Faywyn, 13th Moon, 23rd Day, 1623 Symfora Telos

  LATE autumn—falling leaves of many colours; deep brown, fire-orange, and wine-red, they meander. Flying. They ramble on this, on that, their only chance to wander. Roving. Descending to the forest litter where they would spend the rest of their existence in the hectic, pallid hues of decay, emanating the ancient scent of a ripened earth. Dying.

  The keep was hushed in the morning's fog, the kind of quiet that made even small sounds seem loud. Outside, a thick fog pressed against the horizon like an excluded ghost, a cloudy pall that softened the jagged lines of the treetops and blurred the sharp edges of reality; a perfect anodyne to the restless spirit. Only the sky seemed alive, alight with a murky red dawn, like an old wound bleeding into the heavens. Sunlight broke through the clouds in pale, splintered shafts, spilling across Lord Aden's table, where scrolls and parchments lay strewn like fallen leaves.

  Inside, the murmurs of voices echoed faintly. James sat with an ease that belied his responsibilities, a girl perched on his knee, no older than twelve, her auburn hair catching the light. She was scribbling furiously with a charcoal stick, her small tongue poking out between her teeth as she concentrated on the crude lines that took shape on the parchment. James's dark eyes flicked to her work with amusement.

  "Tell me again of the tax earnings for the third month," he said idly, his tone light. He stroked the girl’s hair absently as he spoke, his fingers tangling in her unruly curls.

  Behind him, Robert, the steward, adjusted his spectacles with a frown. He was an unremarkable man, grey of hair and drab of garb, but his eyes were keen, and his tongue sharper still. "The figures are there, my lord," he said, pointing to the bottom of the scroll. "Though I must say, the spike in revenue during that time was an anomaly. A surplus harvest, coupled with your lord-father’s brief increase in tariffs. The following months have been less kind."

  "And you think it unwise to reduce the tax?" James’s voice was casual, nary an edge beneath it.

  "I do, my lord." Robert hesitated, then pressed on. "The town is still recovering from the recent disturbances, true, but with winter approaching and our coffers depleted—"

  James waved a hand, silencing him. "No more of that. The townsfolk have endured enough. Let them see some leniency, lest they come to see us as tyrants and rise against us. It is cheaper to show mercy than to suppress a rebellion."

  Robert inclined his head, but his lips pressed into a thin line. "As you say, my lord. Shall we discuss the budget for the renovations at Mallowston Keep?"

  "Yes," James said, leaning back. His free hand drummed lightly on the table, while the girl beside him hummed tunelessly. "And make it quick. I’ve no wish to spend the day drowning in figures."

  Robert unrolled another scroll, the parchment crackling softly as he laid it flat. "The stables are nearly complete, though repair work on the main hall lags behind. Labourers are in short supply, and we lack the coin to entice more. As for the militia..." He adjusted his spectacles, squinting at the neat rows of figures. "Training and provisioning will cost no less than twelve hundred silver Thales for the season, assuming we keep the number at four hundred. Equipping them to your specifications—chainmail, spears, arbalests for the archers—will require another twelve hundred gold royals, at minimum."

  James tilted his head, his expression unreadable. "And the coffers?"

  "Depleted, my lord, as you know. Lord Aden’s excesses and Sean’s mutiny saw to that. What little remains comes from the iron mine, what we could snatch from the Heras, and modest trade tariffs. After accounting for these expenses, we’ll be left with scarcely two thousand gold royals. Enough to scrape through the winter, if no further emergencies arise." Robert’s tone was dry as parchment.

  James exhaled through his nose. His fingers ceased their drumming. "So, we balance on the edge of ruin. Hardly a novelty." He turned his gaze to Robert, his eyes as dark and still as a winter lake. "See that the militia is funded and equipped regardless. They will be needed before long."

  Robert hesitated. "As you command, my lord. Shall I also see to the procurement of additional supplies? Crossbow strings and fletching materials, in particular, will be necessary if we aim to meet the timeline you’ve set."

  "Procure them," James said. "Ser Justin will lead a party to the mountain tribes to secure what we cannot make ourselves or buy from passing merchants. Inform him to leave within the week."

  The steward nodded, his quill scratching as he noted the orders. "There is one other matter, my lord. Two of the Hera bannermen—Ser Claghem and Ser Liam—have agreed to swear fealty in exchange for leniency."

  James arched a brow. "And Gilbert?"

  Robert’s lips pressed into a tight line. "Still defiant. He refuses to leave his cell, let alone bend the knee."

  "Then he can rot a while longer," James said, his tone cold. "I’ll pay him a visit later. Now, leave me. And tell the blacksmiths I’ll inspect their work before the day is done."

  Robert bowed and departed, his footsteps echoing down the stone corridor. As the door closed, James turned his attention to the girl on his lap. She was watching him with wide, curious eyes.

