Stationed in the Eldertree Woods for many moons now, Sir Corvus had gotten used to the routine. Slowly, he began to forget the comforts of the capital—the tasty wine, the beautiful women, the comfortable bed. Now, he had to live in this shithole with so many smelly men. How different the lives of two brothers were, just because one had been born before the other. His older brother, King Roderick, had always gotten the better things, of course. The heir to the throne of Thaldranor, the Duke of Goldenvale—the title given to the heir apparent. And for the crime of being born a decade late, what had Corvus gotten? He'd escaped the civil war that devastated the lands, and perhaps that was a blessing. His disgust for wielding a sword stemmed from those days, but his pursuit of power to protect his realm grew stronger with every passing day. He had learned long ago that power was all that mattered—after all, the man with the bigger stick would always win .Maybe being born later wasn't so bad after all. Roderick would often return home from battle after battle, telling his younger brother of the tragedy of war—the pain, the suffering. Though Corvus had no titles or land, he was still a knight—the knight, the Champion of Thaldranor. After the civil wars ended, Corvus had been sent to the Great Master of Arms, Elckhort the One-Eyed. Elckhort had been one of the few surviving members of the Holy Order of Myr and had only accepted pupils who passed his grueling test—regardless of who they were. Fortunately for the honour of the royal family , Corvus passed it. Poor Corvus never got to stay in the Castles of Thaldara for long, He stayed with his master and trained day and night , always critiqued and ridiculed by Elckhort , no matter how hard he worked it never mattered.

  Though many moons had passed, and the soldiers grew increasingly impatient with each passing day, Corvus's thoughts often wandered far from the task at hand. The rebels, those scum who dared raid and plunder in the name of the pretender, had proven elusive, hiding deep in the Eldertree Woods. The royal army had tracked them this far, but it was only a matter of time before the rebels were found. And yet, despite the mounting pressure, Corvus's mind wasn't on strategy or the enemy.

  He had woken that day with little expectation, his routine a blur of orders and distant threats, but there was one thought that always crept into his mind. Arielle. She was so beautiful—her golden hair glistening in the sunlight like a crown of light, her green eyes a reflection of the world he wished he could return to. He missed the soft smile that had always calmed his restless heart, the laughter that seemed to warm the coldest of nights. In the midst of the rebellion, the forest, the war, it was her face that he saw in the quiet moments. The weight of his duty seemed lighter when he thought of her, and yet, he couldn't shake the feeling of being far, far away from everything he truly cared about.

  It was a cruel irony—here he was, deep in the Eldertree Woods, hunting rebels, while she remained a memory, a distant star he could never quite reach.

  The stillness of the forest pressed in on him, but then, a sound pierced the air—a strange, high-pitched call. Corvus's gaze snapped up, his muscles tensing instinctively. His first thought was that it was a scout, perhaps a messenger. But then, from the canopy above, there came a shimmer of light—a silvery figure cutting through the trees with uncanny speed. It was no man, no scout—it was a bird.

  The creature descended with almost supernatural grace, wings fluttering softly as it landed in front of him, its feathers a cascade of silvery light. A Skywhisper. Corvus's breath caught in his chest. Few had ever seen one, let alone had the honor of receiving its delivery. The bird's piercing, storm-gray eyes met his, and it tilted its head as if waiting for him to make the next move.

  For a moment, Corvus remained frozen, his heart pounding with the strange, sudden urgency in the air. The bird's chest heaved, and it extended one delicate claw, holding a scroll sealed with a crowned uniform standing on its hindlegs the royal insignia of King Roderick. A message, carried on the wings of magic, meant for his eyes alone.

  Corvus took the scroll, the weight of it as heavy as the responsibility that now pressed upon him. The Skywhisper, its task complete, trilled once, a sound that seemed to echo through the dense woods, then took flight, vanishing into the canopy with the same graceful speed with which it had come.

  He unsealed the letter with trembling hands, his mind already racing ahead, wondering what news it would bring. His brother's handwriting—sharp and urgent—caught his eye.

  "Dear Brother,

  We are at war.

  A terrible calamity approaches—one that threatens us all. I will speak more of this in person, for words on parchment cannot bear the full weight of what's to come.

  The council has fractured. No voice could restore reason—not even the wisdom of Orin the All-Seeing. His counsel fell on deaf ears.

  As in the Great War a millennium past, it is once again mankind against the rest of the world.

  Leave a detachment to hunt down the rebels. You must ride for the Trade Capital at once. It will serve as the rendezvous point for the Champions of the Three Kingdoms and their armies.

  May Drakonian shield you until we meet again.

  —Roderick"

  The great paladin paced restlessly, his thoughts consumed by the route to the rendezvous point. Commanding a grand army of 100,000 men, Corvus knew that their march through the dense woods would take weeks—four, at the very least. His scout, a local, had warned him of the dangers lurking within the forest: creatures, beasts, monsters, and the ever-present risk of ambush. To make matters worse, their rations would only sustain them for three weeks. It was a grim reality. If they didn't find resupply soon, attrition would claim many lives.

  After much deliberation, Corvus chose a path that cut through the heart of the forest, leading directly to the third-largest human city on the continent. There, he hoped to replenish his supplies before continuing on to the rendezvous point.

  For days, they pressed on—an unyielding force, moving through the shadowed woods with single-minded determination. Sleep was a luxury none could afford; their only respite came in brief moments when they tore into their rations between the relentless march. Weariness hung over them like a shroud, but there was no time for slowing down. The Great War loomed closer, and every second was crucial.

  By the seventh day, the strain was undeniable. Men stumbled, their steps sluggish, their faces gaunt. The forest seemed to close in around them, an oppressive weight that mirrored the exhaustion in their bones.

  Corvus halted the column, sensing the need for a reprieve. His soldiers were on the verge of breaking. "Camp," he ordered, his voice a rasp. "Set up a perimeter and rest. But stay sharp."

  The scream tore through the night like a blade through silk.

