Page 35 of The Sun King's Noon

Over my dead body.His hands clenched into shaking fists.Over my dead body, Marius, will you have one of mine.

CHAPTER 15

Dianara’s news was grim. They conjured a shimmering image of the veil and explained, in a tired, hoarse voice, that it was being pummelled at its base. The dwarves had shaped the veil’s foundations deep below, likely carving something into the very roots of the First Tree, and now, Galdran attacked those foundations—though with what, Dianara could not tell. But their newly formed spell allowed them to see the veil’s architecture, and the way it trembled thirty times in an hour.

“It pains me to bring such bitter news, Your Majesty.” Dianara’s cloak was muddied, and their purple hair a tangle past their shoulders. They looked younger than usual today, and Richard was reminded that the Chief Mage, for all their accomplishments, was no older than Elara. “But there is no way to repair the veil. Its boundaries are not fraying from neglect or age. They are being destroyed. One cannot mend a wall while another swings a battering ram on the other side.”

Richard placed his head in his hands. The generals’ office usually brought him some sense of comfort. A long, rectangular room tucked next to the training grounds, it always smelled of armour polish. As a seven-year-old, Richard had spent hours exploring the shelves that lined the walls—studying rolled maps,campaign ledgers, and lists of recruits. He used to marvel at the oak table’s scars, tracing over knife gouges where frustrated generals had stabbed their points home. He used to pore over the map of the Seven Realms pinned across the table’s surface.

Now, as Richard sat in Dain’s chair at the table’s head, there was no comfort to be found. Not even with the Lord Commander himself standing by Richard’s shoulder, having grouched that he was no frail elder who needed a chair. The map of the Seven Realms was now etched with potential battle formations. Wooden tokens representing troop positions clustered along Ardenia’s borders, and a line of red paint marked the boundary of Gloamvarn.

General Sarn smoothed his handlebar moustache. Lady Ivelle occupied the chair opposite. She combed a hand through her greying hair and frowned at General Barlow, who was yawning.

Kaelen had taken position by the windows, arms crossed, staring at the projection of the veil.

A ripple tore through the veil’s base, and its structure convulsed, buckling inward as if something massive had struck it from beneath.

The veil steadied. Three heartbeats passed, and it shuddered again.

“Every so often.” Dianara watched the tremor pulse through their conjuring. “Without ceasing.”

“So we shore up the border,” Dain rumbled. “We double the garrison at Thornwall. We call in the reserve battalions from the eastern counties. We build the defences higher and wider. It does not matter what Galdran is doing underneath if we are ready on top.”

Richard rubbed at his eyes and scraped back his fringe. “It does matter, Dain. It matters because Galdran is the man striking the blows, hence the final blow will land when hechooses. He may collapse the veil when our forces are divided. When our allies are still on the road. When winter closes the passes. When Naradesh’s ships cannot cross. When our granaries are low.” He knuckled at his brow. “This changes everything.”

Barlow cursed. “Then we keep the whole army at the ready.”

“For how long?” Lady Ivelle asked. “A month? Six? A year?” She shook her head. “Men and women can be held under arms only so long before discipline rots and stores run thin.” She huffed. “And should Frostheim and Naradesh learn that the enemy may decide his hour at whim, they might withdraw support. They may decide Ardenia is a sinking ship and save their strength.”

“Agreed.” Richard dragged a hand down his jaw. “None of this leaves this room. When the delegations convene, we present the threat as we have planned. That the veil is failing, the timeline is uncertain, and Ardenia requires allied strength to hold the line. It is a lie of omission and necessity. Let us not hand them reason to flee.”

The silence that followed was bleak, broken only by Barlow’s fingers drumming against the table.

Dianara dismissed the veil’s image. “I received your letter, Your Majesty, of the coven—the Sanguis Order.”

Richard nodded. “What have you found?”

“Residues near the western forests. Circles dug in soil, charred roots, ash streaked with blood. No lawful coven would leave such traces behind. It reeks of witchcraft gone feral.” Dianara tugged at their earring. “And it points to your prisoner speaking the truth. The Sanguis Order does appear to specialise in portals. That they were attempting to breach Gloamvarn is possible, especially as Galdran may well have been communicating. But portal magic is ruinous and tiring work.The farthest distance a coven of fifty may reach is only a few bedchambers apart.”

“A useful trick for thieves.” Barlow snorted.

“Very,” Dianara said. “A blade through a wall, a hand into a strongbox, a child snatched from a locked room. For such things, a small portal may be opened and closed swiftly. But to tear a passage into Gloamvarn would require a wellspring of power so vast that not even a thousand—ten thousand—mages could meet.”

“Good news, then.” Sarn hummed. “Then the fools were doomed from the start.”

Kaelen shifted by the window. “Dianara, might that not be why they sought Briony’s blood?”

Richard stiffened. Dianara sighed, tapping the end of their staff against the floorboards.

“That is the question that troubles me,” they said. “Yes, blood magic is potent. In the wrong hands, a drop may be shaped into powerful spellcraft. Your blood, for example, Your Majesty”—their gaze turned to Richard—“would be invaluable. A king of an old line, crowned true. With that, a witch might tear down protective wards, scry across realms, and bend others to their will. And yet, the witches did not come for you. They came for the princess. Which suggests either ignorance or something we do not yet understand.”

“Perhaps the younger the blood,” Sarn said slowly, “the stronger?”

“Perhaps.” Dianara inclined their head. “Children’s blood has long been prized by the vilest branches of witchcraft for that reason. Even so, the king’s blood would be stronger.”

Richard pressed his thumb into the bridge of his nose. The headache that had been building since Byrom’s knock now throbbed behind both eyes.

“Thank you, Chief Mage,” he said. “Your insight has been crucial. We can only hope that the hunting party sent after the witches will find success.” He looked at the faces around the table. “Go to bed. There is nothing more to be done tonight. The hunt for the witches shall continue, and we will see whether Naradesh and Frostheim pledge their support.”