The Hollow Stag was not the finest establishment in The City, nor even the finest in this district, but it was lively. Lanternlight swayed with the breeze that flowed in through the open doors, casting long shadows across the rows of trestle tables and the crude wooden beams overhead. The air was thick with the scent of spiced mutton, stale spilled ale, and the sweat of men that were in need of a bath.

  Artho Blund, second son of Lord Kristoff Blund, sat slouched at the center of a long table, his fingers lazily rolling a half-empty tankard of ale between them. Across from him sat Crown Prince Vincenzo, heir to the Imperial Throne, his smile bright and sharp as a knife’s edge. Around them, a scattering of young noblemen sons of minor lords, hungry for amusement lounged in their seats, trading ribald jokes and careless laughter.

  After a particularly flat falling joke Ernst Fallon, a third son of a third son hailing from the southern reaches turned to Artho. “Is there news from Lord Blund of late?” he asked. Artho couldn’t quite tell if he had a smile on his face as he said it, but if there was it was soon gone when he heard the tone of Artho’s answer.

  “My father hasn’t written to me in months.” He answered matter-of-factly, staring at the bottom of his drink.

  The Crown Prince had picked up on the exchange. He shouted, “More Ale!” jovially and quickly changed the subject before anyone else picked up on Artho’s sour mood at the mention of his father. He is a good friend, considered Artho. My only friend of late.

  The truth was that no one had heard from Artho’s father in months. Lord Blund was a popular man, too popular. He was wealthy and held great influence among the nobles of the land and for many years there had been murmurings that he was the true power in the Westermark rather than The Emperor Barnetto. Years ago, he had sent his second son to be raised as a ward of The Emperor to demonstrate his loyalty, but recently the rumours of conspiracy, rebellion and disloyalty had resurfaced.

  Lord Blund had not visited The Emperor’s court in years and Artho new little of his father’s thoughts as he had only written to him a handful of times since he came of age 5 years ago and even those notes had been perfunctory.

  Artho cared little for his father or his thoughts. He had been well looked after in The Emperor’s court and had made fast friends with he Crown Prince. As boys they had roamed the palace halls and oft sneaked out from under their latest tutor’s gaze to wander The City. Now both men grown, Artho was the Crown Prince’s closest friend and confidant though he lacked any true title or role in the royal court.

  Across from them, at an adjacent table, sat a trio of young merchants. Their dress suggested they were not wealthy enough to own ships or fine silks, but the fashions of The City were every shifting so Artho could not make too many assumptions from their dress. They had struck a conversation with the young nobles, Artho had leaned into the conversation, the drink loosening his tongue.

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  It had started pleasantly enough, with shared laughter over a bawdy tale of Prince Revachol of Shan’s humiliation at court, a mutual appreciation of the amber ale the Stag was known for. For a while, the merchants had seemed at ease in their company. But the shift had come, subtle at first. A jest that went unheard. A smile that didn’t quite reach the eyes. The tone and hints of noble arrogance, not going unnoticed.

  One of the merchants, a stocky man with a salt-streaked beard, leaned back and let out a low chuckle, but his fingers curled tightly around the stem of his goblet. “You nobles have an interesting way of seeing the world,” he murmured. “To hear you tell it, everything of worth was built by a man with a crest on his chest.”

  Prince Vincenzo’s smile never wavered, but there was something hard in his gaze now, something dangerous. “If it were not for The Imperial House, my good merchant, there would be no world for you to build upon.”

  The noblemen at the table chuckled, some of them nodding, the warmth of drink fueling their mirth. Artho lifted his cup. “The Emperor!” he toasted, sloshing ale onto his sleeve. He had meant it in jest, but the moment had already shifted beyond his clumsy intent.

  The second merchant, a lean man with a scar down his cheek, raised his goblet, but the motion was slow, deliberate. “To The Westermark,” he said instead. “May it’s rivers run clear and it’s people eat well.”

  A hush fell over the table. Not outright hostile, not yet. But the laughter was gone.

  For decades there had been fringe groups, dissidents, rebellious nobles that opposed the rule of the Imperial House. The merchant’s toast was an insult and he was either too drunk to hold his tongue or truly was believer in the discouraged ideas of democracy & republicanism.

  Artho, oblivious to the undercurrents, grinned lopsidedly and reached for his cup again. The world spun slightly as he lifted it to his lips. “Ah, what does it matter,” he mumbled, half to himself. “We all drink, don’t we? That’s common enough.”

  The third merchant, a younger man with quick eyes, watched him carefully. “Aye,” he said. “We all drink.”

  Vincenzo exhaled slowly, his fingers tapping against the table. His patience was thinning. “Perhaps,” he said, voice smooth as silk over iron, “we should find another topic. Something more… agreeable.”

  The scarred merchant tilted his head. “And what would the prince find agreeable?”

  Artho made to raise his cup again, but this time it slipped from his fingers, spilling dark ale across the table in a widening pool. His cup rolled off their table and over towards the merchants. He stared at it, blinking slowly, trying to summon the energy to care as it rolled out of view.

  The voices around him grew more distant, muffled, like a tide pulling back from the shore. His vision swam, his limbs heavy and useless. He dimly registered Vincenzo saying something sharp, something curt. He saw the merchants shift in their seats, spines stiffening, muscles tensing. He thought, briefly, that perhaps he should speak, should say something clever, something to lighten the mood.

  Artho stood to retrieve his cup. But the world tilted, and he was falling, towards the Merchant’s table and that man with the scared face. He was standing now, all the merchants were standing. How kind of them to help me find my cup thought Artho.