Chapter 24 –

  Arven leaned over the wide table in the command chamber, quill in hand, the scratch of ink against parchment loud in the otherwise hushed room. The chamber smelled faintly of hot wax, cold stone, and damp wool—scents that had become inseparable from war. Runners had left and returned three times already since dawn, boots thudding against stone, breath fogging the air as they delivered bundles of reports tied in twine and sealed with hurried wax.

  Most of the parchment before him detailed the same thing, again and again, from different hands and perspectives: blood on snow, broken lines, the slow collapse of Western resistance. Victory, yes—but a victory written in frostbite and shallow graves.

  Maps were spread across the table in overlapping layers, some old and annotated, others freshly inked and still faintly smelling of resin. Rune-stones pinned them down at key points—villages burned or abandoned, river crossings taken or lost, supply routes stretched thin and dangerous. One stone marked Fort Drelnath, its edges worn smooth by time and handling.

  Arven’s gaze lingered there longer than elsewhere.

  Drelnath had been his recommendation. Not a recent one, but months ago, when the first rumors of organized movement in the West reached the capital. The king had listened, had weighed the suggestion carefully—and then, recently he told to send in commander Draeven of Fort Drelnath. It was one of the few points of quiet satisfaction Arven allowed himself now. With Drelnath the war will surely end sooner than without them.

  A candle flickered on the edge of the table, its small flame bending and wavering whenever a draft slipped through the high stone mullions. Each time it guttered, shadows danced across the maps, and Arven had the strange impression that the reports themselves were alive—whispering, shifting, warning him of things he could not see and was not permitted to touch.

  Kaedra Finn stood across from him, leather boots pressed flat into the cold stone floor, gloved hands clasped neatly behind her back. She did not hover, did not intrude, but her presence was steady and attentive. Her eyes followed the paths Arven traced across the maps, sharp and observant, catching details others might miss. Occasionally she murmured a correction, or pointed out a discrepancy between two reports—her voice quiet, controlled, and precise enough to cut cleanly through his thoughts without startling them.

  He had grown accustomed to her presence over the past months. That familiarity did not make it easier to ignore the subtle pull it exerted on his focus.

  When they spoke of troop movements, supply chains, or courier paths, everything between them settled into place. When there was silence, it stretched—tight, awkward, and faintly charged. Arven did not dwell on it. Discipline had long since taught him how not to.

  He shifted his weight, brushing his thumb along the worn edge of a map depicting Ashpine and the surrounding high valleys. Ink marked the Brenari advance clearly now—clean lines where chaos had once been. “The last engagement here,” he said quietly, tapping the parchment, “was decisive. Too decisive for the West to ignore.”

  He glanced down at one of the newer reports, eyes narrowing slightly as he scanned the passage again. The Brenari commander responsible was mentioned only briefly. Young. Newly blooded. First true command, according to rumor. Her name was absent in several accounts, replaced instead by descriptions of decisive movement, aggressive flanking, and an almost reckless willingness to commit at precisely the right moment.

  Arven exhaled through his nose. “They’ll be calling her lucky,” he said, more to himself than to Kaedra. “The West always does, when skill appears where they didn’t expect it.”

  Kaedra stepped closer, just enough that her shoulder nearly brushed his arm. “Luck doesn’t hold a line under pressure,” she said softly. “Not against veterans.”

  “No,” Arven agreed. “It doesn’t.” He studied the map again, mind already moving ahead of the reports. “Which means the West will adapt. They won’t try to meet the Brenari head-on again—not immediately. They’ll fracture. Raid supply lines. Burn farms. Try to starve the region instead of taking it.”

  His jaw tightened. “If I were there, I’d advise securing the low valleys immediately. Fortify the winter granaries. Rotate units faster than they expect.” He paused, the quill hovering uselessly above the parchment. “But the distance is too great. By the time advice arrives, the moment will already have passed.”

  The frustration sat heavy in his chest, familiar and unwelcome.

  He was the General of the Royal Army—known across the North and East as the sharpest tactician Vharion had produced in generations—and yet this war unfolded beyond his reach. Not by incompetence or neglect, but by design. The king had chosen restraint. Had chosen to let the frontier solve its own conflict, so long as it did not threaten the heart of the realm.

  Kaedra watched him carefully. “Your theories still matter,” she said, cautiously. “Even if they arrive late.”

  Arven gave a faint, humorless smile. “Theory does not stop a blade, Kaedra. Timing does.” He set the quill down at last and rubbed a hand over his face. “Still… we prepare.”

  He gestured toward a stack of sealed orders nearby. “Dispatch relief wagons from the capital. Grain, dried meat, medical supplies. The villages caught between advances—those people have lost homes, livestock, winter stores.” His voice hardened slightly. “If we don’t move now, they’ll freeze before spring.”

  Kaedra nodded, already committing it to memory. “And the complaints?”

  “They’ll come,” Arven said evenly. “They always do. Some will already be on the road, walking or riding for days to reach the capital. They’ll want compensation, protection, answers.” He straightened slowly. “They deserve all three, even if we can’t give them everything they ask.”

