The Hall of Crowns was a crucible of power, its vaulted ceilings echoing with the whispers of empires. Sunlight streamed through stained-glass windows, splashing the marble floor with fractured hues of gold and crimson—colors that mirrored the banners of Emperor Aldrich's realm. To the left of the dais stood envoys from the Freeholds, their silver-threaded robes shimmering like frost, their faces sharp as the mountain peaks they called home. To the right, advisors and lords of the Empire clutched scrolls and daggers, their eyes darting like hawks. At the center of it all, Raven stood unbowed, his voice cutting through the murmurs as he relayed the horrors of the Deadmarch: the Outsiders' ambush, the shifting cathedral, the Barons' cryptic threats.
Emperor Aldrich listened, his fingers drumming the armrests of his obsidian throne. "And the squad?" he asked, his voice a blade wrapped in silk.
"Alive," Raven said. "But the Outsiders' game is deeper than raids. They want something. Something tied to *me*."
Before the emperor could respond, the hall's brass doors groaned. A dozen imperial guards stumbled backward, their spears trembling, as a figure strode through.
Kael Voss, Warmaster of the Iron Dominion, needed no armor to command fear. He wore a tunic of gray wolf pelts, the hides still clinging to snarling muzzles, and a belt hung with grisly trophies: knucklebones strung on sinew, rusted medals from forgotten battles, a dagger sheathed in leather peeled from a rival warlord's back. His face was a testament to violence—a milky blind eye, a scar devouring his left cheek, and a smile that promised storms. Behind him loomed two Dominion champions, their faces hidden behind iron masks etched with screaming faces.
"Emperor Aldrich," Kael said, his voice a landslide of gravel. "A corpse rots in the Frostspire Pass. One of mine. A blade with *your* crest in his ribs." He tossed a rusted dagger at the foot of the throne. The hilt bore the imperial serpent, its fangs bared.
The Freeholds' envoy, a sharp-faced woman with eyes like flint, leaned forward, her silver robes pooling like molten metal. The lords of the Empire erupted—Lord Harrow, his jowls quivering, shouted, "Lies! The Dominion hungers for war and spins tales to justify it!"
Aldrich raised a hand. Silence fell like a headsman's axe. "You bring a dagger and demand answers? Your theatrics tire me, Warmaster."
Kael paced, boots thudding against marble. "The Freeholds cling to their icy crags. You wallow in your fields and rivers. The Dominion?" He spread his arms, the wolf pelts bristling. "We've outgrown our deserts. But deserts breed *hunger*. And hunger… must be fed."
Raven's hand drifted to his dagger, not in fear, but calculation. The Dominion's ploy was transparent: fabricate a casus belli, bait the Empire into striking first. But Aldrich was no fool.
The emperor nodded. His squad leaders—Captain Brynn, her spear honed in a hundred skirmishes; Ser Jorah, his sword hand twitching; the hulking twins Edric and Elyas, their warhammers slung like toys—stepped forward, blades drawn. They encircled Kael, steel glinting.
Raven did not move.
"Your puppets bore me," Kael said, eyeing the squad leaders. "But by all means—*try*."
Brynn's knuckles whitened. Ser Jorah's blade faltered. Edric and Elyas exchanged a glance.
"Stand down," Raven commanded, his voice a whip-crack.
All eyes turned to him.
"This isn't a fight," Raven said, stepping between Kael and the throne. "It's a mummer's farce. The Dominion licks its chops for war but fears staining its hands first. So they plant a rusty dagger and send a lapdog to yap at our gates." He kicked the blade toward Kael, the clatter echoing like a challenge. "Take your trinket. Tell your emperor the Empire will investigate the Frostspire corpse… and *we'll* decide if the Dominion's fingerprints are on it."
Kael's smile curdled. For a heartbeat, his blind eye seemed to fix on Raven, unseeing yet piercing. "Careful, Shadow. My emperor doesn't take… *suggestions* lightly."
"Nor do we," Aldrich said, rising, his shadow swallowing the dais. "Return to your dunes, Warmaster. Before my courtesy expires."
The hall held its breath—senators frozen, lords clutching their jewels, the Freeholds' envoy's quill poised over parchment.
