The throne room smelled of old wine and cold ash.
Flickering torches threw wavering light across the marble floor, catching on worn banners that once shone bright with the crest of House Vaelmont: a blade wreathed in flame, wings of gold spread wide. Now, those banners hung like the memory of a better age, their colors dulled by time and smoke.
Duke Ferdinand sat heavy on his throne — a seat carved from ivory and blackstone, too grand now for the man it held. His fingers tapped restlessly along the inlaid armrest, rings clinking in a rhythm as sharp as his mood. His eyes, once hawk-like in youth, were hooded now, framed by the heavy pouches of a man long at war with his own body.
Around him, the War Hall stirred like a hive of restless whispers. Messengers slipped in and out, parchment rustling, boots thudding faintly across the stone. The air was thick — with sweat, with smoke, with something older, sourer. Even the advisors kept their voices low, as if the walls themselves strained to listen.
At the center of it all, Chancellor Breven stepped forward, a thin man wrapped in a scholar's robe, his fingers pale against the dark seal of the message he held.
"My lord," Breven murmured, bowing as he offered the letter. "The report from the northern granaries."
Ferdinand snatched the parchment, breaking the seal with a snap. His eyes darted across the lines, brow furrowing, mouth tightening to a thin white line.
"Sabotage," he hissed, the word cutting through the low murmur of the hall. His voice was hoarse, rough at the edges. "And no one saw a damn thing?"
Breven's hands folded neatly before him. "They follow a plan we cannot read, Highness. Quiet hands in the dark."
Ferdinand rose halfway from his seat, the heavy cape of his station dragging against the floor. For a moment, the old fire flickered in his eyes — not the blaze of command, but the smoke of desperation.
"Double the patrols at the gates," he snapped. "I want merchants delayed, travelers searched, every road watched. And find me the man who let this pass."
Breven inclined his head, but in his eyes, a shadow moved — caution, perhaps, or doubt.
The Duke sank back into his throne, one hand rubbing at his temple, the other clenching the crumpled message.
Outside, beyond the stained glass and stone, the mist pressed closer against the city walls — and somewhere in its depths, gold eyes gleamed.
The doors of the War Hall slammed open with a thunder that stole the breath from the room.
For a heartbeat, no one moved — not the guards at their posts, not the scribes bent over their ledgers, not even Breven, whose fingers froze mid-turn of a scroll.
Luceris stood in the threshold, framed by the cold light spilling through the archway behind him. His cloak was torn at the hem, boots thick with mud, a travel-stained figure that should have looked broken. But his shoulders were straight, his head high, his eyes — sharp, golden, very much alive.
Behind him stood a single figure: a woman, or perhaps a shadow in the shape of one. Cloaked, hooded, head bowed in quiet deference, she kept to his back like a second thought or a silent blade.
A murmur rippled through the chamber — sharp, disbelieving, like the first crack of glass under strain. "He was taken," someone whispered near the far column. "Months ago — by the Hollow Star. "Breven's hand stilled halfway across the war table. A scribe dropped his quill; ink splattered across the parchment. Ferdinand's mouth opened — but for a moment, no sound came. His face worked through a storm of emotions: rage, relief, disbelief. "You… should be dead," the Duke rasped at last, voice low, rough with something too old for grief and too brittle for love. Luceris only tilted his head slightly, a shadow of amusement flickering across his lips. "I was," he said softly. "And then I wasn't.''
The torches flickered uneasily. The mist, so long locked outside, seemed to sigh across the threshold in a breathless whisper.
Ferdinand pushed himself up from the throne, the heavy fur of his mantle slipping from one shoulder. His mouth worked for a moment before words found him.
"My son," he breathed, half a command, half a confession.
Luceris stepped forward, and the guards — veteran men, hardened by years at the border — parted before him without a word. Their eyes tracked his movement like men watching a storm crawl toward their roofs.
"My lord father," Luceris said smoothly, his voice carrying without effort. "I return from my task."
He drew a leather case from beneath his cloak, unrolled it with precision — and laid the orders across the war table. Like he had never been away.
Maps shifted under his touch, markers quivered. The scent of leather and cold air followed him as if the outside still clung to his skin.
"New deployments," Luceris said calmly. "East flank, reinforce with heavy cavalry. West, thin the lines, pull the spearmen closer to the grain roads. And here"—he tapped a spot near the rune-marked ridge—"double the scouts."
Ferdinand's fingers tightened on the armrest. His face twisted — joy, relief, suspicion, all braided into one brittle expression.
"My son," he murmured again, softer, as if tasting the words. "You return sharper than I sent you. What happend to you all these months?''
Luceris smiled faintly — not warmth, not defiance, but something in between, a blade sheathed but not dulled.
"I return as you need me," Luceris said, voice silk over steel.
Breven lingered at the edge of the table, eyes flicking to the marks on the map, tracing them, lips tightening as realization dawned.
These were not random adjustments. They pressed at the cracks, at the weak seams of the rune wall. They threaded close to lines only the high council should know.
