Garn didn’t get to pretend the infirmary was safety for long.

  The knock came soft—polite enough to be harmless, firm enough to be law.

  When the door opened, the man in palace grey didn’t step in like a servant.

  He stepped in like a message.

  “Garn,” he said. “You’re summoned.”

  Garn’s throat was still dry. “By who.”

  The man hesitated—only because titles mattered in rooms like this.

  “The King.”

  Finn shifted in the bed beside him with a hiss of pain. Greyson made a sound like he was personally offended that the world expected anything from them ever again.

  Garn swung his legs off the mattress and stood.

  His muscles protested like old injuries had remembered him all at once.

  Akash stirred inside his ribs—lazy, amused.

  “Ah,” she purred. “Now you learn the deadliest weapon in a kingdom is a calm voice.”

  Garn ignored her.

  “Can I bring someone?” he asked.

  The attendant’s eyes flicked, measuring.

  “Yes,” he said. “The girl. And the instructor.”

  Garn understood.

  Zamora. Karen.

  He nodded once.

  Zamora was already waiting when he reached the hall—staff leaned against the wall, hair tied tight, expression like sleep had tried to touch her and she’d refused it on principle.

  Karen stood nearby with arms folded, posture loose in that way that meant she could move fast without looking like she was trying.

  They followed the attendant through palace corridors that were too clean to feel real.

  Servants drifted past without meeting their eyes.

  Guards watched everything and said nothing.

  A pair of nobles glanced over, then looked away like attention itself was contagious.

  Garn kept his gaze forward.

  The palace didn’t feel like home.

  It felt like a machine.

  And he could hear, faintly, the gears turning.

  The room wasn’t the grand hall with banners and crowds.

  This place was smaller. Sharper. Built for decisions that didn’t need applause.

  A long table. Maps. Wax seals. Ink. Pins pressed into border lines like wounds you could point at.

  At the far end stood the King—no ceremony, no glittering performance. Just the crown, and the weight behind it.

  Marcus Lionheart stood off to one side with Marcus’s kind of stillness—soldier-still, not court-still.

  Jerome Frostbarrow was near the table with a tablet and a quill, calm in a way that meant he’d already decided what the worst outcome looked like.

  And near the map stood Maldon.

  White armor. Clean discipline. Presence heavy enough that the room felt smaller.

  Zamora stiffened a fraction beside Garn.

  Not fear.

  Recognition.

  Crown-stage meant the air itself acted more respectful.

  Karen didn’t.

  Her eyes stayed flat, sharp, fixed on the King like she’d already decided this conversation was going to insult her.

  The King’s gaze landed on Garn first.

  Not warm. Not hostile.

  Measured.

  “You’re awake,” the King said.

  Garn dipped his head. “Your Majesty.”

  The King’s eyes flicked once to Zamora. “And you’re standing.”

  “I can stand,” Zamora said flatly.

  Karen didn’t bow too deeply. She didn’t need to. She held herself like someone who’d earned the right to keep her spine straight.

  The King nodded once—barely acknowledgment—then turned his attention to the map.

  “Before we talk about what I’m about to do,” he said, “we’re going to talk about what I’m tired of cleaning up.”

  His finger tapped the table once.

  “Redmane.”

  The air shifted—not magically.

  Politically.

  He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

  “They trespassed through Marrowick lands,” he said, “then pushed into Gale Forest. Damaged the sanctuary. Broke wards. Cut paths where paths shouldn’t exist.”

  Zamora’s grip tightened around her staff.

  Garn’s brow furrowed. He didn’t know the web yet, but even he understood what “sanctuary” meant when said with that tone.

  “And for what?” the King asked. “A trophy.”

  He tapped a second point on the map.

  “They captured one of those apex tigers,” he said, “and dragged it out like it proved something.”

  Jerome’s quill wrote.

  Maldon didn’t move.

  But the room felt like it listened harder anyway.

  The King’s gaze slid to a man standing near the edge of the room—broad shoulders, heat-tough face, posture like iron that had learned to speak.

