Faywyn, 3rd Moon, 14th Day, 1624 Symfora Telos

  The room lay cloaked in a darkness that seemed alive, shifting and breathing with the faint slivers of moonlight seeping through the slatted window. Shadows stretched themselves thin across the walls, strange shapes caught in the pale glow. The air hung heavy, still laced with the sharp tang of yesterday’s rain. It clung to him, cold and metallic, like quicksilver pooling in soil freshly turned. His bed behind him lay a neglected ruin, sheets tangled and thrown as if a restless tempest had swept through. And there, by the window, sat Levi, his head tipped back, a faint, mournful tune spilling from his lips—soft as a whisper, yet sharp enough to pierce the silence.

  In his chest, something cold simmered, a slow-burning ache that refused to ebb. It was a longing that had no name, a call whose source he could not place. It gnawed at him, clawing at the edges of his resolve, pulling him somewhere he could not go, somewhere he was not sure existed. For a fleeting moment, his eyes drifted to the open window, to the void beyond its frame. The thought came unbidden, sharp as a blade: Jump.

  A bitter chuckle broke the stillness as the thought dissipated like smoke. Absurd, he mused, shaking his head, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

  “Life is a prison,” he murmured to himself, his voice barely audible in the quiet. Rising from his vigil by the window, he turned back to the bed, each step slow, deliberate. “But some men,” he continued, the words soft as a secret, “but some men are condemned to be free. I choose to remain condemned.”

  He lowered himself onto the mattress, the tangled sheets wrapping around him like chains, the silence settling over him again like a shroud. Yet sleep, cruel mistress that it was, refused to come. He lay there, staring into the dark, his mind adrift, the ache in his chest unyielding.

  With a weary sigh, he turned onto his side, his gaze fixed on nothing, his breath steady but heavy. A tune rose again from his lips, this one soft, wistful, like the last song of a bird lost in the night.

  Morning had broken with all its muted hues of grey and gold, casting faint warmth over the sodden training grounds. The young lord of Faywyn moved with a deliberate pace, each step a precarious journey over the waterlogged soil. His plain armour caught faint glimmers of the dawn light, though the weight of it—combined with the clinging mud—made every motion feel laborious. The rain-soaked earth gave way beneath him, squelching and threatening to steal his balance with each step.

  Panting, Levi swung his blade through the humid air, an inelegant strike aimed at an imagined foe. His movements were heavy, mechanical, and wholly uninspired. Lancelot's critique echoed in his mind: You wield a sword like a butcher’s cleaver, my liege. Yet Levi cared little for finesse. Let the courtly warriors dazzle with their dance-like flourishes. He sought only what was effective—what might leave his enemies broken, even in the harshest of terrains. Today’s muddy training ground was a testament to that philosophy. If he could find his footing here, he reasoned, he could find it anywhere.

  Another swing, this one accompanied by an attempt at a feint, nearly sent him tumbling to the ground. Levi wobbled awkwardly, his armour groaning as he wrestled against the pull of gravity. For a few moments, he remained poised in what could only be described as a stance entirely bereft of dignity: legs splayed, shoulders hunched, and his posterior jutting out like an unwelcome punctuation to the scene.

  It was in this unbecoming pose that she found him.

  “Who taught you to fight?” came a voice, sharp and feminine. Levi turned to see her—Princess Iris, standing at the edge of the training grounds, her hand perched disdainfully on her hip. Her gaze was heavy with disappointment as it roved over his muddy figure, lingering on his awkward posture.

  For a long moment, neither spoke. Levi, still recovering from his near-spill, allowed himself a rueful smile. “Your Highness,” he greeted between laboured breaths, straightening with a creak of his armour. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  The princess cocked her head, her expression shifting to something akin to bemused disdain. “You swing like a smith wielding a hammer after too much ale. I’d hoped for more from the man they claim recently bested Ser Lancelot in a spar.”