  Corvus shot to his feet, his armour creaking as he reached for his sword. Around him, men stirred in panic, hands fumbling for weapons, eyes wide with the terror of the unknown. The scout who had screamed stumbled into the firelight, face pale as bone, lips trembling.

  "Chimera," he choked out, barely louder than a whisper.

  A ripple of dread pulsed through the camp. Corvus's blood ran cold—not from fear, but recognition. He'd heard the legends. Everyone had. But legends weren't supposed to leave claw marks in the dirt.

  With a curt nod, he motioned for silence and stalked into the trees, alone.

  The forest swallowed him.

  The torchlight faded behind him, replaced by shifting shadows and the hushed whisper of leaves underfoot. Every tree loomed like a specter. The silence was unnatural—no insects, no birds, just the crunch of his boots and the low hum of something breathing where it shouldn't be.

  Then—a growl. Deep. Rattling. Predatory.

  Corvus froze.

  From behind a thick cluster of trees, it emerged.

  First, the lion head. Its golden mane, not yet full, bristled like fire as its jaws parted in a soundless roar—sharp fangs gleaming with spit. Beside it, a goat's head turned to face him with eerie calm, its glassy eyes unblinking, a low bleat escaping like a taunt. But it was the dragon's head that stopped his breath.

  The reptilian eyes locked onto him with impossible intelligence—ancient, calculating. Its nostrils flared as it inhaled, scales along its snout crackling like kindling.

  Corvus's instincts screamed.

  He dove aside just as fire exploded from the dragon's mouth—a white-hot torrent that scorched the undergrowth and set the trees behind him ablaze. Leaves curled into ash midair. Smoke twisted up like the forest itself was gasping.

  Rolling to his feet, he drew his sword—not steel, but silver-gilded and blessed, humming with divine power. The runes along its length pulsed with golden light, illuminating the shadows around him like a beacon in a storm.

  He didn't pray. He didn't speak.

  He charged.

  The chimera met him halfway, its claws tearing up the ground. Corvus ducked the lion's snap, pivoted hard, and drove his blade into the creature's side. There was a burst of holy light—searing, almost blinding—and the beast let out a triple-voiced shriek that rattled his bones.

  It whipped around with unnatural speed. The goat's horns came at him like a battering ram—he barely raised his shield in time. The impact sent him skidding back, boots digging trenches into the soft forest floor.

  Blood ran down his arm where the lion's teeth had grazed him. His muscles burned. But his eyes—sharp, unshaken—never left the beast.

  "Come on, then," he muttered, voice low and feral.

  He struck again, this time aiming for the dragon head. It reared back, hissed, then lunged with fire crackling in its throat. Corvus threw his shield into its mouth. Flames burst around it, devouring the wood, but the moment's hesitation was enough—he slashed upward with a roar of his own, cutting deep into the chimera's chest.

  It howled. All three heads writhed in agony.

  Then something strange happened.

  The dragon eyes flickered—familiar, almost... childlike. The lion whimpered. The goat began to thrash, panicked.

  Corvus faltered for half a breath.

  The chimera—this terrifying, unholy fusion of beasts—turned. With a desperate leap, it vanished into the trees, crashing through branches and undergrowth, leaving a trail of blood and scorched earth in its wake.

  The forest fell still.

  Corvus stood alone, chest heaving, sword trembling with fading divine light. Around him, the flames hissed and died, smothered by the mist that drifted through the trees. He lowered his blade slowly, his gaze locked on the direction the chimera had fled.

  Not a victory. Not really.

  But he had survived.

  What in the name of Myrmor did my eyes just witness? I had heard of such abominations existing beyond the walls separating us from the wretched Secondborn, the evil they are. The signs were not comforting. Master Elckhort, for all his mentions of the forgotten gods, never spoke of any evil ones. Who would create such a monstrosity? Had it not been for the divine blessing of the God of Death, I don't believe any mortal could have survived. It was the training of Elckhort, and the divine grace, that saved me.

  I still remember, it was like any other day. We rose with the sun, cleaned the humble abode of our master, and then I was given the duty to arrange food with Alsilvester. He collected berries while I hunted boars. We often fought over who would hunt, so finally, we struck a deal: whoever got to hunt would then wash the clothes—one of the many chores we had to finish before we could spar. My partner, as usual, was Alsilvester. We were the best and would often duel each other. He was the only person, other than the Great Order of Myr, who could fight me in a spar and hold his own.

  That day, during the training, as I gained the upper hand, Ser Bahuman the Strong suddenly called out, "Alsilvester of Eisenkrone!" His voice boomed across the arena.

  For a heartbeat, the world around me seemed to blur. Ser Bahuman's words echoed in my mind, but they made no sense. Alsilvester of Eisenkrone? It couldn't be. He was just my sparring partner, my friend—he didn't deserve such a summons. Not before me. Not before any of us. Why him? My thoughts spiraled as I watched him walk away, his usually confident face faltering with a brief shadow of fear. I hated that I couldn't look away, couldn't stop myself from feeling a stab of betrayal.

  Jealousy, I realized, tasted bitter. Like ash in the back of my throat, burning through my pride. I had dreamed of this day for years—the call to the high council room. To stand where only the elite walked. I had earned that. And yet, here was Alsilvester, my best friend, being chosen before me. He didn't even know how much this hurt. How could he? We had always been equals, or so I thought. But in that moment, I knew—he had been chosen for something greater. And I? I was left here, with nothing but the sting of unfulfilled dreams.

  I had always believed that I was destined for something more. That all my training, all the sacrifices, would eventually lead me to a place of honor. But now, as I watched Alsilvester disappear into the council room, doubt crept into my mind. Was I not enough? Had I failed? For the first time, I wondered if maybe I had been chasing something that wasn't meant for me. Maybe, despite my skills, I wasn't the one they were waiting for. Maybe I was just another warrior, a face in the crowd, waiting for a chance that would never come.

  And then, Sir Bahuman came out again and called, "Corvus of Thaldranor."

  For a moment, everything seemed to slow down. The words echoed in my ears, but they didn't quite register at first. "Corvus of Thaldranor."

