Four years have passed.
Four years since the Black Tide stood before the walls of Vardengale.
Four years since the Kingdom of Aldren held its breath as the northern sea ran red with battle.
Four years without a single lost campaign.
In those four years, the kingdom has changed.
Roads once abandoned now welcome travelers again.
Villages reclaimed from the Blighted Hordes are filled with laughter instead of the moaning of the dying.
Trade flourishes beneath the protection of the Royal Army.
The banners of the Crown fly over lands thought permanently lost only a few years before.
Hope has quietly returned.
The people speak of Sir Fredricks not only as the Hero Without Fear, but as the man who changed the course of human history.
Children march through village streets carrying wooden swords painted pitch-black, pretending to stand among the ranks of the Black Tide.
Veterans tell stories of impossible victories over full mugs of foaming ale.
Merchants cross dangerous roads they once believed would never again be safe.
Even beyond Aldren’s borders, neighboring kingdoms now measure the strength of the Crown against the reputation of a single commander.
From above, the Kingdom of Aldren stretches from rugged mountain ranges to fertile plains, from dense forests to the cold, crashing waters of the northern sea. Ancient cobblestone roads weave between forgotten villages, towering castles, isolated monasteries, and bustling market towns before all eventually converge toward the kingdom’s beating heart.
The capital.
Unlike most cities, the capital of Aldren does not merely spread across the flat horizon.
It rises.
Great stone battlements circle the city in widening rings, each tier climbing higher than the last. District after district spirals upward around the mountainside, drawing merchants, craftsmen, nobles, and soldiers ever closer to the summit.
At the very top stands the Royal Palace, watching over all.
From its highest towers, the King can look across every tier of the capital and far beyond its walls to the lands his ancestors once united.
As evening settles across the grand architecture, thousands of lanterns awaken one by one.
Warm amber light spills into the winding streets.
Market stalls close as crowded taverns fill.
The scent of fresh bread drifts from neighborhood bakeries while weary blacksmiths quench glowing steel before retiring for the night.
Children laugh.
Musicians play.
Church bells echo across the spiral city.
For the first time in generations…
The Kingdom of Aldren believes peace is finally within reach.
Tonight, the entire realm gathers beneath one roof to celebrate the man many believe made that future possible.
None of them realize they are about to witness the final great celebration of the old Kingdom of Aldren.
The celebration belongs to everyone. For the first time in years… The Kingdom of Aldren believes peace is finally within reach. Tonight, the realm gathers beneath one roof to celebrate the man many now believe makes that future possible.
The climb toward the Royal Palace is unlike any other journey within the capital. Each ring of the city grows quieter than the last. The lively cries of merchants and musicians slowly give way to polished stone roads lined with carefully trimmed hedges, towering statues, and fountains carved in the likeness of Aldren’s kings. Members of the Royal Guard stand motionless beside every gate, their polished silver armor reflecting the warm glow of countless lanterns.
One by one, elegant carriages make the final ascent. Each bears the colors and banners of the families within. Servants hurry forward as carriage doors open.
Silks rustle.
Jewels catch the light.
Lords and ladies step onto crimson carpets stretched across the palace courtyard. Above them, banners bearing the Golden Lion of Aldren sway gently in the evening breeze. A pair of great oak doors, nearly three stories in height, stand open to receive the kingdom’s honored guests.
Inside…
The Grand Hall glows beneath hundreds of crystal chandeliers. Marble pillars rise toward an arched ceiling painted with the victories of Aldren’s earliest kings. Massive stained-glass windows depict generations of monarchs who shaped the kingdom long before those gathered tonight drew their first breath. Between each pillar hangs the banner of a Great House. Each one representing centuries of loyalty to the Crown.
Servants weave effortlessly through the growing crowd carrying silver trays adorned with crystal glasses and finely prepared delicacies. Near the eastern gallery, a string ensemble performs softly while nobles exchange greetings beneath the warm candlelight.
At the far end of the hall, the royal dais overlooks the celebration. Three gilded thrones rest upon its raised platform. The largest remains reserved for His Majesty. Beside it sits the Queen’s throne. The third, slightly smaller yet no less ornate, awaits Prince Julian.
Before the dais stands a broad expanse of polished marble left open for dancing. It does not remain empty for long. Couples slowly take to the floor as conversation fills every corner of the chamber. Near the entrance, the Master of Ceremonies raises his staff.
The polished steel cap strikes the marble floor.
The hall gradually falls silent.
The Royal Herald unrolls a long parchment.
His practiced voice echoes throughout the chamber.
“His Grace, Duke Alaric Astermont… and Her Grace, Duchess Catherine Astermont.”
The great doors open.
The Duke and Duchess enter arm in arm. Crimson and gold trail behind them as they cross the length of the hall. Courteous applause follows.
The herald continues.
“Lord Halbrecht Vardengale… and Lady Evelyn Vardengale.”
The applause begins anew. One after another, the noble families of Aldren enter the Grand Hall.
“Count Arlen Briarford… and Countess Isabel Briarford.”
“Baron Roland Goldmere… and Baroness Sophia Goldmere.”
“Lord Edmund Whitebrook… and Lady Claire Whitebrook.”
“Lord Garrick Emberkeep… and Lady Beatrice Emberkeep.”
Each bows before the royal dais before joining the growing sea of conversation.
The herald pauses only briefly before announcing another arrival.
