King Reymond Blackthorn stared at the map of Lore spread across the council table, the colored tokens representing troop movements growing blurry before his tired eyes. He blinked hard, willing his vision to clear. The physician had warned him against overexertion, but a dying king had little time for rest.

  "Your Majesty?" Lord Commander Voss's voice cut through his momentary lapse. "Shall I continue?"

  Reymond straightened, ignoring the sharp pain that lanced through his chest. "Proceed."

  The council chamber fell silent as Voss moved wooden markers across the southern border of the map. "The Terris forces have withdrawn as agreed, but our scouts report they're maintaining camps just beyond the treaty line. Their numbers have increased in the past fortnight."

  "They're testing us," muttered Lord Calavere, his weathered face creased with disdain. "Seeing if we've grown too weak to enforce our borders."

  "We have grown weak," Lady Merren replied, her golden rings catching the afternoon light. "The treasury is depleted, our army decimated. Half our fields lie fallow because we've lost too many farmers to the war."

  Reymond studied her carefully. Adira Merren had always been pragmatic, but lately, her reports carried an undercurrent of something more. Anxiety, perhaps. Or knowledge she wasn't sharing.

  "What of Rais?" the king asked, shifting attention to their northern neighbor.

  Chancellor Edric Solari, the youngest member of the council, cleared his throat. "Their ambassador arrived yesterday. King Tallas sends his regards and reaffirms their neutrality."

  "Neutrality," scoffed Lord Calavere. "They watched us bleed for five years and did nothing."

  "Which was their right," Reymond said, raising a hand to silence further argument. "We cannot fault them for refusing to be drawn into our war."

  The pain in his chest intensified, a familiar vise tightening around his lungs. He reached for his goblet, hoping the wine might mask the bitter taste of the medicine dissolved within. The council continued their reports, but the words began to blur together as the king fought to maintain his composure.

  Five years of war. Both his sons dead. The kingdom faltering.

  And he, its king, failing with every labored breath.

  "Your Majesty?" Chancellor Solari's voice broke through the fog. "Perhaps we should adjourn? You seem—"

  "I'm fine," Reymond snapped, with more force than intended. Softer, he added, "We've matters still to discuss."

  The council exchanged glances, the unspoken concern on their faces more damning than any whispered gossip. They knew. Everyone knew. The king was dying, and Lore had no heir.

  "Your reports have been received," he said finally. "Lord Commander, strengthen our southern patrols. Lady Merren, work with the treasury to allocate emergency funds for the spring planting. We must avoid famine at all costs." He rose slowly, steadying himself against the table. "We'll reconvene tomorrow."

  The council members bowed and filed out, leaving only Chancellor Solari lingering by the door.

  "Was there something else, Chancellor?" Reymond asked.

  Solari hesitated, then closed the door, ensuring they were alone. "Your Majesty, I've had word from the physician. He believes your condition has... progressed."

  "Tell me something I don't know, Edric."

  "The council must discuss succession." The words hung in the air between them. "Without Prince Aldric or Prince Edric, the noble houses will soon begin positioning themselves. There are already whispers of alliances forming."

  Reymond moved to the window, gazing out over Highcrest. From the castle's highest tower, he could see all three rings of the city—from the gleaming spires of the Upper Ring to the crowded tenements of the Dregs. His city. His responsibility.

  "I'm aware of the political maneuvering," he said quietly. "Lord Tidesong has already suggested his grandson carries a distant drop of Blackthorn blood."

  "As has Lady Vantian regarding her niece," Solari added. "Though both claims are tenuous at best."

  Reymond sighed, the weight of his crown suddenly unbearable. "And what does the Chancellor advise?"

  "Name an heir, Your Majesty. Soon. Before others make the choice for you."

  After Solari departed, Reymond dismissed his attendants and retreated to his private chambers. The royal apartments felt cavernous now, haunted by absence. Portraits of his sons lined the walls—Aldric, his firstborn, serious and steady; Edric, younger and more impulsive, but brilliant with strategy. Both gone. Aldric's body returned on a shield, Edric's never recovered after the assassination.

  His wife, Queen Elisabet, had preceded them in death years ago. Sometimes he wondered if she had been the fortunate one, spared from witnessing their family's devastation.

  Reymond sank into a chair by the hearth, staring into the flames. He should have been prepared for this. A king always plans for succession. But he'd had two strong sons, both trained from birth to rule. The possibility of losing both had seemed remote, even during war.