  And then it hit me—like a wave crashing over me. I couldn't believe it. My name. My heart started pounding, and the weight of everything, all those dark thoughts and doubts, seemed to melt away in an instant. The jealousy, the anger, the bitterness—gone, as if they'd never been there at all.

  A grin spread across my face, wide and uncontrollable. I felt lighter, like I was floating. I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt this... happy. It was like I was a boy again, naively excited by something I had longed for but never truly believed would happen.

  I was being recognized. Me. Corvus of Thaldranor. I had made it. And for once, I didn't care about anything else. All those worries seemed so distant now. I was happy. Truly, joyfully happy, and I felt like I could take on the world.

  Without a second thought, I stepped forward, my feet almost light as air. Every step felt like I was walking toward something bigger than myself, toward a future that suddenly felt full of possibility.

  All the negativity, all the doubts—they didn't exist anymore. All I could feel was excitement, like a naive boy who had just been given the greatest gift in the world. And in that moment, I realized... I was okay with that.

  As the sun began to set, I found myself in my chamber, eager to unwind. A glass of wine would have been perfect. I never did care much for the throne—it was so dull. Sitting in court all day was a chore, and today, the responsibility lay with Father—no, Grand Uncle Sigismund. In his absence, he had sent Uncle Ferdinand off on a hunting trip, leaving me to play regent.

  "Sir Alsilvestor, forgive me for disturbing you, but you've been summoned to a trial," my squire blurted, clearly flustered.

  I waved him off with a sigh. "I've already told them I'm done for the day. Royal matters can wait until tomorrow. On that note, I hear a new brothel's opened in town. Word travels fast, eh? Go fetch me the finest maiden they've got."

  The squire looked at me, his face pale. "Master, you... you are the accused in the trial... accused of adultery."

  I stared at him, momentarily taken aback. "What?" The words barely made sense.

  "Master, you're the accused," the squire said again. "The trial... it's about your actions. You are the one accused of adultery."

  I sighed, already feeling a headache building. "Of course, it's me. Who else would it be?" I muttered under my breath. "Very well, we'll get this over with."

  The trial would proceed , as per tradition. The steward, as the most senior member of the council, would preside, and the other council members would act as judges. There was no question about it. I may have held the regency, but even I had to adhere to the rules of governance. No manipulation, no shortcuts—this would be a formal trial, with consequences that I would have to face, for better or worse.

  I fastened my cloak and strode toward the council hall, my boots echoing against the marble floors. The sun's dying light filtered through the stained glass, casting long, blood-red shadows across the chamber. Very dramatic. Very fitting.

  The hall was already full. Nobles lined the sides like crows around a corpse, whispering and exchanging gleeful glances. I recognized a few faces—some that had tried to trip me up before, others that wore their hatred a little less subtly. Ah, nothing like a good scandal to whet the appetites of the court.

  The council was already seated with the steward Maximillian presiding. He had always been very fair and wise. I did not expect anything else today, under his gray hair, and wrinkled skin he worryingly asked me, "Sir Alsilvestor Aradith Alcinor, Regent of Eisenkrone, the Champion Ironhand of throne, you have been accused of adultery by Lord Edgard of House Vernhart. He claims you have commited this sinful act with his wife Mircella and made broken their sacred matrimony, what do have to say in your defence.

  I stepped forward, my voice cutting through the noise like a blade.

  "I demand a trial by combat," I said, loud and clear.

  The room fell silent. Even the steward, old Maximillian, blinked at me like he hadn't heard right. But I knew he had. Every man, woman, and rat in this place had.

  Maximillian coughed into his sleeve, the way old men do when they know the rules allow no saving grace. "You... are within your rights, Regent Alcinor," he said. "As per ancient law, an accusation of adultery may be challenged by arms. But know this—should you lose, your titles, your lands, your very life—"

  "I know what is at stake," I cut him off.

  "I accept!" Lord Edgard bellowed, fists clenched. "By all the gods, I accept!"

  The councilors recoiled slightly from his outburst. Maximillian's face twisted into a pained grimace; this was against every drop of his old wisdom, but the law was the law.

  "It shall be at first light tomorrow," the steward said, voice like the closing of a crypt. "Before all of Eisenkrone to witness."

  I gave Edgard a look then—a look that promised ruin.

  He thought his anger would save him.He thought this would be a fight between men.

  He did not understand yet...

  It would be a humiliation.

  I turned without waiting for dismissal and strode out of the court.Tomorrow would be fun, for sure.But who said I couldn't have a little fun tonight, too?

  "Squire," I said over my shoulder, my voice casual, almost cheerful. "Did I mention the fine brothel that opened recently?"

  "Aye, master," the boy stammered, hurrying after me. "I shall bring the finest maiden within the hour to your chamber."

  "Good lad," I said, waving lazily. "Bring her through the underground tunnels to the servants' quarters. No need for the court to chatter more than it already will."

  "No, master. It shall be done. Shall I also send wine?"

  I threw him a grin."Since when have you ever needed to ask that?

  As I lounged in my chamber, swirling a goblet of wine, my mind drifted — inevitably — to Lady Mircella.She had been quite the fine lady, I mused, smirking to myself.

  I was already standing trial for adultery for bedding her...Maybe after tonight's little entertainment from the brothel,I could invite Lady Mircella over too — make the accusation worth its weight in gold.

  Soon the squire arrived with a fine maiden. I told him to invite Lady Mircella while I had my fun with this one.The girl smelled of lavender oil and cheap wine. I didn't mind. She had a laugh like chimes and lips the color of overripe cherries, and when she kissed me, she tasted of sugarplums and sin.

  "You're prettier than the last one," I said, fumbling with the laces of her gown. She giggled and arched her back, making it easier for him. Good girl.

  We made a mess of the bed, knocking over a goblet of wine and sending a platter of cold meat to the floor. I laughed into her neck, drunk on the smell of her and the cheap pleasures of the night.

