Gwendolyn nodded, the words confirming her suspicions."Encourage him.Push him to apply the lessons here, in court."
Thorne nodded solemnly."I do try, your majesty.But my students have to find their own path.I can point them in the right direction, but it is they who have to take the steps along it."
Next, she visited Mistress Elara, the magic instructor—a druidess trained under Alistair, her robes embroidered with glowing runes.Elara's chamber hummed with subtle energy, crystals pulsing on shelves.
"Mistress," Gwendolyn greeted."Kindly tell me of Guwayne's progress in the arcane?"
Elara's eyes met Gwens."There is no doubt he has ability.Perhaps extraordinary, ability my Queen.The Sorcerer's Ring amplifies his innate power.His potential vast is as the sea."
Yet again, the caveat.They talk of potential, not achievements."But he holds back.Doubts erode his focus; spells flicker when self-belief wanes.He fears the ring's shadows—the prophecies whispered.'What if I'm not worthy?'he asks.Confidence is the key; without it, his gifts remain locked.And may do forever."
Gwendolyn absorbed this, her fears mingling with pride.Guwayne possessed depths untapped, but the legacies of his parents cast long shadows, breeding insecurity.She resolved to guide him, to build that confidence.Perhaps assign him a council role, a patrol command—small steps to forge his path.
As she left Elara's chamber, a horn blared—urgent, piercing.Not the watcher's alarm, but close.Panic knotted her gut.She hurried to the battlements, Lireal at her heels, finding Godfrey and Steffen already there and arriving just as a scout burst through the gates below, his horse foaming.
"My Queen!"he shouted, dismounting."A second breach!Smaller, to the east.Near the river.A handful of beasts slipped through before it sealed.They attacked a fishing village.Three dead, more wounded.Panic spreads; villagers flee toward the city."
The words hit like a storm.Gwendolyn's mind raced—the Shield failing again.What had happened before had not been a one off.There had been another—that they knew about.How many more would there be?How many more people would be killed?She knew that her people’s faith in the Shield would be eroded like sand.
How long before that fear and panic was directed towards her?
"Triple the patrols," she commanded, her voice iron."Seal the eastern gates, evacuate the villages inward.Arm the reserves—every able-bodied citizen to the walls if needed.Send ravens to the outposts: report anything out of the ordinary.Any tremor, any shimmer.And Godfrey—rally the bards.Spin tales of our readiness, not doom."
Steffen saluted, hurrying off.Gwendolyn gazed east, then they flicked to the north, where Thorgrin was riding.She wondered what he would find.What he would face.Would there be an answer?Or would this be a problem that did not have an answer?A riddle with no solution.Just death and pain and misery.
She could hear the rising panic in the streets below and around her.She could sense the fear.
How quick their world was in danger of crashing down around them.
CHAPTER FIVE
In the underbelly of King's Court, far from the gilded halls where the crimson and gold banners of the MacGil dynasty fluttered in the evening breeze, a different world thrived in shadow.Within it, there existed a chamber known only to a select few.Those who whispered of rebellion.It was not marked on any map, nor whispered of in the taverns where common folk drowned their sorrows in ale.This room, carved into the ancient bedrock beneath the castle's eastern wing, had once served as a forgotten storeroom during the MacGil reign—a place for hoarding grains against sieges that never came.But time and neglect had transformed it into something more sinister: a sanctuary for secrets, a crucible for treachery.
The entrance was a masterpiece of deception: a false stone wall in the servants’ quarters, its surface indistinguishable from the surrounding granite save for a rusted iron hook that, when pressed, released a hidden lever.The wall groaned open, revealing a spiral staircase that plunged into damp, suffocating darkness.The steps, worn smooth by centuries of cautious treads, glistened with moisture, and the air carried the musty scent of mildew, earth, and the faint, acrid bite of burning pitch from flickering torches.Their iron sconces, bolted to the walls, wept black soot, staining the stone with streaks like tears of betrayal.Cobwebs draped the low ceiling like spectral veils, swaying gently in the drafts that seeped through unseen fissures, and the uneven flagstone floor echoed with the relentless drip-drip of water from cracks above.
At the chamber’s heart stood a crude oak table, its surface pitted and scarred, surrounded by mismatched chairs scavenged from abandoned manors or pilfered from forgotten storerooms.Candles sputtered on the tabletop, their flames casting a sickly yellow glow that struggled against the oppressive gloom, painting grotesque shadows across the walls.Scattered across the table were maps of the Ring—yellowed parchments depicting the Canyon’s vast chasm, the rugged Highlands, and the rebuilt provinces—but these were not the crown’s sanitized charts.They bore clandestine markings: red ink tracing hidden passes through the mountains, black crosses over villages loyal to Thorgrin, and cryptic runes hinting at alliances beyond the Shield’s protective embrace.A single goblet, filled with dark Empire wine smuggled from old trade routes, sat untouched, its bitter aroma mingling with the chamber’s dank air.
Lord Aldrich was the first to arrive, as was his custom, slipping through the hidden door with the stealth of a man who had navigated court intrigues for decades.In his mid-forties, Aldrich bore the weathered elegance of faded nobility.His once-sharp features had softened under the indulgences of privilege—fine wines, lavish feasts, and the comforts of his ancestral estate, now diminished by Thorgrin’s reforms.His hair, streaked with silver, was slicked back with fragrant oil, framing a face dominated by a hawkish nose and eyes like chips of flint, cold and unyielding.He wore a burgundy velvet doublet, embroidered with the sigil of House Aldrich—a coiled serpent devouring its tail—but the threads at the cuffs were frayed, a silent testament to fortunes eroded by the crown’s policies, diverting funds and contracts away from the noble houses who had always had them, to commoners His fingers, adorned with rings bearing the same serpent motif, drummed restlessly on the hilt of a ceremonial dagger at his belt, its blade more symbolic than practical but no less deadly in intent.