  Levi chuckled at that, lifting his visor to meet her gaze fully. “You’ve been misled,” he said, the faintest hint of mirth colouring his tone. “Whatever tales you’ve heard of my supposed prowess are naught but embellishments from loyal tongues. I’ve no delusions of grandeur. Lancelot himself has called me a brute, and I’d not disagree.”

  Princess Iris narrowed her eyes, suspicion flickering behind them. “The viscount’s servants sang your praises unbidden, and now you claim false modesty? I find it hard to believe. Or perhaps,” she continued, taking a careful step onto the muddy field, “you’re hiding something. Another one of your secrets, Lord Levi.”

  “I’ll admit to nothing but my lack of skill,” Levi replied smoothly, watching as she approached the weapons rack. The princess retrieved two wooden training swords, hefting one in each hand as she turned to face him. With a casual toss, she sent one of the wasters flying toward him. He caught it deftly, raising an eyebrow.

  “A duel, Your Highness?” he asked.

  “Indeed,” she said, her tone daring him to refuse. “Or are you afraid? Of a woman, no less?”

  “Not afraid,” Levi replied, his lips quirking into a faint smile. “Cautious. You’ve trained with the finest knights in the realm since childhood, have you not? I’ve only just taken up the sword in earnest. A fight between us would hardly be fair—to me, that is.”

  “Then let me judge your worth,” Iris said, her voice firm. “Unless you intend to keep hiding behind that veneer of humility.”

  Levi regarded her for a long moment, weighing his options. He could refuse outright, and likely face little consequence. She was, after all, a guest in his domain, her claim to authority tenuous at best. Yet there was something in her gaze—a challenge he found difficult to ignore. Curiosity, perhaps, drove him more than pride. He wanted to see how she fared, this princess with fire in her eyes and a blade in her hand.

  “Very well,” Levi said, raising the wooden sword. “Let us begin.”

  The princess struck first, quick as a viper. Her footwork was light, almost playful, as she darted forward, her blade sweeping toward his shoulder. He met her attack with the dull ring of wood against wood, his waster rising to parry the blow. Yet, the Prince’s momentum did not falter; her weapon slid down the length of his blade, forcing Levi to flick his wrist sharply to throw her off. He backpedaled, boots skidding on the slippery ground, his eyes fixed on the arc of her waster as it swished back toward him. The tip came perilously close to his torso, and he staggered, letting his retreat carry him out of reach.

  Iris halted as suddenly as she had begun, her chest rising and falling with exertion. Levi steadied himself, his grip firming on the hilt of his sword. She took a step back, her movements cautious, measured, and for a moment, he thought she might press the attack again. But she stayed her hand, her hesitation betraying her fear of overextending. Clever girl, he thought, though he couldn’t quite stifle a pang of disappointment. “You’re fast,” he remarked, his voice casual as he pried off his helmet and tossed it aside. The cumbersome thing obstructed his view more than it protected him, and he doubted she would aim for his head—not in a sparring match.

  The Princess said nothing. Her silence stretched, heavy and deliberate, before she finally spoke. “You lied,” she accused, her tone sharp. She advanced a step, and without warning, her sword darted forward.

  “How so, Your Highness?” Levi asked, raising his weapon to parry the sudden thrust. Her strikes were swift, no denying that, but there was little force behind them. Her form was light, delicate even, and lacked the weight of a seasoned swordsman like Lancelot or Ser Carter. Not that he expected her to match them blow for blow—her arms, slender and pale as birch branches, were ill-suited for brute strength. Still, her speed made up for it. Each strike came faster than the last, and Levi found himself back on the defensive, his boots scuffing against the mud as she drove him back.

  Another cleave came for him. Levi caught her waster with his own, wobbling as his balance faltered. “You take me for a fool, don’t you?” Iris said, her voice rising with frustration. She parried his counter gracefully, a deft movement that revealed a core of skill beneath her unpolished aggression. “No skilled swordsman, you said? What a load of horseshit!”