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  A discreet knock interrupted his thoughts.

  "Enter," he called, not looking away from the fire.

  Captain Damen Frost stepped into the room, his weathered face carefully neutral as he offered a formal bow. Of all his King's Guard, Damen alone had been with him long enough to remember the man beneath the crown.

  "You sent for me, Your Majesty?"

  "Close the door, Damen."

  The captain obeyed, then stood at attention, hands clasped behind his back. Always the soldier, even after twenty-five years of service.

  "How long have we known each other?" Reymond asked.

  Damen's brow furrowed slightly. "Since the northern campaign, sire. Thirty years, perhaps."

  "And in those thirty years, have I ever asked you to break your oaths?"

  "No, Your Majesty."

  Reymond reached for a small wooden box on the side table, his fingers trembling slightly as he opened it. Inside lay a royal seal—smaller than his official signet, but bearing the same thorned crown of House Blackthorn.

  "I'm going to ask you to break one tonight."

  Damen's expression didn't change, but his shoulders tensed. "Which oath, sire?"

  "The one where you swore to uphold the laws of succession." Reymond removed the seal, holding it in his palm. "The one where you promised to recognize only legitimate Blackthorn heirs."

  Understanding dawned in the captain's eyes. "You're speaking of the boy."

  "I am."

  Twenty-one years ago, in the aftermath of Queen Elisabet's third miscarriage, Reymond had sought comfort in the arms of a court lady—a beautiful, fiery woman named Lyra. What began as a moment of weakness became a months-long affair, ended only when she appeared in his private chambers, trembling with the news of her pregnancy.

  The scandal would have been ruinous. The queen, still grieving her loss, would have been humiliated. Reymond had given Lyra gold, a small house in the Middle Ring, and a promise that the child would never want for necessities. Then he had banished her from court and tried to forget.

  But a king never truly forgets an heir, even one born on the wrong side of the sheets.

  "You've watched over him?" Reymond asked.

  Damen nodded. "As you commanded. From a distance. He's grown into a capable young man. Quick-witted. Resourceful."

  "Does he know?"

  "No. The mother never told him."

  Reymond closed his eyes, relief and regret mingling in his chest. He'd forbidden Lyra from revealing the boy's parentage, threatening to withdraw his financial support if she ever breathed a word. The gold had stopped flowing years ago—after the queen's death, when guilt had overwhelmed him—but by then, Lyra had established herself independently.

  "I need you to bring him to me," the king said finally. "Discreetly."

  Damen hesitated. "Forgive me, Your Majesty, but the law is clear. A bastard cannot inherit."

  "The law is what I say it is." Reymond's voice hardened. "I am still king."

  "The council won't accept him. The noble houses will rebel."

  "They'll accept him because they must. Because the alternative is civil war." Reymond rose from his chair, fighting a wave of dizziness. "My sons are dead, Damen. My wife is gone. I have no daughters, no nephews, no cousins close enough to claim the throne without challenge. But I have a son—a son with Blackthorn blood, with my blood—living in the shadows of my own city."

  He pressed the small seal into Damen's reluctant hand. "Find him. Bring him to the castle. Tell no one why."

  "And the mother?"

  Reymond turned back to the fire. "Leave her be, for now. The boy first."

  After Damen left, the king crossed to a small, unadorned chest kept locked in his bedchamber. The key hung on a chain around his neck, nestled against his skin. Inside lay the only portrait he possessed of Lyra—a small painting commissioned in secret during their affair. Her red hair tumbled around her shoulders, her green eyes bright with laughter.

  Beside it was a sealed letter, never delivered, addressed simply to "My Son."

  Reymond touched the parchment briefly, then closed the chest and locked it again. There would be time for explanations later, if the gods granted him enough days. For now, he needed to conserve his strength for what would come next.

  The council would resist. The nobles would scheme. Enemies beyond their borders would see opportunity in the chaos of an uncertain succession.

  But a king did what was necessary to protect his realm, even if it meant defying tradition, law, and his own past decisions.

  Reymond moved to the window, watching as twilight descended over Highcrest. Somewhere in those winding streets, his last living son went about his life, unaware that before the next full moon, he would either be a prince or a corpse.

  The king could only pray he hadn't waited too long to acknowledge the truth—that sometimes, salvation came from the shadows.