At first light while the noble families left Astralis, a hooded figure slipped through the mist-shrouded halls of Verdantreach, where the air hung heavy with the damp chill of morning. The ancient stone corridors, lined with faded tapestries of Lonalion conquests, echoed faintly with the creak of settling wood and the distant drip of condensation. Arthur's contact—a maid with no name and no allegiance beyond the silver coins pressed into her palm—moved like a shadow, her threadbare skirts blending into the gloom. Her hands, calloused from years of thankless labor, trembled only slightly as she approached Garios Lonalion's oak desk, its surface scarred by decades of use.
The forged letter felt heavy in her grip, its parchment crisp and unblemished, the Lonalion bull crest stamped boldly in crimson wax. She didn't dare read the words, but the sharp tang of fresh ink stung her nostrils, its urgency unmistakable. Plant and vanish, Arthur had ordered, his voice cold as the coins he'd given her. With practiced ease, she slid the letter into a narrow crack beneath the desk's drawer, where only a thorough search might uncover it.
For a heartbeat, she paused, listening to the muffled snores of a guard down the hall. Then she retreated, her footsteps silent on the flagstones, her breath steady despite the drumming of her heart. The mist swallowed her as she vanished into the labyrinth of servant passages, leaving no trace but the whisper of her skirts and the weight of a lie now buried in the heart of House Lonalion.
Midnight cloaked Blackmoor Manor. The assassins, masked and anonymous, moved with lethal precision. They knew only their target and the dagger to leave behind—a Lonalion blade, its hilt smeared with southern soil. The count died silently, with the Lonalion dagger through his chest. The captain, loyal to Garios, took a wound meant to maim, not kill. "Tell the emperor… Lonalion…did this," the lead assassin hissed. They vanished, their employer's identity as hidden as the moon behind storm clouds.
By midday, Astralis boiled under a searing sun, its streets choked with the clamor of clanking armor and panicked whispers. Robert's knights swarmed Blackmoor Manor like wasps to a carcass, their golden armor glinting like fangs in the harsh light. The count's body, pallid and stiff, was hoisted onto a litter, the Lonalion dagger still protruding from his chest. Its hilt, wrought in the shape of a snarling bull, caught the sunlight as it was paraded through the merchant square, drawing gasps and curses from the crowd.
Robert's voice thundered from the palace balcony, amplified by magic that made the very stones tremble. Amber eyes blazing, he gripped the marble railing, his knuckles white. "Treason!" he roared, spittle flying. "Let every house be torn apart—every vault, every ledger, every shadow—until the rot is found!" The command rippled outward, igniting a frenzy. Imperial soldiers in every territory stormed noble estates, their boots cracking through doors, their hands seizing heirlooms and servants alike.
In the dim-lit studies of Astralis' elite nobles, inspectors overturned oak desks, shattered stained-glass windows, and slashed open feather-stuffed mattresses. Servants were dragged into courtyards, their pleas drowned by the clatter of upturned silverware and the snap of whips.
Then, in the royal courtroom—a cavernous hall of veined marble and gilded thrones—a knight burst through the towering doors, his armor streaked with dust and sweat. In his gauntleted fist, he clutched the forged letter, its Lonalion seal cracked but unmistakable. "Proof!" he bellowed, the word echoing off the vaulted ceilings. "Garios Lonalion plotted this! His own hand!"
Robert rose from his throne, lips curling into a serpent's smile. "Summon the traitor," he purred, the venom in his voice sweetened by triumph. "Let him answer for his loyalty."
Around him, the court erupted—a cacophony of shock and feigned outrage—as the knight knelt, the letter trembling in his grip like a condemned man's confession.
The von Einsbern carriage rattled along the northern road, its wheels kicking up snow. Leofric von Einsbern sat rigid by the window, his crimson eyes fixed on the jagged mountains piercing the horizon. The silence between him and Lyrielle was a chasm filled with unspoken fears. She traced the scar on her wrist—a habit born of decades of swallowed pain—her sapphire-blue gaze distant. "William rode ahead," she murmured, more to herself than to Leofric. "He barely spoke after the Proving."
Aurelia, astride her steel-gray mare beside the carriage, scanned the tree line with ice-blue eyes sharp enough to cut glass. "Something's shifted in Astralis," she said, her voice crisp as frost. "Robert's silence is louder than his applause."
Thalric, slouched in the driver's seat, snorted. "Who cares?" His brick-red eyes glinted with disdain as he tossed a pebble into the underbrush. "Let the south burn. Saves us the trouble."
Inside the carriage, Rowena flinched, her sketchbook trembling in her lap. Pale cerulean eyes wide, she pressed a hand to the pages as her familiars writhed beneath them. "The spirits… they're screaming about fire," she whispered, though no one listened.
Miles behind, the Duskborn carriage trundled through a sun-dappled valley. Arutoria Duskborn leaned forward, moss-green eyes narrowed at the winding road. "Why did William leave so abruptly?" Her voice was edged with the precision of a dagger.
Silvind, seated across from her, adjusted the silver pins in her storm-gray braids. "Pride, perhaps," she said, her tone diplomatic but not dismissive. "Or secrets. The von Einsberns hoard both like dragons."
Arthur rode alongside the carriage, his moss-green eyes trained ahead, betraying nothing. Luke trotted beside him, mischief lighting his seafoam-green eyes. "Bet you ten marks the Lonalions started a war!" he crowed, wind magic tousling his already unruly hair. "James' ego finally snapped, didn't it?"
Arthur's jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Some secrets were best kept buried.
Above them, a hawk circled—its cry echoing through the valleys—as both caravans rolled deeper into the unknown.
Dusk draped the southern plains in hues of ochre and umber as the Lonalion carriage shuddered to a halt on the dusty road. Garios threw open the door, mud-brown eyes blazing. "What in the hells is this?!"
Imperial knights in gilded armor surrounded them, sweat glistening on their brows under the fading sun. Their captain, a man with a scar splitting his lip, stepped forward, his voice cutting through the dry air. "By order of Emperor dey Cortain, you are summoned to the imperial court immediately."
James Lonalion leapt from the carriage, iron-brown eyes narrowing. "Summoned? For what?"
The captain's gaze hardened. "The Count of Blackmoor is dead. A Lonalion dagger was found in his chest, and a letter in your study implicates your house in treason."
Garios stiffened. "Blackmoor… dead?" His fists trembled, earth magic rippling through the parched soil beneath his boots. Was it the von Einsberns? The thought flickered, sharp and hot—but no. Leofric's too rigid, too honorable to scheme like this. "Who would dare mimic our crest?!" he roared, kicking up a cloud of dust.
Ira stepped forward, poison-green eyes slicing through the tension. "A letter? Planted, clearly." Her mind raced. The von Einsberns? Possible. But Leofric wages war openly, not with ink and daggers. Robert, then? Or a lesser house hungry for scraps? "Who stands to gain from turning the emperor against us?"
The captain shrugged. "Argue with the court, not me. You'll return to Astralis—in chains, if necessary."
James' metal gauntlets creaked as he lunged, but Ira's hand clamped his arm. "Fighting here solves nothing," she hissed. We need the culprit's throat, not a guard's.
Garios spat into the dirt, the ground cracking faintly under his rage. "Someone's framed us. Someone with the stones to mimic our steel." But who? His fury coiled, directionless.
As the carriage turned back toward the capital, Ira's gaze swept the sun-scorched plains. Cicadas hummed in the dry grass, their song drowned by the clatter of armor. Honor is a luxury. But if not the von Einsberns… who?
Above them, a raven perched on a dead acacia branch, its eyes glinting storm-red.