There were very few people that could claim to put their kingdom, their duchy, their county, or their barony before their own needs. Everyone was mortal, and everyone succumbed to some manner of personal indulgence. All manner of proud lords and ruthless kings would help out their children when the child didn’t deserve to be helped.

  That wasn’t necessarily true for King Arnoud van Ravenveld.

  Tielman entered into the king’s room as he was having his portrait taken. Tielman kneeled down beside the painter as the man worked, and said vigorously, “Your Majesty. You summoned me.”

  Tielman waited for the king to give the world for him to rise. There were many seconds as Tielman stayed kneeling. More, more, and more… it felt as though the seconds stretched onward to a minute, but the king only remained silent. Tielman assumed that King Arnoud was testing his loyalty, or judging his patience. Finally, the words he’d been waiting for came down.

  “Rise,” Arnoud commanded.

  Tielman stood up, looking upon Arnoud the Blood Traitor. The king was only a few years older than Tielman, but the gravitas that the man demanded dwarfed Tielman’s own. He had bold, raven black hair with a single streak of gray, and brown eyes so bright they appeared golden in the right light. His face was hard but handsome, and kept immaculately shaven. He was dressed in a particularly splendid outfit on this day, likely due to the fact he was being painted.

  “How does the painting look, baron?” Arnoud asked.

  Tielman looked over, and then back. “It looks… accurate, Your Majesty.”

  “My chancellor believed that it was long overdue for me to have another portrait drawn. I hate doing this, but reputation management and propaganda are effective tools,” Arnoud continued. “I’ve been receiving petitioners all day, much to the chagrin of my painter.”

  The painter looked over, but then got back to work.

  “Accurate, you say.” Arnoud stood there solemnly. “People have been coming up with all sorts of grandiose turns of phrase. They say that nothing could capture my true splendor, that painting alone cannot do justice to my presence. But you aren’t such a person, are you, Tielman?”

  Tielman waited for the king to make his point.

  “Do you have any idea how rare it is for someone to reach out to the capital with reports of a traitor working for Avaria?” Arnoud said, and Tielman listened closely. “It’s quite rare. We’ve offered amnesty for those that turn against them, but that’s seen little success. If there is one subject that Avaria has been consistently beating us at, it’s espionage. They know what we’re going to do before we do it. They have hundreds, maybe thousands, of spies in our ranks. Some of them are shapeshifters. Most of them are greedy traitors.”

  Tielman nodded. “It’s a pressing concern, Your Majesty.”

  “Why did you hide the fact that you’d been poisoned?” Arnoud asked softly. His words were like a gentle lull, promising mercy while hiding the vicious beast that the king was. “Why did you hide the disharmony within your household?”

  Tielman thought of words, but all of them felt weak. He wasn’t quite sure how the king had found out about this matter, but this was the worst possible situation for all involved. Few survived a direct audit from the king.

  “To tell you the truth, you don’t need to answer. I’ve asked questions like that a great deal, to many people besides you,” Arnoud continued. “The truth of the matter is always simple. They want to hide their embarrassment. They don’t want the crown meddling in their affairs, weakening their position with justified intervention. Rather than seek my help in finding your poisoners, you concealed the matter and investigated independently. Why?” Arnoud’s eyes finally turned Tielman’s way, and it felt like his blood had run cold. “For your house.”

  “You’re right, Your Majesty,” Tielman admitted. “I feared what would be done. All I can ask for now is your mercy.”

  “It’s good of you to say so,” Arnoud said, looking back toward the painter. “I know that, despite this misstep, you’ve been a good baron. You’ve been a good vassal. You’ve always obeyed my orders without question, and you’ve thrown yourself into the most desperate of situations at my say so. The Grand Crusade… you were a menace.”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

  “But I can’t afford to have someone that takes half-measures on the border with Avaria,” Arnoud continued. “This is the second major error you’ve made. I asked you to kill Viviene, and you took her eye instead. Now you’ve been poisoned, and you attempted to conceal that fact and investigate on your own.”

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  Tielman forced shut his eyes, remembering painful memories.

  “I don’t tend to leave someone in a position where they can make a third mistake,” Arnoud said. “But the actions of your son have inspired a measure of leniency in me.”

  “My son, Your Majesty?” Tielman asked in concern.