  Quin Ironvale—Valemont by birth, Ironvale by choice—stepped forward half a pace and bowed.

  “Your Majesty,” Quin said. “Redmane has already paid compensation for trespass and damage. Marrowick was repaid. The forest house was repaid. Additional resources were sent—”

  The King raised a hand.

  “I know what was paid,” he said. “That isn’t the point.”

  Quin’s jaw tightened, but he kept his tone respectful.

  “Redmane is a sub-vassal of mine,” he said carefully. “But only because the head of Redmane chose to be.”

  That line landed like a knife laid gently on a table.

  Marcus’s eyes narrowed.

  Jerome stopped writing for half a heartbeat.

  The King stared at Quin for a long moment.

  “So you can claim them when it benefits you,” the King said slowly, “and disclaim them when it doesn’t.”

  Quin didn’t flinch.

  “I’m telling you they answer to history more than they answer to me,” he said. “They act like their blood is older than their oath.”

  The King’s mouth pressed thin.

  “Blood,” he repeated, like the word tasted bad.

  He took one breath.

  Then he leaned forward slightly, voice calm enough to hurt.

  “They were royal once,” he said.

  Silence held the room.

  Even Garn felt it—like a hidden door had opened and cold air drifted out.

  The King looked at the map again, then up—eyes steady.

  “Before my house,” he said, “there was another royal line that wore this kingdom like a cloak.”

  He paused long enough that it felt like the kingdom itself waited.

  Then he spoke his full name for the first time in that room—calm as steel.

  “Xavier Bladebark.”

  The symbol of Keliemos suddenly made too much sense: sword and tree, steel and bark, blade and root.

  “And House Redmane,” the King continued, “never stopped acting like the old crown was theirs.”

  His gaze flicked to Quin.

  “That’s why they choose their chains,” he said. “Because sub-vassal or not, they still want to be treated like blood that mattered first.”

  Jerome’s quill resumed—slower.

  Marcus exhaled through his nose, controlled irritation.

  The King straightened.

  “But they are not why you’re here,” he said, voice flattening again.

  His eyes slid to Karen.

  Karen met his stare like a blade meeting a whetstone.

  “You’re here,” the King said, “because I’m done pretending the Onyx Order is functional.”

  The words hit like a slap.

  Zamora’s eyes flicked to Karen instantly.

  Garn didn’t need to know the full history to recognize the way Karen’s shoulders tightened—like pride had just been grabbed by the throat.

  Karen’s voice stayed controlled.

  “Your Majesty,” she said. “The Onyx Order is—”

  “—a semi-fallen royal order,” Jerome cut in quietly, not looking up. “With a captain and not enough stability to justify its independent operation.”

  Karen’s eyes snapped to Jerome.

  Akash laughed in Garn’s ribs.

  Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

  “Oh, I like her anger.”

  Maldon finally spoke, voice even.

  “You’re disbanding it,” he said.

  The King didn’t bother to deny it.

  “Temporarily,” the King said. “And practically.”

  Karen’s hand tightened around nothing, fingers flexing like she wanted her weapon back just to have something honest to hold.

  The King continued as if her feelings were weather.

  “Onyx will be absorbed into the White Order,” he said. “Effective immediately.”

  Karen’s face went still.

  Not calm.

  Still like ice right before it breaks.

  Garn felt something in his chest twitch—the memory of a white cloak, a blade, a name he didn’t want to taste again.

  Yona.

  His jaw tightened.

  Karen spoke through her teeth.

  “Join them,” she said. “Under Maldon.”

  Maldon didn’t react. He didn’t look pleased. He didn’t look offended.

  He looked like a man hearing rain was expected.

  Then he tilted his head—just slightly—and looked at the King.

  “Is it permanent?” Maldon asked.

  The King’s voice stayed simple.

  “Until Karen reaches Vessel stage,” he said. “Then I’ll reinstate the Onyx Order.”