Breven's throat worked once. He said nothing. Not yet.
At the far end of the hall, Ferdinand exhaled, sinking slowly back into his throne. His gaze never left his son, as if afraid that blinking might break the spell.
"Good," the Duke murmured, almost to himself. "Very good."
But beyond the torchlight, Breven's fingers curled tighter around the edge of the map.
And in the shadows, Luceris' companion lowered her hood just slightly — enough to catch the gleam of crimson eyes, before the dark swallowed them whole.
The great hall had quieted. Servants cleared goblets and platters, courtiers drifted away in murmured knots, and the scent of spiced wine still clung faintly to the air.
Breven stayed behind.
The old chancellor moved slowly, fingertips brushing across the long oak table where the war maps were spread — parchment creased and dark with age, weighted at the corners with carved stones. His brow furrowed as he bent closer, eyes tracing the dark ink of troop movements, defensive lines, and —
Luceris' fresh marks.
Thin strokes, neat and sharp, cutting diagonally across the eastern quadrant. His orders. His return. His triumph.
Breven's lips pressed into a thin line. With a slow exhale, he lifted one of the bone tokens and slid it slightly aside, revealing the edge of the rune-wall etched faintly onto the map. His fingers hovered above it, not touching — as if contact might burn.
"Strange," he murmured. "Too precise."
He drew back, pulled a second map from beneath — an older one, the kind only the council kept, marked with the rune fractures no common soldier knew. And there it was: the same line. Luceris' orders cut across a breach point, one not revealed for decades.
Breven's throat tightened. His fingers trembled, just slightly, before he clenched them into fists."How does he know?" he whispered. "Who told him?"
A cold prickle slid down his spine.
The great doors creaked faintly in the distance, the shuffle of servants beyond. He stayed still, listening. A whisper. A laugh. No — only the wind.
But the unease crawled deeper.
Breven straightened slowly, smoothing the edge of his robe. His gaze swept once over the map, memorizing every line, every mark, as if it might change when next he looked.
Then, quietly, deliberately, he folded the map shut.
"I must speak with the Duke," he murmured to himself, voice low and grim. "Before this fracture widens."
As Breven turned from the war table, his footsteps echoed down the marbled corridor, heavy with purpose. Outside, the wind had shifted. The smell of ash carried on it now, faint but undeniable.
He found the Duke standing alone on the high balcony, staring into the dark.
The balcony stretched wide and cold above the War Hall, its stone rail slick with dew. Below, the streets of Valaris sprawled in uneasy quiet — the glow of lanterns dulled, the alleys half-swallowed by mist.
Ferdinand gripped the railing, the gold rings on his fingers cold against the stone. His breath left him in short bursts, visible in the chill. He hadn't noticed when the air turned colder. He hadn't noticed when the mist thickened at the city's edge. But now, standing here, it pressed against the gates like a second wall.
A captain approached behind him, boots crunching on frost-laced stone."Your Grace," the man murmured, bowing low. "The northern watch reports movement. They say the mist stirs against the walls… but they see no one."
Ferdinand's jaw tightened."And the southern gate?"
"No change, sire. But — " The man hesitated. "The men say they hear… whispers. Nothing clear. Nothing we can track."
Ferdinand's fingers flexed once, then tightened on the rail."Fear breeds ghosts," he muttered. "And men bring me ghosts as if they were warnings."
From the corner of his eye, movement — a flicker of light along the far battlements.
No, not light. Eyes.
Gleaming.
Gold.
His heart hammered once, hard. By the time he turned his head, they were gone — only mist, swirling lazily against the stone.
"Double the watch," Ferdinand ordered, voice sharp as the winter air. "Seal the merchant gates. No trade, no travelers, no one in or out until I give the word."
The captain hesitated. "Sire, that will cause unrest — "
"I don't care," Ferdinand snapped, whirling on him. "Let them mutter, let them starve if they must. But no more shadows through my walls."
The captain bowed low, retreating with swift steps.
Left alone, Ferdinand turned back to the horizon. His breath fogged the air, his chest tight with something he didn't yet name — not fear, not yet. But close. Beneath him, the city shuddered in its sleep. Above, the mist thickened, drawing a veil between Valaris and the night beyond.
He closed his eyes. For one moment, the great Duke Vaelmont stood still — a figure carved of pride and steel, watching his world slip quiet beneath the weight of something he could no longer command.
Far beyond the walls, where the mist curled like claws, something watched back.
Just as Ferdinand turned to retreat into the warmth of the War Hall, the sound of quick, purposeful footsteps echoed up the stairs behind him.
Breven.
He emerged from the archway, breath visible in the cold, a sealed scroll clutched tightly in one gloved hand. His expression was pale, drawn — as if the stone beneath his feet had spoken words meant for no ears.
"Your Grace," he said, low but urgent. "There's something you need to see. It cannot wait."
Ferdinand raised an eyebrow, weary. "If it's another tale of mist and eyes, Breven—"
"It's Luceris," Breven cut in.