Lirra's braids swayed as she leaned in, tracing a finger along the northern wastes."Rehearsed, aye.Like players in a mummer's farce.And the timing..."She tapped the Council's seal on a crumpled missive, pilfered from a courier."Proclaimed the hour Proudlock's raven landed.Aldrich's hand in every fold—granaries 'opened,' but my kin in the fields say wagons rolled north days before, laden with arms, not grain."
Talin grunted, his mace thumping the table like punctuation."Bastards.Seen it before—in the Blood days.Lords feignin' aid while sharpenin' knives for backs.Empire gold, or just old grudges?Thorgrin lifted too many lowborn; they chafe at it."
Mira, silent till now, slid a dagger from her boot, twirling it absently."Grudges or not, the soldiers' eyes...shifty.Skarn's hand shook when he spoke the King's name.Fear?Or guilt?"
Kellan met their gazes, the weight of command settling like familiar armor.These three-Lirra’s cunning, Thorne's brute faith, Mira's shadow-step—were his spine, the unyielding core of the Guard.No whispers of disloyalty clung to them; their oaths were blood-sworn, tested in the canyon's fires."Guilt, I wager.The tale's a scaffold, built on lies.If Thorgrin is truly dead, then I stake my reputation on the fact that it was by human hand, one who perhaps is sleeping beneath these very floors, than by the claw of some demon.”
“You think he lives?”Lirra asked, her eyes wide.
Kellan stared at the map for several seconds before answering.“I don’t know,” he admitted.“Wounded, perhaps, fled into the wastes.But someone wants him buried in rumor, the throne cracked open.The Council?A fox in the henhouse, cloaked as shepherd.Aldrich eyes the dais; Elowen weaves her webs.We watch, we guard—but no alarms till proof bites."
Lirra nodded, her eyes gleaming like oiled steel."Defenses, then.The queen's solar—double the posts, eyes on every shadow.Prince Guwayne...there are nobles in the halls at all hours, eyes on the prince like hawks on a lamb."
"We shield them both.But discreetly.Neither side must be aware of what we are doing.Lirra, discreet ears in the taverns, markets.Sniff for treasonous coin, loose tongues.Talin, reinforce the walls: Silver loyalists only, no 'volunteers' from noble houses.Mira, shadow the prince—unseen, but close.If he bolts north as he has proclaimed he will...tail him."
Talin cracked his knuckles, a grin splitting his weathered face."Aye, Cap'n.And if Aldrich's dogs bare teeth?"
Kellan's hand rested on his broadsword's hilt."Then we remind them: the Shield Guard breaks for no lord but the crown.Steadfast endures."
They clasped forearms, the oath unspoken but ironclad, then dispersed into the pre-dawn gloom—Lirra to the undercity veins, Talin to the armory's forges, Mira melting into the rafters like mist.Kellan lingered, staring at the map's northern fringes, where the wastes blurred into legend.Hold, my King,he thought, a prayer to winds that carried druid whispers.We'll unearth the truth or bury the liars.
By midmorning, the palace stirred under a pallid sun that had burned through the early morning mist.Gwendolyn held court in the solar, decrees on patrols, rations, raven dispatches to outposts.Guwayne stood at her side, tall and unbowed, his eyes scanning the room like a hawk's.Together, they showed a united front, a monarch overseeing her kingdom, calming potentially stormy waters.
Kellan had posted guards at every arc, silent, unobtrusive but visible nonetheless.A show that this was the queen's domain, no one else's.In private conversations between mother and son, he had overheard Guwayne talk about his dreams of Thorgrin rising.Good.Fire would forge the boy; Kellan would fan those flames, not quench them.
But proof demanded pursuit.As the sun climbed, Kellan slipped from the solar, descending once more to the barracks.The door stood ajar, unguarded—his sentries, two fresh-faced recruits, slumped against the wall, heads lolling in unnatural slumber.Wine on their breaths, laced with something sour.Kellan's blood iced.He burst through, sword half-drawn, the chamber unfolding in front of him.