Kael chuckled, a sound like boulders grinding. He retrieved the dagger, sliding it into his belt. "Investigate swiftly. The Dominion's patience… thins." He turned to leave, his champions flanking him, but paused beside Raven. "Oh—and this?" He dropped a silver pendant into Raven's palm: a raven mid-flight, one wing snapped. "Found it on the corpse. Curious, no?"
Raven's pulse did not quicken. Fear was for lesser men. But the pendant—*his* pendant, ripped from the neck of his first lieutenant years ago during a massacre blamed on bandits—stirred embers long buried. The traitor who'd sold them out had vanished, leaving only this symbol in the mud.
Kael left, his laughter lingering like smoke.
Aldrich's gaze sharpened. "Explain. *Now*."
Raven closed his fist around the pendant, the edges biting his palm. "The killer isn't Dominion. They're someone who knows my past. Someone who wants the Empire and Dominion at each other's throats."
"The traitor," Aldrich said, quieter.
Raven nodded. The hall erupted—lords shouting, senators demanding retribution, the Freeholds' envoy scribbling furiously. But Raven's mind raced ahead. The Dominion's hunger, the Outsiders' schemes, and a ghost from the shadows—all converging like blades in a whetstone.
As chaos swirled, the Freeholds' envoy slipped toward the doors, her silver robes whispering secrets. Raven's eyes tracked her exit, a flicker of suspicion igniting.
Aldrich gripped Raven's shoulder, his voice a murmur. "Find the traitor. Before this war becomes a pyre."
Raven met his gaze, unflinching. "They'll wish they'd stayed hidden."
Outside, thunder growled. Somewhere, a whip cracked.
### Chapter 3: The Hall of Shadows
The Hall of Crowns was a crucible of power, its vaulted ceilings echoing with the whispers of empires past. Sunlight poured through stained-glass windows, splashing the marble floor with fractured hues of gold and crimson—colors that mirrored the banners of Emperor Aldrich's realm. On one side of the dais stood the envoys from the Freeholds, their silver-threaded robes shimmering like frost on mountain peaks, their faces as sharp as the crags they called home. On the other, advisors and lords of the Empire clutched scrolls and daggers, their eyes darting like hawks. At the center of it all, Raven stood tall and unyielding, his voice cutting through the murmurs as he relayed the horrors of the Deadmarch: the Outsiders' ambush, the mysterious cathedral, the Barons' cryptic threats.
Emperor Aldrich listened intently, his fingers drumming the armrests of his obsidian throne. "And the squad?" he inquired, his voice a blade wrapped in silk.
"Alive," Raven replied. "But the Outsiders' game runs deeper than raids. They want something. Something tied to *me*."
Just as the emperor was about to respond, the hall's brass doors groaned open. A dozen imperial guards stumbled backward, their spears trembling, as a figure strode through the doorway.
Kael Voss, Warmaster of the Iron Dominion, needed no armor to command fear. He wore a tunic of gray wolf pelts, still clinging to snarling muzzles, and a belt hung with grisly trophies: knucklebones strung on sinew, rusted medals from forgotten battles, and a dagger sheathed in leather peeled from a rival warlord's back. His face was a testament to violence—a milky blind eye, a scar devouring his left cheek, and a smile that promised storms. Behind him loomed two Dominion champions, their faces hidden behind iron masks etched with screaming faces.
"Emperor Aldrich," Kael growled, his voice a landslide of gravel. "A corpse rots in the Frostspire Pass. One of mine. And in his ribs—a blade with *your* crest." He tossed a rusted dagger at the foot of the throne. The hilt bore the imperial serpent, its fangs bared.
The Freeholds' envoy, a sharp-faced woman with eyes like flint, leaned forward, her silver robes pooling like molten metal. The lords of the Empire erupted into a firestorm of denials—Lord Harrow, his jowls quivering, shouted, "Lies! The Dominion hungers for war and spins tales to justify it!"
Aldrich raised a hand, and the hall fell silent like a sudden stillness. "You bring a dagger and demand answers? Your theatrics tire me, Warmaster."