  "Now then," he said, plucking the parchment from the table. "Let’s see what masterpiece you’ve created, Javi."

  The girl flushed, snatching at the paper, but James held it out of reach. "No! Don’t look!"

  "Relax. I shan’t mock you," he said, a hint of a smile curling his lips. "Unless it’s dreadful, of course."

  Javi huffed, crossing her arms.

  “And what’s this supposed to be?” James asked peering at the parchment in a manner beyond exaggerated.

  "...It’s supposed to be Lady Luna," Javi muttered. "Mother showed me a portrait of her once. She was so beautiful... I thought I might draw her, but..." Her voice trailed off, and her cheeks darkened further.

  James studied the stick-figure likeness on the page, his grin widening. "Ah, a true marvel of art,” he said chuckling. “My Lady-Mother would have wept had she been able to see her beauty immortalized so skillfully."

  "You!" Javi’s voice was shrill with indignation, her small fists pounding lightly on his chest. "You said you wouldn’t laugh!"

  "And I lied," he said, chuckling as he set the parchment down. "But you’ve potential, little one. Come here. I’ll show you how to improve it."

  With deft strokes, James began to sketch on a fresh sheet, the charcoal forming the graceful contours of a woman’s face. Javi leaned in, her earlier embarrassment forgotten as she watched with rapt attention. Slowly, the lines became sharper, more defined, until Lady Luna’s likeness emerged from the page.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  "You see?" he said, handing the drawing to her. "Patience and precision. That’s all it takes."

  Javi clutched the portrait to her chest, her eyes shining. "Thank you, Levi! I’ll practice every day, I swear it!"

  "Good." He ruffled her hair, a rare softness in his expression. "Now off with you, before your mother comes looking."

  As if on cue, a soft knock sounded at the door. Javi froze, then darted behind the table as the door creaked open.

  "Good afternoon, my lord," said a woman’s voice, warm and melodic. Lady Junita stepped inside, her auburn hair catching the light. She glanced at the scattered parchments and her daughter’s guilty face, and her lips curved into a faint, knowing smile that didn’t exactly reach her eyes.

  "My lord," she said, dipping into a curtsy. "I trust Javi has not been too much trouble."

  "Not at all," James replied smoothly. "She’s been a delight, as always."

  The Lady’s eyes lingered momentarily upon her daughter, hiding behind the table, before drifting to the dishevelled papers strewn upon the cherished desk of Lord Aden. Seeing this her smile grew visibly wider, and warmer, as she turned back to face her daughter with crescent, smiling eyes.

  "Javi dear, won't you greet your mother?"

  "Mo-mother," the girl stuttered, collecting herself with a palpable nervousness. Almost instinctively, she smoothed her gown, adjusted her locks, and stood a trifle straighter, perchance in an attempt to present a more refined appearance.

  Levi doubted it was working.

  For several moments more, Javi's mother regarded her daughter with a bland gaze before exhaling a weary sigh. "Forgive me, My Lord," the lady uttered, gently massaging her temples. "I shall instruct a maidservant to dispatch fresh parchment upon our return."

  "Worry not. Tis’ nothing," James stated plainly, waving dismissively. "There is no need to chastise the child overmuch for the disorder. I believe she shall soon outgrow these little antics of hers."

  Lady Junita regarded Levi with a blank stare, yet he met her gaze with a smile. After a lingering moment, the woman relented with a resigned sigh. Tenderly retrieving her daughter's hands, she curtsied once more.

  "I have come to fetch Javi for her afternoon lessons. We shall now take our leave, My Lord."

  "Very well," James nodded.

  Javi peeked out from behind behind her mother, her cheeks flushed. "Goodbye, Young Lord," she mumbled, then stuck out her tongue before darting out of the room.

  When the door closed, James leaned back in his chair, the warmth in his expression fading. Rising, he crossed to the window and gazed out over the town. The villagers bustled below, their movements purposeful, as if to stave off the creeping cold of late autumn. James’s fingers tightened around the windowsill. There was much to be done, and little time to do it.

  ???

  Windy Fir Woodlands

  The path wound through the forest like a serpent, narrow and frostbitten, the trees bare-limbed and skeletal against the grey sky. The Lord rode ahead, his figure stiff and unyielding atop his midnight destrier. His cloak billowed behind him in the brisk morning wind, black as a crow’s wing. Princess Iris followed close, her mare picking its steps carefully over the carpet of frozen leaves. A short distance behind, her mother, Queen Irina, rode in silence, her face an impassive mask, though her sharp eyes darted from shadow to shadow.

  “You said he was your uncle,” Iris ventured, her voice breaking the brittle silence.

  “Aye,” said Lord Aden, not turning. His tone was flat, bereft of warmth, as if he spoke of a stranger.

