One hour past midnight, the knock came on Vargo’s guest chamber’s door. He opened it to find Veracles standing in the corridor.

  They exchanged a glance before the latter came in, shutting the door behind him with care.

  The room reeked of wealth and extravagance: gilt-edged bed, portraits of dead generals, marble walls draped in velvet silk, and a single candelabra cast in gold illuminating it all in soft amber light.

  It was all so misplaced for Vargo. Something the Seneschals would appreciate no doubt, but not him.

  The grime of war and the uncleanness of mud felt like home after decades of service. It was as if he belonged there, not here, in the halls of majesty, where parasites live and breathe perfume from daybreak to sundown.

  Veracles paced to the opposite side of the room, and sat at the hardwood desk beside the glass window.

  He pulled a ledger from his satchel, laid it flat, took quill in hand, and started scratching on its surface. Behind him, Vargo sat on the edge of the bed. From within his boot, he drew a narrow blade and set to sharpening it, steel whispering against stone in slow, deliberate arcs.

  At last, Veracles set the quill down and turned.

  “Rumours are already spreading,” he said. “Our men heard them during their outings in the taverns.”

  “They are working quickly,” Vargo replied, his tone flat.

  “Indeed.”

  The fire crackled in the hearth.

  “What shape do they take?” Vargo asked.

  “One of compromise. How he keeps a southern whore in defiance of the Emperor’s edict.”

  “What do you make of them, Veracles?”

  “They are not idle,” he began, “but neither are they decisive. The Emperor elevated him in full view of the city and court. That cannot be undone by tavern talk or paid lips.”

  He paused.

  “Still,” he continued. “We must ensure the talk changes form.”

  Vargo looked up from his blade and met his eyes.

  “How?”

  “We strip them of appetite.”

  The blade continued its slow passage along the stone.

  “So you would give it protocol and drown them in dull formality?”

  Veracles inclined his head.

  “Vulgarity feeds rumors. Process starves them dry.”

  Vargo’s hands stilled.

  “Why not remove them instead?”

  “Them?” Veracles echoed.

  “The paying hands.”

  Veracles leaned forward.

  “Do not speak of it, Vargo. The scrutiny would be too great, and the implication too obvious. Do not bend what must remain straight.”

  Vargo clicked his tongue.

  “Still,” he began, “there must be something we can do before this hardens into something monstrous.”

  “Have you heard of the civil war in Drakoryth?” Veracles asked.

  Vargo turned to him, expression quizzical.

  “Who has not?”

  “There are voices in the palace,” Veracles said. “Quiet ones, that speak of a covert delegation sent by the Queen’s faction. It appears they seek a mediator.”

  Vargo leaned forward, blade catching the light of the candelabra.

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  “And you believe we will be sent to the western borderlands.”

  Veracles met his gaze and nodded.

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he carries too much weight,” a pause. “And the palace is made of crystal.”

  Vargo leaned back, thoughtful.

  “How soon?”

  Veracles did not answer at once.

  “Soon enough. We would be wise to be ready.”

  Winter wind brushed the windowpane, tracing frost along the edges.

  “Did you inform the Stormguard?” Vargo asked.

  “Not all of them. I still have names to speak to.”

  Vargo nodded and extended his hand.

  “Give them to me, I will do it. You have another task to complete while we wait.”

  For the briefest moment, a smirk touched Veracles’ lips before vanishing.

  “You speak as though it were certain.”

  Vargo’s expression remained unchanged.

  “You have never been wrong, Veracles,” he said. “Do not make me flatter you.”

  Veracles drew a parchment from within his cloak and passed it to him.

  “I will not.”

  Vargo took it, sheathed the blade into his boot, and rose.

  “Then we are done,” he said. “Unless there is something more.”

  “Indeed we are,” Veracles nodded and stood, gathering his things before stepping to the door and departing.

  Vargo sat back down on the edge of the bed, eyes cast downward to his armed calf.

  The candle guttered before stilling straight again, its light casting long, thin shadows across the walls.

  Elsewhere in the palace, a knock came to a closed door.

  Caellis opened it and Vaudrel entered, his tunic still carrying the scent of wine and herbs.

  The chamber was warm, ordered, and exquisitely ornate. Papers lay in neat columns upon the desk, seals and ledgers disposed with habitual care.

  A single low flame burned through the hearth casting golden shafts of light across the white marble.

