The Protector’s Path

(Noah’s POV)

Buried under stillness, the room holds its breath like frozen peaks at dusk. This quiet does not speak - it finishes what was begun long ago. A man slips away. So too does everything he ruled.

Heavy. That iron band sits in my hand like stone from Blackstone Hold. Guard what matters, he said - never the shape of it. His last words. Clear eyes till death took him. Royalty fits another man. A crown would sit wrong on my head. Not because of the weight, but what comes with it - bending truths just to keep peace. Smiles stretched too wide, held too long. Rituals that never pause. All those quiet surrenders piling up like stones. I’d feel caged inside the role. Hollowed out by pretending.

A shield against collapse - someone holding firm where things might break. One who uses honesty sharp enough to remove decay, standing guard when everything teeters. Yes, that makes sense to me.

A shadow shifts first, then the doctor pulls linen across the monarch's head - sound of paper dragged on stone. That noise cuts through everything.

A finger brushes against my sleeve. It settles there, soft yet steady. Not loud, just present - her voice cuts through. Noah

That look on her face stops me cold. Wide grey eyes, stunned just like mine, yet sharp with sudden understanding. Panic never touches her. Instead, thoughts race behind her stare. Moves form before they happen. Always ahead. Mine to follow. My guide through the blur.

“They’ll be fighting over the crown like dogs over a bone out there,” I say, my voice low.

Her eyes dart to the folder near the doorway. Not a bone, she says. Something better - a map instead

Sound of the ruler’s voice lingers. Get the task done.

Down I glance at the ring before slipping it on. Coldness presses against my skin, strange and heavy. Not just metal - it means something now. Gone is the time when I was only the Duke of the Northern Reaches. Now titles shift: King’s Spymaster fits like a second shadow. They call me the lidless eye. Mine to carry, that name - mine alone.

“Stay behind me,” I tell her, my voice taking on the old, familiar command. “But speak when you need to. Your voice is the future. Mine is the shield.”

Her head moves up once as she adjusts the child against her chest. Side by side, we leave the fallen ruler behind, stepping into wind instead of silence. The sky ahead pulses while footsteps carry us forward, away from stillness.

A hush hangs in the air where powerful lords once spoke freely. Inside, the room holds nobles whose titles stretch back centuries. Pale skin stretches tight over sharp bones, eyes jumping like sparks on dry grass. Grief sits heavy, yet something sharper pulses beneath - hunger dressed as duty. Word traveled fast through stone corridors and servant halls alike.

Out of nowhere, silence takes hold once we appear. Quiet falls the moment our shapes come into view.

The Lord Chancellor approaches hands trembling Your Grace the King

“King Nolen has passed,” I announce, my voice cutting through the thick air. “His last moments were in peace. His final thoughts were for the realm.”

A hush falls, trembling across the space. After that quiet moment, eyes start to sharpen.

Duke Argon clears his throat. “The succession… the line is unclear. A council must be formed immediately to determine the rightful - ”

The old ruler had one last order, I say. Not loud. Never loud. That quiet is enough.

Faces turn my way. Some carry hope. Others wear doubt like a mask. A few let anger show through.

My hand lifts, showing the iron ring that sits plain on my finger. A hush follows - then sharp breaths move through the crowd of nobles. This mark? They recognize it right away. Not just metal. Something older hums beneath it. Silence guards what words never could.

“He did not name an heir,” I say, watching their faces fall and then harden with new calculation. “He named a protector. He gave me this.” I let the weight of the ring, of the unspoken network it commands, sink in. “His command was not to crown a new king, but to protect the kingdom’s heart while it finds its new footing.”

“You?” a voice sneers. It’s Lord Bromley, a staunch ally of the now-disgraced Prestwick. “A northern upstart, married to a… a seer? You are to be the realm’s protector? This is an outrage!”

Out of nowhere, silence breaks. Voices jump at once, tangled in anger and worry.

Here it happens. Edge of everything. Now.

Without a word, my gaze shifts toward Paige. A quiet moment passes before I give the smallest of nods. Not fighting it. Just moving on.

A shape moves ahead - not toward the middle, yet close beside me. Level. Words come not for everyone watching, but aimed at me, sharp and reaching.

“The King asked for a map of the future,” she says, as if we are alone. “He saw it. He believed in it.” She looks at the lords, her gaze sweeping over them. “He died believing the kingdom could be more than a prize to be fought over. It can be a partnership.”

Bending low, she places the portfolio onto a tiny table, then flips it open. From inside, out comes the big map - marked with charcoal smears, dotted with spots of dried blood. Held high now, so everyone can look. Messy? Yes. Radical? Without question. Real? More than anything else here.