  Karen’s eyes sharpened. “So right now—”

  “Right now,” the King cut in, “they are disbanded.”

  The room went quiet in a way that made it worse.

  Karen stepped forward half a pace without realizing it.

  “What about my master’s legacy?” she asked, voice tight. “What about the order’s name? The line he built? The oaths he carried?”

  The King didn’t flinch.

  “It means nothing if you can’t survive,” he said.

  Karen’s jaw clenched hard enough to ache.

  The King’s tone sharpened—not louder, just sharper.

  “The last mission I sent you on,” he said, “was to see if you could handle yourself.”

  Karen’s throat worked. She didn’t interrupt.

  “You almost died,” the King said.

  His gaze shifted.

  Not to Karen.

  To Garn.

  “And he is the reason you lived.”

  Karen’s eyes flicked to Garn—fast, unwilling, like the truth burned.

  For a moment Garn saw it: the humiliation of owing survival to someone you didn’t train, didn’t choose, didn’t want to need.

  Karen lowered her chin.

  “Yes,” she said, voice clipped. “Your Majesty.”

  The King nodded once, satisfied with obedience, not comfort.

  “Your master’s legacy isn’t an heirloom,” he said. “It’s a responsibility. Earn the right to carry it.”

  Karen didn’t answer.

  But her silence was loud.

  Garn felt Akash shift, amused.

  “They break their own and call it discipline.”

  Garn didn’t respond.

  Because part of him understood the King.

  And part of him hated that he did.

  Jerome’s quill scratched again.

  “Onyx will operate under White command,” Jerome said, cold and procedural. “Resources consolidated. Training standardized. Survival probability increases.”

  Karen’s eyes narrowed.

  “Survival probability,” she repeated like it was an insult.

  Jerome didn’t look up. “Yes.”

  Maldon’s gaze moved—slowly—to Karen.

  Not threatening.

  Just present.

  “If you’re under my order,” Maldon said, “you follow my rules.”

  Karen’s mouth tightened. “I always follow rules.”

  Maldon’s tone stayed calm. “Then you’ll live.”

  That was the closest thing to kindness he offered.

  And Garn hated him for sounding reasonable.

  The King tapped the table again, cutting the tension before it became an incident.

  “Now,” he said, “Orion.”

  Zamora’s posture shifted, expecting an order.

  Garn expected it too.

  A mission.

  A march.

  A parley with a foreign king.

  But the King didn’t point at them.

  He pointed at Jerome.

  “Draft it,” the King said.

  Jerome didn’t ask what.

  His quill moved as if it already knew.

  “A messenger goes to Orion,” the King continued. “A formal notice. Sealed. Delivered properly. No improvisation.”

  Jerome nodded once, writing.

  Marcus spoke, practical. “The reply will take time.”

  “Good,” the King said. “Let time carry the message instead of blood.”

  Then—

  The door opened.

  A voice slid into the room like it already belonged there.

  “Father.”

  Everyone turned.

  Princess Diane stood in the doorway like she hadn’t learned to fear rooms full of hardened men.

  She was dressed for the palace—practical, expensive, controlled. Nothing ceremonial. Nothing meant for war.

  Her eyes moved over the room—over Karen’s fury, over Maldon’s stillness, over Garn’s unfamiliar face—then settled on the King.

  “I’d like to visit House Winter,” she said. “Soon.”

  The King blinked once.

  Just once.

  Then sighed like he’d been holding an entire kingdom in his lungs and his daughter had found the soft spot.

  “Why,” he asked, voice tired, “does the word Winter always arrive with a request.”

  “I want a dire wolf pelt,” Diane said simply.

  The King stared at her for a long moment, like he was deciding whether to argue with fate.

  Then he sighed again—deeper.

  “Yes,” he said. “Fine. Take soldiers. Take a knight or two. Don’t turn it into an incident.”

  Diane nodded once—quick. Satisfied.

  Then she paused.

  And you could see the thought happen behind her eyes—like she was rearranging the pieces of what “fun” looked like in her head.