  “It was Willem that reported you’d been poisoned,” Arnoud said. “Suffice to say it was good that he did so. I’d learned of it myself only three days prior to receiving his letter. Had the admission been further delayed… there might be a new house ruling your barony.”

  Tielman was rattled to hear those words, and clenched his hands together.

  “Children are a troublesome thing,” Arnoud continued. “If people placed more stock in merit instead of lineage, I can guarantee you this kingdom would run far smoother.”

  “Would you have me kill or disinherit my children?” Tielman dared.

  Arnoud looked over. “I don’t expect everyone to be like me, but a true monarch cannot afford partiality toward their own blood.”

  Under ordinary circumstances, those would’ve been just words. But Arnoud had proven his mettle many times over. He’d earned himself the nickname of Blood Traitor upon the execution of his son, Johann. The crown prince had been embezzling, whoring, and interfering with the succession of his vassals in favor of his friends and mistresses.

  After a particularly egregious offense, Arnoud had executed his son, personally wielding the Ravenveld family’s legendary blade to sever Prince Johann’s head from his body. There had been nothing quite as chilling in the history of the Ravenveld family. There was nothing quite so terrifying to the nobility as a truly impartial king.

  “Lennard, Godfried, and Hans… you’re going to send them to the capital,” Arnoud declared. “I understand that their ineptitude has been a cause of great distress for you. I intend to iron out their personalities with my own touch.”

  “Is… is that necessary, Your Majesty?” Tielman asked in concern.

  “I tried to salvage my son. I’d like to do the same for yours. The alternative…” Arnoud didn’t say more, but Tielman got the image.

  “I thank you for providing an alternative, Your Majesty,” Tielman said sincerely.

  “I’m sure that you’ve been thinking a great deal about succession since your troubles,” Arnoud continued, looking back toward the painter. “If I die tomorrow, my daughter will rise to the throne. She’s capable and diligent, but there are many prejudices against queens.”

  Tielman looked to the floor, and then up at the king. “I’ve been… similarly considering my daughter, Suzanne.”

  “Then surely you’ve confronted the same challenges I’ve had,” Arnoud said. “There are many beneath me that hold little regard for female rulers. Whether a meritorious opinion or not, it’s a matter that needs addressing. As you know, life is fleeting. Though I’m healthy now, I must act as though I might die tomorrow.”

  Tielman nodded, concurring.

  “I’ve considered many things,” Arnoud continued. “I considered adopting a son to take my place. A talented, ambitious, and like-minded ruler, that can elevate the kingdom to greater heights. But people view the Ravenveld lineage as divinely blessed, and that would doubtless cause issues. There is, however, a compromise of sorts.”

  “A compromise, Your Majesty?” Tielman repeated.

  “Not a son,” Arnoud said. “But a son-in-law.”

  Tielman felt a wave of unease, but he didn’t dare think out of turn. The son of a mere baron, marrying the princess? It was an impossibility, surely. Unless…?

  “This is something of an open secret in the capital, but I imagine that you’re far removed from it in the frigid north,” Arnoud continued. “I don’t intend to find a groom for my daughter in an orthodox manner. The power of the royal family is at its apex. In wealth, military might, magical might… we stand tall above the other houses. We are far more than the first among equals.”

  “Meaning?” Tielman asked, his heart beating fast.

  “My daughter’s husband will inherit the kingdom,” Arnoud said. “And he will be chosen for his merit at governance long before his pedigree or the value of his alliance. I don’t care if he’s the son of a shoemaker. If he’s able, he will have her hand.” The king looked over. “Perhaps you could consider something similar for your daughter Suzanne.”

  Tielman’s fingers shifted in his hand. “Perhaps, Your Majesty. But why are you telling me all of this?”

  “I’ve been learning about your son, Willem, more and more,” Arnoud said. “He drew my interest when he sent that letter. He must’ve known full well that it had the potential to end his family’s reign in the north, but he did it regardless. And then I looked into him deeper.” Arnoud smiled faintly. “I saw much of myself in what I read of him.”

  Tielman didn’t dare speak, but his heart was beating loud enough to be heard.

  “The selection of my daughter’s husband will begin formally in about three months,” Arnoud continued. “Willem will participate. He will be one among what is nearing a thousand candidates, by this point.”

  Tielman’s breathing grew irregular from the shock.

  “I have high expectations of him,” King Arnoud van Ravenveld concluded. “Ensure that they’re met, Tielman.”