Midnight whispered through the stone halls of Wyvrhall, cold and quiet.
I wasn't dreaming. Something was wrong. The air felt off. Heavier. Tense, like a string drawn taut.
I sat up in bed slowly, hand slipping under my pillow. Fingers brushed cold steel.
The knife. Not elegant, but sturdy—sharp enough to carve through cloth, sinew, and bone. The handle was worn from years of use, the grip familiar.
Then I heard it.
A step. Soft, deliberate. Another. Then three more.
Not my guards. Too quiet.
I rose silently, bare feet pressing against the cold floor. The moonlight trickled through the slits in the stone, painting silver streaks across the flagstones.
I crept toward the door, ears straining.
A voice. Low. Muted.
"…take the girl first. The boy'll follow."
Another whisper.
"Spymaster's too dangerous."
I pressed my back to the wall beside the door. Two of them. Maybe more.
Steel rasped quietly from a scabbard. I counted the sound. Two swords drawn. No armor. Assassins, not soldiers.
I opened the door just enough to see.
Two dark figures crouched near Lyra's chamber, blades glinting in the faint light.
They were already inside.
I didn't think—I moved.
A step forward, silent and lethal, and my blade drove into the nearest man's neck.
He gurgled, his eyes flaring wide in disbelief. His partner turned, too late. I slashed low—cut across his thigh, then slammed into him shoulder-first, driving him to the floor.
He swung wildly, scoring a shallow cut across my shoulder.
I hissed but didn't stop.
Pinned beneath me, he thrashed, but I slammed the hilt of my blade into his jaw.
"Who sent you?" I growled.
His mouth was bloodied. "The flame… purges all…"
His eyes burned with fanaticism.
I didn't give him a second chance.
The knife drove up into his chest, straight through the heart.
---
Lyra burst out of her room moments later, dagger in hand, hair wild around her shoulders.
"Damn it," she muttered. "I told the night watch to double patrol—"
"They're gone," I said flatly.
Her eyes narrowed. "Killed?"
"Or bribed. Either way, they're not ours anymore."
She kicked one of the corpses. "Recognize the markings?"
I crouched beside one and yanked back the assassin's cloak.
A brand. Twisted lines like a leaf curled in fire.
Lyra drew in a sharp breath. "Order of the Verdant Flame."
My brows furrowed. "Never heard of them."
"They're fringe fanatics. Worship Ravien like he's the second coming of the Flameborn King. Most think they're just harmless zealots."
"Not tonight," I said coldly.
Lyra's voice was low. "This was coordinated. You don't get three inside the keep unless someone placed them."
I nodded grimly. "We lock everything down."
---
By dawn, the keep was sealed.
No one left Wyvrhall. No one entered. Not without my direct seal.
My men swept the halls. We found two more—one in the kitchens, disguised as a scullery boy. Another in the stables. Both armed. Both with the same brand.
We also found a coded message hidden in a boot heel. Lyra's eyes lit up when she saw it.
"I know this cipher," she said.
I raised an eyebrow. "You recognize it?"
"It's old. My father used to write like this."
"Didn't know your father was a scribe."
"He wasn't. He was the Black Webmaster of Bronthall." Her smirk was wicked. "The King's killer of kings."
I stared.
"And you're my spymaster."
"You're welcome," she said cheerfully, already decoding.
It took her an hour. At the end, she handed me a parchment:
> The boy-lord grows faster than expected. Delay if you can. Bleed him if you must. The Boar watches from the trees.
– D.
"'D'?" I asked.
"Darric Vell," Lyra answered. "Exiled steward of Greystone. You forced him out when you took it."
I remembered the name. Arrogant. Vain. Ran with a fat purse and a smug grin. I should've killed him.
Now, he was stirring Ravien's pot.
---
Three days later, an envoy came riding through the gates. No weapons. No guards. Just a scroll, red-ribboned and perfumed.
I received it in the war room.
Armin, my steward, frowned as I broke the seal.
"It's from Ravien," I said aloud.
The letter was cordial. Polite. Formal.
A border dispute, raised over pasturing lands along the river bend between Greystone and Ravien's holdings.
A test.
He wanted to see if I'd rise to the bait. If I'd lash out. If I'd start a war before I was ready.
"Shall I write a reply, my lord?" Armin asked.
"Yes," I said. "Write that we acknowledge his concern and that we are willing to send a neutral arbiter to review the matter. Let him choke on our civility."