Kael paced, boots thudding against marble. "The Freeholds cling to their icy crags. You wallow in your fields and rivers. The Dominion? We've outgrown our deserts. But deserts breed *hunger*. And hunger… must be fed."
Raven's hand drifted to his dagger, not in fear, but calculation. The Dominion's ploy was transparent: fabricate a casus belli, bait the Empire into striking first. But Aldrich was no fool.
The emperor nodded, his eyes never leaving Kael. His squad leaders—Captain Brynn, her spear honed in a hundred skirmishes; Ser Jorah, his sword hand twitching; the hulking twins Edric and Elyas, their warhammers slung like toys—stepped forward, blades drawn. They encircled Kael, steel glinting.
Raven did not move.
"Your puppets bore me," Kael sneered, eyeing the squad leaders. "But by all means—*try*."
Brynn's knuckles whitened. Ser Jorah's blade faltered. Edric and Elyas exchanged a wary glance.
"Stand down," Raven commanded, his voice a whip-crack.
All eyes turned to him.
"This isn't a fight," Raven said, stepping between Kael and the throne. "It's a mummer's farce. The Dominion licks its chops for war but fears staining its hands first. So they plant a rusty dagger and send a lapdog to yap at our gates." He kicked the blade toward Kael, the clatter echoing like a challenge. "Take your trinket. Tell your emperor the Empire will investigate the Frostspire corpse… and *we'll* decide if the Dominion's fingerprints are on it."
Kael's smile curdled. For a heartbeat, his blind eye seemed to fix on Raven, unseeing yet piercing. "Careful, Shadow. My emperor doesn't take… *suggestions* lightly."
"Nor do we," Aldrich said, rising, his shadow swallowing the dais. "Return to your dunes, Warmaster. Before my courtesy expires."
The hall held its breath—senators frozen, lords clutching their jewels, the Freeholds' envoy's quill poised over parchment.
Kael chuckled, a sound like boulders grinding. He retrieved the dagger, sliding it into his belt. "Investigate swiftly. The Dominion's patience… thins." He turned to leave but paused beside Raven. "Oh—and this?" He dropped a silver pendant into Raven's palm: a raven mid-flight, one wing snapped. "Found it on the corpse. Curious, no?"
Raven's pulse did not quicken. Fear was for lesser men. But the pendant—*his* pendant, ripped from the neck of his first lieutenant years ago during a massacre blamed on bandits—stirred embers long buried. The traitor who'd sold them out had vanished, leaving only this symbol in the mud.
Kael left, his laughter lingering like smoke.
Aldrich's gaze sharpened. "Explain. *Now*."
Raven closed his fist around the pendant, the edges biting his palm. "The killer isn't Dominion. They're someone who knows my past. Someone who wants the Empire and Dominion at each other's throats."
"The traitor," Aldrich said, quieter.
Raven nodded, his mind racing ahead. The Dominion's hunger, the Outsiders' schemes, and a ghost from the shadows—all converging like blades in a whetstone.
As chaos swirled through the hall—lords shouting, senators demanding retribution, the Freeholds' envoy scribbling furiously—Raven's eyes tracked her exit, a flicker of suspicion igniting.
Aldrich gripped Raven's shoulder, his voice a low murmur. "Find the traitor. Before this war becomes a pyre."
Raven met his gaze, unflinching. "They'll wish they'd stayed hidden."
Outside, thunder growled. Somewhere, a whip cracked.
---
As the envoys departed and the hall emptied, Raven lingered, his thoughts tangled in the threads of conspiracy. He had two enemies now—the visible ones like Kael, and the hidden ones who sought to drive the Empire and Dominion into flames. The pendant in his fist was a bitter reminder of old betrayals, but it also served as a warning: in the shadows, someone was waiting, watching, and planning. Raven's resolve hardened. He would find this traitor, expose them, and prevent the coming war.
But first, he needed a plan, and allies he could trust more than the shifting winds of politics. His eyes locked onto his squad as they gathered outside the hall—Garrett, Marcus, Lydia, Finn, and Roland. Together, they had faced impossible odds and emerged unbroken. Now, they were about to face something far more treacherous: the game of empires and shadows.
"Time to move," Raven said, his voice cutting through the evening air. "We have a traitor to find."