  For a moment, neither spoke.

  Then Arven reached for a thinner packet of reports, bound in red thread rather than twine. His expression shifted—not softer, but more wary. “Nareth Kai,” he said. “The games continue.”

  Kaedra’s lips curved faintly. “And the coffers swell.”

  “Yes,” he admitted, reluctantly. “Foreign gold flows through that city faster than we can count it. I dislike the source… but I won’t deny the result.” He flipped through the pages. “That revenue alone is covering a significant portion of our relief efforts.”

  He paused, brow furrowing. “My brother visited not long ago. He wrote of… strange beasts, strange games and a lot of shady figures in the city.” A faint shake of his head. “One day, I’ll see it myself. Preferably when the kingdom isn’t on the edge of unrest.”

  Kaedra studied him, something like admiration flickering briefly across her face before she masked it. “You see the whole board,” she said quietly.

  Arven looked at her then, truly looked, and inclined his head in acknowledgment. “Only because others are willing to stand on the pieces.”

  Their eyes held for a heartbeat longer than necessary—then he turned back to the maps, discipline reasserting itself as the candle flickered once more over the war he could not yet claim.

  There was a beat of silence, only the scratching of the quill and the occasional soft wind slipping through the stone mullions. Then, in his peripheral vision, a figure approached—a messenger, carrying himself with the rigid courtesy of someone trained in court protocol. The man’s robe was dark, almost droll in its plainness, but every fold and seam was precise. His gait was careful, almost exaggerated, as if walking improperly might tear the fabric of the very kingdom.

  “Commander Arven,” the man said, bowing slightly, too precise to be warm. “A message from His Majesty. A… personal invitation.” His eyes flicked over the maps and parchments, and there was a faint twitch in his jaw, a hint that this was not his first trip bearing such messages.

  Arven looked up, quill poised mid-air, and gave a faint, dry laugh. “An invitation, you say? Let me guess. He requests my presence for supper, perhaps to discuss the fate of the world while I enjoy a little boiled cabbage?”

  The messenger’s eyes twitched. “It is indeed… a private feast, sir. Between friends.”

  Arven’s lips curled into a mock-frown. “Between friends. Ah yes, the king’s idea of friendship. My feet shall ache with excitement.” He leaned back slightly, adopting a posture of exaggerated fatigue. “Tell His Majesty that I regret to inform him my legs are quite stiff from the day’s exertions. I will, sadly, have to enjoy an early night in my chambers, by myself, preferably with a cup of hot brandy and no royal company.”

  The messenger’s deadpan face twitched in subtle irritation. He had seen this before. “Commander, you know His Majesty,” he said carefully, “your presence is not optional. It is expected. The… invitation is customary, but—”

  “I see,” Arven interrupted smoothly, placing the quill down with deliberate slowness. “Expected, not optional. Then I suppose my only recourse is to feign illness, or perhaps insist the chairs in your dining hall are far too small for my knees. Do let him know I am devastated.” He allowed a faint smirk to brush his lips.

  The messenger’s patience thinned. “Commander—”

  “I could, of course, arrive promptly,” Arven said, tilting his head, “but only if His Majesty promises not to discuss any war or business. I would prefer small talk. Or perhaps a riddle. Or—” He waved a hand—“a song? Anything but strategy and reports.”

  The messenger blinked. “Commander…” There was a faint sigh in his tone. “It would be easier if you simply came.”

  Arven arched a brow. “Came? Really? So all my clever excuses, my ingenious tales of frost-bitten knees and imagined ailments… wasted. I see. Very well. I shall attend. But only under duress.” He leaned forward suddenly, voice low, conspiratorial, giving the faintest spark of mischief. “And I shall enjoy every second of it.”

  The messenger’s mouth tightened into a thin line. He bowed once, turning on his heel with the poise of a man who had just run a marathon of politeness. “As you wish, Commander. His Majesty will be… delighted.”

  Kaedra, standing silently nearby, had crossed her arms and tilted her head slightly. “Your usual charm,” she murmured. “I wasn’t sure you’d survive the exchange.”

  Arven shook his head, smirking faintly. “It’s always like this. The king enjoys these… little dances. I give him my wit; he gives me his patience. Sometimes we trade insults as currency.”

  Kaedra let out a quiet laugh, one that was soft and rare. She shook her head. “I didn’t think the First Blade of the North could blush.”

  He coughed, clearing his throat and adjusting his tone. “I… do not blush. That is a misconception spread by… less competent men.” He waved a hand vaguely at her, then muttered, “Though I might, occasionally, have a momentary lapse…”

  Kaedra raised an eyebrow, amused. “Occasionally, he says. I’ll believe it when I see it.”

  Arven gestured toward the hall. “Come, then. If we are to endure the king’s hospitality, we might as well walk and talk. Stretch the legs before the feast.”