  Levi chuckled, retreating another step to gain some breathing room. His height and reach were the only advantages keeping her at bay, and he wielded them like a shield. “I’m barely fending you off as it is,” he said lightly, his tone laced with amusement. He watched her closely, noting how her composure began to crack, the elegant mask slipping to reveal something rawer—anger, and perhaps a touch of wounded pride. “Had you been in armor, this farce wouldn’t have lasted half as long.”

  For a moment, she didn’t speak. Then, her glare sharpened, her lips curling into a snarl. “You’re an irritating man,” she said coldly, her blade lashing out once more. The waster struck his left pauldron with a resounding crack, the impact jarring but harmless. “Condescending. Arrogant. Brash. I fail to see how anyone could sing your praises, yet they do. It sickens me.”

  “Perhaps you’re just a touch paranoid,” Levi replied. He feinted a strike, forcing her to dodge. “We’ve hardly spoken since your arrival, yet every time you look at me, I see it in your eyes—a grudge. What could I have possibly done to earn the ire of our beloved princess?”

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  Iris faltered, her sword arm lowering for the briefest of moments. Her strikes became mechanical, almost absentminded, and Levi seized the opportunity to regain some ground. “What did you expect when you came here?” he pressed, watching her closely. “Did you think you’d find a loyal house waiting to muster an army for your father’s sake? Did it vex you to find my fief in shambles instead, with coffers empty and vassals in rebellion?”

  “Don’t,” she whispered, the word trembling with warning.

  But Levi pressed on, unrelenting. “Or perhaps you hoped that the threat of Tristan's incursion would force my Lord-Father to reconsider his approach to this matter, pulling him away once more to serve your cause. We von Grifenburgs have been bled dry. You’ve taken all you could and now seek another fool to sacrifice their lands, their lives, to entertain your rather selfish aspirations.”

  Iris’s face darkened, her eyes blazing with fury and something else—guilt, perhaps. “You call me selfish?” she spat, her voice rising in indignation. Another strike lashed out, catching him on the pauldron once more. “You, who prattle on about duty and loyalty while clinging to a crumbling title? What do you know of sacrifice? Sadly, no one around here seems willing enough to break your foolish self from this spell; your father blinded by whatever perverse hope you instilled in him, and everyone else unwilling to be the first to voice their doubts and earn his ire. You want to do battle with the Lion? With that paltry sum you call an army? The gall!”

  Levi smiled faintly as he deflected her next blow. Her strikes were growing sloppy, driven by emotion rather than skill. He caught her weapon mid-swing, wrenching it from her grasp with a sharp twist. Iris stumbled, her boots slipping in the mud, and for a moment, she looked as though she might fall. Levi caught her by the collar, hauling her upright before she could faceplant into the muck.

  “You know,” he said, his tone almost conversational, “I expected better of you.” He released her, turning away to retrieve his discarded helmet and sword. The wasters clattered as he placed them back on the rack, and when he turned to face her again, her glare burned like wildfire.

  “Walk with me,” he said simply, his tone leaving no room for argument.

  Iris stayed where she was, trembling with rage, her fists clenched at her sides.

  “Walk with me,” Levi repeated, softer this time but no less firm. “Or forfeit the aid my house offers.”

  Her jaw clenched, her eyes narrowing. “That decision is not yours to make,” she snapped, venom dripping from every word.

  Levi stared at her for a long moment but offered no response. In the end, he nodded and turned to walk away, leaving the princess to fume in his wake.

  Levi lounged in his chair like a cat in a sunbeam, his chin propped on his fist, and his words carrying the weight of iron despite their lazy delivery. “I want them gone. Beyond Faywyn’s borders before nightfall,” he said, his tone flat as his gaze settled on Aden.

  The room fell silent save for the faint creak of the rafters overhead. Aden’s brow furrowed, confusion clouding his face. Around the council table, the gathered councilors exchanged wary glances, the unspoken question thick in the air.

  “My lord,” Ser Lancelot ventured hesitantly, his voice breaking the stillness. “Is there… a problem?”