Armin smirked. "Very diplomatic."
"And move scouts through the woods. Quietly. I want to know what's crawling beneath that riverbank."
---
That night, I stood alone in the training yard, shirtless, blade in hand.
The cut on my shoulder stung.
I needed to be sharper. Faster. Stronger.
If they came again, they'd bring more than blades.
They'd bring doubt. Poison. Lies.
And I'd meet every one of them head-on.
--Few days later--
The council chamber of Wyvrhall was quiet, save for the steady crackling of logs in the hearth.
I stood at the head of the table, arms folded, the weight of my bruised shoulder only a dull ache now. The assassins hadn't succeeded—but they'd sent a message. And so had Ravien, with his veiled claim to the borderlands.
Around me sat the five pillars of my domain—loyal for now, but none without ambition.
Arden, my Marshal, was the first to speak.
"We should answer blood with blood," he growled. The scar across his cheek twitched with restrained fury. "Track down this Darric Vell. Hang him from Greystone's walls."
I shook my head. "That's what Ravien wants. A pretext."
Lyra tapped her gloved fingers on the table. "And besides, Darric won't make it easy. If he's smart, he's long gone. Operating through cutouts and messengers."
Armin, my steward, adjusted the scrolls in front of him. "We've more immediate concerns. Constant skirmishes has depleted our stores. The Greystone grain silos were half-burned by loyalists, and the roads are damaged."
"Sabotage," Caldus muttered, voice gravelly. He never raised it above a priest's sermon. "The gods are patient. But chaos breeds in broken soil."
I rubbed my temple.
Kaelen leaned forward, arms resting on the edge of the table. "Then we stabilize Greystone. Fast. We station a permanent garrison. Split them between the keep and the village outskirts. Visible strength discourages dissent."
"Men cost coin," Armin said, raising a brow.
"Then we find coin," I replied. "Cut unnecessary stipends, review the old noble entitlements, seize what's treasonous."
Armin nodded, slightly impressed. "Cold, but efficient. I can make the numbers work."
"I also want a census," I said. "Land, arms, people. Every house. Every sword. I want to know who I rule, and who resents it."
Lyra gave a soft chuckle. "Then you'll be reading for weeks."
"Good," I said. "I'll need a distraction while the spies Ravien left behind start disappearing."
She grinned. "My favorite part."
By evening, the mood had shifted. Plans were made. Orders issued.
The moment I stepped out of the chamber, Kaelen followed.
She walked with discipline, her footsteps a soldier's rhythm.
"You trust them?" she asked bluntly.
I didn't look at her. "Enough."
"That's not a yes."
"I don't need perfect loyalty," I said. "I need predictability. Arden's loyal to strength. Armin to order. Caldus to his god. Lyra… to the game."
"And me?" she asked.
I stopped at the corridor's end and turned to her.
"You've already saved my life. That earns you honesty: I don't know yet."
She studied me a moment, then nodded. "Fair."
That night, I sat in my chamber, firelight dancing across my armor laid out beside me.
A letter sat unopened on my desk—Althea's seal pressed in dark blue wax. Her father had called her back to Valecrest, citing 'regional tensions.'
I knew what that meant. Duke Harren wanted no part in my coming storm. Neutrality... or distance.
But Althea wasn't one to sit quietly behind walls. If she'd left, it was because she had no choice. Or because something bigger stirred across the border.
And she hadn't written me since.
I didn't blame her. I hardly understood what was forming between us. Something sharp. Dangerous. Respect threaded with unspoken heat.
I opened the letter at last. Her words were brief, precise, as ever:
War makes or breaks.
You walk the sword's edge.
Don't fall, Vihan. I don't want to bury another fool I admired.
– Althea Caldwyne
No warmth. But care. And that made it worse.
I folded the letter and slipped it into the drawer.
The next morning, I stood in the courtyard, overseeing the drilling of men-at-arms.
My blacksmith, a bald, broad-shouldered woman named Yse, bowed low.
"We can equip fifty with mail and proper spears. More if we switch to padded gambesons and short swords."
"They'll need to be mobile. Light but drilled. I want them trained like mercenaries, not levies."
She nodded. "Give me coin, I'll give you killers."
"You'll get it" I replied and walked towards my chamber.
The stirrings of something bigger. Order. Power. The bones of a future kingdom forming beneath my feet.
But bones meant blood.
And blood would come.