  The palace corridors were long and cold, lined with walls streaked in veins of ore that hummed faintly under the boots of those who passed. Sunlight—weak, highwinter sun—shone through the tall windows, glinting off polished stone floors. Portraits hung along the halls: previous rulers, generals, and scholars; faces carved into ore and painted in oils, all looking down with stern regard. Tapestries lined the walls in intervals, depicting strange beasts and animals, some real, some impossible, caught mid-motion as if frozen by magic. Kaedra’s eyes wandered across them, noting the subtle craftsmanship and the hints of history woven into each stitch.

  “Do you ever tire of walking these halls?” Kaedra asked. “Of passing the same portraits, the same tapestries?”

  Arven glanced at her, lips twitching faintly. “Not yet. Each time I pass, I notice something I missed before. A new line of embroidery, a scar painted on a cheek, the tilt of a sword in a hand. History is like that. It waits patiently, always present, always watching.”

  Kaedra smiled faintly, quiet, almost imperceptible. “You make it sound… alive.”

  “It is alive,” Arven said simply. Then, realizing the weight of his words, he added with a faint cough, “Not in the way you think, perhaps.”

  They passed several doors, guards nodding silently as they passed. Arven’s mind was still half on the West, half on the strange reports coming from Nareth Kai, and half—against his will—on Kaedra’s presence beside him. He cleared his throat and focused.

  Then he stopped at a large, heavy door set into the stone wall. “Have you ever seen this room?” he asked, gesturing to it. “I don’t know that I’ve ever had a guest. I might as well let someone see it.”

  Kaedra tilted her head. “A room you’ve never had a guest in? Are you serious?”

  “Completely,” he said, unlocking the door. “And now you’re my guest. Be careful. The history in here might try to judge you.”

  The room beyond was larger than expected. Light poured in from tall windows and mingled with candles placed in corners where sunlight could not reach. Dust lay on surfaces, disturbed only by the passage of feet over the stone floor. Books and manuscripts, scrolls, and parchments covered every available shelf and table. Some were neatly bound; others were frayed and barely held together by thread. Paintings hung along the walls, depicting battles long past, sieges on snowbound hills, and gatherings of people from tribes whose names had long faded. Some paintings were curious—depicting strangers gathered around fires in huts, the people clearly from different clans, their faces and gestures unfamiliar even to Arven, who had spent a lifetime studying such things.

  Swords were displayed on racks, some with ceremonial etchings, some scarred from real war. Helmets rested on stands, dented and rusted, but still formidable. Shields bore symbols of forgotten sigils. Kaedra walked slowly, hand brushing lightly over the pommel of a sword as if feeling the history embedded in the metal.

  “Do you know the story behind these?” she asked quietly.

  Arven nodded, stepping over to a large scroll mounted in a glass case. “Some. Not all. But the general lines… yes. This room is older than any living soul in the palace. It was meant to preserve memory, history, and sometimes… lessons.”

  He led her to a painting of a long-vanished ship, its sails torn, floating in a storm. “Hadrathi the Great Seafarer,” he said. “Led his people across the sea to settle Vharion roughly four hundred winters ago. It was cold, unforgiving land, but rich in ore, rivers, and shelter. His leadership… saved lives that might have been lost to storms, frost, or worse.”

  Kaedra leaned closer. “And the Brenari? They were part of this?”

  “Initially,” Arven said, tracing a finger along the edge of a map painted into the canvas. “But after the Seafarer’s death, his wife—strong-willed, proud—sought leadership. Some followed her; many followed his eldest son. That divide became the Brenari. Independence born of disagreement, not conquest.”

  He led her to a display of armor. “Later, the Korrathi split away. They disagreed with the Seafarer’s grandson—Orrek’s great-grandfather—marrying outside the tribe. Some thought it diluted the blood, weakened the line, endangered the claim to Vharion’s first kingdom. His eldest son remained as the first king, marking the First Era. The Korrathi settled south, built Korr’Vhalem, and to this day, they maintain their traditions and distance.”

  Kaedra studied the display, her fingers hovering near a rusted helmet. “And the queen? The one with the red hair?”

  Arven’s eyes softened slightly. “No one knows where she came from. Her people left no trace. No settlements, no ruins, no records. Only her lineage survives—and the red hair she brought into the Hadrathi line. That is where Orrek’s hair comes from.”

  Kaedra’s brow lifted. “And no one questions it?”

  “Some whisper,” Arven said, “but history has already moved on. The queen—his great-grandmother—was stronger than most. Clever. Her blood flows in Orrek, and perhaps that is why he plays, laughs, and rarely sits for counsel. He inherited both the Hadrathi mind and her… persistence.”

  They moved slowly past more paintings—battles, councils, ceremonial gatherings, unknown people interacting, some weapons unfamiliar, some faces intentionally blurred. Arven spoke quietly, almost to himself. “All of this… it shapes the king. Not just the office, but the man. He doesn’t rush into war without thought. He does not trust appearances alone. And he knows that by letting me manage the front lines, the war in the West, he can watch the kingdom, assess the pulse of his people, and choose when and where to intervene.”

  Kaedra’s voice was soft. “And the Western war?”

  Arven’s eyes met hers. “We hold the lines. We send word. We prepare. But his decisions are not mine to question. He trusts me to carry out the sword’s work. He trusts himself to carry out the heart’s work. And history… history teaches us that both are necessary.”

