The ground gives beneath me and I fall backward, the impact sending a sharp force through my spine and into my lower body all at once, the breath leaving me as the pain follows, deeper and more internal than the fall itself, radiating outward in a way that does not belong to bruised muscle or scraped bone.
Colsar is at my side immediately, shifted back, his hand finding my arm before I have finished processing the ground beneath me.
"I am fine," I say, though my body is already tightening around the words, a low cramp in my pelvis forming deep and slow that does not release the way it should.
I push myself up. We keep moving.
The Council
SEVRIN
The chamber is already full when the matter is raised. It comes at the end of routine discussion, after trade routes and border patrols and the ongoing work of restoring order to a court that has not yet decided how firmly it stands. The men seated around the table have grown quieter as the conversation narrows, each one aware that what remains carries more consequence than what came before.
"The Baron's ships have not docked as expected," one of the merchant advisors says, his tone measured though the strain beneath it carries. "Nor have his coffers been released. There is some confusion as to their current ownership."
Sevrin does not answer immediately. He sits at the head of the table, one hand resting against the arm of his chair, his attention fixed on the man in a way that stills the room.
"Confusion," he repeats.
"Yes, Majesty. The Baron has not been seen in months. Some believe he abandoned his holdings. Others believe he may have been killed."
A murmur moves through the chamber, contained but present.
"And yet his ships remain," Sevrin says.
"Yes, Majesty."
"And his coffers."
"Yes."
Sevrin leans back slightly, his fingers pressing lightly against the arm of his chair. "Have there been any recent changes in the ownership of the Baron's assets?"
The question moves through the room. For a moment no one answers.
Then Arthen steps forward.
He had been standing along the far wall, his presence easy to overlook unless called upon. He moves without hesitation, his expression composed as he approaches the table and places a narrow folio before the king, opening it with careful hands and turning it so the contents face him. Sevrin does not look at Arthen’s hands as he turns the folio. His attention stays on the document itself. Arthen’s fingertips, where they rest against the page, are gray at the edges. The kind of gray that should not be there at all.
"There have been changes, Majesty," he says. "The transfer was completed prior to the Baron's departure. All assets were signed over to Princess Asharin. The documents are properly witnessed and recorded."
Sevrin looks down.
The signature is hers. Clean. Certain. Unmistakable. But the edges of the page are stained, not carelessly and not enoughto obscure the text, just enough. Darkened along the corners, pressed into the fibers in a way that suggests proximity rather than accident.
His brother.
Sevrin lets out a quiet breath that turns into a low laugh. Of course.
He lifts his attention back to the council. "The princess is missing," he says. "My brother is missing. The Baron has not been seen in months, and we are asked to accept that he surrendered his holdings willingly before vanishing without a trace."
No one interrupts.
"The documents may be valid," he continues, "but their timing is not." He pauses. "Until the Baron's status is confirmed, these assets remain under royal protection. The ships will not sail without my approval. The coffers remain sealed."
The murmur returns, quieter now.
"Tampering with records is a grave offense," Sevrin adds, his tone controlled. "Even my brother would not be immune from it." He lets that sit. "Let us hope, for his sake, that the Baron never returns."