Empty cots, rumpled and cold.Blankets tossed aside, packs vanished, the air stale as an abandoned tomb.No blood, no struggle—just echoes of a hasty flight.The oil lamps guttered low, wax pooled like tears on the floor.Kellan knelt by Garr's cot, fingers brushing the mattress: dust undisturbed, no warmth suggesting a recent departure.
"Gods' blood," he growled, rising to shake the sentries awake.They stirred groggily, eyes unfocused, mumbling of a "kind visitor" with a flagon of spiced mead."A gift," one slurred, "for brave lads."
Kellan eyed a half drained jug by the door and rounded on the guards.“I’ll deal with you on my return!”he roared.
Kellan stormed the corridors, barking orders: "Seal the gates!No man leaves without my mark!"Horns blared from the battlements, guards swarming the yards like hornets from a kicked nest.But the city was a sieve—taverns, stables, shadowed alleys where coin bought silence and swift horses.By noon, reports trickled in: a band of ragged riders glimpsed at the eastern ford at dawn, cloaks drawn tight, heading for the riverlands.Skarn's sneer matched the description; Garr's bulk unmistakable in the saddle.Proudlock?No sign, but a stablemaster swore to a hooded figure matching his scars, vanishing into Elowen's convoy of "supply wagons" bound south.
Fury coiled in Kellan's gut, hot as forge-fire.He returned to the sanctum at a run, finding Lirra and Mira already gathered, Talin lumbering in behind with a bloodied rag— a loose-lipped courier's nose, broken for lies.
"They're gone," Kellan spat, slamming the door."Slipped the net hours ago.Council's hand me-down for the guards, horses waiting.They're fleeing to escape the noose of my questions.And to bury the tale deeper."
Lirra's face darkened, her dagger flashing as she paced."To the estates, then.Aldrich's hall, or Holt's vaults.We ride?"
"Not yet."Kellan's mind raced."Proof first, or we’ll be viewed as the traitors.Mira—your shadows to the river.Track 'em if the gods smile.Lirra, ears in the Council—every whisper, every seal.Talin, double the queen's watch; prince, too.No lone walks, no unvetted cups."
Mira nodded, leaving alongside Talin, mace over his shoulder, but Lirra lingered, her gaze piercing."But if it's true, Cap'n?If the King's bloodison that cloak?"
Kellan touched the hilt of his sword, the metal warm under his palm."Then we avenge him.But I stake my oath on this: Thorgrin's no ghost yet.And if he is...the shadows that slew him will choke on their silver."
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Proudlock's world resolved itself from a haze of throbbing pain, the kind that pulsed behind his eyes like a drum beaten by an unseen hand.His skull felt cracked open, the air inside his head thick and foul.He groaned, the sound echoing off stone that seemed to press in from all sides, and shifted on what felt like straw, damp and prickling against his cheek.
His brow creased in a questioning frown.
Where was he?And there was something else troubling him.Something else that wasn’t right.He couldn’t move.
As the fog of sleep gradually lifted, the reality hit him, and he wished he could retreat back into the oblivion of ignorance.His arms were bound behind him with coarse rope that bit into his wrists, and his ankles were similarly lashed, forcing him into an awkward curl on the floor.The darkness was absolute, a void that swallowed even the faint memory of light, broken only by the distant drip of water somewhere to his left.
He licked his lips, tasting the bitter residue of ale—dark, frothy stuff from the Leaping Stag, the tavern tucked in the shadow of Lord Aldrich's eastern manor.Yes, that was it.The memory surfaced sluggishly, like a fish breaking the surface of a muddied pond.He'd ridden in at dusk, the weight of his role in the great deception still fresh on his shoulders, a secret that burned hotter than the venom he'd claimed had felled the King.Aldrich's men had been waiting in the corner booth, hooded and unremarkable, sliding tankards across the scarred oak table with nods that spoke volumes."To the new dawn, Lieutenant," one had murmured, clinking mugs.Proudlock had drunk deeply, the ale's malty warmth chasing away the chill of the ride from King's Court, the knot of unease in his gut loosening with each swallow.Victory tasted sweet, after all—Thorgrin gone, the throne teetering, and Proudlock himself poised for elevation, right at the forefront of the new realm.He would lead the reformed Legion, and perhaps even sit on the ruling council if the winds blew right.Aldrich had promised as much.