  They lingered by a display of ceremonial weapons, the blades curved, etched with runes long faded from memory. Arven traced the edge of a sword. “He’s playful, yes. Laughs often, talks too much, annoys the courtiers. But he knows the weight of the crown. And he knows the cost of delay. That is why the Royal Army waits, not because he hesitates, but because he chooses the moment.”

  Kaedra looked at him, her lips slightly parted, absorbing everything he had just said. “He trusts you.”

  Arven let out a faint breath, shaking his head slightly. “We trust each other. That is different. And rarer.”

  A long silence fell between them, the room heavy with the ghosts of memory, battle, and lineage. Outside, the palace wind whistled through the stone, carrying a faint smell of snow and pine, while inside, history watched silently, waiting to see what the next era would demand.

  **

  Arven adjusted the clasp at his collar with a faint scowl, fingers tugging at fabric that suddenly felt too stiff, too formal. The chambers he had changed in were modest by palace standards—stone walls, a narrow window veined with ore—but the clothing laid out for him had been anything but. Deep charcoal wool layered with blackened leather trim, silver-thread stitching along the shoulders marking his station. Practical. Severe. And now, standing just outside the great hall, it felt excessive.

  Kaedra emerged from the adjoining corridor a heartbeat later.

  Arven turned without thinking—and stopped.

  She wore dark blue beneath black, the fabric fitted but unadorned, a single silver clasp at her throat bearing the royal sigil in miniature. Her hair had been pulled back neatly, braided tight at the nape of her neck, exposing the line of her jaw and the faint scar beneath her left ear. She looked… composed. Court-ready. And somehow more dangerous for it.

  They both hesitated.

  “You—” Arven began, then cleared his throat. “You look… prepared.”

  Kaedra blinked, then gave a small, awkward smile. “So do you. Less like you’re about to march into battle. More like you’re about to be judged.”

  “Ah,” he said dryly. “Then the disguise is working.”

  She laughed softly, then smoothed her sleeve. “I almost changed again. This doesn’t feel like me.”

  “It won’t,” Arven replied. “Not in there.” He nodded toward the towering doors ahead of them. “But that’s the point.”

  She hesitated, then glanced at him sidelong. “You said the king is… unusual.”

  “That’s one word for it.” He leaned closer, voice dropping. “Listen carefully, Kaedra. Do not take anything he says at face value. Especially if he’s laughing.”

  Her brow furrowed.

  “He sees everything,” Arven continued. “Not because he spies—though he does—but because he watches people, not events. It’s pointless to hide anything from him. He’ll notice the attempt before the secret.”

  Kaedra swallowed. “Comforting.”

  “He’s loud. Strange. He’ll insult you and praise you in the same breath. Be polite. Be mannered. And when in doubt—” He met her eyes. “Follow my lead.”

  She nodded once. “Understood.”

  The doors opened before either of them could say more.

  The great hall was a monument to intention.

  It stretched longer than most city streets, its ceiling vanishing into shadow where heavy beams of blackened stone crossed like ribs. Vharion ore ran through the walls in thick, deliberate veins—not decorative, but structural—dark purple and dull violet gleaming faintly as torchlight passed over it. The builders had not hidden the ore. They had displayed it, embedded it openly, proudly, as if daring the world to challenge what it represented.

  The stone itself was cold and angular, cut in layered planes rather than smooth curves. Strength over beauty. Permanence over comfort. This was not a palace built to please—it was built to endure.

  A single table dominated the hall.

  It was massive, carved from a single ancient tree, its surface etched with animals mid-motion—dire wolves, antlered beasts, scaled swamp creatures—interwoven with runes so fine they looked like flowing script rather than symbols. Time had darkened the wood to a deep, rich brown, polished by generations of hands, elbows, and spilled wine.

  At the far end sat the king.

  Orrek Haldrim lounged rather than ruled.

  He was shorter than most men at the table would be, broad through the shoulders, his red hair cut short and uneven, already threaded with grey at the temples. His beard was trimmed but wild, flecked with silver, framing a mouth already split in laughter as they entered. He wore layered fabrics in deep reds and browns, loose and comfortable, with no visible armor, no crown—only a heavy torque of dark ore resting against his collarbone.

  His eyes were brown—but when candlelight caught them just right, a faint pink glow shimmered within, subtle and unsettling. Royal blood, unmistakable.

  “Arven!” the king boomed. “I was beginning to think you’d finally found a way to die of boredom in your chambers.”

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  Arven inclined his head. “I tried, Your Majesty. Tragically unsuccessful.”

  The king laughed louder, slapping the table with one thick forearm. The muscle beneath the sleeve was unmistakable—dense, powerful, earned rather than displayed.

  “And who,” Orrek continued, eyes already sliding toward Kaedra, “is this rare and dangerous creature you’ve smuggled into my feast?”

  Kaedra stiffened.

  Arven stepped in smoothly. “Kaedra Finn. Captain under my command. A friend.”

