The capital of the South awoke beneath a sun veiled in smoke, its streets bustling with the morning stirrings of trade, gossip, and whispered schemes. From the sprawling marble steps of the royal quarter to the low alleys where the gutters ran with wine and filth, the city throbbed with life.
Along one of its narrower avenues, a lone figure made his way forward with a measured, uneven gait. A man, cloaked in fine cloth stitched with the gold trim of nobility, leaned heavily on an iron-shod cane topped with the carving of a golden eagle. He was slim, his frame wiry beneath the layers of tailored fabric. His hair, flaxen and neatly combed, caught the rising sun like strands of pale fire. Each step was deliberate, his right leg dragging slightly behind the other.
The man passed under hanging silks and shifting veils, ignoring the perfume-soaked glances of women lounging beneath shaded awnings, their arms draped with beads and promise. He walked without pause, eyes forward, as if the city and its pleasures held no claim over him.
He turned a corner and stepped through a carved archway flanked by lanterns painted with floral ink. Behind it lay a brothel—one of the more opulent ones, tucked discreetly between merchant villas and wine-houses. Within, the air grew warm with incense, the moans and murmurs of passion muffled by thick velvet curtains. Silk rustled behind every doorway.
A man waited in the entrance hall, cloaked in black silk with silver patterns stitched along his sleeves. His hair was long, black as coal, save for streaks of white at the temples. Eyes dark, almost hollow. His smile was thin and knowing.
"A rare morning, Lord Alric," the man said with a bow that stopped just short of respectful. "If you're here for a taste of silk and perfume, I assure you we have finer things than old eagle-topped canes."
Alric paused, leaning into his cane. He did not return the smile. "Keep your whores, Vaelen. I'm here for my brother."
Vaelen's smile didn't waver. "Your brother?" he echoed, feigning confusion. "I house many lords beneath this roof. Could you be more... specific?"
Alric exhaled sharply, stepping past him. The cane nudged Vaelen aside with a soft but pointed tap. "Then I'll find him myself."
"You wound me, my lord," Vaelen murmured behind him. "That's no way to treat the owner of such a fine establishment."
Without turning back, Alric answered coldly, "As long as I bear the crest of the eagle of house Montclair, I need not answer to men who peddle flesh."
He swept aside curtain after curtain, ignoring the protests and gasps from within. Half-naked patrons blinked at him in shock; women hissed in surprise. He pressed on, relentless.
At the far end of the hall, he flung aside the last curtain—and found Ser Lucien sprawled across a red-draped bed, a bare-breasted woman astride his hips. The woman shrieked and toppled off as Lucien threw an arm over his face.
"For Godsake, Alric," Lucien groaned, sitting up and dragging a blanket over himself. "Must you always arrive when I'm about to find peace?"
"Peace? In a whore's embrace?" Alric asked dryly, his brow arched. "The king has summoned us."
Lucien ran a hand through his tousled hair. "Could your timing be worse?"
"If you'd rather I report back that Ser Lucien was busy rutting in some perfumed den, I'd be happy to oblige."
Lucien sighed, his expression caught somewhere between amusement and irritation. "You truly are insufferable when you want to be."
"I aim to be," Alric replied, turning to limp away with a flick of his cloak and a faint scowl tugging at the corner of his lips.
Lucien threw a gold coin toward the woman, who had begun collecting her garments in silence. "For the trouble," he muttered, rising from the bed. He tugged on his tunic and strapped his belt tight.
Vaelen stepped in just as Lucien was adjusting his cloak. "Forgive me, ser, I attempted to keep your brother at bay."
Lucien waved him off. "No need, Vaelen. He's a hound once he catches a scent."
He tossed another coin into Vaelen's hand. "For the clients he disturbed."
Vaelen caught it with a smile. "You're always welcome, Ser Lucien. Though next time, perhaps come without the shadow that limps beside you."
Lucien stepped into the sunlight and found Alric waiting against the stone arch. The blond man stood with his weight leaned into the cane, its eagle head glinting in the light, tapping it lightly against his boot. His expression was dry, sharp eyes squinting slightly beneath the daylight, his narrow face set with familiar irritation.
"Took you long enough," Alric muttered.
Lucien raised a brow. "You could've waited outside, like someone with a hint of grace left."