  “But—”

  “He rebelled,” Aden said sharply, cutting her off. His voice was like a blade, keen-edged and cold. “He chose his path, and it led to the block. His head adorned my family’s gates for a month, alongside his wife’s, his children’s, his paramours’, and his household retainers’. All their kin as well. My father always said mercy was for fools. It is a lesson I have not forgotten.”

  Iris stared at his back, her mouth suddenly dry. “You are… as ruthless as they say.”

  “Ruthless?” Aden glanced over his shoulder, his pale eyes meeting hers. “Nay. Practical. He slew my father, his own brother. Should I have embraced him for it?”

  The words fell heavy between them, as final as a headsman’s axe.

  Silence reigned, broken only by the soft crunch of hooves and the rustle of the wind in the trees. Iris pulled her cloak tighter against the chill. Somewhere in the distance, a crow cawed, a lone voice in the wilderness.

  “Is it true then?” she asked at length. “That you slew a thousand men at the Battle of the Mire?”

  Aden laughed, a bitter sound. “A thousand? Nay. That is the stuff of songs and tavern tales. Perhaps five hundred, between skirmishes and executions. Mayhaps fewer. I kept no tally. What sort of man would?”

  Iris shivered, but not from the cold. Even his dismissal of the legend did little to diminish the image in her mind: The Dark Gryphon, wading through blood and corpses with his greatsword in hand, a storm of death. She had seen men die, but only a handful, and always from afar. The thought of one man cutting down so many was both horrifying and… awe-inspiring.

  “...Your sons must be bold men,” she said moments later, her voice soft. “To have such a father.”

  “Sean, mayhap,” Aden replied, his tone dismissive. “Levi? Him? Nay. He is soft. The boy buries himself in scrolls and tomes, refusing the blade, the hunt, even the bottle. He has no taste for wine, no stomach for blood, no eye for a comely wench. The lad’s future concerns me at times…”

  “The son of the Dark Gryphon shuns the sword?” Iris said, incredulous. For some reason, the revelation disappointed her.

  Aden’s face darkened, though not with anger. “He takes after his mother,” he said quietly. “She loved her books. She would have doted on him, had she lived. They would have been thick as thieves, the two of them.”

  He said no more, and Iris did not press him. The Lord was not a man given to sentiment, and the wistfulness in his voice unsettled her. They rode on in silence, the forest closing in around them. The sky had begun to brighten, the grey giving way to pale gold as the sun rose higher. The chill remained, biting at her cheeks and fingers.

  Then, without warning, Aden drew his destrier to a halt. Iris reined in her mare, her gaze darting about the forest. She saw no sign of danger, yet Lord Aden’s hand had strayed to the pommel of his sword, and his eyes scanned the shadows. Behind her, the Queen’s mare came to a halt, and Irina edged closer to Iris, her face pale and tense.

  From the underbrush, three figures emerged, their movements deliberate and unhurried. They wore cloaks of muted brown, blending with the barren trees, and their faces were hidden behind smooth white masks, featureless save for the dark slits that marked their eyes. They bore no banners, no sigils, no marks of allegiance. Yet something about them set Iris’s teeth on edge.

  “What do you want?” Aden called, his voice low but firm. His hand tightened on his sword hilt.

  The lead figure stepped forward. His voice, when he spoke, was calm, almost courteous. “Your Grace. Your Majesty. Your Highness. We would ask you to come with us.”

  Aden barked a laugh, though there was no humour in it. “Would you, now? And why, pray, should we oblige?”

  The masked man inclined his head slightly, an almost imperceptible gesture. “We both know 'twould be to your advantage to heed our request. Pray, let us not complicate matters needlessly.”

  The Lord’s eyes narrowed. Iris could feel the tension radiating off him, a coiled spring ready to snap. Yet he did not draw his blade.

  “Whom of your ilk do you serve?” he demanded.

  “You will know soon enough,” the man replied.

  The silence that followed was suffocating. Iris glanced at her mother, seeking answers, but the Queen’s face was unreadable, her lips pressed into a thin line. Only her eyes betrayed her unease.

  Iris was confounded by the sudden turn of events; she had beheld the Lord dispatch an entire band of brigands with ease. Surely, these men posed no real threat either? She glanced back toward her mother, noting a glimmer of recognition in the queen's gaze, heavily laced with caution and mistrust. Iris turned her gaze back to the lead masked man, once again scrutinizing his mask.

  White, marked only by elliptical eyeholes.

  Then, realization dawned.

  "Are they...?" Iris murmured, the question slipping from her lips like a prayer—or a curse.

  Aden’s jaw tightened. “Aye,” he said softly. “They are the Nameless.”

  And in his voice, for the first time, Iris heard the beginnings of fear.