The maps spread across the rough wooden table were meticulously detailed—military-grade renderings of southern Lore that should never have left the royal archives. Yet here they were, illuminated by lantern light in a cave deep within the Blackspine Mountains, their margins annotated with troop movements, patrol schedules, and the precise locations of boundary weaknesses.

  Valen Morr traced his finger along the twisting path of the Gilded River, following its course from Highcrest down to the scorched lands of Sunspire Province. His fingertips left faint smudges of ash on the parchment, residue from the ritual performed hours earlier. The ash would not wash away easily—a reminder of the price of the power he now commanded.

  "Lord Solari's execution has accelerated our timeline," he said, his voice carrying the lilting accent of the southern provinces despite years of exile. "The Amber King moved more decisively than anticipated."

  The five figures gathered around the table remained silent, their faces partially hidden beneath hoods that cast deep shadows. They were not equals—not even close—but Valen had long ago learned that the appearance of consultation bred stronger loyalty than naked autocracy.

  "Our informants report that the keystone at Sunspire remains weakened," he continued. "The boundary there is held together by little more than the king's Bloodright and a handful of court mages."

  "A tenuous arrangement at best," remarked the tallest of the hooded figures, her voice carrying the precise cadence of noble education. "The Bloodright was never meant to sustain a keystone indefinitely."

  "No," Valen agreed, a smile curving his lips. "Indeed it was not."

  He straightened, rolling his shoulders to ease the tension of hours bent over maps and scrolls. At thirty-two, Valen Morr cut an impressive figure—tall and lean, with the wiry strength of a swordsman rather than the brute power of a common soldier. His black hair, streaked prematurely with silver at the temples, was pulled back in a tight knot, emphasizing the sharp angles of his face. Only his eyes betrayed something unsettling—amber irises that occasionally caught the light with an unnatural greenish glint.

  "The Solari ritual succeeded before it was interrupted," he told his lieutenants. "Not fully, but enough. The masters beyond the boundary made contact. A door was opened, if only briefly."

  "And now that door is guarded by the king's men," pointed out a stocky, broad-shouldered man to Valen's right—Karras, once a captain in House Solari's guard before pledging himself to the rebellion.

  "True." Valen moved to a stone pedestal at the side of the chamber, where a cloth-covered object rested. "But doors, once opened, can be opened again. Especially when one possesses the proper key."

  With a swift motion, he pulled away the cloth, revealing a blade unlike any forged in Lore. The sword's hilt was ancient iron, wrapped in leather blackened with age. But it was the blade itself that commanded attention—a twisted length of what appeared to be solid crystal, translucent and colorless until light struck it. Then, from deep within its core, swirls of sickly green energy pulsed, intertwined with strands of amber light that mirrored the Bloodright's golden glow.

  "The Riven Blade," Valen said, his voice dropping to something close to reverence. "Forged beyond the boundary, tempered in the blood of a Bloodright carrier, and brought into our world during the Dark Years before the Covenant."

  A collective intake of breath echoed through the cave chamber. The weapon was more than just a sword—it was a heresy given physical form, a direct challenge to the Covenant's fundamental laws.

  "Recovered from the ruins beyond Sunspire," he continued, "where it had lain dormant for centuries, waiting for one with the will to wield it."

  "And the ability to survive its touch," added the noblewoman quietly. "How many died in the attempt, Lord Morr?"

  Valen's expression remained undisturbed by the question. "Seventeen. Their sacrifice serves a greater purpose."

  He lifted the sword, and the green energy within the blade intensified, responding to his grip. Where the crystal touched his skin, fine lines of the same color spread beneath his flesh, tracing the path of veins up his arm before fading beneath his sleeve.

  "The blade recognizes Bloodright—corrupts it, channels it." His eyes gleamed with the same greenish light that infused the weapon. "Even the diluted traces that flow in those descended from cadet branches of the royal line."

  Few knew that Valen Morr carried such heritage—the great-grandson of a disgraced Blackthorn prince, exiled for treason generations ago. The blood had thinned over the decades, never manifesting in any meaningful power. Until now. Until the blade had awakened something dormant within him, offering a twisted echo of the Bloodright's potential.