  When I finally took her, it was clumsy, hungry, hurried — the way a drowning man snatches at air. She moaned prettily, whether from pleasure or practice I didn't care. The world outside — the court, the trial, the sword he might have to lift tomorrow — it all melted away in the heat between her thighs.

  Afterward, I lay back with a grunt, watching her tidy her hair in the looking glass. She caught his eye and smiled slyly.

  "Will you call for me again, m'lord?"

  I yawned, already reaching for the wine. "Depends if I'm alive by then, sweetling."

  I drank deep, the wine bitter on my tongue, and thought idly that the nobleman's wife had made better noises.

  The girl tucked her hair behind her ear and smoothed her skirts, shy smiles playing on her lips. I stretched lazily across the bed, arms behind my head, staring at the low-beamed ceiling.

  I wondered, not for the first time, whether the lady would come tonight after all. Her husband might have locked her in her chambers, the jealous old goat. Pity. She had a tongue like a serpent and hips like a prayer answered.

  "Might not come after all,"I muttered, half to myself. "Husband's probably stuffed a dozen guards at her door."

  I glanced at the whore standing by the bed, looking a little lost. A slow, wicked smile curled his lips.

  "Well then," I said, beckoning lazily with a finger, "how about you blow me off before you go?"

  She giggled — a light, fake little sound — and dropped to her knees as if she'd been waiting for the invitation.

  She worked with her mouth while I drank my wine, half-lost in thought.The girl wasn't bad — she'd had practice, clearly.It was mechanical, efficient, but hell, it was still a warm mouth on a cold night.I let my head fall back against the pillows and closed my eyes.

  When I was finished, I leaned back with a heavy sigh, the wine still burning in my throat.I waved a hand lazily.

  "You may go," I said, my voice thick with wine and weariness.I tossed a gold coin onto the nightstand."Buy yourself something fine. You made me happy, after all. And if you ever have any trouble, contact my squire. I'll see to it."

  She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, smiled faintly — more tired than coy — and gathered her skirts.At the door, she hesitated, offering a small, uncertain curtsy.

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  I didn't even look up.The fire crackled softly as she slipped out, leaving me alone with my wine, my sword, and the gathering storm.

  I was alone.Alone with my sins, my sword, and the trial that waited for me with the dawn.

  I glanced at the door, half-hoping to hear a knock — Lady Mircella, wild-eyed and desperate.But no.Only the sighing of the wind against the stones.

  "Figures," I muttered. "Not even sin wants me tonight."

  I drained the last of the wine, set the goblet down with a clatter, and pulled the coverlet over my bare chest.

  The fire burned low in the hearth as I drifted into sleep, the taste of cheap lavender and cheaper regret still heavy on my tongue.

  Tomorrow, I would fight.It wasn't even worth the trouble. Lord Edgard, Chee — he'd last half as long as sweet, sweet Mircella.

  Tonight, I would dream of nothing at all.

  The sun's rays sliced through the curtains, pulling me out of the fog of sleep and wine-induced haze. I blinked, feeling the familiar thrum of a headache brewing at my temples. My body felt heavy, as though I had just been dragged through a battle without lifting a sword. Damn wine, damn pleasure, damn everything.

  My squire stood by the door, his face a mixture of nerves and urgency. "Forgive me, master," he began, his voice faltering. "Lady Mircella could not be brought. You have a duel with Lord Edgard now."

  I rubbed my eyes and groaned. The idiot had probably spent all night fuming, thinking up ways to save face. I'd almost forgotten about him in the haze of last night's indulgence. But now, the reality of the trial hit me, and the weight of the morning hung over me like a stormcloud.

  "I've brought your armor and your greatsword," my squire continued, stepping forward with the gleaming pieces in hand.

  I shot him a glance, shaking my head. "Take them back," I ordered, my voice gruff with irritation. "And bring me the longsword. I will not honor Edgard by using those grand things."

  He hesitated for a moment, clearly surprised by the request. The greatsword was the weapon that had earned me most of my fame, the symbol of my power and skill. It was the weapon I used in battle, the one that struck terror into enemies' hearts. But Edgard wasn't worth that. He wasn't worth a blade so magnificent. Not today.

  "Of course, master," the squire stammered, turning to do as I said.

  I threw myself out of bed and onto my feet. The cold stone floor hit my bare feet with a jolt. My body ached, and my mind was still tangled in the fog of the previous night's indulgences. But this? This was different. This was a duel, and I would handle it as it was meant to be handled—not with spectacle, but with precision. A simple blade would do. A reminder that not everything needed to be grand to be effective.

  I took a deep breath and smirked, knowing that today would be a test. Not just of my skill with a sword, but of my patience, of how far I was willing to let this play out.

  The trial, the accusations, Edgard... none of it mattered now. Only the fight.

  "Make it quick," I muttered, settling into the moment as I prepared to face the idiot who thought he could challenge me. The game was on.

  The door creaked again as my squire entered, breastplate in one hand, longsword in the other.

  I raised an eyebrow. "My lad, how many trips to the armoury do you plan on making today, hmm? Give me the longsword, help me with my cloak, and put that breastplate back where it belongs."

  "But sir, please! At least wear something to protect yourself—"

  "There won't be so much as a scratch on me," I said, waving him off. "Great warriors couldn't touch me. What makes you think this iron-bellied buffoon will manage what legends could not?"

  He muttered something under his breath—probably praying for me. I wasn't in the mood to argue the necessity of divine intervention, so I let him.

  The weather was excellent.A good day to be outside, I suppose. A better day to humiliate an idiot in front of a crowd.

  And what a crowd it was.

  They'd all come for a glimpse of my brilliance, no doubt. A throng of nobles—even the laziest of them had dragged their fat arses out of bed. So many fair maidens, their eyes wide, cheeks flushed. Ah, perhaps I'd win a heart or two today.

  And there, standing in the arena like a blighted statue, was Lord Edgard. Stuffed into his armour like a pig in a barrel, face red as overripe fruit. Gods, how did Lady Mircella ever suffer the sight of him? Then again... maybe she didn't. Maybe that was why we were here.