  “A friend,” the king repeated, smiling broadly. “Well then! Any friend of Arven’s is welcome at my table. Sit! Sit before the food grows offended.”

  They moved to the right side of the king, taking their seats opposite the two men already present.

  The one closest to the king was unmistakably Korrathi.

  He was tall, clean-shaven, with carefully oiled dark hair pulled back by a thin silver band. His clothing was exquisite—layers of cream, blue, and warm brown, tailored to perfection, embroidered subtly at the cuffs and collar. Rings adorned several fingers, tasteful but numerous.

  “Lord Maelor Veyne,” the king said grandly. “Arena Master of Korr’Vhalem. Killer of beasts, breaker of bones, and somehow still insufferably polite.”

  Maelor smiled thinly. “Your Majesty wounds me. Only slightly.”

  The man beside him was… different.

  At first glance, he wore formal Korrathi clothing—simple, dark, well-kept—but the illusion faltered under scrutiny. His skin bore a faint green hue, subtle but unmistakable. When he lifted his left hand to adjust his cup, Arven noticed the slight webbing between three fingers.

  Swamp-born.

  The king grinned. “And this,” he said cheerfully, “is Tellen of the Mire. A friend.”

  Tellen inclined his head, eyes dark and reflective. “An honor.”

  Arven felt Kaedra shift beside him.

  They settled.

  “Well,” Arven said mildly, “so this is your feast of friends. I count… three. A generous number.”

  The king clutched his chest. “Cruelty! Betrayal! I invite you to dine and you insult my social standing?”

  “I judge the company you keep,” Arven replied.

  Orrek sniffed. “Then I judge yours.”

  Before Arven could reply, a squire appeared—young, earnest, smiling too much.

  “Wine or spirits, Your Majesty?”

  Orrek waved a hand. “Start properly. Stonewake Vale. The good ones.”

  The squire’s eyes lit up. “Yes, sire!”

  He returned moments later. “Stonewake Ambergrain Ale. Frostcellar Red. And… Moonpress White.”

  Cups were filled.

  Conversation began to ripple along the table, and Arven’s attention immediately found Maelor Veyne. The man’s belly, softened by years of comfort, stretched the embroidered tunic slightly, but he carried it with the self-assurance of someone used to commanding attention. Arven noted the deliberate ease in Maelor’s posture, the way he leaned slightly back, observing everyone as though calculating their weaknesses. Clever man, still dangerous even when seated, Arven thought. Maelor’s eyes flicked toward the king with an almost imperceptible spark of amusement, and Arven braced for the verbal fencing that always followed.

  The king, seated at the head of the table, cut the silence first, voice loud but smooth: “Maelor, I must say, the last time I saw your boots polished so clean, I thought a maiden had slipped them on for you!” His grey-streaked beard caught the candlelight as he smiled, eyes twinkling with sharp mischief. Maelor chuckled softly, patting his belly with a grin. “And Your Majesty,” he said, “some of us have adopted a different form of armor—one that deflects both blades and compliments. Though I fear it may need more refining.” The king’s smile sharpened, glancing at Maelor’s rounded form. “Ah, yes, your ‘armor’ is certainly… formidable. One might trip over it on a battlefield, but I suppose it protects the vital parts.”

  Arven leaned slightly forward, unable to resist. “And you, sire, indulge far too much in your own sweetmeats. Surely you are not far off from acquiring such armor as good Maelor.” He allowed himself a faint smirk, glancing toward Kaedra to see if she noticed—but she was looking down at the table, cheeks faintly pink, keeping her attention carefully elsewhere. The king’s eyes lit with amusement, and he turned the accusation sharply. “Ah! At least i don't fear what i love, but you, Arven, still fear to approach women without a proper preamble and bow. Surely a man of strategy cannot conquer both a battlefield and a banquet hall!” Arven’s eyes widened, heat creeping across his cheeks. He stifled a glance at Kaedra, turning his head slightly so she wouldn’t catch the full display of his embarrassment.

  “I assure you, sire,” Arven said, voice low and slightly tense, “the women you favor whisper as they leave… they claim your compliments are—how shall I put it—dull.” The king leaned back, laughing softly, shaking his head. “Dull, you say? I refuse to believe that! Surely my words inspire awe, do they not?” Maelor’s grin widened, leaning in to offer the king a deliberately sarcastic piece of advice. “Might I suggest, Your Majesty, the use of a gentle approach, a whisper in the ear perhaps? It works wonders with the ladies.” The king’s smile widened, lips curling knowingly. “Alas, I fear I lack your delicate charm, Maelor. A soft, more feminine voice, such as yours eludes me!” Maelor’s chuckle was low, his eyes gleaming with amusement, while Arven’s blush deepened, Kaedra’s quiet smile betraying her amusement as she watched the three men trade jabs, words sharper than any blade.

  Tellen watched, smiling faintly, drinking steadily.

  Kaedra stayed quiet, cheeks warm, eyes flicking nervously toward the king’s forearms each time he lifted his jug.

  Then the doors flew open.

  “I am expected,” a voice rang out. “Move aside.”

  Arven’s jaw tightened.