  "With this," he said, "we can cut through the boundary itself. Create breaches that no keystone can repair."

  "And what precisely comes through those breaches, my lord?" The question came from a slender figure at the end of the table—Lyra, once Valen's most trusted companion, now increasingly cautious as their plans progressed.

  Valen lowered the blade, regarding her with a gaze that revealed nothing of his thoughts. "Our allies, of course. Those who will help us topple the corrupt monarchy and restore Lore to a more... natural state."

  "Natural," Lyra repeated, the word hanging in the air between them like a challenge.

  "The Covenant is a cage," Valen replied, addressing the entire group but never breaking eye contact with Lyra. "A prison built by the first Blackthorn king to contain not just threats from beyond, but magic itself. To control it. To ensure his dynasty alone would command true power."

  He set the blade back on its pedestal, though his fingers lingered on the hilt as if reluctant to break contact.

  "The boundary doesn't just keep things out—it keeps us in. Trapped in a world where magic withers, where only those with Bloodright can access the full spectrum of power." His voice hardened. "Meanwhile, creatures of immense magical potential wait beyond, willing to share their gifts with those brave enough to accept them."

  "Creatures that once terrorized Lore before the Covenant," Lyra pointed out. "The histories are quite clear on this point."

  "Histories written by the victors," Valen countered smoothly. "By those who feared sharing power with the common folk. The Bloodright Tyranny has lasted centuries—it's time for it to end."

  He turned back to the maps, effectively closing the debate. "The king's forces are spread thin, focused on securing Sunspire and the damaged keystone. Our opportunity lies in the north."

  "Highcrest itself?" Karras asked, sounding skeptical.

  "Eventually. But first, the Northern Keystone." Valen indicated a point on the map where the boundary curved around the frigid northern territories. "Less heavily guarded than the others, considered naturally protected by the harsh terrain. A small force could reach it undetected if they travel through the Frost Passes."

  "The passes are treacherous this time of year," Karras observed. "Many would not survive the journey."

  "Then we'll send those we can afford to lose," Valen replied without hesitation. "The expendable. The truly committed."

  "And their objective?" asked the noblewoman.

  "Not destruction," Valen said. "Not yet. The Northern Keystone is too stable to damage directly. We need only to place this near it."

  From his pocket he withdrew a small crystal shard that appeared to have been broken from the Riven Blade itself. It pulsed with the same sickly green light, though fainter, more contained.

  "A seed. Once planted in proximity to the keystone, it will begin to corrupt the boundary from within. Slowly. Subtly. By the time the king's mages detect the interference, the damage will be irreversible."

  "And when the Northern Keystone fails?" Lyra pressed.

  Valen's smile returned, cold and determined. "Then the boundary weakens enough for our true work to begin. For our allies to provide more substantial assistance."

  He looked around the table, meeting each lieutenant's gaze in turn. "Prepare your cells. We move in three days. Karras, select forty of your most loyal fighters for the northern mission. Nessa," he nodded to the noblewoman, "ensure our supply caches along the route are stocked. The rest of you, maintain our intelligence network. I want to know every move the Amber King makes."

  As the meeting dispersed, Valen returned to the Riven Blade, wrapping it carefully in its protective cloth. The corrupted energy within it sang to him even through the barrier, a whispered promise of power and vengeance.

  He had waited years for this moment. For the chance to strike not just at the monarchy, but at the very foundations of the magical order that had denied him his birthright. That had condemned him to exile for daring to question the absolute authority of the Bloodright.

  That had taken Eliza from him.

  The thought of her brought a different kind of pain—sharper, more personal than his political grievances. Five years had passed since he'd last seen her, standing in the royal courtyard as the sentence of exile was pronounced. She had not spoken in his defense. Had not even met his eyes as the guards led him away.

  News of her subsequent rise in court, of her relationship with the new king, had reached Valen even in exile. The information had burned like acid, fueling his determination to tear down everything the Blackthorn dynasty had built.