“This is not a claim to a throne,” she says, her voice gaining strength. “It is a blueprint for a realm that works. Where roads get built because they’re needed, not because a lord wants a faster route to his summer home. Where disputes are settled by those who understand them. Where the crown,” she looks at the iron ring on my finger, “protects the process, but does not micromanage the people.”

A hush hangs, broken only by the weight of what she just said. Stillness grips everyone, caught off guard by her bold move.

Lord Bromley finds his voice again. “This is… this is anarchy! A dream spun by a witch!”

Then I shift. A single pace puts me in front of Paige, blocking his view. Fingers touch the hilt. Drawing the blade never happens. What holds him back isn’t motion - it’s how I stand without moving at all.

“The witch,” I say, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, “just helped uncover a treason that threatened to tear this realm apart. The seer just presented the only coherent vision for its future that any of us have heard. You will address her as Her Grace, the Duchess Paige, or you will answer to me.” I let my gaze sweep the room. “And to the network of eyes my uncle just placed in my care. Eyes that are, even now, noting who serves the kingdom, and who serves only themselves.”

Bromley turns pale. Not fear of harm - but being found out - shuts his breath short. That ring on the spy chief’s hand? It scares them worse than blades ever could.

Forward moves Duke Argon, thoughts sharp from years of battle, not debate. That map, he thinks, watching Paige trace lines between regions. Oversight would be necessary, given how these stewardships spread. Without a core power, disputes could flare - defense might crumble when pressure comes. Someone must weigh choices when borders strain and enemies gather beyond the walls. His voice cuts low: “A center holds things together, even if it’s unseen.” Not force, but balance keeps the pieces from breaking apart. Decisions fall where clarity meets necessity, not preference. Structure matters most when everything else wavers. He waits, hands still, gaze fixed on what lies beneath the threads she holds.

“Yes,” Paige says, turning to him. “A Lord Protector. Not a king. A first among equals, chosen by the council of stewards for a term. Their duty: to enforce the charter, to lead in defense, to ensure no region exploits another.” She looks at me. “A protector.”

One moment it fits, then the space settles. This isn’t about bloodlines or legacy. What stands here is meant to answer questions, not inherit them. Not an ending, but something shaky leading forward - out of what was broken, toward what might be.

“Who’d take that role first… Lord Protector?” questions a woman from the east shore, tone edged with calculation.

Everyone looks my way.

Here comes the deal. The trial begins now. Power - do I reach for it or walk away?

Her gaze meets mine, full of wanting but scared too. Thoughts drift to Lysander, then the cold land we shaped together. My uncle believed in me - his faith sits heavy now.

“The council would decide,” I say firmly. “After the Great Charter is drafted and signed. My role, as the King’s Spymaster, is to ensure that process is honest. That the debate is fair. That the kingdom survives this transition without bleeding itself dry in another civil war.” I hold up the map. “This is the offer. Not a crown. A constitution. What happens next comes from everyone, shaped by each one. Take that path - or face what breaks apart instead

A silence hangs, heavy and still. Thick desire fills the air like smoke, yet there stands the map’s sharp truth - clear lines drawn without mercy. The circle of metal watches, unmoved, its weight pressing more than words ever could.

Out front steps Duke Argon. Moving toward Paige, he pauses over the map, eyes tracing lines before lifting his head with quiet certainty. Flawed? Sure. Yet still far stronger than whispering through back halls as fire eats the land. His people out west won’t ignore this talk

Forward they come, singly at first. Not everyone joins. Others leave, angry - Bromley strides off without turning back. Still, numbers grow. Tired minds, cautious hands, eyes tight with worry begin to gather. Hope hangs on these few.

The hum of voices breaks into clusters around the table, leaning close over paper edges. My shoulders ease - just slightly - as talk skips past who takes power next. Ground we didn’t expect opens up beneath the words. The map pulls everyone in, one breath at a time.

Slumping a little at my side, Paige lets out a slow breath as the rush drains away. My arm goes around her, drawing both her and Lysander nearer without a word. The weight of them leaning in says enough.

“You made it,” I whisper against her hair.

“We made it happen,” she says, worn out yet proud. Her gaze lifts to meet mine, steady and curious. That title now - what does it mean?”

“It’s just a title,” I say, my thumb brushing over the iron ring. “This is the real duty. And I will bear it, so you can build your future.” I kiss her forehead. “But we do it together. Always.”

A quiet settles where the wind once roared. Lines begin to form, shaky at first, made by pens instead of weapons. Hope seeps into the page like dawn through cracks. What grows now rises from paper, not battlefields. The air tastes different - lighter - after so much shouting ends.