"And miss the look on your face? Gods forbid."
Lucien chuckled under his breath. "Well then, brother, shall we answer the king's summons?"
Alric turned without answering, already limping forward. Lucien fell in step beside him, the two brothers making their way through the winding alleys of the capital, their silhouettes long in the morning sun.
Later, at the Court Hall...
Alric limped into the vaulted hall, the tip of his cane ticking against polished marble like a slow drumbeat. Beside him walked Ser Lucien—broad-shouldered, sharp-jawed, and moving with a soldier's effortless grace. Gold-leaf pillars lined the chamber, and high arched windows spilled in light that did little to warm the place. Nobles gathered in twos and threes, their cloaks fine and voices sharper. A few cast glances between the two brothers, eyes narrowing with silent judgment.
"Is that truly a Montclair?" one whispered, eyes fixed on Alric.
"I thought all eagles had wings," another murmured, a sneer hidden behind his goblet.
The contrast between them could not have been clearer—Lucien, the golden knight, proud and whole; Alric, the crippled thinker, leaning heavily on his cane yet holding his chin high. Still, one walked unnoticed; the other drew the room's quiet ridicule with every limping step.
A pair of older lords whispered by the wine table.
"How long do you think he'll last in the King's Circle?" one muttered.
"Longer than his leg, perhaps," the other replied with a smirk. "I heard he couldn't sit a horse without falling sideways."
Alric passed them without a glance, though the corner of his mouth twitched—not in amusement. Ser Lucien, walking beside him, caught the crude jest and shot a sharp look over his shoulder. His jaw clenched, but before he could speak, Alric murmured, "Pay them no mind, brother. It's the loudest hens that cackle when they've no eggs to show."
The twin doors of the council chamber groaned open as the guards pushed them apart. Alric stepped through first, his cane striking the marble with its slow, deliberate rhythm. Ser Lucien was beside him now, the clink of his armor softer than the murmurs of the lords who dared glance their way behind them.
They entered the high-ceilinged hall where a lone woman stood by the council table, inspecting a parchment with cold intensity. She was tall, with the commanding poise of high birth. Her silver-blonde hair was braided into a coiled crown, and her gown—deep ruby, cinched at the waist—reflected the quiet ruthlessness in her eyes.
Alric met the eyes of the queen—not just his sister, but the crown's silver blade—and gave her a smile sharpened with old wounds.
Seated near her were several key members of the royal council: a gaunt elder draped in blue and bronze robes, fingers heavy with rings, whispering to a middle aged man in a chain of office; a solemn knight with a greying beard and a lion brooch at his collar; and a plump noblewoman whose sharp eyes scanned the brothers as they entered. The hush that followed their arrival was palpable.
Alric's cane ticked once more as he approached, his limp exaggerated by the long walk. Lucien, ever his contrast, moved with fluid strength beside him—one brother the blade, the other the mind.
The queen bore the calm elegance of high birth, her expression cold and poised like a knife.
"You're late," she said without looking at him.
"Forgive me, dear sister," Alric murmured, his mouth twisting in a half-smile that didn't reach his eyes. He gave a slight shrug, shifting his weight with a faint wince. "One of my legs is slower than the other. I'd trade it out, but Mother failed to order spares."
Her lips barely twitched. "You always think wit can make up for presence. It doesn't."
"No," Alric said, his mouth twitching into a lopsided grin, though his eyes remained tired. "But it's far cheaper than a second sword, Sylvia—though I suspect you'd rather I carry neither wit nor blade."
Lucien, standing near the hearth, looked between them. "Enough, both of you. This isn't helping."
Alric turned on him, his expression twisting with bitter amusement. "And you, dear brother. Still playing the part of peacekeeper while I drown, hmm? Tell me—does your pity wear steel now, or is it still wrapped in velvet and varnished with courtly smiles?"
Lucien's face faltered, the sting of the words drawing a breath he did not release. His gaze dropped, jaw clenched, but no retort came. Across the room, Sylvia—Queen of the South—lifted her goblet with unreadable calm, the wine catching light like blood in crystal.
A herald stepped into the chamber, his voice sharp and formal as it echoed off the stone.
"Stand for His Majesty."