  Levi’s eyes flicked to the knight, their pale intensity sharp enough to cut. “Yes,” he said simply. “I’ve decided the queen and her daughter are a liability. A risk I’m no longer inclined to bear.” He leaned back, his tone smooth but unyielding. “As we speak, preparations are underway to see them escorted to Emanmog. Lord von Lark can see to their welfare, should he feel so inclined. If not, their escort will resupply there and continue south until they find a lord willing to take them in.” His gaze shifted back to Aden, cold and deliberate. “You are, of course, welcome to accompany them, Father. The king did entrust their safety to you, after all.”

  The room seemed to hold its breath, and Levi let the silence linger just a moment longer than was comfortable.

  “I can spare three knights for the journey,” he added, his voice calm but resolute. “No more. War looms on the horizon, and every sword will be needed here. There will be no negotiation on this matter.”

  Aden’s expression darkened, his lips thinning as anger began to surface. “You no longer have the inclination?” he echoed, disbelief lacing his voice.

  Levi inclined his head, his expression unreadable. “I don’t.”

  “Well, whatever your reasoning, son,” Aden said, his voice hardening, “I will not permit this insanity.”

  Levi’s brow arched, a faint trace of amusement touching his face. “Permit?” he said, his voice light but laced with steel. “There seems to be a misunderstanding, Father. I wasn’t seeking your permission. I was informing you of my decision. Whether it pleases you or not is entirely irrelevant.”

  “My lord, I would strongly advise—” Ser Carter began, only to be cut off by Aden’s sharp tone.

  “You’re informing me?” the grizzled lord said coldly, his voice dripping with disdain. “You’ve grown bold, boy. Foolishly bold.”

  Levi’s expression didn’t so much as flicker. “Should I find those two still within Faywyn’s borders by nightfall,” he said, his tone chillingly even, “I will personally see them removed. By force, if necessary.”

  Aden rose from his seat, his face flushed with anger. “I am your lord! Your father! You will not speak to me in this manner!”

  Levi remained seated, his gaze gliding over the faces around the table. “And should any of you,” he continued, his voice carrying an edge now, “seek to undermine my authority in some misguided attempt to defy this order, know that I have the means to ensure you regret that mistake. I would advise against testing my resolve.”

  The room descended into a tense, oppressive silence. The lords shifted uneasily, their eyes darting between the father and son. Aden’s jaw clenched, his glare smoldering, but Levi ignored him entirely.

  “Moving on,” Levi said smoothly, his tone almost casual. “Madam Eliza has already briefed most of you on the matter of Ricos, but for clarity’s sake, I’ll reiterate. Our attack on Lord Tristan’s fleet was a resounding success. Ser Johan and his men ensured the Lion will not sail down the Strega unchallenged. Furthermore, they managed to capture the Codfather, though she may have sustained damage during her escape. I expect her arrival within a few hours.”

  Despite the significance of the victory, there was little celebration. The tension from Levi’s earlier pronouncement lingered, a shadow over the room. His gaze drifted back to Aden, who sat like a coiled spring, barely containing his fury.

  “And the Lion?” Levi asked, directing his question to Eliza. "Has he received the news yet?"

  The woman hesitated before replying. “He’s likely heard by now,” she said. “He was last seen riding toward Ricos. He should arrive today or tomorrow. Though, Lord Pers…” She trailed off, her lips pressing into a thin line. “He had the harbor master executed for negligence after the explosions. I suspect this won’t sit well with Tristan.”

  “It won’t,” Levi nodded. “Pers is a volatile man, and he won’t take kindly to the Lion’s reprimands. A falling-out may very well delay their recovery further. We’ll see how it unfolds.”

  The meeting concluded swiftly after that, Levi dismissing the council with a wave. The councilors filed out in tense silence, leaving only the duke behind.

  “What are you trying to accomplish?” Aden asked at last, his voice low and weary.

