The night over Struttsburg was windless.

  That, more than the dark, unsettled Draumbean.

  Storms were honest things. They announced themselves with thunder, cracked the sky with warning, and left little doubt as to their intention. Stillness, however, was treacherous. A sky without wind meant something held its breath.

  From the high arched windows of the Imperial Mage Tower, the capital stretched below him in quiet grandeur. Lanternlight burned along the avenues like fallen constellations. The palace rose in pale marble defiance. The distant river glinted faintly beneath the moon.

  Everything looked intact.

  That, too, troubled him.

  His study was thick with wards. Sigils pulsed faint green along the mortar lines of the stone walls, layered protections built across decades—some of his own design, some inherited from archmages long dead. The air smelled faintly of dust, candle wax, and old parchment.

  At the center of the chamber stood a long blackwood table.

  Upon it lay a scroll.

  It was not spread wide arrogantly. It was pinned at its corners with rune-etched weights, as though it might otherwise recoil back into secrecy. The parchment was darkened by age but not brittle. Its fibers were tight, almost resistant to time itself.

  Six sigils crowned its header in a perfect ring.

  The door opened without knock.

  Nylla entered.

  She did not speak immediately. She paused just within the threshold, sensing the air.

  “You have sealed this room,” she said at last.

  “Yes.”

  “With layered wards.”

  “Yes.”

  Her gaze drifted to the scroll.

  “And yet you left the window unshuttered.”

  Draumbean did not look up. “If something peers in from that height,” he said calmly, “we have concerns beyond parchment.”

  Nylla stepped forward, her robes whispering against stone. The faint green embroidery along her sleeves seemed almost alive in the ward light.

  “You sent for me.”

  “I did.”

  She approached the table and saw the parchment clearly.

  “This is not the Grimmhaven scroll.”

  “No,” he replied. “It is what Grimmhaven led me to.”

  Her eyes sharpened.

  “You found the source?”

  “Perhaps.”

  Silence lingered between them, heavy but not hostile.

  “Explain.”

  Draumbean carefully unfurled the parchment further.

  “It speaks of six scrolls hidden across the realms.”

  “Hidden by whom?”

  “By those who witnessed the last battle and feared what would come.”

  “That is not an answer.”

  “By the last custodians of the Heaven’s Crown.”

  Nylla folded her arms.

  “The Crown was shattered.”

  “Yes.”

  “Scattered.”

  “Yes.”

  “Lost.”

  “No.”

  He tapped the parchment.

  “Not lost. Divided. Guarded.”

  Her eyes lowered to the script again.

  “These six scrolls do not contain shards.”

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  “No.”

  “They contain directions.”

  “Yes.”

  “To shards.”

  “And more.”

  She looked up slowly.

  “More?”

  “Each scroll details not only the location of a shard… but the nature of the guardian placed over it.”

  Nylla’s breath slowed.

  “Guardians.”

  “Yes.”

  “Divine?”

  “Forged by divine will.”

  She studied him carefully.

  “And you believe this is literal.”

  “I do.”

  He began tracing the sigils.

  “This one describes a sentinel bound to an unbroken peak. A being of oath and lightning.”

  He moved to another.

  “This one speaks of a serpent beneath stone. Not a beast of flesh, but something older—something that remembers the world before the world.”

  Another.

  “This one describes a watcher without eyes, that sees not through sight, but through intent.”

  Nylla shook her head faintly.

  “These are not metaphors.”

  “No.”

  “The gods did not trust mortals with the shards.”

  “No.”

  “They placed wardens.”

  “Yes.”

  Silence.

  “If someone seeks a shard,” she said carefully, “they must either bypass or confront its guardian.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you intend to do this.”

  “In time.”

  “In time?” she echoed.

  “Yes.”

  “Then Warplayer—”

  “—is not facing a guardian,” Draumbean said quietly.

  She blinked.

  “He retrieves only a scroll.”

  Nylla searched his face.

  “Explain.”

  “Warplayer rides toward a monastery archive in the city of Witchrum,” Draumbean said. “There lies one of the six scrolls.”

  “The scroll itself does not hold a shard.”

  “No.”

  “It holds knowledge.”

  “Yes.”

  “Location.”

  “Yes.”

  “And the guardian’s nature.”

  “Yes.”

  She exhaled.

  “So he retrieves information.”

  “Nothing more.”

  “That is something,” she admitted.

  “For now.”

  Her expression hardened again.

  “But others may seek the same parchment.”

  “Yes.”

  “Who?”

  “I believe Xavert has begun inquiries.”

  Her eyes narrowed immediately.

  “You suspect him.”

  “I suspect ambition.”

  “Ambition is not treason.”

  “No. But ambition combined with fear often becomes it.”

  “And others?”

  “Agents of others perhaps. Or lesser lords sensing opportunity. Or those who feel something stirring in the dark and seek advantage.”

  “And Malekith?”

  “Yes.”

  She let that linger.

  “So Warplayer faces no divine warden.”

  “No.”

  “But he may face blades in the dark.”

  “Yes.”

  “That is hardly comfort.”

