though he had known they were coming. "Greyport's escort is here?"
"They are camped at the foot of the pass. Under a flag of trade. Hiller has… expedited the paperwork." A faint, ironic smile touched her lips. "Even my exile is a commercial transaction."
"It is not exile. It is your choice." He meant it to sound strong, but it came out hollow.
"Is there a difference anymore?" She stepped closer, looking not at him, but at the map, at the splotch of forest representing the Blackweald. "You are summoning a parliament to fight a holy war. You are a king arguing with merchants while prophets rally the poor. This is the world you have made, William. The world of endless calculation. I cannot breathe in it."
"What will you do in Greyport?" he asked, the brother's fear overriding the king's reserve.
"I will remember," she said simply. "I will be a living reminder to those silk-robed calculators that kingdoms are built on more than profit and fear. I may be a symbol. I may be a pawn. But I will not be a number in your ledger." She reached into her cloak and placed a small, cloth-wrapped bundle on the map table. "For you."
He unwrapped it. Inside was a single, flawless piece of white quartz, veined with a thread of dark ore. It was a climbing stone, the kind they used to use to test handholds, to understand the grain of the rock.
"To remind you," she said softly, "that some things cannot be calculated. Only felt. Only trusted."
She turned and left. William stood frozen, the cool, solid weight of the stone in his palm. It was the only inheritance he would receive.
Dawn came, grey and cold. From the battlements, William watched the small, solemn procession wind its way down the mountain pass: his sister, a dozen of her personal guard, and the sleek, armed caravan from Greyport. She did not look back. The stone in his pocket felt like a tomb weight.
Her departure carved a hollow space in the fortress, a silence that was louder than any council's debate. Work on the Convocation continued, a frantic, surreal counterpoint to the grief festering in the king's keep.
Then, ten days after Elyse left, the first real blow from the Blackweald fell. It did not come as an army, but as a deluge of ghosts.
A refugee train, larger than any before, straggled up to Blackcliff's gates—not from the coast, but from the southern farmlands. They were hollow-eyed with a terror that was more than fear of violence. They spoke in hushed, broken tones of "the White Walkers." Not undead, but living Purifiers who moved through the night with unnatural quiet, their faces smeared with ash. They didn't just kill; they performed rituals. They left symbols carved on trees and stones. They whispered promises of a "Cleansing Tide" that would soon sweep north. And they spoke of Silas not just as a preacher, but as a miracle-worker, a man who could summon fog to cloak his movements and bring down sickness on those who opposed him.
Superstition, William told himself. Psychological warfare. But the sheer, cohesive terror of it was new. This was organized fanaticism, building its own dark mythology.
The next report was worse. It came from Brann, via a rider who had slipped through the Purifier-controlled countryside. The message was terse and terrifying: "Purifier bands, larger and more disciplined, are attacking not manors, but shrines and septs. They are slaughtering priests, burning holy texts. They are not just heretics. They are eradicating the old faith entirely. Their numbers grow daily. Peasants are flocking to their banner, out of fear or fervor. They talk of a 'March on the Stone Throne' to 'cast down the unbeliever.' Estimate they could field a host of thousands within a month. Cannot abandon Stonebridge. Request instructions."
Silas was no longer a rebel leader. He was the head of a crusading army, and his crusade was against William's very legitimacy. The spiritual war had become an existential one.
Pushed to the brink, William made a decision that defied all his instincts for control. He summoned a young, fiercely intelligent captain named Kaelen—the one who had bested his sentries at Moon's Tears—and a scribe from Hiller's staff known for a talent with languages and codes.
"You are to go into the Blackweald," William told them, his voice low. "Not to fight. To listen. To understand. Infiltrate the refugee streams heading to Silas's camp. Do not attempt assassination. Your task is to learn: What do they believe, exactly? How is Silas organizing them? Where does their true strength lie? What are their weaknesses, not of arms, but of faith?"
It was a desperate gamble, sending two of his few sharp minds into the heart of the enemy. But he could not fight what he did not comprehend. He needed an intelligence of the soul.
As Kaelen and the scribe departed on their perilous mission, the first of the Convocation attendees began to arrive. It was a trickle at first: low-level clergy, nervous town mayors with hastily sewn badges of office, guildsmen smelling of sawdust and forge-smoke. They gathered in the overcrowded, tense town outside Blackcliff's walls, a living spectacle of the kingdom's discord. The lords and high bishops, William knew, would arrive fashionably late, making an entrance.