  “What about that mage who came in with them?” she asked, casual. “The boy. Finn.”

  The room shifted.

  Not loudly.

  Just… sharply.

  The King’s gaze narrowed the smallest amount, irritation tightening his mouth.

  Maldon’s eyes slid to Diane like her question was sand in his armor.

  Jerome’s quill paused mid-stroke.

  “The mage is in the infirmary,” the King said flatly. “He nearly cooked his own arm off. He’s not traveling anywhere.”

  Diane’s brows lifted. “But he—”

  “No,” the King cut in. “Absolutely not.”

  Maldon’s voice followed, calm and cold.

  “A wounded mage on Winter roads is a liability,” he said. “And a distraction.”

  Diane’s lips pressed together, displeased.

  And then Garn—still running on exhaustion and stubbornness—yawned.

  He tried to choke it down halfway.

  Tried to turn his head.

  But the sound escaped anyway, rough and uninvited, like his body had decided the palace was just another night with no sleep.

  Diane’s eyes snapped onto him.

  “Am I boring you?” she asked, sharp enough to draw blood without a blade.

  Garn blinked at her like he hadn’t realized he’d been seen.

  “What,” he said, hoarse.

  Diane stared at him a beat longer—measuring him, annoyed, intrigued, offended, entertained—all at once.

  Then she looked at her father.

  And like the decision arrived mid-breath, she said simply—

  “I want him.”

  The room went still.

  Not because the request was strange—princesses requested strange things all the time.

  Because the request had landed on someone who didn’t belong in her games.

  Zamora’s head snapped toward Diane.

  Karen’s eyes narrowed immediately, suspicion sharpening into a blade.

  Marcus’s expression tightened.

  Jerome’s quill hovered.

  Even Quin looked up like he’d just been slapped by the idea.

  And Maldon—

  Maldon’s gaze didn’t go to Diane first.

  It went to Garn.

  Like the real offense wasn’t the princess asking.

  It was Garn yawning in the King’s presence.

  It was answering the princess like she was an equal.

  That small, careless disrespect in a room built to punish it.

  Maldon’s eyes hardened.

  A quiet pressure seeped into the air—controlled, restrained, but unmistakable.

  The kind of warning that said: Remember where you are.

  Garn’s jaw tightened.

  Not fear.

  Heat.

  Diane, oblivious or pretending to be, lifted her chin as if she’d solved a problem.

  Maldon exhaled once—flat, annoyed—and spoke as if ending the discussion was his right.

  “I’ll send Yona,” he said.

  Garn’s vision sharpened instantly.

  Heat crawled up his spine.

  His jaw clenched.

  Killing intent flashed in his eyes before he could stop it.

  Maldon’s gaze snapped to him like a blade turning.

  “You dare show your teeth at me,” Maldon said calmly, “in the King’s presence?”

  And then his own killing intent rolled out.

  Controlled.

  Heavy.

  Like the air turned to stone.

  The whole room felt it.

  Diane faltered a step—just a small stumble, but real—her confidence catching on something invisible.

  Zamora’s grip tightened like she was about to move.

  Karen’s shoulders tensed.

  Jerome’s eyes sharpened, calculating how many guards would die if this continued.

  The King’s voice cracked like a whip.

  “Maldon.”

  Maldon’s intent snapped back as clean as a blade sliding into a sheath.

  The room breathed again.

  Diane steadied herself, cheeks tight with embarrassment she’d never admit.

  The King’s gaze moved from Maldon to Garn.

  “Enough,” he said.

  Then he looked at Diane.

  “You don’t pick knights like pets,” the King said flatly.

  Diane lifted her chin. “I can—”

  “No,” the King cut in. “You can request. You cannot command.”

  She opened her mouth again.

  The King beat her to it.

  “And I’m not sending him north alone,” he said.

  He paused, thinking.

  Not slowly—politically.

  “Instead,” the King said, “I’ll ask House Gale.”

  Jerome’s quill resumed immediately.