  “No.”

  Nylla began pacing.

  “You propose we gather six scrolls that lead to six shards guarded by divine wardens.”

  “Yes.”

  “You believe Malekith seeks the same.”

  “I believe he seeks dominion.”

  “That is not proof.”

  “No.”

  “No one has seen him,” she pressed.

  “No one sees the first crack in ice before it spreads,” Draumbean replied quietly.

  “Rumor and fear do not make a lich king.”

  “No. But marching dead might.”

  “Stohl,” she said.

  “Organized grave-ranks.”

  “Necromancers exist.”

  “Not at that scale.”

  “Brechtzund.”

  “Overrun.”

  “Coincidence.”

  “The Emperor’s Naming Day.”

  Her jaw tightened.

  “That was an assassination attempt.”

  “With bone constructs summoned inside palace wards.”

  She did not answer immediately.

  “And Stewart Spendal,” Draumbean continued.

  The name shifted the air.

  “Be careful,” Nylla warned softly.

  “He met with Xavert.”

  “Yes.”

  “Four times.”

  “Privately,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “That is not uncommon.”

  “It becomes uncommon when the subject of discussion was ley-line fractures coinciding with undead manifestations.”

  Nylla crossed her arms.

  “Stewart studied such things for years.”

  “He began focusing on void signatures.”

  Her eyes sharpened.

  “That is theoretical.”

  “It is ancient.”

  “And forbidden.”

  “Yes.”

  She inhaled slowly.

  “You believe Stewart discovered something.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you believe Xavert learned of it.”

  “Yes.”

  “And Stewart died.”

  “Yes.”

  “He was old.”

  “He was reinforced by vitality wards.”

  “Age breaks wards.”

  “Void-burn leaves residue.”

  She froze.

  “You found residue?”

  “Yes.”

  “Beneath his fingernails?”

  “Yes.”

  “You imply murder.”

  “I imply nothing. I observe.”

  “And you connect this to the scrolls.”

  “I believe Stewart approached the same conclusion I have.”

  “That something orchestrates these disturbances.”

  “Yes.”

  “And that something is Malekith.”

  “Yes.”

  She stared at him for a long moment.

  “You build a tower of suspicion.”

  “And the stones align too well.”

  “And Bournere?”

  “Disappeared after with the emperor.”

  “You intercepted correspondence.”

  “Yes.”

  “You spy on dukes.”

  “I watch patterns.”

  “And what pattern do you see?”

  “Too many powerful men moving quietly.”

  “Or too many frightened ones.”

  He did not argue that.

  “If the shards exist,” Nylla said, “and if the guardians stand watch, why retrieve them?”

  “To deny them.”

  “To Malekith.”

  “To anyone.”

  “And if we gather them?”

  “We decide.”

  “Destroy them?”

  “If possible.”

  “And if destruction awakens worse?”

  “It may.”

  “You speak calmly about cosmic catastrophe.”

  “I speak calmly because panic solves nothing.”

  She moved to the charts.

  “These fractures are recent.”

  “Yes.”

  “The veil thins.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you think the shards stabilize something.”

  “I think they anchor divine architecture.”

  “And if disturbed?”

  “Destabilization.”

  She closed her eyes briefly.

  “We meddle with cosmic weight.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you are certain.”

  “No.”

  She gave a faint humorless smile.

  “That is at least honest.”

  “What can be done?” she asked quietly. “Against rumor, ambition, hidden enemies, divine wardens, and a lich king unseen?”

  “We move quietly.”

  “How?”

  “We retrieve scrolls before others.”

  “And after?”

  “We reevaluate.”

  “You have a larger plan.”

  “Yes.”

  “You will not tell me.”

  “Not yet.”

  “Why?”

  “Because knowledge becomes leverage.”

  “You lack trust.”

  “I trust no one fully.”

  “You trust me.”

  “Yes.”

  “For now,” she said.

  “For now,” he agreed.

  Nylla stepped closer to the scroll and placed her fingers lightly upon it.

  The sigils shimmered faintly.

  “Six paths.”

  “Yes.”

  “Six risks.”

  “Yes.”

  “Six guardians.”

  “Yes.”

  “And countless enemies seeking the same.”

  “Yes.”

  She withdrew her hand.

  “I will stand with you.”

  He inclined his head.

  “But if I see arrogance eclipse caution, I will oppose you.”

  “I would expect nothing less.”

  She moved toward the door, then paused.

  “If Malekith is not behind this…”

  He waited.

  “Then we awaken something worse.”

  Silence filled the chamber.

  “Perhaps,” Draumbean said softly. “But inaction awakens nothing. It merely waits.”

  She studied him one last time and left.

  The door closed.

  Draumbean remained alone.

  He looked down at the six sigils.

  One flickered.

  Not brighter.

  But steadier.

  Far to the east, Warplayer rode toward a monastery archive.

  Toward parchment.

  Toward knowledge.

  Toward men who would kill to possess it.

  And in the quiet spaces between empire and ruin, the board shifted.

  Six paths had been revealed.

  All would likely end in blood.