Chapter 4 — The Weight of Names

The city never truly slept.

From the balcony outside his chamber in the Court of Lanterns, Eolan could see the drifting lights gliding between towers like fireflies too stubborn to die. Far below, the streets murmured with the sounds of merchants closing their stalls, of masked revelers spilling from shadowed taverns, of whispers that might have been wind—or something sharper.

He should have been exhausted. The Lantern Trial had left his muscles trembling and his ribs throbbing with a dull ache. But the adrenaline still hummed in his blood, carrying with it a gnawing unease.

The court had not celebrated his survival. They had not offered congratulations or toasts. Instead, they had looked at him as one might regard a blade recently pulled from the forge—unsharpened, untested, but with the promise of cutting deep.

A knock at the chamber door broke his thoughts.

Arwyn entered without waiting for an invitation, her cloak damp from the mist that had begun to creep over the city. She glanced at the untouched plate of food on the table.

“You should eat,” she said.

“I’m not hungry.”

“You will be, if you keep letting them run you like a hound.”

Eolan turned back to the balcony. “They think I’m something I’m not.”

Her footsteps were quiet as she crossed the room. “No. They think you’re exactly what you are. That’s the problem.”

He looked at her. “Then what am I?”

Arwyn didn’t answer at first. Instead, she took a small folded packet from inside her cloak and set it on the table. The parchment was old, the seal cracked from age.

“Your mother wrote this before she died,” Arwyn said. “She told me to give it to you only when the court called for you.”

Eolan hesitated before taking it. The handwriting inside was elegant, slanted, as though each stroke of ink had been a decision.

> My son,

If you are reading this, then the city has remembered you. It will speak of legacy and loyalty, but it only knows hunger. Your name is not a gift—it is a key. And keys can lock as well as open.

They will ask you to give them something. They will make it sound small. It will not be small.

Trust only those who have paid a price to stand beside you.

He read the words twice, then a third time, the letters swimming slightly under the lanternlight.

“What is it they want?” he asked quietly.

Arwyn’s mouth tightened. “Control. Influence. And if they can’t have that, they’ll settle for your absence.”

Before he could speak, another knock came—this one sharp, precise. A court herald stepped inside without waiting for permission, bowing stiffly.

“The Triarch requests your presence,” he said. “Immediately.”

Eolan followed the herald through halls that seemed quieter now, the lanterns dimmed to a deep amber. The great doors of the audience chamber swung open, revealing only the central dais lit from above.

The speaker sat alone this time, the golden mask reflecting his own distorted face back at him.

“You survived,” they said. “Which means you may be of use.”

Eolan kept his voice even. “Use for what?”

“There is an heir in the north who claims rights that conflict with ours,” the speaker said. “They have friends in places we would prefer they didn’t. You will go to them. You will speak in the city’s name. And you will ensure they do not press their claim further.”

Eolan frowned. “Negotiate?”

“If possible,” the speaker said. “If not—” The pause was deliberate. “Make it impossible for them to return.”

The meaning was clear.

“And if I refuse?”

The speaker leaned forward slightly. “Then the city will decide your absence is preferable to your presence. And I will not stand in its way.”

Back in his chamber, Arwyn was waiting. She didn’t need to ask what had been said. The look in his eyes was enough.

“They’ve already set the board,” she said quietly. “And you’re the piece they think they can move.”

Eolan closed his mother’s letter, sliding it into his cloak. “Then it’s time to show them I’m not a piece.”

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