The news came with the morning fog—Ser Althea Caldwyne, daughter of Duke Harren of Valecrest, would be arriving in Wyvrland within the week. A political envoy, she said. A diplomatic courtesy, her letter claimed.
But I knew better.
Duke Harren ruled the Valecrest Marches—our neighbor to the east, strong, independent, and suspiciously silent throughout my rise. This was no courtesy. It was a test. And the one sent to administer it? A knighted daughter, famed for her sword and her scrutiny. Beautiful. Dangerous. Entirely unaligned.
And now, crossing my threshold.
It had been weeks since we crossed paths at the summit. A measured dance of words, blades and half-lowered gaurds. She had challanged me without insulting me. Respected me without submission. That rare breed- noble by blood, soldier by steel and woman by fire.
Now she was coming to my home.
To observe.
To judge.
To decide, perhaps, if I was worth aligning with or destroy later.
---
Preparations began immediately.
The walls were cleaned, the roads cleared, the guards drilled. I wanted no garish display—just order, precision, and strength. I needed Valecrest to see that Wyvrland was not a dying flame clinging to ashes.
We were rebuilding.
We were rising.
Let them carry that message home.
---
Althea arrived under gray skies, cloaked in furs and steel.
She rode at the front of her escort—ten mounted knights in red-and-silver cloaks bearing the Falcon of Valecrest. Her destrier was massive, coal-black, armored at the flanks. She dismounted without aid and removed her helmet in a single, fluid motion.
Hair like burnished copper, braided to her nape. Eyes sharp, flint-gray. Her expression gave nothing.
"Lord Vihan of Wyvrling," she greeted.
"Ser Althea Caldwyne," I returned. "Wyvrland welcomes the Falcon of Valecrest."
She smiled faintly. "Falcons observe before they act."
So it begins, I thought.
---
The feast was restrained.
In the great hall, beneath faded banners of my fallen ancestors, I hosted her at my right hand. Lyra lingered at the edge of torchlight, pretending to serve wine, listening like a spider in the eaves.
Althea drank little, ate less, and spoke even less.
Until finally: "You've taken Greystone."
"Yes," I said.
"Quickly."
"It needed cleansing."
"I hear the gallows worked overtime."
"They served their purpose."
She tilted her head. "And what was the crime? Disloyalty or disobedience?"
"Both," I replied evenly.
A pause.
"Efficient. But efficiency makes enemies."
I nodded. "So does mercy."
A flicker of something crossed her face—approval? Or warning?
Every word was political theater.
"I hear Greystone has been... unruly," Althea said, slicing into her roast with elegant ease.
"Nothing a few gallows couldn't fix," I replied.
"A sharp remedy."
"Sometimes infection must be cut out."
"Or sometimes infection is born of poor stitching," she said without looking up.
I met her gaze.
"You imply I made errors."
"I imply nothing," she said. "I ask questions. You are building a legacy. I'm merely watching the foundation set."
"Are you here to inspect my stones, then? Or to help shape them?"
She raised her goblet.
"That depends on whether the mason knows what he's building."
---
Later, she asked to walk the walls. Alone. With me.
I accepted.
Under a waning moon, we toured the battlements. The air was cold, and I could see her breath fog against the lamplight. She moved like someone used to armor and command. Confident. Quiet. Coiled.
"Wyvrland's walls are old," she murmured.
"But sturdy."
"Old things break."
"They also outlast fads and folly."
She smiled. Barely.
"You speak like a man who's had to defend his name."
"I've rebuilt it from dirt and ruin."
She turned to me.
"And what would you do to protect it?"
I met her gaze.
"Whatever's required."
She studied me. Not as a woman studies a man, but as a knight studies an opponent. Or perhaps an ally.
"I believe you," she said softly.
"You're not what I expected."
I raised a brow. "Do tell."
"You're not loud. Not brash. Men who win wars often mistake fear for respect. You don't."
"I've had to earn both."
We stopped by the training yard. A few men sparred in silence. She watched them with a soldier's eye.
"They're disciplined," she said. "But they lack edge."
"Edge comes when you know hunger. They haven't starved yet."
She turned to face me, arms crossed.
"What do you want, Vihan?"
The question struck harder than I expected.
"I want what is mine," I said after a moment. "And to make it stronger than it ever was."
"That's not an answer."
"I want power. Enough to shape the world I live in. Enough to never kneel again. Enough to protect what I build."
She stared at me a moment.
Then: "Good."
I blinked. "Good?"
"I don't follow men who hesitate. But I do watch the ones who burn too hot. You're not burning yet. Just smoldering."
The torchlight flickered in her eyes. Cold fire. She was beautiful—but it was the kind that could bleed you if you touched it wrong. Sharp lips. Controlled posture. Yet I saw it.
The weight behind her eyes. The loneliness buried under duty.
I wondered if she saw the same in me.
---
That night, she lingered in the war room.
Maps sprawled across the oak table. Candles burned low. I had removed my coat, sleeves rolled. She wore a simpler tunic over mail, still marked by travel.
"You're methodical," she said, scanning the positions of my troops.
"You expected chaos?"
"I expected fire. Not flint and steel."
"I don't throw sparks without fuel."
She nodded once.
"I came to see if Wyvrland was worth watching. You've exceeded expectations."
I let silence hang.
She stepped closer.
"My father is neutral. For now. He sees opportunity. But he's not your ally."
"I don't need him to be," I said.
She looked up, eyes unreadable.
"But you might need me."
---
We stood close now.
The only sound was rain tapping the window slits and the low crackle of the fire. There was no seduction in the air, no lustful hunger—just tension. Controlled, dangerous, edged with things neither of us were willing to name.
"You're hard to read," I said.
She arched a brow. "And you're easy to underestimate."
"Not anymore."
A breath passed between us.
Then she said, "There are many eyes on you now, Vihan. Some waiting for you to fall. Some wondering if you'll rise too far."
"And which are you?"
She didn't answer.
Instead, she took a small pendant from her neck—silver, shaped like a falcon in flight—and placed it on the table.
"My father doesn't know I gave you this," she said. "It means nothing. Yet."
Then she turned and walked away, leaving me with the symbol and a mind full of fire.
---
She stayed two days.
We spoke often, though always behind veils.
War, taxes, trade routes. Never feelings. Never fear.
But tension thickened between us—mutual, unspoken, almost dangerous. I felt it when our hands brushed passing a goblet. When our eyes lingered too long during a strategy discussion.
I caught Lyra watching us once.
Her smirk said more than I liked.
---
When she left two days later, she rode without fanfare.
No ceremony. No grand farewell.
Just a final look over her shoulder, unreadable as ever.
But her absence lingered long after her hoofbeats faded into the Valecrest mist.