  Daran Haldrim strode in, arrogance wrapped in silk.

  The king leaned toward Arven. “Why would you bring such an irritating creature?”

  “I didn’t,” Arven whispered. “I assumed you invited him. He’s your cousin.”

  Orrek blinked. “He is?”

  “That’s unfortunate,” Arven said.

  The king roared with laughter.

  Daran approached, bowing too deeply. “What’s so amusing, cousin?”

  Orrek squinted at him. “Welcome… Cousin. Grab wine.”

  And turned away.

  The feast continued.

  The conversation shifted as the initial jests faded, and the king turned his gaze toward Kaedra. His brown eyes, catching the candlelight, glimmered faintly with the royal pink undertone, giving them a curious intensity. “And you,” he boomed, leaning slightly forward, “you work with Arven, yes? Tell me—what is it like to serve alongside him? The war must weigh heavily on you both.” His tone carried warmth, almost teasing, but there was a subtle edge; he always wanted to know more than he asked.

  Kaedra straightened, careful to remain composed. “It is… an honor, Your Majesty. Arven… he observes and considers, and he ensures that the smallest details are never overlooked. He… teaches even through example. The war is relentless, but he guides us through it with a precision that leaves little room for error.” Her hands, folded delicately in her lap, flexed slightly as she gathered courage to continue. “This morning, he spoke of the history of Vharion while preparing the maps. He shared—if I may quote him briefly—that Hadrathi the Great Seafarer crossed the seas to find this land, and it was his leadership that saved many lives from storms and frost.”

  The king smiled broadly, leaning back in his chair, voice booming as he responded. “Ah! The Great Seafarer—yes, I have heard the story, but it is always pleasant to hear it told with enthusiasm. And so you know the history of Vharion already, yes? Every line and name?”

  Kaedra inclined her head politely, a faint blush creeping over her cheeks. “I do not know all, sire. But I am learning… much from Arven. His lessons are detailed and… precise. I find them enlightening.”

  Daren, who had been fidgeting impatiently beside Maelor, piped up without invitation. “History is all well and fine, but surely we should discuss the more… pressing events of the West? Those battles, the losses—”

  The king’s booming voice cut him off before he could finish, sharp with amusement. “Ah! But the history always matters. You cannot understand the present without seeing its roots. Speaking of which, I notice the Tharn were omitted from your account, Kaedra. Tell me, do you know their place in our story?”

  Daren opened his mouth to speak again, but the king ignored him completely.

  Kaedra shook her head. “No, Your Majesty. I only know… some of the tribes that settled here.”

  “Then let us set the record straight,” the king said, leaning forward with a faint smile. “The Tharn arrived from the west, long ago in the First Era. They settled beyond the forests, past the western mountains. Many wars were fought with them, generations of clashes. It was my grandfather—King Haldrim the Wise—who finally brought them to peace with our kingdom. Treaties, alliances, careful guidance. Since then, the Tharn have been an enduring part of our realm, blending their culture and strength with ours.”

  Daren attempted another interjection, voice smug, slow, and self-important. “Ah, yes, the Tharn. Brutish, but loyal when convenient. A loyal people, if…”

  The king interrupted. "Maelor, what do you think about the Tharish history?"

  Maelor leaned forward, chuckling quietly. “I confess, I did not know that about the Tharn. Fascinating.”

  Arven inclined his head, voice calm, measured. “The Tharn bring a rich history, a culture that blends well with our own. Good people. Unlike… the South West, where Nareth Kai sits. Their city indulges in all manner of foreign interference. Saethralans, merchants, mercenaries—it disgusts me how brazenly they flaunt such influence.” He paused, watching the king closely. The king’s eyes flicked for just a moment when Arven mentioned the Saethralans, a sharp glint of recognition flashing before his smile returned.

  “Indeed,” the king said casually, turning toward Maelor. “Tell me, Maelor, the noble Korrathi unit—your famed Lion Shields—do they still look down on the Hadrathi? And on the royal line itself?”

  Maelor’s brow furrowed slightly. He hesitated, aware of the delicate dance required. To speak the truth without offense, to honor his loyalty without betraying his pride, was no simple task. Finally, he spoke, measured and careful: “Your Majesty… some still hold reservations. They respect the Crown, but old loyalties and rivalries die slowly. There are whispers of discontent, subtle, but present. Most certainly loyal. Your Highness don't need to have concern about them.”

  The king’s expression softened, a small nod. “I see. Then perhaps it is time to remind them of our… value.” He turned to Arven, voice lighter, still commanding. “You should send a letter. Summon them West—not yet into battle—but to Hroth’Kaal. Speak with the Tharn there. Perhaps they can convince these nobles that the Crown, and myself, are worth supporting. I recently hosted some Tharn friends here… they can guide the discussion.”

  Arven tilted his head, voice laced with dry humor. “Is that wise, sire? What if our plan backfires? What if these nobles persuade the Tharn that the Crown is… unworthy?”

  The king’s eyes widened in mock horror, then he leaned back with a subtle shrug. “Let us hope that does not happen. But it would be… unpleasant, yes?” He did not elaborate further, but Arven felt the weight behind the jest. The king wanted this meeting to succeed for reasons Arven could not yet discern.