  Including the man who now claimed Eliza's heart.

  "My lord." Lyra had lingered behind the others, her hood now pushed back to reveal a face marked by a thin scar that ran from temple to jaw—the brand of a traitor, given to those who betrayed Great House oaths. "A moment, please."

  Valen gestured for her to speak freely, though his attention remained on the wrapped blade.

  "The corruption is spreading faster than before," she said quietly. "I can see it in your eyes, in the way the veins stand out in your arm when you wield the blade."

  "A temporary side effect," he dismissed. "The price of progress."

  "Is it?" Lyra moved closer, lowering her voice further. "Valen, we've known each other too long for such deceptions. Whatever comes through the boundary when it falls—whatever speaks to you through that blade—it doesn't share our goals. It has its own agenda."

  Valen turned to face her fully, his expression hardening. "You think I don't know that? You think I trust these entities blindly?"

  "I think the blade changes those who wield it. I've watched you transform over these past months. Your hatred for the king—it's become something consuming, something beyond political opposition."

  "My hatred," Valen said coldly, "is entirely justified. Tarek Blackthorn is a usurper, a street rat who claimed the throne through magical trickery and political manipulation."

  "And Eliza?" Lyra asked, her gaze steady despite the danger of pressing him on this particular point. "Is your hatred of her equally justified?"

  Something flickered in Valen's eyes—a brief glimpse of the man he had been before exile, before the blade. A man capable of love as well as rage.

  "I don't hate Eliza," he said finally. "I pity her. She's been deceived, drawn into the Blackthorn web of lies about the Covenant, about the boundary's purpose."

  "She chose her path, Valen. As did you."

  "No." His voice hardened again. "Her choice was made under false pretenses. She doesn't understand what the Bloodright truly is, what it does to those who carry it." His hand drifted to the wrapped blade. "But she will. When our work is complete, when the boundary falls and the truth is revealed—she'll see that I was right all along."

  Lyra studied him for a long moment, then nodded once, conceding the argument if not the point. "Just remember our original purpose. Freedom from the Bloodright Tyranny, not merely exchanging one master for another."

  "I haven't forgotten," Valen assured her, though his expression remained closed, unreadable. "Now go. Prepare your people. The northern mission will require precise coordination."

  After she departed, Valen remained alone with the blade, feeling its pulse like a second heartbeat. He unwrapped it once more, examining the twisted crystal with a mixture of fascination and wariness.

  The weapon had found him six months ago, in the aftermath of the Covenant's restoration. He had been leading a raid on a boundary outpost when the ground had split open during the magical upheaval, revealing an ancient chamber sealed for centuries. Inside, resting on an altar of stone, the Riven Blade had waited—as if anticipating his arrival.

  When he had first touched it, the pain had been indescribable. Like liquid fire pouring through his veins, seeking out the dormant traces of Blackthorn blood and setting them alight. He had survived where seventeen others had failed, awakening to find the blade changed—and himself changed with it.

  The whispers had begun then. Soft at first, almost inaudible. Guidance. Knowledge. Secrets of the boundary and the Bloodright that no living person possessed. Gradually, the voices had grown clearer, more insistent, offering visions of a world transformed—a world where magic flowed freely, where the barrier between realms dissolved, where power belonged to those with the courage to claim it.

  Where Eliza would finally understand the truth.

  He raised the blade now, watching as the corrupt energy surged in response to his touch, green tendrils spreading beneath his skin once more. The sensation was no longer painful—instead, it brought a rush of strength, of clarity, of purpose.

  Of rightness.

  "Soon," he whispered, both to himself and to whatever listened from beyond the boundary. "Soon the cage will break. And all of Lore will know freedom."

  Or burn in the attempt.

