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Chapter 4 - Orders Signed

The royal chambers were still in the early hours of morning. Thin shafts of grey light filtered through heavy crimson curtains, illuminating the faint swirl of incense smoke curling from golden censers. The silence here was different from the silence of the woods – it was a suffocating quiet, heavy with unspoken fears and sins buried beneath decades of rule.

King Maelor IV sat alone upon his throne, though dawn's council had not yet begun. His thick fur-lined robes pooled around him, golden embroidery glinting in the dim light. His greying beard was unbraided, hanging loose across his chest like tangled threads. In his right hand, he held a simple iron goblet filled with dark wine, untouched.

The doors creaked open behind him.

High Chancellor Vaelith entered with his usual fluid grace, robes whispering across marble. He carried a scroll bound in black ribbon and sealed with the king's personal signet. His dark eyes studied the monarch from beneath lowered lashes.

"Your Majesty," Vaelith said, bowing low, "forgive my early arrival."

King Maelor did not look at him immediately. His gaze remained fixed upon the empty space before his throne – upon ghosts only he could see. Finally, he blinked and turned, his eyes rimmed with sleepless red.

"Approach," he rasped.

Vaelith moved forward, each step measured and silent. He stopped three paces from the throne and raised the scroll.

"The orders are prepared, sire," he said softly. "As you commanded."

The king's fingers twitched upon the goblet, tightening until his knuckles whitened. He exhaled through his nose, the breath rattling in his chest like dry leaves.

"He has served me since before your appointment, Vaelith," Maelor said hoarsely. "Before half the fools in this court ever drew breath."

"Yes, Your Majesty," Vaelith replied smoothly, his face a mask of patient understanding.

"He has slain my enemies in darkness. Protected my reign with his silence. Never asked for title or coin beyond his due. Only protection for his wife and children…" Maelor's voice broke for a moment, dissolving into a harsh cough. He set down the goblet and pressed a hand to his chest until the spasms eased. When he looked up again, tears pooled at the corners of his eyes.

"Does this make me a monster, Chancellor?" he whispered.

Vaelith's expression softened with well-practised sympathy. "No, sire. It makes you a king."

Maelor stared at him, searching his pale face for judgment. Finding none, only calm certainty, he slumped back against his throne. "Why must loyalty always breed danger?" he asked bitterly.

"Because true loyalty, Your Majesty," Vaelith said softly, "means knowing too much. And knowledge is the sharpest blade of all."

Silence fell again. Outside the chamber's high windows, snow drifted past the stained glass depictions of victorious kings and fallen traitors. For a long while, neither man moved.

Finally, Maelor reached out with trembling fingers. Vaelith stepped forward, placing the scroll into his grasp. The wax seal was marked with the royal wolf sigil, blood-red against black ribbon.

"Do it quickly," Maelor said, his voice cracking. "Make it clean. I will not have him butchered like a common traitor."

Vaelith bowed deeply. "Of course, sire."

But as he straightened, his dark eyes gleamed with satisfaction. The faintest curl touched the corner of his lips – a smile hidden within shadows.

King Maelor sank back into his throne, pressing his palms to his tired eyes. Memories flickered behind them: of a young huntsman kneeling before him, cloak drenched in the blood of assassins sent to kill the king's firstborn; of quiet nods exchanged in passing, the silent gratitude between ruler and living blade.

He had thought the man unbreakable. And now he would be broken by the very hand he had served.

Vaelith turned and left the chamber without another word. Outside the doors, two Blackguard knights snapped to attention as he passed. His footsteps echoed down the long marble hallway, each stride purposeful and silent.

In his mind, pieces clicked into place. The huntsman's death would not simply remove a threat – it would open opportunities. Old alliances, once secured by fear of the huntsman's blade, could now be renegotiated under the chancellor's control. Factions that had hidden in silent terror would come crawling for protection once the shadow they feared was erased.

He descended the grand stairway to the palace's lower halls, his robes trailing behind him like liquid midnight. A cold breeze drifted up from stone corridors below, carrying scents of oil, blood, and iron. Two black-clad figures waited at the bottom step – silent men in layered leather armour, their faces obscured by dark veils. They bowed as he approached.

"Send word to Crowshade," Vaelith ordered, his voice low and precise. "Inform the Blooded Wolves that their prey has been chosen. Payment will be delivered upon confirmation."

The assassins nodded and turned, disappearing into the maze of torchlit passages that led to the palace's hidden gates. Vaelith watched them go, then turned to gaze out a tall arched window overlooking the palace courtyard.

Snow fell softly upon the black cobblestones, covering old bloodstains and footprints of soldiers long dead. He rested his slender hand against the cold glass, watching as dawn light spilled across the kingdom beyond the walls.

"Soon," he whispered to himself, a faint smile curving his thin lips. "Soon, the game will be mine alone."

Behind him, the great bells of the palace tower tolled the arrival of morning court. Their iron voices boomed through stone halls, shaking dust from ancient beams. Vaelith turned and ascended the stairway once more, robes swirling like shadowed wings.

Above, King Maelor still sat upon his throne, staring at the kill order in his trembling hands. Snowlight streamed through stained glass to wash his weary face in fractured colours – crimson, gold, indigo – as if the gods themselves watched with silent judgment.

The parchment fluttered softly in the king's grasp. A single tear fell upon its seal, darkening the blood-red wax to near black.

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