  “Why call me at such an hour, Caellis?” Vaudrel began, glacing around the room briefly. “Do you fret over the Lord Commander so?”

  “Who does not, Lord Vaudrel?”

  Vaudrel seated himself in the chair set beside the desk and adjusted his cloak before speaking.

  “He does trouble me a little,” he began, “but not to the extent you seem to fear.”

  Caellis remained standing.

  “What makes you certain? The whole of the city speaks his name as though a benediction upon the heavens. He was praised before all, and the Emperor granted him his petition during the Council. Does it not seem… excessive?”

  Vaudrel let a breath escape his nostrils, more sigh than exhale.

  “Caellis,” he called, “you have not watched over as many reigns as I have. I stood here for his father before him, and I watched this same pattern unfold with another man who stood too firm on dry ground. Though Emperors may show favour to their champions, they do not leave them to grow roots where they should not. And cracks are bound to show when your feet are clad in steel.”

  “You believe he will be moved?” Caellis asked, brow furrowed.

  “He will not remain,” Vaudrel answered, his tone settled. “The Emperor may call him 'son', but the realm has no use for sons who forget they are servants."

  He folded his hands, the gesture calm, almost paternal.

  "If he remained, the precedent would unravel the Empire whole. A Lord of War with the people's adoration, the Emperor's favour, and two legions at his back?" A faint, joyless smile. "No, that is not a son, but a successor. And children do not like to share."

  Caellis remained silent for a moment, pensive, before speaking.

  “You would have us do nothing then.”

  Vaudrel reached for a cup of wine near him, regarded it briefly, then set it down untouched.

  “Indeed.”

  Caellis’ fingers twitched.

  “And you trust it will be addressed?”

  Vaudrel met his gaze with unwavering calm.

  “It always is.”

  He leaned back, his cloak settling over the armrests.

  “The Emperor grants him authority over things that are more burden than boon. A hex-stained woman? A cursed rock? What are these if not preparation for political exile?”

  “He is being groomed for banishment, Caellis.”

  The fire in the hearth crackled once before stilling into embers.

  “I see.”

  Caellis said nothing more, his fingers finally still.

  In the corridors beyond, where sconce light pooled in soft, amber drifts, Alric walked alone, his footsteps muffled by thick palatial tapestry.

  The Council had ended hours ago, but he could not sleep under this moonless night. He knew this darkness well. It was the same lightless heaven that hung above Valekyr from twelve years prior, when everything fell apart.

  Braziers dotted the corners and wall-mounted torches flickered beside them, each swaying tongue fighting against the night.

  He could feel the blackness close in around him when light was not there, abated only by his own candle.

  He stopped in his tracks.

  I hate this feeling…

  It doesn’t matter.

  He gripped the bronze holder tighter and stepped forward, each pace bringing him closer to the chamber where she rested.

  As he neared the room, the braziers’ light fell upon two spear-tips, glinting with golden intent.

  The guards stationed there snapped to attention and saluted crisply.

  “Lord Commander,” they said in unison, fists to chest.

  He stood before the men for a moment before speaking.

  “You are given leave for fifteen minutes. Then you are to return post-haste.”

  A quick glance passed between them before they nodded.

  “As you command, my Lord,” one of them intoned while the other remained silent.

  They withdrew down the corridor, into the deep jaws of the palace’s interiors, where darkness swallowed the golden sheen.

  Alric stood alone before the door.

  He lifted his right hand to the latch and let it linger.

  What am I even doing at this hour? It can wait till morning.

  He let his hand fall to his side, turned from the chamber, and took a step.

  Before he could finish his pace, the door had opened.

  “Why come all the way here just to then run away, Lord Commander?” He turned and saw Priscilla standing in the doorway, hands still bound in ceremonial iron, leather wrapped beneath the shackles.

  Her eyes like forest jade reflected the sconce-light in amber-green expectancy.

  He regarded her in silence, left hand clenching slightly at his side.

  “Go inside. We will speak tomorrow.”

  She smiled joylessly, apparent scorn drawing cleanly across her face.

  “Courageous, aren’t we? You raze cities to the ground, but can’t stand to face me. Does the night frighten you so that you have to seek me out?”

  She extended her arms in mocking gesture, chains rattling softly.

  “Come, I’ll embrace you if you like, if it soothes your soul. Just like that field of flowers.”