The transfer of authority was anything but seamless.

  Since her baptism, Venessa’s absence had left Queen Marguen exposed, her rule weakened beneath the growing influence of Arcadius and Davos. Without Venessa’s guiding hand, the royal court eroded into something hollow. Once a battleground of ideas where noblemen vied for favor through wit and reputation, it had decayed into silence, its debates replaced by messengers relaying decrees from unseen hands.

  Such shadowed rule grated against Duke De La Castell’s patience. Though his wounds had reduced him to a pale shade of his former self, the fire in his mind remained unquenched, and his presence still carried weight.

  The same could not be said for Sir Tristan, who, at the time of Castell’s arrival, was already ensnared in the queen’s scorn. He stood before her like a man pleading his case before an unrelenting judge.

  “I have given my heart and soul in service to the crown,” he declared, his voice strained. “If I am guilty of anything, it is falling short of such lofty expectations.”

  “Enough,” Queen Marguen snapped, her words distant and weary. “Spare me your excuses.”

  “Queen Marguen.”

  Castell’s voice cut through the hushed chamber as he stepped forward, slow and deliberate. His steps chimed against the timber floor—not the stride of a man unsteady, but one certain of where he stood. Lowering himself into a bow, he pledged fealty.

  “How may I serve you, my great and noble ruler?”

  Marguen, like her mother, bore an air of cold detachment. But where Venessa had ruled with sharp words and calculated decisions, her daughter governed with silence. She issued no proclamations, only a flick of her wrist to summon Castell to his feet. Her voice, when it came, was often drowned beneath the counsel of another.

  From the shadows behind the dais, the newly anointed Vizier emerged.

  Davos moved with an unsettling stillness, his clerical robes swallowing the candlelight. The dark fabric seemed to drink in the warmth of the room, dimming its presence. When he spoke, it was not a greeting but a quiet assertion of control.

  “You’ve been rather reclusive, Duke De La Castell,” Davos remarked, stepping onto the royal dais with bare, dust-streaked feet. Sullied marble marking his territory.

  His partner in persuasion, Arcadius, lingered unseen, yet his corruption was evident—the thickened black veins above the guards’ temples, the bloodshot glaze in the queen’s eyes.

  “Where is the queen’s mother?” Castell asked.

  Still bowed in shame, Sir Tristan murmured a quiet warning. “We navigate treacherous water, my friend. Tread carefully.”

  “She is off on other matters,” Davos replied smoothly. Then, after a calculated pause, he asked, “Tell me, Duke De La Castell—were you ever baptized?”

  “As a child,” Castell answered, unruffled. “Your predecessor could have attested to that. Now, may I ask why I have been summoned?”

  Davos’s fingers drifted to a stack of parchment at his side. With a theatrical flourish, he scattered them before the queen’s throne.

  “What is your relationship with Draconian?”

  “One of mutual respect and necessity,” Castell replied, unflinching amid the rising hostility.

  “Then explain,” Davos pressed, “how Draconian and his heathenous circle found it ‘necessary’ to conspire with Viking invaders?”

  “That would be contrary to my understanding,” Castell countered, his gaze locking onto the queen. “Marguen, have you not read my messages?”

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  The queen did not answer. Her focus had drifted instead to Davos’s feet, which idly shifted through the parchments as if they were unfit for proper handling. With a satisfied hum, he singled one out and cleared his throat.

  “A letter from Draconian,” he read aloud. “‘Though your aid was most welcome, I can offer you no recourse other than to let slip those most unruly of my wizardry. The repercussions of which will almost certainly end in blood.’”

  His gaze flicked back to Castell. “Tell me, Duke, whose blood is he referring to?”

  “Pragians reaffirming their allegiance to the queen,” Castell answered, weariness creeping into his voice. “Read the letter in full. Our aid prevented further desertion.”

  Davos nudged another parchment with his foot before pivoting it into view. “Draconian again: ‘The church has pushed us to an ultimatum. Though I do not align directly with Bjarke, I agree this is existential to Pragian’s relationship with Vasier. Failure to act will pit the sinister against the unruly, as it has already incited elements within the wizardry against the queen.’”

