登入The morning light was soft, filtering through the curtains. Damian sat on the edge of the bed, his hands clasped between his knees, his head bowed. Nathan sat beside him, their shoulders touching."Nathan," Damian said. "You have been quiet."Nathan was silent for a moment."I want to talk to you about the south," Nathan said. "About Halenshire and Redholt. About the people who led them through the worst of it."Damian looked at him. His eyes were tired, but steady."Kira," Damian said. "And Aldric."Nathan nodded. "Kira rebuilt Halenshire from ashes. She refused to leave the elders' meeting. She refused to be dismissed. She worked alongside the men and women of her village, and she led them through the winter. She is not just a leader. She is a symbol. A symbol of what the south can become."Damian listened."Aldric rebuilt Redholt," Nathan continued. "He was not born to lead. He was chosen. By the people. Because they trusted him. Because he stayed when others fled. Because he put t
Nathan walked toward Damian's bedchamber, his mind racing. He had planned to address the council today. He had planned to discuss appointing Kira as Baroness of Halenshire and Aldric as Baron of Redholt. He had planned to propose handing the responsibilities of Tarren Vale to Lady Malone, under the guidance of Lord Marius. The south was rebuilt. The work was done. The people needed leadership—permanent leadership, not the temporary guidance he had provided. But all of that could wait. He had something more important to discuss now. With Damian. About the child. About the curse. About the future Ezekiel had seen and Lucian had revealed. He reached for the door. "Lord Nathan." Nathan turned. Edric stood in the corridor, his hands clasped behind his back, his ancient eyes fixed on Nathan's face. "Lord Edric." Nathan inclined his head. "I have something I need to—" "It is regarding the very same matter," Edric said. "So if you will follow me somewhere no one can hear, I will tell y
The library was quiet, the afternoon light slanting through the tall windows, dust motes drifting in the golden air. Rowan sat at the long table, his head bent over a stack of scrolls, his quill scratching notes in the margins. Marshal sat across from him, his arms crossed, his eyes sharp, his patience thin. He had not expected much from the Mercer boy. The language was dead. It had been dead for over a century, spoken only by scholars and fools who had too much time and too little sense. Marshal himself had spent years mastering it, years deciphering the old texts, years piecing together the fragments of a world that no longer existed. Rowan had been learning for weeks. And he was already reading. Not fluently—not yet—but the words were beginning to make sense, the grammar was beginning to fall into place, the meaning was beginning to emerge from the fog. Marshal did not say anything. He did not offer praise. He simply watched, and thought, and wondered if perhaps he had underest
Back in the capital, Rowan was growing restless. It had been over a month since he had seen Nathan. Over a month since Nathan had spent his heat with him and Damian. The days blurred together—council meetings, walks in the garden, quiet evenings in the study. Damian worked. Lucian advised. Alessio came and went. The kingdom turned. But Rowan's thoughts were elsewhere. He was worried. Nathan's letters were brief, cheerful, reassuring. The roads are coming along. The people are working hard. I will be home soon. But soon was not now. And now felt endless. A knock startled him. The knock came again. Sharper this time. Rowan set down his quill. "Come in." The door opened. Lord Marshal stepped inside. He was a tall man, broad-shouldered, silver-haired. His face was carved from stone, his jaw set, his eyes cold. He had served on the council for decades, had outlasted kings and conspiracies, had earned a reputation for stubbornness that bordered on legend. He did not suffer fools. He
The grand hall was alive with light and laughter. Torches flickered in their brackets, casting warm shadows across the stone walls. The long tables were laden with food—roasted meats, fresh bread, wheels of cheese, bowls of fruit, pitchers of wine and ale. The servants moved quickly, filling cups, clearing plates, keeping the celebration alive. Marius and Bayley had prepared a grand feast for Nathan. It was his last night in Tarren Vale. Tomorrow, he would leave. He would finally be home in a few days—weeks, perhaps, depending on the roads, depending on the weather, depending on the whims of fate. Everyone ate. Everyone drank. The workers laughed with the guards, the guards joked with the mages, the mages toasted to the success of the rebuilding. Tarren Vale was finally standing on its own. The houses were built. The fields were planted. The roads were being built, and soon they would be finished, and the barony would be whole again. Nathan sat at the high table, beside Marius and B
The next morning, Nathan woke well rested. He stretched, yawned, and climbed out of bed. His body still ached, but it was the good kind of ache—the kind that came from honest work, not from fever or exhaustion. He washed up, dressed quickly, and went straight to breakfast. Marius and Bayley were already sitting at the table. Bayley looked up when he entered, her eyes widening slightly. "I thought you might want to rest a bit more, my lord," she said. Nathan shook his head. "I've rested enough. I'd rather finish the work as soon as possible and then go home." Marius nodded. "Understandable." Nathan sat. A servant poured tea. Another set a plate before him. He ate in silence—bread, cheese, a slice of cold meat. The food was simple, but it was warm, and it was enough. Malone joined them after a while, her hair still damp, her cheeks flushed from the morning chill. She smiled at Nathan, took her seat, and began to eat. Oakley was nowhere to be seen. Nathan did not ask where he was
Nathan didn’t even change out of the clothes he’d worn to the dungeon. He went straight to his writing desk, hands still trembling with residue panic as he unrolled fresh parchment.He started with Lord Alistair.His script was fast but careful, every word meant to stop panic before it formed:Lord
Later when Damian returned.He didn’t knock—just opened the door and stepped inside like he owned the air Nathan was breathing.“Follow me.”No explanation. No visible anger. Just that voice—stripped of pretense, heavy with something Nathan couldn’t read fast enough to brace against. Nathan rose wi
Lucian’s suspicion had been a quiet, crawling thing at first—something he brushed off as paranoia born from sleepless nights and too many whispered councils. But the more he watched Nathan and Silas, the harder it became to ignore. The way Silas lingered in the study longer than necessary after del
He found Silas in the barracks courtyard, tightening the bridle on his horse. The man was alone—his soldiers had already dispersed after drills.“Sir Kane,” Lucian called, voice smooth, carrying just enough authority to make Silas’s hand pause mid-motion.“Lord Commander,” Silas replied without loo