  I strode forward.

  "Apologies for the delay, my lords and ladies," I called, offering a grand bow. "Though, I assure you, you won't be here for long."

  I grinned at my opponent, already tasting the victory.We bowed to each other—his stiff and clunky, mine smooth as silk.

  (So slow.)

  I stepped aside with a lazy grace, watching the blade carve air.

  "Couldn't you be a little faster, Lord Edgard? I'm sure Lady Mircella would've appreciated that as well."

  He roared and swung again, wild and uncoordinated—missing, of course. I danced around him, barely trying.

  "Did you train properly, my lord? Or is this your first time holding a sword since puberty?"

  The poor fool did try. I'll give him that. He tried with all his puffed-up might to land a blow, but I was everywhere and nowhere—taunting him with every sidestep, every dodge, every smirk.

  When I decided the humiliation had ripened enough, I swept in with one elegant twist of my blade, and disarmed him. His sword went clattering across the arena.

  Then I kicked him—lightly, almost kindly—and he dropped to his knees. My sword kissed the side of his throat.

  "I yield!" he cried.

  I leaned in, grinning, voice low and mocking.

  "The duel with your wife was far more enjoyable, Edgard."

  I quipped, loud enough for the crowd to catch.

  A ripple of laughter swept through the onlookers. Even some of the stiffer nobles couldn't help but smirk—though others frowned, murmuring disapproval. Let them. I hadn't come here to win their love.

  The steward stepped forward, voice ringing with authority. ""Let it be known that Ser Alsilvester Aradith Alcinor has triumphed in the trial by combat. The gods have judged him not guilty of Lord Edgard's accusation. By law and honor, Lord Edgard's claim is false, and thus his accusation has been found baseless." A pause, as the steward turned to face the kneeling lord. "For falsely accusing a nobleman of House Alcinor, the Lord Edgard is hereby stripped of two of his minor titles, including Keeper of the Northern Roost, and fined a sum of—"

  I raised a hand casually, still humming a jaunty tune. The steward blinked at me.

  "As Regent of Eisenkrone," I said, voice light but firm, "I hereby restore all titles to Lord Edgard, and pardon him fully of his accusations." I turned back to him. "May he rule more wisely in future... and may he be prosperous, for a prosperous noble makes a prosperous realm."

  A shocked gasp rolled through the gathering. Lord Edgard's eyes widened—he hadn't expected mercy.

  He lowered his head once more, then knelt again, solemnly this time. "All hail Ser Alsilvester," he said loudly, "Third of His Name, of House Alcinor. Regent of Eisenkrone. The Blade of Iron."

  He raised his eyes to mine. "You have shown mercy, where others would demand blood. I am... grateful, my lord."

  I simply nodded, letting the moment settle before turning, my cloak billowing dramatically behind me—Gods, I did love that cloak. The crowd began to cheer in earnest now, the tension broken, the spectacle complete.

  And of course, the fair maidens were waiting.

  They gathered near the edge of the arena, eyes bright, cheeks flushed, whispering to each other as I passed. One reached out with a breathless giggle. I stopped, smiled, and kissed her hand. She squealed like a songbird.

  "Ladies," I said with a wink, "always a pleasure."

  And with that, I strode out of the arena, humming once again—satisfied, unsullied, and utterly victorious.

  The door to my chambers creaked open, and I stepped inside with a contented sigh. The scent of lavender oil and scented woods lingered in the air—bless that old steward for keeping my tastes in mind. I stripped off the dueling cloak, tossed it over the arm of a chair, and loosened my shirt. The sun had barely crested mid-morning, and already I'd defended my honour, stolen the show, and made half the court blush. Moments later, the maids entered—five of them, perhaps six, I didn't count. Carrying towels, oils, scented soaps and that delightfully expensive perfume I had ordered from Mystralia last spring. They curtsied as they entered, and I grinned in return. "Well now," I said, stretching like a cat, "aren't I spoiled today?" "You earned it, my lord," said the boldest among them, a dark-haired girl with a playful smirk. "Hmm. Keep talking like that and I might have to knight you," I replied, letting my shirt fall to the ground. "Ser Soapbearer, Lady of the Lavender Suds." They giggled as they guided me toward the tub—deep, hot, and blissfully ready. I sank into it with a satisfied groan, letting the water and the day's exertions melt off me. One massaged my shoulders, another washed my hair, and two more tended to the rest of me with care and elegance. But of course, I kept it playful—charming without pressing, teasing without taking. "You know," I murmured, eyes closed, "they say a man is only as great as the hands that serve him." "Then you must be the greatest man alive," one maid quipped. I smirked. "I don't disagree." After the bath, they dried me off and helped me into court attire—dark blue doublet embroidered with silver thread, high collar, and the ceremonial pin of Eisenkrone's regent gleaming over my heart. My hair, still damp, was brushed back, and my boots shined to perfection. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Yes. Regal. Roguish. Ravishing. The full trinity. I turned to the maids and bowed theatrically. "Ladies, my thanks. Should the court drag long today, I'll need something sweet to look forward to." They curtsied again, giggling as they departed, leaving the scent of roses and mischief in their wake.

  Everybody wants the throne. Why? Power? Control? Respect?

  But the throne doesn't give you that. Father—my grand-uncle Sigismund—he has all three, and not because of a crown. Uncle Ferdinand? He could sit on that chair all day and still be a puppet.

  I never understood it. Even as a child, I watched the adults play their little game for this decorated chair. What is it about that seat that drives men mad?

  What truly gives someone power? What grants control? What earns respect?

  Now I sit on the throne. Regent of Eisenkrone. Champion of the realm. Commander of its armies.

  Do I have power? Do I command respect?

  Ha.

  I can't even command myself.

  I don't respect myself. But people? They fear me. And maybe they should. I could beat any man in this kingdom. Break him if I wanted to.

  But what do I want?

  Good. Good for the people.

  And yet... war is not good. It destroys lives.

  But war is where I thrive.

  What does that make me?

  Not selfless. Not noble.