The council members stilled. The gaunt man in blue and bronze robes ceased his whispering, the knight with the lion brooch stood straighter, and the plump noblewoman folded her hands over her lap. Sylvia by the parchment rose with practiced grace, her posture pristine and gaze unreadable. Lucien straightened beside Alric, his stance firm, shoulders squared like a soldier preparing for inspection.
Alric pushed himself upright with a quiet grunt, his cane clicking once against the floor. His expression tightened, unreadable.
The great doors groaned open.
And the king entered.
The king strode into the council room, his cloak trailing behind him like a shadow of authority. He moved past the long table and took his place at the central seat near its head. To his left sat the queen, whom he greeted with a nod and a quiet murmur. Then, with a sweep of his hand, he bid the room to sit.
His sharp gaze traveled over the seated council, brows furrowing when he noticed a notable absence. "Where is the Archduke of the North?" he asked, voice calm but edged with displeasure.
The lords exchanged confused glances. None seemed to know. Whispers stirred but no answer came.
A sudden knock echoed through the chamber. The herald stepped in, bowed hastily, and spoke with urgency. "Your Majesty—the Archduke of the North has arrived. He is accompanied by his eldest son."
The tall doors creaked open again. Cold air seemed to seep into the room as the Archduke stepped through, his fur-lined cloak rustling with each step. A stern presence, he held himself like a winter storm personified. His son followed closely, a younger reflection of his father's grim countenance.
The Archduke halted before the table and bowed with formal precision. "Your Majesty."
The king's eyes narrowed. "Rather bold, arriving late before your king."
"The journey from the North is long and unforgiving your majesty," the Archduke replied evenly.
For a moment, the hall held its breath in silence.
Then the king laughed—loud, unbothered, echoing through the chamber. "Still as cold as the mountains you rule. Gods, it's good to see your face again."
The Archduke gave the faintest hint of a smile. "And yours, old friend."
They clasped forearms briefly before the Archduke and his son took their seats.
The king leaned forward slightly, his tone sharpening. "Now—let us begin. One of my scouts brought word... something stirs in the East."
One of the council members, the grizzled commander in grey, leaned forward and asked, "The East? What threat lies beyond the desert plains worth troubling His Majesty?"
Alric, arms crossed, raised a skeptical brow, his tone dry as he reached for a goblet of wine. "Whatever rumors drift across the desert winds, they are leagues away from our gates, Your Majesty—hardly worth disturbing the peace of the court."
The room quieted as a cold breeze seemed to pass. The king's voice cut through the stillness.
"They speak of a young woman," the king said, his voice heavy with meaning. "Silver-haired, riding with the Vol'kherens of the Eastern Sands."
A hush fell over the chamber. Goblets paused mid-air, quills halted mid-scratch. A ripple of unease passed among the council—shuffling feet, wary glances, stiffened spines.
Then—
The Archduke of the North slammed his fist onto the table. Goblets rattled.
Alric's hand, just reaching for his wine, lingered over the goblet. His brows creased ever so slightly, but he said nothing. Beside him, Ser Lucien's jaw tensed, his eyes flicking toward the king.
The gaunt man in blue and bronze robes folded his hands, his mouth tightening into a line. Even the plump noblewoman, usually unshakable, inhaled sharply through her nose, her gaze flicking toward Sylvia as if to gauge the queen's reaction.
And Sylvia, ever poised, narrowed her eyes ever so slightly. Her fingers curled around the stem of her goblet, but she neither drank nor spoke.
The air in the council room turned brittle—ready to shatter at a word.
The king's gaze bore down upon Harris, tension thickened in the air, stretched taut like a drawn bowstring.
"That cursed blood still lives?" Harris said, his voice low and seething. "Is that what you mean to suggest, Godrick?" His eyes locked on the king, unblinking—dark and sunken with sleepless fury. His lips curled into a grimace, not quite a snarl, as if the name itself had soured on his tongue. His fingers coiled slowly around the edge of the table, knuckles blanching white, as if gripping something not made of wood, but memory. For a moment, he did not seem to breathe.
The plump noblewoman, startled but composed, leaned forward. Her voice low and grave.
"A Vyrmyr."
The chamber froze.
And the Archduke's eldest son, Edric looked to his father—not with pride, but with a tremble of something darker. For the first time, anger clouded his eyes. Shaken, and silent.
A silver flame stirred beyond the horizon—one the world thought extinguished.