  ---

  The royal gardens of Highcrest sprawled across the eastern side of the palace grounds, a meticulously maintained showcase of the kingdom's botanical diversity. Formal hedgerows near the main structures gave way to more natural landscapes as one ventured further from the palace—wooded groves, flowering meadows, and finally, at the easternmost edge, a small lake fed by an underground spring.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  It was here, beside the reed-fringed waters, that Tarek found Eliza waiting. She sat on a stone bench beneath a weeping willow, its long branches creating a curtain of green that offered rare privacy. As he approached, she looked up from the book in her lap, her expression shifting from concentration to concern.

  "That bad?" she asked, setting the book aside.

  Tarek managed a tired smile. "Is it so evident?"

  "Only to someone who knows what to look for." She moved over, making space for him on the bench. As he sat beside her, she added, "The Council meeting seemed productive enough. No open rebellions, at least."

  "Not in the chamber itself, no." Tarek leaned back, allowing his carefully maintained facade to drop now that they were alone. "Though Pellinor grows bolder in his disapproval. The succession question again."

  "Ah." A shadow passed over Eliza's face. "His marriageable niece has returned from the Western Territories, I hear. Conveniently timed."

  "You've been keeping your ear to the ground."

  "It's what I do best," she replied with a small smile. "That, and managing to look decorative while gathering intelligence the king's official spies would never access."

  Despite his dark mood, Tarek felt a surge of admiration for her adaptability. The noblewomen who had once snubbed Eliza now unwittingly provided her with a constant stream of court gossip and political insights. Their dismissal of her as merely the king's favorite had become her greatest asset.

  "Pellinor can parade every eligible noblewoman in Lore before me," he said, taking her hand. "It won't change anything."

  Eliza's fingers tightened around his. "Perhaps not for you. But the pressure will increase, Tarek. The Great Houses want certainty, stability. They want a queen from one of their ancient bloodlines, not—"

  "Not the daughter of a minor house who earned her position through merit rather than birth?" he finished, a hint of anger coloring his tone. "If that's what they want, they'll be disappointed."

  She studied him for a moment, her perceptive gaze seeing beyond his words to the deeper unease that had brought him to the gardens. "But you didn't ask me here to discuss Pellinor's matchmaking schemes. What's wrong, Tarek? Truly?"

  He hesitated, weighing how much to tell her. The nightmare still felt too raw, too personal to share completely. Yet keeping it entirely to himself seemed equally impossible.

  "The dreams have returned," he said finally. "Worse than before."

  Understanding dawned in her eyes. Since their return from Sunspire, Tarek had experienced increasingly vivid nightmares—visions of boundary breaches, of ancient enemies returning, of a kingdom in flames. He had shared some details with Eliza, though never the most disturbing elements.

  "What did you see?" she asked gently.

  "The eighth keystone." He watched her carefully as he spoke the words, noting how her body tensed slightly at the mention. "Rising from beneath the throne room, corrupted with green energy."

  "The eighth..." Eliza's voice trailed off. She was among the few who knew of the mythical keystone's existence, having helped research the Covenant's history during Tarek's succession crisis. "You believe it's real, then? Not just a legend?"

  "Edric Blackthorn's journals are quite clear. He created eight keystones, but found the eighth too dangerous to use." Tarek looked out across the lake, where late afternoon sunlight danced on the water's surface. "He hid it somewhere, never revealing the location even in his private writings."

  "And now you're dreaming of it." Eliza's tone remained carefully neutral, but he could sense her concern. "Do you think these are just dreams, Tarek? Or something more... prophetic?"

  It was the question he'd been avoiding, the fear that had kept him awake through so many nights. The Bloodright granted many abilities, some still not fully understood even after centuries of Blackthorn rule. Prophetic visions were rare but not unprecedented among those who carried the royal magic.

  "I don't know," he admitted. "But what I saw felt real. And it matches what we learned at Sunspire—the Order's remnants are searching for something hidden, something connected to the boundary's creation."

  Eliza nodded slowly, processing the information. "If the eighth keystone exists, and if someone finds it before we do..."

  "The consequences could be catastrophic." Tarek turned back to her, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from her face, needing the physical connection. "But that's not all I saw, Eliza."

  She caught his hand, holding it against her cheek. "Tell me."