  “Demonic forces within the church,” Castell snapped. “Read it all, or hold your damn tongue, Davos.”

  “Enough, Castell.” Marguen groaned, the clash of voices grinding against her thoughts. Frustration seeped into her tone. “I will not tolerate such blasphemy.”

  But Castell did not back down. “Draconian isn’t one for subtlety. He calls it as he sees it, but without context—”

  “I think we have enough context,” Davos interrupted. “Especially when our townships burn, and Draconian fans the flames of dissent.”

  Sir Tristan seized the opening. “Then let us deal with the unrest,” he suggested. “Have Draconian brought here to testify on his own behalf.”

  The words felt like betrayal to Castell, who turned his head away in disgust.

  Davos, delighted by the divide, glanced at Queen Marguen. He watched as Arcadius’s unseen hand took hold, twisting her emotions into something brittle and cold.

  Her tongue felt foreign in her mouth. When she spoke, her voice carried no authority, only submission.

  “My mother trusted you,” she murmured, “but I am not my mother. Draconian has failed in his duty and has shown himself to be the source of our instability. I grant you, Sir Tristan, and Duke De La Castell full authority to raise an army and bring him to justice. Else, you will be judged complicit in his treason.”

  Castell shook his head. “If my seal is not enough to summon him, how can I, in good conscience, wage war against him? I implore you, consult your mother—she will affirm Draconian’s true allegiance. He is flawed, yes, but not our enemy.”

  Marguen turned to Sir Tristan. “Who gave me those letters?”

  Sir Tristan hesitated. “Your mother, my queen.”

  “And why?” Davos pressed.

  Tristan swallowed hard, his face a pale mask of self-preservation. “After the churches started burning, she… came to her senses.”

  “Say it isn’t true,” Castell demanded, his gaze searching the swollen tear ducts of his trusted rival—needing to find doubt, hesitation—anything to make him believe otherwise.

  But Tristan only whispered again: “Tread carefully, my friend.”

  Davos loomed over Castell. “Need further convincing?”

  Reason could not untangle the twisted truths. Castell stood motionless, shell-shocked, a pinched nerve at his neck screaming for action. His voice, when it came, knew only one response.

  “I once served a lord who ruled by fear and spread that fear among his people.” Castell’s mind drifted to the battle of the Bloodless—the mistakes of his youth, where na?ve ambition had sought glory over righteousness, where the mistakes of his past imparted a wisdom that only shame could teach.

  “When your father pardoned me, he said: ‘The coward’s choice is to act in compliance when all moral virtues are in question.’ His words are scare tissue upon my soul, as I say to you now—Draconian is no traitor, just as I am no coward.”

  For the first time, confusion flickered across Marguen’s face. She had never known such defiance. For a brief, fragile moment, the mask of control cracked, revealing the turmoil beneath.

  Davos cleared his throat. “Ahem.” A quiet cue, awaiting the queen’s response.

  Marguen twitched, Arcadius’s grip tightening. The moment passed, her face smoothing into something dead and hollow.

  “I hereby strip you of your titles and lands. The house of Castell shall be no more. My most traitorous general shall spend his days in Vasier’s darkest dungeons.”

  The royal guards advanced.

  Castell did not wait for their hands to seize him.

  Reaching into his cloak, he produced a small vial. His gaze flicked to Sir Tristan—one final, silent exchange—before he tipped back the foul-tasting liquid.

  “I am ready to meet my maker—to be judged by the sum of my actions, good and bad.”

  With newfound resolve, Castell turned on his heel and stormed past the guards, slapping away grasping hands as they wrestled to restrain him. Their struggle spilled through the towering doors, dragging the confrontation beyond the court’s sight.

  Then came the clash of steel. A brief, violent struggle. A grunt of defiance. And then… silence. Those who remained in the chamber recoiled, bracing for the cries of agony that never came.

  “Pity,” Davos remarked, his demeanor unchanged as he awaited the queen’s command.

  No order was needed.

  Sir Tristan dropped to one knee, his head bowed. “If it’s Draconian you require, I will bring him to you—in chains or in the ground.”