Chapter Forty-Six: The Veil of Lies
Tarn had learned many things in his travels, but the most crucial lesson was one that he had yet to fully comprehend: power is not in the hands of those who wear the crowns, but in the hands of those who pull the strings from the shadows.
And in the shadows of Caedren's kingdom, the strings were tightening.
That night, as Caedren convened his council, Tarn moved through the halls of the Bastion like smoke—silent, purposeful, unseen. He had returned from the River Veins with suspicions smoldering in his chest, and those suspicions had begun to burn into conviction.
Whispers didn't lie. Not always.
He passed armored sentries and veiled servants, each nodding with the same weary respect, unaware that he no longer walked simply as the king's blade, but as its watcher. As its question. As its doubt.
The trail led him to the eastern wing, where the old walls still bore the blackened scars of the Siege of Winds. Past the old library, down a winding stair choked with the smell of mildew and forgotten books. There, he reached a door long left unguarded, marked only with a sigil too faded to name.
The entrance to the underkeep.
Beneath the Bastion, tunnels sprawled like roots—ancient arteries of a kingdom built on bones. The catacombs stretched deeper than most remembered, and only a few still knew their map by heart.
Tarn did.
As he descended, the torch he carried flickered weakly, its flame barely holding against the damp air. The stone was cold under his boots, and the silence pressed around him like a smothering cloak. But there was something else here, too—something wrong. Not just rot or age or echo.
Something breathing.
He came upon the chamber after nearly an hour of navigating the twisted corridors. It was a circular room, hollowed from blackstone, its ceiling arched and supported by cracked pillars. The walls were etched with old warding glyphs—symbols meant to keep something in… or keep something out.
Inside, a gathering.
Six figures stood in a circle. Cloaked, hooded. Their presence cut into the air like blades through silk. Only one turned at his arrival, stepping forward with easy grace.
Lord Darius.
One of the oldest voices on Caedren's council. One of the most trusted.
"What is this?" Tarn's voice was low, dangerous.
Darius offered a smile—tight, polished, practiced. "You've been too curious, Tarn. It's your curse."
Tarn's hand hovered near the hilt of his dagger. "The kingdom is unraveling, and you're here in the dark with traitors. Are you planning on taking the throne for yourself?"
Darius let out a short, mirthless laugh. "The throne? No, Tarn. The throne is a bauble. A relic. Let Caedren keep his illusions. What I seek is far greater than a crown."
Tarn stepped further into the room, the flickering torchlight catching the edge of steel under the cloaks. "You speak like an Assenter."
Another voice answered from the shadows—female, cold. "And what if we do? You think Caedren's dream will last? A world without kings is a world waiting for a master. We are simply… making sure the right hand closes the cage."
The other figures nodded slowly. One stepped forward and dropped something at Tarn's feet.
A sigil—broken and bloodstained. The mark of a Highrest scout. Tarn recognized it instantly. Rilan. Gone missing weeks ago on a mission to the southern coast.
Murdered.
His fingers clenched.
"You've killed our own," he said, voice shaking with fury.
"They were liabilities," Darius said. "Caedren's world is fragile, built on faith and fables. We operate on truth. On necessity."
Tarn took a step back. He couldn't fight them all, not here. Not yet.
But he could remember. And he could return.
"I'll see you for what you are," he said. "And I'll make sure the king does too."
Darius tilted his head. "Will he believe you? Or will he see only another would-be usurper grasping for influence?"
Tarn turned without replying, his cloak whispering behind him like a blade in flight. As he slipped into the tunnels again, his thoughts spun like stormwinds.
The enemy was no longer at the gates. The serpent was here, beneath their feet.
And it was coiled to strike.
In the depths of the catacombs, behind the closing of the stone door, Darius turned to the others.
"The Bastion is blind," he said. "And when it falls, it will fall from within."
Then he stepped to the center of the circle, where a single book rested atop a pedestal of bone. Its cover bore no name, but its pages whispered when the torchlight touched them—
A prophecy.
A kingdom of ash.
And a king who would choose silence over salvation.