Rekinvale’s keep stood firm against the autumn gales, offering a rare calm amidst the haunted rattles of Sir Bradfrey’s cabin. Inside, seeking shelter from the blistering cold that seeped through every crack, Anneliese and Agrippa huddled by the fireplace.

  Sword at his hip, Agrippa stoked the flames, coaxing their warmth closer to Anneliese. “Most of the lads would kill for this,” he said, skillfully maneuvering the poker.

  “Why do you think I’m always a cocoon?” Anneliese quipped, shedding her blankets to embrace the fire’s warmth.

  “That cocoon better be as tough as iron.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because they’re hungry—for warmth, love, comfort. But don’t worry. Give me a couple of days in the wrestling pit, and I’ll have them squealing like pigs.”

  “Is everything a proving ground to you?”

  “Yeah. Back home, you know what we call young potential who end up dying old?”

  “No, what?”

  “Who cares? Legends don’t last long enough to write their own histories. I plan to die glorious and wealthy. Like Icarus, flying too close to the sun. Consequences be damned.”

  Anneliese chuckled at the display of playful narcissism. She rolled her eyes, her voice dripping with exaggerated condescension.

  “Sounds like the kind of morbid ideology they sell to kids who can’t keep their hands busy.”

  Agrippa took her remark as flirtation. Whether intentional or not, her heightened animation only emboldened him. Infatuating an angel—a challenge no young soldier could resist.

  Their laughter was cut short as the cabin door burst open, an icy gust announcing Weddle’s abrupt arrival. Agrippa’s hand instinctively went to his sword, the steel flashing as he drew it slightly from its scabbard.

  Weddle, goosebumps rising along his arms, barely acknowledged the tension. He brushed past Agrippa without notice and collapsed heavily by the fire.

  “Well, make yourself at home,” Agrippa muttered, dumbfounded by the intrusion.

  “Oh, forgive me. I’m Weddle,” he said, offering no further explanation.

  “Agrippa.”

  “Friend of yours?” Weddle asked Anneliese, though her unbothered expression was answer enough. “Ah, good. Just needed to be sure.”

  “Should I ask the same of you?” Agrippa shot back.

  “He’s fine,” Anneliese said quickly. “He’s known me since I was a child.”

  “In that case, do actually make yourself at home.” Agrippa nudged Weddle aside to make space, tossing another log onto the fire.

  "Much appreciated," Weddle said, sinking deeper into his seat. Without hesitation, he turned to Agrippa. "Do you know what Anneliese is?"

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  Agrippa paused, his fingers drumming idly against his knee. "I have my suspicions, but my opinions don’t stretch further than Sir Bradfrey’s orders."

  "Well said. But you've heard the gossip?"

  Anneliese’s ears perked up. “What exactly are they saying?”

  "Everything good, everything bad, and everything contemptuous," Weddle answered.

  Agrippa’s hand drifted to his belt, fingers brushing the hilt of his short sword. "No one will hurt her on my watch."

  Weddle studied him, his skepticism barely concealed. "I trust you believe that. But this isn’t a game of swordsmanship." He let the words settle, then tilted his head. "Tell me, have you heard the tale of Coble and the Battle of the Bloodless?"

  Agrippa scoffed. "Only the part about the dim-witted pagan who got his face bashed in for standing between Duke Derzhimont and the crown."

  Weddle leaned forward, his eyes reflecting the flickering flames. “Then let me ask you this: why didn’t Duke Derzhimont ascend to the throne?”

  "He died in the succession crisis," Anneliese replied.

  Weddle shook his head. "He lost the crown long before that." He stretched his legs, settling into the easy cadence of a storyteller. "You see, Coble was a pacifist and an arms dealer. Funny combination I know."

  Agrippa arched an eyebrow, bracing a forearm against the fireplace. "And?"

  "Coble was no ordinary arms dealer—an enchanter by craft, blacksmith by trade. He could make giants out of men, and men capable of slaying giants. But only under one condition..."

  Anneliese, nodding along, murmured, "He refused to let his creations be used against the innocent."

  "Exactly. Duke Derzhimont, for all his martial prowess, was poised to claim the throne. But paranoia, love, and a ruthless temper unraveled him. When his youngest brother married the Mansourian princess Vanessa, suspicion festered. The lords flocked to Derzhimont, save for Pragian. Expecting treachery, he marched on Pragian at the head of Vasier’s most fearsome warriors, demanding Grand Master Burtrew bend the knee—or burn. But it wasn’t Burtrew who confronted him—it was Coble.”

  The flicker of skepticism faded from Agrippa’s face.

  "Coble warned him, ‘Strike me, and no god will dare anoint you as king.’ But Derzhimont swung anyway. His elbow locked mid-air, twisting in ways a man’s arm should not. When he reached for his dagger, his own armor constricted, crushing the breath from his lungs. His weapons turned against him. His fury turned to fear."

  "Because no harm would befall the innocent," Agrippa muttered.

  "Indeed." Weddle leaned back, a cathartic smile tugging at his lips—as if old memories could smooth over old wounds.

  His shift in demeanor wasn’t lost on Anneliese. "You were there."

  "Madness," Weddle murmured, shaking his head, as though the euphoria of that moment still lingered. "Pure madness. And yet…" He let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. "Reputation is a fickle thing. That single act of defiance unraveled a lifetime of conquest."

  Agrippa tilted his head. "So, Coble made it through unscathed?"

  "Oh no," Weddle chuckled, his voice dipping lower, speaking more to himself than to them. "Bare knuckles and a black eye sorted him out. But those little moments—those tiny, insignificant acts—those are the ones that turn the pages of history."

  "And Pragian’s capitulation? That’s just the part they bothered to write down. It says nothing of the silence that followed. That creeping breeze at your back, telling you—hold on. Hold on, because the right way up is about to tumble all the way down."

  "And down it did—for Derzhimont."

  The fire crackled, filling the silence that settled over the room.

  A gust of wind swept in as Sir Bradfrey entered, his face red and sniffling from the cold. “By God, that’s not a journey I wish to repeat tonight.”

  “My lord,” Agrippa said, snapping to attention.

  “Please, sit. All of you,” Bradfrey said, handing Weddle a leather messenger bag. It bulged with scrolls and parchment but lacked provisions. “I take it you’ll leave immediately?”

  “Yes, my lord.” Weddle cradled the bag with care.

  Bradfrey suddenly seized Weddle’s arm, the pressure of his grip speaking to the urgency in his words. “There are times for caution, and there are times for expedience. Be fast. Be direct. Be right.”

  The warmth drained from Weddle’s demeanor. He straightened, nodding briskly. “It shall be done, my lord.”

  “Good,” Bradfrey said, coughing as the evening’s cold caught his throat. He turned to Agrippa. “Prepare Anneliese for the journey north. Pack light. We ride at sunrise.”