House Aldrich traced its lineage to the Ring’s first settlers, a proud bloodline that predated the MacGils.Once, they had held vast estates, their wealth rivalling the crown’s.But the wars—Andronicus’s invasion, the exile, the Blood Lord’s terror—had stripped them of land and influence.Thorgrin’s decrees, redistributing estates to peasants and elevating commoners like Steffen to ranks once reserved for nobles, were salt in the wound.The rebuilding of Kings Court had not been cheap, and it had been to the ancient families like Aldrich that the crown had turned.
Lord Aldrich was not alone in viewing Thorgrin not as a savior but as an interloper—a shepherd’s son who dared claim a druidic throne.The news of the Shield’s breach, rippling through the nobility’s private channels like wildfire, had ignited his ambitions.Thorgrin’s departure north was a chink in the armor of his rule, and Aldrich intended to exploit it.He paced the chamber, boots scraping against the slick flagstones, his mind alight with visions of a power reclaimed.
Lord Varis arrived next, his heavy footsteps echoing down the stairs like the tread of a warhorse.A rotund man from the western provinces, Varis’s girth strained the seams of his embroidered tunic, its green silk adorned with grapevines—a nod to the vineyards his family had once monopolized.His face was florid, cheeks perpetually flushed from anger, ale, or both, and his gray beard, a tangled thicket, hid a scowl that had deepened with every royal edict forcing him to “share” his lands with common farmers.He huffed as he collapsed into a chair, the wood creaking under his weight, and mopped his brow with a silk handkerchief stained with wine.“Aldrich,” he grunted, accepting a goblet of the smuggled wine with a greedy hand, “this breach—gods’ curse or the outsider’s folly?Either way, he leaves us exposed while he chases shadows north.”
Aldrich’s lips curled into a thin smile, pouring more wine with deliberate care.“Folly, Varis.His sorcery weakens, and with it, our safety.But his absence is our gain—mark my words.”
Lady Elowen glided into the chamber next, a specter of faded elegance.Tall and slender, her skin was pale as moonlit snow, her movements graceful yet calculated, like a dancer weaving through a battlefield.Her hair, once raven-black, was now threaded with white, pulled into a severe bun that accentuated her sharp cheekbones and piercing green eyes that seemed to see through flesh to secrets beneath.Her midnight silk gown rustled softly, its long sleeves concealing pockets rumored to hold daggers or vials of poison.Around her neck hung a pendant of her house’s crest—a raven in flight, symbolizing the spies her family had wielded like weapons in the old kings’ courts.House Elowen had thrived on intrigue, toppling rivals with whispered secrets, but Gwendolyn’s transparent rule had curtailed their networks, branding them divisive.Elowen despised the Queen’s “honesty” as much as she loathed Thorgrin’s commoner roots.“The people panic,” she said, her voice a silken thread as she took her seat, folding her hands with the precision of a predator.“Whispers in the markets speak of omens—lights in the north, tremors underfoot.If the Shield crumbles, they’ll blame the outsider, not us, the true blood of the Ring.”
Aldrich nodded, appreciating her subtlety.“Indeed, Elowen.His magic fails, and we, the pillars of tradition, stand poised to guide.”
Lord Garrick’s arrival was heralded by the clank of concealed armor beneath his coarse woolen cloak, a warrior’s attempt at discretion.Hailing from the Highlands, Garrick was built like the crags he called home—broad-shouldered, with arms corded from decades wielding a battle-ax.His face bore the scars of battles he had fought alongside Thor, a jagged line slicing across his left eye, leaving it milky and blind, while his right eye burned with unrelenting fury.His hair was shorn close, military-style, and his beard trimmed to a sharp point, giving him the look of a predator stalking prey.House Garrick had lost sons in the exile, their loyalty to the old order rewarded with unmarked graves.Garrick had come to despise Thorgrin for multiple reasons, not everyone, perhaps even himself, knew the root of, other than a bitterness to see someone step from out of your shadow to take their place on the throne.
He hated what he called Thor’s pacifist policies—the emphasis on diplomacy over conquest, the integration of "foreigners" like Southern Islanders into the Silver.He slammed a fist on the table as he sat, the maps trembling."Beasts roam my borders," he growled, his voice like gravel."My scouts report tracks—venomous claws, hides like stone.If the King were a true warrior, he'd crush them, not gallivant north on some mystic errand."
“Patience, Garrick,” Aldrich soothed, though his flinty eyes gleamed with shared resentment.“His quest buys us time to act.”
Last came Baron Holt, a sly fox whose slight build belied a mind as sharp as a stiletto.His mousy brown hair and forgettable face—watery blue eyes, a thin mouth—made him invisible in crowds, a trait he wielded like a blade.Holt’s house controlled the eastern trade routes, once a monopoly now fractured by royal decrees opening commerce to all.He dressed in plain woolen robes, their drabness hiding pockets stuffed with ledgers, bribes, and coded missives.He slid into his chair silently, nodding to the others with a smile that could freeze champagne.“The coffers bleed,” he murmured, his voice oily as spilt ink.“Taxes flow to peasant hovels while our estates crumble.The outsider elevates his own kind—lowborn scum—while we, the true stewards, starve.”