  I have everything they said a man should want—wealth, women, palaces, servants. And yet here I sit, on the throne I never desired. A burden. A bore. An empty promise.

  The throne gives nothing. Not really.

  If there's one thing I truly want... it's for my sister to be happy.

  She deserves that—gods, she deserves that.

  But Ajar? Ajar is not the man for her.

  That drunk, stumbling fool. He couldn't keep his trousers up if his life depended on it. Sleeps with anything that breathes—and probably a few things that don't.

  He used to be someone, you know. A warrior. Brash, yes. Abrasive as sandpaper on a burn, but... strong. Respected.

  And now?

  He can't even hold his own piss. Pathetic.

  But it's not just about him being unworthy. No, of course not—it never is. This is politics. This is power. This is Thaldranor binding itself to Dharmagni. Her marriage is a thread in a larger web.

  Cutting it... would cause a mess.

  Still... I wonder.

  Maybe she could marry Atala.

  Ah, Atala the Serene. What a man.

  A wizard—rare as starlight in a storm. I've never met one, but I've heard the tales. They say he's powerful, composed... lawful to the letter.

  And not too hard on the eyes, either.

  That's the kind of man she deserves. Someone strong, but kind. Brilliant. Steady.

  She's the most beautiful woman in the realm—any realm—and it infuriates me that she'd be shackled to a man like Ajar.

  I'd burn down ten treaties before I let her be wasted on that bastard.

  I should be going to court.

  I promised father I would.

  Not that I care what the rest of them think of me—those powdered peacocks with their greasy smiles and silken lies. But him? My father? I'd walk through the Nine Hells barefoot if he asked.

  The petitioners were already lining up outside the hall when I arrived.

  Some couldn't even cover themselves properly—barefoot, threadbare, dirt on their faces but hope in their eyes. And then, of course, there was the other line—the nobles. Drenched in perfume and arrogance, standing tall and smug just ahead of the poor men.

  As I passed by, they all bowed. Like puppets with rusted hinges. Their eyes gleamed, not with respect—never that—but with the desperate hope I might grant them a favor. A land deed, a pardon, a title for their half-witted sons.

  I didn't stop.

  I just turned to the guard and said, "Change it up today. Let the commoners in first."

  The nobles looked like they'd swallowed a rotten lemon.

  Good.

  The doors groaned open—loud and slow, like the hall itself was reluctant to let me in.

  The throne room of Eisenkrone stretched out before me like a frozen battlefield. Cold. Watchful. The vaulted ceiling arched above like the ribs of a long-dead god, and the pillars that lined the room were chiseled with the stories of better men. Heroes who died before they had to rule.

  My boots echoed with every step. A lonely, steady drumbeat. The nobles flanked the sides of the hall—velvet, fur, powdered cheeks. Half bowed too deeply, the other half not enough. Always the same.

  At the far end, the throne waited for me.

  Gilded, grotesque. A massive sculpture of an eagle rearing up, wings spread wide behind it like a threat. Rubies for eyes—always watching. The obsidian seat was cold, always cold. You don't sit on the Throne of Eisenkrone. You endure it.

  Still, I climbed the dais and lowered myself onto it.

  It groaned—of course it did. Like it hated me as much as I hated it.

  Before me, the council gathered.

  The High Chancellor stood in his usual place, shuffling parchment with stained fingers, clearing his throat like a man who'd swallowed dust and pride for too many years. The Master of Coin hovered nervously beside him, sweat already dampening his collar. He always looked like he was afraid I'd ask for numbers—worse, answers.

  The Spymaster stood apart. Half a shadow in human form. Smiling without showing teeth. Watching everything, like always.

  The Steward gave a respectful nod as I looked his way. Poor man's been working twice as hard lately—trying to keep the castle running, the grain stores in check, the staff from panicking. He's loyal. Exhausted, but loyal.

  And then there was the Chief Minister.

  Old Reynard.

  He bowed with effort, and I stood to stop him. He waved me off, damn fool.

  "Don't fuss over me, my Lord," he muttered, coughing once into a cloth I knew he kept hidden in his sleeve. "If I can stand, I can serve."

  He'd been sick for weeks. Fever, chills. The kind that takes men quietly. But he was back, somehow. Gaunt, yes. Slower. But still sharp. One of the few decent men left in this rotting court. He'd taught me how to read contracts and slash them with red ink sharper than any sword.

  Nice chap.

  I trusted him.

  Gods help me, I still trust someone.

  They were all watching me now.

  Waiting for orders, for judgments, for some proof that the half-masked, half-mad warrior on the throne was still fit to wear the mantle of regent.

  I said nothing.

  Let them sweat.

  Let the stone silence stretch just a little longer.

  Then:"Bring in the first petitioner."

  The doors opened, and in came a man who looked like he'd been chewed up and spat out by life. Skin stretched tight over bone, eyes sunken, clothes tattered. He shuffled forward on bare feet, knees shaking as he knelt on the stone floor before me.

  He didn't speak right away. Just collapsed to the ground like a broken marionette, arms outstretched.

  Then he croaked, "My Lord... they took everything. My house, my cows... even my wife's bangles. The moneylender—Brishan, from Eastmarket. He said I owed him more. I didn't. I swear I didn't..."

  His voice cracked. One more syllable and he'd crumble into tears.

  "Steward," I said, voice like frost."Summon the moneylender. Immediately."

  The man at my feet looked up—confused, hopeful, afraid. The nobles shifted in their boots. They always did when I didn't explain myself.

  Let them squirm.

  Let Brishan sweat.

  Let the court guess which way the blade would fall.

  Brishan of Eastmarket entered, strutting like he owned the room—his silk robes shining under the high windows. The smug grin never left his face, his hands clasped behind his back like he'd won some game I hadn't even noticed.

  I didn't give him an ounce of attention at first, just let the silence thicken between us, like a storm ready to break.

  "Why did you take everything?" I asked coldly, eyes fixed ahead. "You're a moneylender. You should have taken money."