  He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again, unable to form the words that would describe her lifeless body among the ashes, the corrupt energy possessing her form. Instead, he said, "I saw destruction. Complete and absolute. The boundary failing, the kingdom burning, the Bloodright itself somehow... corrupted."

  It wasn't the whole truth, but it wasn't entirely a lie either.

  Eliza seemed to sense his omission but didn't press further. Instead, she asked, "Have you spoken with Magister Rook about these dreams? He might have insight from the royal archives that even Edric's journals don't contain."

  "Not yet. I wanted to speak with you first." Tarek hesitated. "There's another matter. One that may be connected, though I can't be certain."

  "Go on."

  "Our agents in the south have reported increased rebel activity. Small groups, well-organized, targeting boundary outposts and patrol routes." He kept his tone deliberately casual, though watching her reaction closely. "Led by Valen Morr."

  The name hung in the air between them. Tarek had never asked about Eliza's history with Valen—had respected her silence on the matter despite the rumors that had reached even his ears. But with Morr now posing a direct threat to the kingdom's security, the past could no longer remain unaddressed.

  For a moment, Eliza's composure faltered, a flicker of something—pain? regret?—crossing her features before she mastered herself again.

  "Valen," she said softly. "I hadn't heard he'd returned from exile."

  "He hasn't, officially. He's operating from the borderlands, beyond our immediate jurisdiction but close enough to cause significant disruption." Tarek paused, then added, "The reports suggest he's changed. That he wields some form of magic despite having no Bloodright heritage."

  This caught her attention. "That's impossible. The Covenant restricts high magic to Bloodright carriers alone. It's the fundamental law of the boundary's creation."

  "Impossible under normal circumstances, yes." Tarek's expression darkened. "But if the boundary is weakening, if corrupted magic is leaking through..."

  "Then all our assumptions about magical limitations may no longer apply," Eliza finished, her mind clearly racing with the implications. "Have there been any direct confrontations? Any witnesses to this supposed magic?"

  "Three boundary guards survived an attack two weeks ago. They described Morr wielding a crystal blade that emitted green light, similar to what we encountered at Sunspire." Tarek watched her carefully. "They also said he knew you. Asked them to deliver a message."

  Eliza went very still. "What message?"

  "That the cage would soon break, and you would understand the truth." Tarek kept his voice level, though it required effort. "That he hadn't forgotten his promise."

  The color drained from Eliza's face, but her expression remained controlled. Years at court had taught her to mask her reactions, even from him.

  "Eliza," Tarek said quietly, "I need to know. Who is Valen Morr to you? What was between you?"

  She was silent for a long moment, her gaze shifting to the lake, where shadows had begun to lengthen as evening approached. When she finally spoke, her voice carried the weight of painful memories carefully contained.

  "Valen was... many things. A friend in my youth. Later, something more." She met Tarek's eyes directly. "We were to be married, five years ago. Before his exile."

  Though Tarek had suspected as much, hearing the confirmation stirred a complex mix of emotions—jealousy, certainly, but also a deeper concern. If Morr had been close enough to Eliza to become her betrothed, what secrets might he know? What vulnerabilities might he exploit?

  "Why was he exiled?" Tarek asked, though he suspected he already knew the answer.

  "He questioned the Covenant's purpose. Publicly. Repeatedly." Eliza's fingers twisted together in her lap, a rare display of discomfort. "He believed—still believes, apparently—that the boundary doesn't just protect Lore from external threats. That it was created primarily to restrict magic, to ensure only those with Bloodright could wield significant power."

  "A common enough conspiracy theory among those who resent the monarchy," Tarek observed.

  "Yes, but Valen went further. He began researching ancient texts, pre-Covenant history. Claimed to have found evidence that the first Blackthorn king deliberately imprisoned entities that could have shared magical abilities more widely." She shook her head. "When that wasn't enough to gain attention, he publicly accused your father of suppressing magical knowledge that could have benefited the kingdom."

  "Treason," Tarek said, understanding now. "Hence the exile rather than execution—a mercy, given the offense."