  “They’d love an excuse to go north and come back with plants,” the King said. “Send notice. Notify House Winter.”

  “House Winter will escort,” the King added. “Their land, their rules.”

  Then the King’s gaze shifted to Quin.

  “And call Cain Valemont,” the King said. “Ask if we can borrow his brother.”

  Quin blinked once, then bowed. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  Maldon’s eyes narrowed.

  “Denis?” Maldon asked.

  The King’s expression didn’t change. “Yes.”

  Maldon’s voice stayed calm, but a line of tension appeared in it.

  “Why him,” Maldon asked, “the most unpredictable knight in this kingdom.”

  Garn frowned. “Who is he.”

  Maldon glanced at Garn like he’d forgotten Garn didn’t know the pieces yet.

  Then he answered anyway.

  “An independent knight,” Maldon said. “Not tied to his house the way he should be. Not tied to our kingdom the way he should be.”

  His gaze sharpened.

  “Vessel stage,” Maldon added. “Stronger than Yona. Stronger than Damien.”

  Karen’s jaw flexed.

  Zamora’s attention locked in.

  Maldon’s tone went colder.

  “Denis is dangerous,” he said. “Not because he’s cruel. Because his methods are crossed. His pathways are incoherent.”

  Garn frowned harder. “Explain.”

  Maldon looked at the King—briefly—as if confirming he was allowed to speak this openly.

  The King didn’t stop him.

  Maldon’s eyes returned to Garn.

  “Valemont’s imitation is darkness,” he said. “Denial. Absorption. Quiet.”

  He paused a fraction.

  “Denis learned it,” Maldon said. “Then he didn’t stay in his lane.”

  A faint edge entered Maldon’s voice—rare irritation.

  “He took Riktor’s fire imitation,” Maldon said.

  Zamora stiffened at the name.

  “And he combined them,” Maldon continued. “Not cleanly. Not properly. He crosses methods like rules are suggestions.”

  Jerome’s quill scratched, capturing the important parts, not the emotions.

  Garn stared. “So he has two imitations.”

  Maldon’s gaze was flat.

  “He was taught under two,” Maldon corrected. “And he refuses to choose.”

  The room held a quiet tension again—different this time.

  Not conflict.

  Foreboding.

  “If he ever becomes Crown stage,” Maldon said quietly, “I fear he may become the second strongest…”

  He paused.

  Not because he was unsure.

  Because some names weren’t said in rooms like this.

  “…underneath her.”

  The King’s gaze didn’t change.

  But the room acknowledged the truth anyway.

  The King exhaled once.

  “Good,” he said. “Then he’ll be useful.”

  Maldon didn’t look pleased.

  Karen didn’t look pleased.

  Zamora didn’t look pleased.

  Garn didn’t look pleased.

  But none of them argued.

  Because this was what a kingdom did when it couldn’t afford to be sentimental.

  It gathered its sharpest tools.

  And hoped they cut the right things.

  The King looked at Diane again.

  “You’ll go north,” he said. “With escort. With House Gale. With Winter’s permission.”

  Diane hesitated—then nodded.

  “Yes, Father.”

  The King’s gaze swept the room—Marcus, Jerome, Maldon, Quin, Karen, Zamora, Garn.

  “Get out,” he said, voice flat. “All of you. I have a kingdom to keep from tearing itself apart.”

  They turned to leave.

  And as Garn stepped through the doorway, Akash’s voice brushed his thoughts like warm smoke—pleased in the way only something ancient could be pleased by danger that wasn’t hers.

  “Another adventure,” she murmured. “So fun.”

  Garn didn’t react.

  His body still felt like it was stitched together with exhaustion and spite.

  Akash’s amusement deepened.

  “Do you think you’ll be able to feel Vyse after hunting some wolves?”

  Garn’s jaw tightened.

  Not because of the wolves.

  Because she said it like the hunt was a joke—and like his future was something she could taste.

  He kept walking anyway.

  Because in this kingdom, you didn’t get to refuse the next road.