  He puffed up, arrogant in the face of my stillness. "It's in the contract this fella signed, my Lord. House, cows, jewels—all pledged as collateral. It's the law."

  I could feel the anger creeping up, but I held it tight. A simmering pressure inside. "To hell with your contract," I said, as if I'd been holding that sentence in for far too long. "You will return the man's property and livestock. My steward will handle a more civil repayment system after this."

  He opened his mouth, no doubt thinking he could talk his way out. "My Lord, this isn't fair—"

  "I will not repeat myself," I interrupted, a sharp command cutting through his words.

  He hesitated, then—just like I knew he would—tried to hide behind his so-called law. "The contract, my Lord, it's the law! The King himself would never—"

  I leaned forward slightly, a small motion, but one that made everyone in the room tense. They knew what came next.

  "No." I said, and the room seemed to freeze at the word. "If the contract is not fair, then the crown will not be fair with you."

  Brishan's bravado snapped like a dry twig in a storm. His face went pale, his eyes wide with the realization that he'd overstepped. That the crown, my crown, wasn't something to be manipulated with legal loopholes.

  He began to bow, stumbling over himself, his words tumbling out in a flurry. "Of course, my Lord Regent. It will be done... Immediately..."

  Brishan had barely gotten his feet moving when I stopped him, the words cutting through the air like a blade.

  "No, wait," I said, my voice cold, hard as stone. "You've raised this matter now. This man is clearly illiterate, and you took advantage of that. You defrauded him."

  His smug grin faltered for the first time. His eyes flickered toward the ground, but he didn't dare speak.

  I leaned forward, my gaze narrowing. "Reimbursing him isn't enough. Not by far." I held up my hand, silencing whatever excuse was about to spill from his lips. "You shall be put on trial for defrauding a citizen of this land. If found guilty, you will pay ten gold to the crown, and one hundred gold to this poor lad for his suffering."

  Brishan's face went pale, his mouth opening and closing as though trying to find some argument that would save him.

  But I wouldn't give him the chance.

  The silence that followed was thick with tension. Every person in the room felt the weight of my words. I wasn't just protecting the law—I was the law now. The crown was the law.

  Brishan stood there, rooted to the spot, his earlier arrogance shredded like paper in the wind.

  "I trust you'll have your lawyers ready?" I added, voice still ice-cold. "Because once we're done here, I'll be expecting full payment. And don't think you can dodge it. The law doesn't bend for anyone."

  He stammered something unintelligible and rushed out of the room, and I didn't bother watching. His fate had already been sealed.

  I didn't care about the trial. What mattered now was the message: no one would take advantage of the people while I sat on that throne.

  I let Brishan stumble out of the room, his desperation echoing in the silence, but the sting of what he'd done didn't leave. I wasn't done yet. This wasn't just about one man, one poor citizen. This was about sending a message.

  I turned slowly to the rest of the court, all eyes on me now, waiting for something more. They were right to wait. I wasn't finished.

  "Now, as for you," I said, raising my voice so it filled the throne room, "let it be known that all contracts under this realm shall be scrutinized. Every last one. Any contract found to be unjust, any contract that exploits or defrauds, will be punished."

  The room grew quiet, the tension almost palpable. My eyes didn't leave Brishan as I continued, my voice growing colder.

  "And to make sure we don't miss a thing," I said, a wicked edge creeping into my tone, "all ledgers of these contracts will be examined. And any found to be unfair? Any contract that tips the scales for personal gain at the expense of the common folk will be fined."

  I paused, letting the weight of my words sink in, before finishing with a venomous finality.

  "The fine will be equal to the weight of the ledgers themselves. Every single gold coin. Let's see how quickly people learn to respect fairness and justice."

  Brishan's earlier smirk had been replaced with a look of dread. I didn't care. He was just the start.

  The rest of the day passed in a blur of requests, pleas, and groveling. Every petition, every sob story, every plea for mercy or aid—each one more exhausting than the last. The common folk, desperate for a glimmer of hope, poured their hearts out in front of me. The nobles, ever the vultures, tried to sway me with flattery and influence.

  But none of it moved me. Not anymore.

  By the time the sun began to dip, casting long shadows across the marble floors, the day had dragged itself to its painful end. The petitions dwindled, the noise quieted, and the court slowly began to empty out. Only the council and the servants remained, attending to the final matters, the ones that didn't require my input.

  I sat there, the weight of the throne pressing down on me, not a king, but something heavier—a keeper of the law, the one to decide who lived, who suffered, who thrived. But I didn't feel powerful. I felt... tired. Worn. This was not the thrill I had once expected. Not the satisfaction.

  The last of the petitioners trickled out, their voices fading into the distance as they were escorted out of the throne room. The heavy doors creaked closed behind them, sealing in the silence. The throne room, once filled with noise and chatter, was now still. I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding.

  "Chief Minister," I said, without looking up, "Steward. Stay for a moment."

  The echo of my voice seemed to bounce off the cold walls before falling into the silence. The Chief Minister, always sharp-eyed, inclined his head with a small bow. The Steward, a quiet but capable man, gave a respectful nod.

  As the two of them approached, I leaned back in my seat, feeling the weight of the throne on my shoulders again. It wasn't just the day that had exhausted me; it was everything. The responsibilities, the decisions, the endless wave of requests that came and went. I wondered how long this feeling would last.

  "What is it, my lord?" the Chief Minister asked, his voice steady but cautious.

  "I want to host a grand tournament, to invite all the warriors of the realm," I said, my voice firm as I leaned forward. The thought of bringing all these warriors together seemed like the perfect spectacle—something to unite the people, to remind them of strength and honor. But I knew this wouldn't be a simple request. Not in the least.

  "My lord," the Chief Minister responded, bowing slightly, "I understand your request, but it will be an expensive affair. The costs of such an event are not small, and we must account for the ongoing burden of the kingdom's affairs."

  I scoffed, the frustration bubbling up at the mention of gold. "What shortage of gold do we have? The last steward told me the kingdom's finances were doing well. We have enough to spare."

