Novels by Miki

Arthur sat at the head of the long table, his posture unyielding, his high collar buttoned to his throat. Around him, the lords watched in silence waiting for someone to break the ice. Vance's eye darted around, taking in the tense atmosphere. Clearing his throat loudly, Vance stood up, bowing respectfully. "We're all concerned for you, Your Majesty," Vance began, his voice dripping with worry. "The borders grow more perilous by the day, and the frontier lords grow restless." He looked up at Arthur, his eyes squinting. "Without an heir to the throne, the mountain clans are getting confident." He shuffled between the table and his seat, bowing lower. "I speak out of concern for the throne." "We speak out of concern for the throne!" Other ministers echoed behind him. Arthur scoffed, his eyes scanning the fake concern spread across their faces. "You sure worry about me." "It's to quell the rumours, Your majesty." Whitmore replied, "However outrageous it might be." Arthur raised an e

The Great Hall of the North Wing roared with the chatter of a hundred lords, but to Arthur, it sounded like a battlefield. The air hung heavy with the scents of Northern warlords. These were men who had spent their lives on horseback and battlefields. Their alpha pheromones were rough and unrestrained, unlike the carefully controlled scents of the capital nobility. Arthur sat upon the raised dais, his high-collared coat buttoned to his chin. Beneath the stiff silk, the flesh-colored patch against his jaw burned faintly—a quiet reminder that time was no longer on his side. "A toast!" Duke Vance rose from the center table, raising a silver goblet filled with dark ale. "To General Frost of the Iron Reaches! A man who knows how to hold a border—and how to crush a rebellion before it begins!" The hall erupted in cheers. General Frost, a broad-shouldered man with a scar splitting his left eyebrow, stood and emptied his cup in one swallow. He slammed the goblet onto the table before l

The wine in Duke Vance's silver goblet remained untouched, reflecting the flickering candlelight of his private solar.Across the heavy oak table sat Bishop Thorne, the Church's most influential voice on the Royal Council, and Lord Edgar Whitmore, Minister of Internal Affairs. Rain drummed steadily against the stained-glass windows, but inside, the room remained still."He fled the council chamber like a wounded deer," Vance said quietly. "He was sweating. He could barely speak. Then, by the next morning, he walked back into court looking as though nothing had happened... and handed the Royal Guard to Malakor."Bishop Thorne folded his hands over the golden crucifix resting on his chest. "His Majesty has always been... delicate. His recovery was unusual, but not impossible.""Not impossible?" Vance scoffed. "A man does not burn with a sudden fever one night and wake perfectly healthy the next."Whitmore frowned. "You believe the Regent threatened him?""I believe Malakor entered the K

The heavy mahogany doors had barely closed behind the last of the retreating councilors when Duke Collins fell into step beside Malakor. His silver beard was neatly combed, his expression calm, though satisfaction gleamed plainly in his eyes. "A bold move, Your Grace," Collins said. "The King has entrusted the Royal Guard to you." Malakor continued walking without answering. Collins wasn't discouraged. "The council will think twice before challenging you now." "They already think too much," Malakor replied. Silence settled between them as they crossed the grand gallery overlooking the rain-soaked courtyard. After a moment, Collins spoke again. "The twenty-four-hour condition is troublesome." "It is." "But surely His Majesty cannot refuse every order." Malakor finally stopped. "He can." Collins frowned. Malakor looked out through the towering arched windows, watching the rain strike the palace walls. "He gave me command, but he kept authority." Turning back to the palace

"No," Arthur gasped, the word tearing from his throat. He gripped Liran’s forearm with a white-knuckled desperation. "We're already exposed. We can't take any more risk. We are leaving."Liran’s eyes widened in sheer disbelief. "Leaving, My Liege? In your condition? You can barely stand. The streets of the capital are—""That is an order, Liran," Arthur cut him off, his voice trembling but carrying the ghost of his royal authority.Realizing the futility of arguing with a stubborn king, Liran shut his mouth and went to work. The dark blue vial was finally beginning to do its job, cooling the raging liquid fire in Arthur's veins just enough to pull him back from the edge of delirium. His mind cleared. Enough for him to drag himself up from the ground.If he wanted to stand before Malakor and the court tomorrow morning without baring his throat, he had to get this heat thoroughly out of his system tonight. There was only one way to do that.Liran helped him strip out of the heavy, suf

Arthur stared at him. The word *no* swelled in his throat, hot and choked, but it died before it could pass his lips.Malakor wasn't even hiding it anymore. The polite veneer of the loyal Regent, the thin layer of courtly deference they had both performed for years, had been stripped away like rotten bark. To demand the Royal Guard was to strip Arthur of his skin. Those three thousand blades were the only wall between the King and the hungry wolves of the council chamber. Handing them over didn't just put a sword to his neck—it handed Malakor the hilt."You..." Arthur's voice cracked. He gripped the edge of the mahogany desk so tightly his fingernails dug into the polished wood, leaving faint crescent scars. "You dare.""I dare, precisely what is necessary to keep your head on your shoulders, Your Majesty," Malakor said. His tone remained perfectly level, flat as a frozen lake, which only made the threat sharper."The Guard answers only to the reigning monarch," Arthur breathed, a col