  Daren, eager for attention and never shy, leaned forward with a loud, dismissive tone. “The Tharn are brutish! I could never see myself working with them. But their loyalty is… admirable, I suppose. What say you, swamp man? What are your thoughts on this strategy?”

  The king’s booming voice cut Daren off, “Arven, observe Tellen here. He is from the deep swamp. There are… anomalies occurring. Beasts emerging from the deep regions, villages reporting that the gel ore is acting strangely. People weakened, sickly. Chaos is rising in the southern edges. Outsiders move in, oppressing those who remain. It is… concerning.”

  Tellen nodded, voice low but steady, confirming the king’s account. “Yes, Your Majesty. Farms are abandoned. People flee, or fall prey to marauders. Those who remain are struggling to survive. It is worsening each week.”

  Arven’s jaw tightened, mind already forming plans. “We will need to send a force, at least to restore order. Reinforcements, perhaps…”

  The king shrugged casually, almost dismissively. “It may not be necessary. But if you insist… send someone. Not from the Royal Army. They remain here.” His tone was firm, not joking. Arven understood the weight of that order.

  Daren, undeterred, leaned forward boldly. “Why keep the Royal Army close, sire? Surely the West, or even the swamp, could benefit from the presence of such a force.”

  The king’s smile was slow, indulgent, but Arven caught the faint glint of disgust behind his eyes. “Squire,” the king called, voice still measured but commanding, “bring more beer. And tell my cousin here—I haven’t heard such a foolish question in quite some time.”

  Daren went silent, muttering nothing further.

  Maelor leaned in, wishing to lift the awkward pause. “The arenas in Korr’Vhalem soon host great fights. Renowned gladiators, spectacles worth witnessing. Arven, you should come. Bring Kaedra. I would be delighted to see her there, though my time in the capital might prevent it…” He hid a faint blush, careful to maintain composure.

  Orrek laughed softly, shaking his head. “Delightful excuses, Arven. You certainly should go. The games will not wait for your busy schedules, nor your endless maps and reports.”

  Arven inclined his head with a faint smile, voice dry. “If the Crown insists, sire, who am I to refuse?” Kaedra’s cheeks warmed slightly, glancing down at her hands as she tried to seem demure, though her attention never strayed from the lively conversation.

  The king clapped his hands lightly, a signal that the conversation would move to other matters, but the weight of the discussion remained—plans for the West, the Tharn, and the mysteries of the swamp, all woven into the subtleties of courtly jest, strategy, and observation.

  **

  The hall had emptied long ago. Candles burned low in their holders, flickering shadows across the cold, hard walls of Vharion’s great palace. Outside, the first hints of green moonlight stretched across the high windows, casting a pale luminescence on the polished Vharion ore embedded in the stone. Orrek Haldrim’s eyes caught the light, and the faint royal pink gleam in them seemed almost playful as he slouched across the long table, one arm dangling lazily.

  Arven, boots kicked off and legs stretched under the table, chuckled softly to himself. The king was more drunk than he had ever seen him, though still commanding even in slouch and sprawl. Kaedra, graceful even with the warmth of wine in her cheeks, stood and gave a polite bow. She had taken some wine herself and found a surprising boldness, a sharpness to her politeness. “Arven,” she said softly, a teasing lilt in her voice, “take care not to bore the king too much with your history lessons. And behave yourself.”

  Arven raised an eyebrow, annoyed in that fond way one felt toward a sibling or a lover’s playful correction. “Behave myself?” he muttered under his breath. Kaedra smiled, nodding as if she had indeed become his moral guardian. Orrek laughed loudly at the exchange, the sound rolling in the high, cold hall like a warm fire against the stone.

  The other guests had long since departed. Daren, predictably, had never touched his plate, sneaking away first. Tellen had lingered to savor the honeyed boar meat, nodding appreciatively at its sweetness, while Maelor, focused more on drink than conversation, had stumbled out moments ago, humming to himself. Now, the hall held only Arven and the king.

  Arven straightened, pouring another cup of the amber drink for both of them. He raised it briefly, a silent toast, before sitting back and allowing the warmth to spread through his chest. Orrek slouched further, sighing dramatically—or at least as dramatic as a king could inebriated yet commanding—complaining in slurred tones about his duties. “A king,” he said, voice wavering slightly, “is like a… broken prostitute. Always running, always chasing after duties… as if they pay. And just as ugly, mind you.”

  Arven laughed, the sound low and indulgent, and raised his cup in return. “And a general,” he said, voice thick with drink, “apparently a master tactician, stuck writing letters all day… to the same whore you speak of.”

  Orrek’s kingly voice cracked into mock seriousness, trying to regain composure despite the wine. “You dare call your king a prostitute?”

  Arven grinned, slurring slightly but proudly. “An ugly one!”

  Laughter erupted again, spilling over the echoes of the hall, warm and reckless. The two men drank deeply, a comfortable rhythm forming between jest, reflection, and the muted hammering of fatigue.