The castle became a chaotic vortex of protocol disputes, housing shortages, and whispered intrigues. William presided over it all with a frozen calm, the white quartz stone a secret touchstone in his pocket. He was building a stage for a play he could not direct, hoping the very act of assembly would reveal a path, or at least distract his enemies.
One evening, as he reviewed security plans for the Convocation's opening session, a guardsman entered, his face pale. "Your Majesty… a visitor. At the postern gate. He… he demands an audience. Says he has news from 'the listening dark.' He won't give a name."
A chill that had nothing to do with the stone room seeped into William's bones. The listening dark. The words from the mine map. Gharzum.
"Bring him," William said. "Alone. To the undercroft. No one else is to see."
The man led to the undercroft was not a miner, nor a clansman. He was tall, gaunt, dressed in the worn robes of a scholar or a philosopher, stained with travel. His eyes were the most striking feature—a pale, almost silver grey, and deeply tired, as if he had stared at terrible things for too long. He carried a satchel that clinked softly with the sound of stone on stone.
"Who are you?" William asked, the damp chill of the undercroft seeping through his boots.
"My name is Alaric," the man said, his voice a dry rustle. "I was a lore-warden of the Grey Tower, before it was dissolved by your grandfather. I study… old things. Things best left buried." He opened his satchel and withdrew not a scroll, but a lump of rough rock. It was the same grey-black stone as the Deep Iron mine, but it seemed to swallow the torchlight. "You sealed the door at Deep Iron. A wise, if futile, gesture."
"Futile?"
"The door was a symptom, not the source," Alaric said, placing the stone on a nearby barrel. "Gharzum is not a place. It is a… condition. A thinning. When faith shatters, when hope dies, when a people are consumed by fear and fanaticism, the veil between what is and what… hungers… grows thin. The mine was a weak point. Your Purifier fanatic, this Silas, he is another. He channels not divine fire, but a older, colder hunger. His miracles are leaks, his zeal a beacon in the dark."
William stared, his rational mind rebelling. This was superstition, the babble of a mad hermit. And yet… the voices in the mine. The uncanny coordination of the Purifiers. The reports of strange signs and portents. "You are saying Silas is… what? A wizard?"
"I am saying he is a crack in the world," Alaric corrected, his silver eyes boring into William's. "His belief, the belief of his followers, is feeding something that should not be fed. The 'Cleansing Tide' he promises? It is not a metaphor. It is an invitation. You fight an army, but you face an idea given malignant form. You cannot kill it with swords. You must deprive it of its food: despair, division, blind faith."
It was a nightmare wrapped in philosophy. William felt the solid ground of his reality cracking beneath him. "What would you have me do?"
"The Convocation you have called," Alaric said. "It is a gamble. But it is also a gathering of minds, of wills. It is a focus. Right now, the only strong focus in the land is Silas's bloody creed. You must provide another. Not just a political settlement. A reaffirmation. A statement of what the kingdom is, collectively. Its laws, its rights, its shared purpose. It must be strong, clear, and believed. You must forge a new story, King William, and make your people believe it more than they believe the prophet in the wood. Or the story that wins will be the one that ends in a tide of silent, hungry dark."
The man gathered his stone and left as quietly as he came, leaving William alone in the flickering torchlight of the undercroft, the weight of impossible understanding pressing down on him.
The war had changed once more. It was no longer for land, or taxes, or even a crown. It was a war for reality itself. And his weapons were a quarreling parliament, a lost sister, a hollow treasury, and a stone in his pocket that spoke of a simpler time.
He climbed the steps from the undercroft back to the world of men. The castle was abuzz with the imminent Convocation. The noise, the politics, the petty grievances—all of it seemed suddenly fragile, a painted screen hiding a yawning abyss.
William reached the top of the stairs and looked out over the crowded, torch-lit bailey. Lords, commoners, merchants, priests—all milling in their separate, suspicious groups. This was his army now. Not against Norse longships or rebel pikes, but against the unraveling of meaning. He had to take these fragments of a broken kingdom and forge from them a shield of belief strong enough to hold back the listening dark.
The Forge King's greatest test was not ahead on a battlefield. It was here, in this cacophony. He had to become not just a ruler, but a maker of meaning. And he had to do it before Silas's story consumed them all.