Smoke still lingered over the ruins of Windmere's outpost, curling up in spirals reminding me of my failure. I stood atop the ridge, watching the ashes drift in the breeze, boots still marked and smell of the soil of battlefield we had left behind days ago.
It didn't go how I wanted or planned it to be.
Not a slaughter. Not a conquest. Just a surgical strike, meant to rattle Ravien's teeth and remind him I wasn't some upstart with a banner and a dream.
But the bastard turned it into a martyr's tale.
By the time we pulled back to Greystone, the rumors had already run ahead of us—burned temples, dead children, women screaming for mercy. None of it true. But truth was a slower rider than fear, and Ravien knew how to saddle it.
Lyra found me on the ridge, cloak snapping behind her.
"He's buried us under stories," she said. "Half the countryside believes you slaughtered Windmere's people in their sleep."
"Did we?" I asked without turning back.
"No," she said dryly. "But it doesn't matter."
I knew it never did.
She handed me a scroll, sealed in blue wax and faintly perfumed.
"This came through the Vale route. Hollowmere's seal. The Margravine."
I cracked it open. A smooth, flowing script greeted me—written with the grace of a noblewoman who knew her worth.
"She wants protection," I murmured. "And she offers her niece. Elira Vael."
"A cousin to Ravien, technically. Raised in Hollowmere since she was five."
"She's the kind of gift that comes with a knife under the ribbon." I said still reading the scroll.
Lyra smirked. "I thought you liked those."
I didn't bother to reply to her remarks.
I scanned the rest of the scroll. A subtle offer—she gives us Elira as a political ward, under royal escort no less. Not a declaration of loyalty, but a careful step away from Ravien's sinking ship. She was weighing her bets.
"She wants to survive whoever wins," I said.
"She thinks that'll be you." Lyra replied with a straight face.
That was new. Most just assumed I'd end up hanging beside my banners.
I rolled the scroll back up. "Make arrangements. We accept."
Lyra nodded.
---
I decided to return back to Wyvrland as it has been a long stay in Greystone and I need to rethink my own strategy in a place where I atleast feel like home.
I sent Kaelen back to Wyvrland few days earlier to heal her wounds properly, Wyvrland had better pyhysician than Greystone and she deserved much needed rest.
One week later
We returned to Wyvrland under dull skies, the autumn winds biting through my cloak. Leaves fell like dying embers across the roads, scattered red and brown. The keep rose ahead, cold and familiar.
Kaelen met me at the gate, alongside my house guard. Her eyes, always alert, narrowed slightly as she spoke.
"Sir Talen Virewyn arrived while you were away. King's envoy. He waits in the great hall."
That sent a flicker of heat up my spine.
Talen Virewyn wasn't a man they sent for pleasantries. A warhound of the crown, once a hammer against the border lords. Now a courier of judgment and veiled threats.
"Let him wait a moment longer," I said. "Then bring him wine. Not the good kind."
Kaelen gave the faintest smile before heading back into the keep.
She seemed healthy and back to her best so I didn't bother pleasantry of asking her of her wounds, she is a strong after all.
Inside, I took the long route to the hall, letting the tension settle as I walk. I passed stone walls I had reforged, halls once echoing with ruin now lined with discipline. This was no longer a ruined county. After all It's been nearly two years in this world.
Talen sat alone at my table. No armor, no escort—just a plain black cloak, with ordinary clothes and a silver ring marked with the royal crest. He didn't stand when I entered.
"Lord Wyvrling," he greeted, voice cool and smooth. "Your hall is warmer than I expected."
"You caught us between a war," I replied. "If you came for fire, I'll try to disappoint."
He gestured toward the empty seat. I took it.
"The King sends no accusations," he said. "He only wonders if your ambitions match your loyalty."
A clever phrasing. Not hostile. Not friendly. But pure diplomatic.
"My claim is lawful," I said. "My house was buried, not broken. I reclaim what's mine by blood, not theft."
"And Windmere?" he said with a serious tone.
"A warning," I replied. "No blood was spilled. We hit a garrison and withdrew."
He raised an eyebrow. "And yet the Duke says it was a massacre."
"Duke Ravien says many things. Truth isn't one of them."
Silence stretched the hall. Then he pulled a scroll from his satchel, tied in gold thread.
"The King has summoned you to Arador," Talen said. "No trial. No demands. Just an audience."
I took the scroll and broke the seal. The summons was real.
"Does the Duke also attend?"
"He has been invited," Talen said. "He may decline. Or he may arrive with fire in his mouth."
"And if I bring proof of his corruption?"
Talen gave the faintest smirk. "Then perhaps the King will listen."
After a few minutes of small and diplomatic talks Talens bids his farewell and leaves.
---
Later that night, my council gathered in the council room. Firelight lit across the table as the wind blowing outside. Arden stood by the fireplace, arms crossed. Armin sat hunched over maps. Caldus polished a silver pendant silently.
I set the scroll in the center of the table.
"I leave for Arador in two weeks. The King wants to measure me. I will let him."
"And Ravien?" Arden asked.
"He'll come, if only to claw at me in public."
Lyra spoke next. "Then we give him something to choke on."
"Elira Vael," I confirmed. "She's arriving under royal escort. We'll bring her with us."
Kaelen frowned. "Ravien's bloodline?"
"A symbol," I said. "His own blood, sheltered by my hand. It makes me looks stable. Makes him look like madness."
Armin nodded slowly. "You're not asking the King for favor. You're offering him peace."
"The only thing he values more than loyalty."
Lyra leaned forward. "And what if Ravien brings witnesses? Paid nobles? Twisted stories?"
"Then we bring truth," I said. "And if that fails… we bring fear."
Elira arrived five days later.
The girl rode under the silver banner of Hollowmere, guarded by two royal knights. She dismounted with poise for her age—seventeen years old just a year younger than me, with storm-colored eyes and a quiet, sharp presence.
She bowed low before me. "Lord Wyvrling. I come as ward and witness."
"You come with courage," I replied. "That will serve us both."
No more words were needed. She understood the game.
I watched her walk into my keep—a girl born of Ravien's blood, now under my roof. The first fracture in his fortress.
Let him spin tales. Let him scream at the court.
But I will walk into Arador with his cousin beside me, the King's summons in my hand, and the weight of history behind my name.
Let the King decide which of us is the poison… and which one is the cure.