  "Your father was... kinder than he might have been." Eliza's expression softened slightly with the memory. "Perhaps because Valen was well-respected before his obsession took hold. He had served as a diplomatic envoy to the Eastern Territories, was known for his intelligence and charm."

  "And you?" Tarek couldn't help asking. "Did you share his views?"

  "No." Her answer came firmly, without hesitation. "I tried to dissuade him, to show him the historical inconsistencies in his theories. But by then, he was beyond reason. The Valen I had known—the man I had agreed to marry—was gone, replaced by someone consumed with conspiracy and resentment."

  "You didn't speak at his trial," Tarek observed, recalling the records he'd reviewed after hearing of Morr's return. "Didn't defend him."

  A flash of old pain crossed Eliza's features. "What defense could I offer? He spoke his treason openly, proudly. He wanted martyrdom, and I refused to help him achieve it." Her voice hardened slightly. "The night before his trial, he asked me to flee with him. To help spread his 'truth' beyond the kingdom's borders. When I refused, he said I would understand one day, when he returned to break the cage."

  The phrase echoed the message delivered by the boundary guards. Whatever else had changed about Valen Morr in exile, his determination to undermine the Covenant remained fixed.

  "And now he's returned, with magic that should be impossible and knowledge of boundary weaknesses that few possess." Tarek's tone was grim. "The timing is unlikely to be coincidence. Not with what we discovered at Sunspire, not with the dreams..."

  "No," Eliza agreed. "Not coincidence." She turned to face him fully. "Tarek, if Valen has found a way to corrupt boundary magic, if he's working with whatever entities reached through at Sunspire—"

  "Then we face a threat unlike any since the Covenant's creation," he finished. "A threat with intimate knowledge of the court, of our defenses." He didn't add 'of you,' though the thought hung unspoken between them.

  "I should have told you about him sooner," Eliza said quietly. "I'm sorry. I thought that chapter of my life was closed, that Valen would never return from exile."

  "You've nothing to apologize for," Tarek assured her, taking her hand once more. "We all have pasts, Eliza. What matters is where our loyalties lie now."

  She looked down at their intertwined fingers, then back to his face. "With you. With the kingdom. Never doubt that, Tarek."

  He believed her. Despite the jealousy that lingered at the thought of her with another man, despite the potential complications Morr's return created, Tarek trusted Eliza completely. She had proven her devotion to him and to Lore countless times over.

  "We need to find the eighth keystone before Morr does," he said, his mind already turning to strategy. "If it exists, if it's as dangerous as Edric believed, we can't risk it falling into corrupt hands."

  "Where would we even begin to look?" Eliza asked. "Edric Blackthorn left no clues to its location in any records I've studied."

  "Perhaps not directly. But there might be indirect references, patterns we've overlooked." Tarek stood, feeling the weight of the crown even though he wasn't physically wearing it. "I'll speak with Magister Rook. Have him search the oldest sections of the archives. And Frost should be informed about Morr's return—he'll need to strengthen our boundary patrols, especially in the south."

  Eliza rose as well, her practical nature asserting itself as it always did in times of crisis. "I'll speak with my network. Some of the noble wives have estates near the southern border—they may have heard rumors, noticed unusual activities that formal reports wouldn't capture."

  As they began walking back toward the palace, Tarek felt the Bloodright stir within him—not the violent surge of his nightmares, but the steady, comforting pulse of power under control. Whatever dreams might come, whatever threats Valen Morr and his rebels posed, he was still the Amber King, still the protector of the realm.

  He glanced at Eliza beside him, her profile sharp against the setting sun, and made a silent vow. He would find the eighth keystone. Would secure the boundary against all threats. Would protect both kingdom and queen, official or not.

  And if Valen Morr stood in his way—if the exiled traitor dared threaten what Tarek held dear—then the Bloodright would show no mercy. Not for a man who had once claimed Eliza's heart, not for anyone who sought to break the Covenant's protection.

  The rebel's blade might hunger for corruption, but the king's fire would burn even brighter in defense of what was his.