  He paused, clearly searching for the right words, before continuing, "Of course, my lord, but I fear... war is approaching. We must be ready."

  I frowned, hearing the gravity in his voice. "War?" I asked, my tone flat, though a pang of unease stirred within me.

  "The last time the world was at war was a millennium ago. The last time humans fought against each other a decade ago... yes, there are still civil wars, rebels, and skirmishes, but peace has reigned far too long. It's the nature of people, my lord, to fight, and maintaining peace is difficult. The king informs me that the council's peace is waning. This time, the Great Seer Orin, the All-Seeing, has requested the Council of Nine Kings' audience. The omens are not favorable, my lord. I fear war is coming."

  I stood, the weight of his words settling on my chest like a stone. War. It had always been a distant idea, a piece of history that I studied in old books, not a present reality.

  "War..." I repeated the word, feeling the chill of it run down my spine. It wasn't just a battle between kingdoms, it was the unraveling of a peace that had long held the realms together.

  I stood still for a moment, my mind churning with the implications of what the Chief Minister had just said. War. The looming shadow of it now hung heavy in the air, making the idea of a grand tournament seem trivial, even reckless. He had wanted a spectacle, something that would unite the realm, but now, in the face of what was coming, it felt more like a distraction. A fool's errand.

  "War..." he murmured, the word tasting bitter on his tongue.

  The Chief Minister, standing to the side, watched his lord with a mix of respect and concern. He knew that I understood the gravity of the situation, but the sudden shift in plans seemed to weigh on both of them.

  My gaze turned cold as his mind snapped into focus. This was no longer a time for tournaments. My kingdom needed to be prepared. My people needed to know they were ready. And I had to be the one to make sure they were.

  I turned sharply, my eyes hardening. "I rescind my request for the tournament. It will be a different kind of preparation now."

  The Chief Minister opened his mouth, but I held up a hand, silencing him.

  "I will see the commanders now," I said, my voice cold and determined. "We will start readying the army. Mobilise the banners. Every soldier, every fighter, will be called to arms. Prepare the forces to move at a moment's notice."

  My words hung in the air as he strode from the throne room, his purpose clear. The grand tournament could wait. The kingdom's strength could not.

  Squire, waiting at the door, gave a quick bow as I approached. "My lord, shall I prepare the commanders?"

  "Yes," I replied without hesitation. "We're no longer waiting for the storm. We're going to meet it head-on."

  Alsilvester could feel the weight of the responsibility settle deeper within him, the full scope of what he was about to do. He had been a warrior in his youth, a symbol of power in the arena. But now, as a leader, his role was to unite his kingdom, not with spectacles, but with strength, strategy, and preparation for the battles ahead.

  The world was changing. War was coming, and I wasn't about to let his people stand unprepared.

  As I turned to leave the throne room, still wrestling with the weight of the decision he'd just made, a sudden, sharp cry echoed from the sky. It wasn't just any birdcall—this was a call so piercing, so resonant, it could only belong to one creature: the Skywhisperer.

  The messenger bird—legendary, elusive, and trained only by the most skilled of handlers—swept through the high windows of the throne room with the grace of a comet streaking through the heavens. Its feathers shimmered with iridescence, a mix of silver and midnight blue that seemed to shimmer with an otherworldly glow. The Skywhisperer was the fastest of its kind, able to traverse the length of the kingdom in mere hours. Only a handful had ever been trained, and their rarity made them the most trusted form of communication for matters of utmost importance.

  With a delicate swoop, the bird landed on the throne, its talons barely making a sound as it released a rolled parchment bound with a golden seal, glowing faintly as it fell into Alsilvestor's hands.

  His breath caught as he recognised the seal—the unmistakable mark of King Sigismund

  He broke the seal without hesitation and unfurled the parchment. As he scanned the words, his face grew grim. There it was, in cold, stark ink: the declaration of war.

  Alsilvestor's eyes narrowed, the sharpness of his mind now fully engaged. The Chief Minister's concerns were no longer just concerns—they were reality.

  The Skywhisperer, having delivered the message, stood perched on the throne in silence, its head tilted with the keen intelligence of a creature trained in matters far beyond the mundane. It was rare for the bird to linger so long after its delivery, but this message was of such importance that it seemed to want to be sure Alsilvestor understood its weight.

  Alsilvestor glanced at the bird, a slight nod acknowledging its presence and wisdom. "You've proven your worth once again," he murmured, his voice tinged with the weight of what was to come.

  His hand tightened around the letter, the cool parchment a stark contrast to the burning fire of resolve that was now filling him. He turned toward the Chief Minister and Steward, who had been watching in silence.

  "The war is confirmed," he said, his voice firm. "We will not waste time. Prepare the kingdom. We will rally every force we have."

  The Chief Minister nodded, his face tight with the realisation of the enormity of what was unfolding. "Yes, my lord. We will begin preparations at once. The commanders must be summoned."

  But Alsilvestor was already turning to his steward, his mind shifting gears as he thought of the next steps. "Go to the barracks. Begin organising the soldiers. Mobilise the reserves. No one is to be caught unprepared. The time to act is now."

  The Skywhisperer, having delivered its message, took off with a gentle flap of its wings. In an instant, it vanished into the skies, a streak of silver and blue as it disappeared into the distance, already on its way to the next crucial task.

  Alsilvestor watched it disappear into the sky. The weight of the bird's swift departure was like the closing of a door—war was not a distant thought anymore. It was real, it was coming, and they had to be ready.

  "Prepare," he muttered under his breath, a spark of fury in his eyes. "To the Grand City Aurson"

  His squire, sensing the tension, approached with a quick step.

  "Squire, gather the men," Alsilvestor commanded, the weight of responsibility settling onto his shoulders. "We leave for the Grand City at first light. Make sure everything is in order."

  The squire grinned, undeterred by the gravity of the moment. "A band of fair maidens, barrels of wine, an armoury, Master?"

  Alsilvestor raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching with a smirk. "You've learned quite a lot indeed, haven't you?"