  After a pause, Arven cleared his throat, leaning forward on the table. “About my poor, misguided cousin… he asked earlier—”

  “My cousin?” Orrek interrupted, squinting, confusion swimming in his expression. “Was he here?”

  “Yes, sire,” Arven said, laughing despite the fog of drink. “He wondered… why the royal army cannot move to the West. Why it remains tied here. Why you do not let them intervene directly.”

  Orrek shook his head slowly, slumping deeper into his chair, one hand pressed against his brow. “Ah… my head… duties… endless. Always duties…” He blinked at Arven, then sighed heavily, leaning back, the wine glass trembling slightly in his fingers. “They ward off uninvited guests,” he muttered finally, voice almost thoughtful.

  Arven frowned, tilting his head. “You expect someone else… besides the West… to infiltrate Vharion?”

  “The West is but a pawn,” Orrek replied, swaying slightly. “There is… a group. An ominous group that prods the Western tribes to attack. Promises them wealth… in Vharion ore.” He burped, swirled his drink, and drank again.

  “A group?” Arven asked slowly, suspicion creeping through his haze of alcohol.

  “Yes,” Orrek said, rolling his eyes dramatically, though there was a sly edge to the words. “A filthy, small, pathetic group. They think they can outsmart me… do they imagine I am a dumb whore?” He paused, and then, with a grin, added, “Who do they think I am?”

  They laughed again, though Arven’s was quieter now. His mind, muddled by the drink, was struggling to parse everything. The pieces did not yet fit. He wondered how much he would remember come morning.

  Orrek leaned back, gaze distant for a moment. “But… I don’t blame them entirely. They are not the true mastermind behind the assaults on my peace.” He swirled the remaining wine in his cup, eyes narrowing slightly. Then he leaned forward, voice steady and sharp despite slurred speech. “There is someone else. Someone who brings me headaches… who has no good intentions for the realm. I… I just do not know who yet.” He paused, the faintest smirk crossing his lips. “BUT I will find them eventually… and step on their tiny little wieners when I do.”

  Arven shivered at the jest and the weight behind the words, then poured himself another cup, letting the warmth seep into his chest. He sipped slowly, gathering courage to speak. “How… how does Your Majesty know all this? I thought I was the primary feeder of information.” He hiccupped and stammered, “Your… High… Hightness… Ness…”

  Orrek’s lips curved into a faint, indulgent smile. “I make friends. Lots of them. But do not worry… you are my favorite.”

  They both laughed, and then drank again. Silence stretched comfortably over them for a moment, punctuated only by the clink of cups.

  Orrek leaned forward suddenly, eyes locking on Arven. “I see you fancy the woman you came with. She looks nice. Definitely a good fit for you, old friend.”

  Arven, too drunk to blush now, leaned back lazily. “Oh, yes… she is… wonderful to have around. But memories… of my late wife… they are too many, too heavy… to consider… paths with Kaedra.”

  The king nodded, voice softening, yet still carrying that mischievous, knowing quality. “I understand that. But… you should not take too long letting go of some of those memories. She may not wait forever.”

  Arven chuckled, lifting his cup in a half-hearted toast. Then he leaned forward again. “And your children… how are they faring? After their mother’s passing?”

  Orrek smiled, pride softening his drunken demeanor. “Ah… my children… the eldest, nearly ten winters… growing strong, clever… stubborn, of course. They make their mother’s memory proud, yes. Always asking questions, learning fast… faster than I can sometimes keep up.”

  Arven nodded, a faint smile on his lips, fingers tracing the rim of his cup. He had no children himself, and he did not yet know if he wanted any.

  “Kaedra,” Orrek said suddenly, “she took a liking to my great-grandmother, the red-haired one. Odd… but good. Not many appreciate her role in forming this kingdom.”

  Arven nodded weakly, the alcohol slowing his reactions. “Yes… very good,” he mumbled.

  The king leaned back, eyes distant and thoughtful. “They say my greatest-grandmother, Lady Isolde… her people were descendants of a nation that existed before the Frost Age.”

  Arven hesitated, frowning slightly. “How… how could that be? The Frost Age… it lasted almost eight hundred winters.”

  Orrek shrugged, a faint chuckle escaping him. “Perhaps… just an old tale. Stories live longer than truths sometimes.”

  The two men drank on, words fading into comfortable silence as the green hues of the final moonlight stretched across the hall. Shadows danced across the stone walls and ore-encrusted pillars. Laughter, jest, pride, sorrow—all mingled with the warmth of the wine, and with every sip, they slid deeper into the night, letting stories, secrets, and heavy thoughts blur together.

  By the time the first light of dawn threatened the horizon, Arven’s thoughts were scattered but calm, the weight of wine and conversation pressing gently on him. Orrek slouched, eyes half-lidded, a soft snore escaping him now and then, a king finally at rest after a long night of plotting, drinking, and scheming.

  And so, the night ended—Vharion’s great palace quiet now except for the low echoes of two men, one king and one general, lost in the comfort of wine, words, and the complicated bonds of friendship and duty.