  Levi tilted his head, considering the question. “A ship cannot have two captains, Father,” he said simply. “Nor can this land have two lords. Either take back the reins entirely or leave them to me. I have mentioned before, I won’t tolerate half-measures.”

  “You’ve gone about this in entirely the wrong way,” Aden said, shaking his head. “Alienating the queen and princess—”

  “They alienated themselves,” Levi cut in, his voice sharp. “The princess has been nothing but insufferable. She ought to learn the value of humility before she worsens her situation further.”

  Aden studied him for a long moment before sighing deeply. “You’re young, Levi,” he said, rising from his seat. “You don’t yet understand. With time…”

  He trailed off, shaking his head again as he left the room. “I will send the Princess to you so you both can make amends. There will be no eviction of my guests from these lands as long as I still breathe.”

  Levi watched him go, his expression pensive. Before Aden stepped out, Levi rose to his feet with a shrug. “If she is willing to apologise I will reconsider my decision,” he said. “Otherwise, it stands. I will not compromise on this, Father, as I am sure you must be aware by now.”

  Lord Aden merely shook his head as the door swung shut behind him. “Stubborn lad.”

  ???

  Ricos

  The Lion rode slowly along the battered docks, his steed’s hooves clicking against charred timbers and broken stone. The harbor was a graveyard of splintered wood and scorched steel, the Gryphon’s answer to his incursion plain for all to see. Two entire sections of the docks had been obliterated, leaving great yawning voids where piers had once stretched into the water. Ships—what was left of them—bobbed in the basins, little more than shattered hulls and broken masts. The stench of brine mingled with the acrid tang of burned timber, a bitter perfume for the devastation that surrounded him.

  Tristan surveyed the scene with cold detachment. Brutal, he thought. Decisive. Whoever had orchestrated this attack had known precisely where to strike, how to cripple him without drawing a single blade. It would take months, perhaps years, to rebuild the harbor. Months he didn’t have. His jaw tightened, and he shook his head. A boy, they’d said. Naive, soft-spoken, too weak to rule. He found it difficult to reconcile that image with what lay before him—a masterpiece of strategic malice.

  “Who do you suppose is behind this?” he asked, his voice a low rumble as he glanced at the procession trailing behind him.

  Sean, the traitorous bastard whose offer initiated this invasion, hesitated. He exchanged a look with the other men, their faces wary, and then cleared his throat. “I cannot say for certain, my lord,” he admitted, his tone cautious. “There are names that come to mind, but none I can speak with confidence. Not enough to please you, at least.”

  Tristan grunted, dissatisfied but unsurprised. He pulled his horse to a halt and sat in silence, his eyes fixed on the wreckage before him. Months of planning undone in a single night. The Gryphon—or whoever advised him—knew where to cut deepest. Tristan couldn’t help but admire the cunning of it, even as it filled him with the cold desire for vengeance. Such a mind, he thought, would be better employed in his service. Failing that, buried six feet beneath the earth where it can no longer trouble him.

  “Abel.”

  The squire, a lad no older than sixteen, nudged his mount forward, his posture straight as a rod. “Yes, my liege?”

  “Send a pigeon to my wife. She is to speak to the merchant guilds on my behalf and arrange a baggage train for the army.” Tristan’s voice was calm, measured, but the squire knew better than to mistake it for anything less than fury held tightly in check. “The Gryphon may think he’s dealt me a mortal blow, but I refuse to grant him the satisfaction of a victory. We march on Faywyn in three days.”

  Abel bowed his head, murmuring a hasty, “At once, my lord,” before retreating to carry out the order.

  Tristan lingered a moment longer, his gaze sweeping over the ruins once more. “Bring me to Lord Karls,” he said at last, his voice quieter now, almost a growl. “I imagine he’ll want his pound of that whelp’s flesh as much as I do.”

  He spurred his horse forward without waiting for a reply, his men falling into step behind him. The Lion’s shadow stretched long over the smoldering ruins of the harbor, and in his wake, there was only the bitter promise of reckoning.