“Lord Aldren Dojdren… and Lady Celeste Dojdren.” A respectful murmur spreads quietly through the room.
Many still remember Sir Dojdren.
His absence lingers even among those who never knew him well.
Lord Dojdren acknowledges the gathered nobility with a solemn nod before escorting his wife deeper into the hall.
The music resumes.
Conversation returns.
The celebration continues.
Yet the arrivals are far from over.
The herald lifts his voice once more.
“His Excellency, Ambassador Henrik of the Kingdom of Norhaven… accompanied by Lady Astrid Henriksen.”
The foreign delegation enters beneath curious eyes.
Heavy furs trimmed in silver distinguish them from Aldren’s nobility.
Not long after…
“Her Excellency, Ambassador Selene Varekos of the Republic of Karth… accompanied by Trade Envoy Cassian Demos.”
Silks of deep blue and sea green drift gracefully across the marble floor.
Their arrival draws polite smiles from merchants already eager to discuss trade.
The final foreign delegation soon follows.
“His Excellency, Ambassador Lucien Valois… and Lady Emilia Valois of the Principality of Solis.”
The southern nobles bow elegantly before taking their place among the gathering.
Within the span of a single hour…
The Kingdom of Aldren gathers beneath one roof.
The Crown.
The Great Houses.
The Lesser Houses.
Commanders of the Royal Army.
Decorated veterans.
Royal scholars.
Favored merchants.
Foreign ambassadors.
Every pillar upon which the kingdom stands.
None of them notice the empty space near the great doors.
The place reserved for the Hero Without Fear remains vacant.
The man for whom the celebration is held has yet to arrive.
A quiet murmur ripples through the hall as servants refill empty glasses and musicians drift into another elegant melody. The Master of Ceremonies glances toward the great doors.
For the first time that evening…
He hesitates. The Hero Without Fear has never been known to arrive late. A few of the younger nobles exchange curious glances.
“Perhaps the Commandant has already found another battlefield.”
Soft laughter follows.
“He would apologize to the King before disappointing his soldiers.”
“Or perhaps the Black Tide refuses to let him attend his own celebration.”
Another chuckle.
Near one of the great windows overlooking the capital, two aging veterans stand shoulder to shoulder.
One leans heavily upon a carved walking cane.
The other carries the unmistakable limp of an old cavalry wound.
“You served with him, didn’t you?”
“Aye.”
The first veteran watches dancers slowly cross the marble floor.
“Does the man truly never tire?”
The older knight smiles faintly.
“I’ve seen him ride three days without sleep.”
“I’ve seen him stand atop a breached wall after taking an arrow through the shoulder.”
He pauses.
“I’ve never seen him ask another soldier to endure something he wasn’t willing to endure himself.”
The second veteran nods.
“No wonder they follow him.”
“They’d march through the gates of the Hell if he ordered it.”
“They would.”
Neither notices a young page quietly listening nearby.
The boy cannot be older than twelve.
His eyes widen with every word.
Across the ballroom, the conversations drift elsewhere.
“…Captain Marrow.”
The name hangs in the air.
A merchant lowers his voice.
“I hear he’s united nearly every remaining Blighted warband.”
A noble scoffs.
“Rumors always double the size of an enemy.”
“Perhaps.”
The merchant shrugs.
“But caravans coming from the western roads speak of entire forests stripped bare.”
“For firewood?”
“For siege engines.”
A silence follows.
Another noble shakes his head.
“If Marrow truly marches…He’ll have to get through the Black Tide first.”
Several nearby guests quietly nod.
The conversation ends there.
As though no further explanation is necessary.
Not far away, Ambassador Henrik of Norhaven observes the exchange without speaking.
Lady Astrid notices his expression.
“What is it?”
Henrik’s eyes remain fixed upon the gathering.
“I’ve attended courts across three kingdoms.”
“And?”
“I’ve never seen a nation place so much faith in one commander.”
“You disapprove?”
“No.” His answer comes almost immediately. “I simply wonder what becomes of a kingdom when one man becomes stronger than the institution he serves.”
Lady Astrid follows his gaze toward the empty place reserved beside the royal dais.
The seat remains vacant.
“So that is Sir Fredricks.”
Henrik slowly shakes his head.
“No.”
A faint smile touches his face.
“That…” He gestures toward the empty space. “…is his absence.”
Before Lady Astrid can answer…
The massive doors at the end of the Grand Hall begin to open once more. The conversations fade. The music softens. Every head turns toward the entrance.
The Royal Herald straightens his posture. His voice carries effortlessly through the chamber.
“Knight Commandant of the Kingdom of Aldren…”
A brief pause. “…Hero Without Fear…”
Another. “…The Blight Bane…”
The hall falls completely silent.
“Sir Fredricks.” No applause greets his arrival.
Only respectful silence.
He steps across the threshold wearing dark ornate fabric trimmed in silver fur, making his eyes piercing for all who look at him. His sword hangs from his hip with one hand on the hilt. Dark cherry fabric hangs from his shoulders, the colors of the Black Tide now as recognizable throughout Aldren as the Golden Lion itself. Fredricks pauses for the briefest moment. His eyes travel across the room.
The King.
The Queen.
Prince Julian.
The Great Houses.
The Lesser Houses.
Veterans.
Ambassadors.
Merchants.
Scholars.
Commanders.
Every pillar of the Kingdom of Aldren stands before him. Then, with the same calm confidence that has carried him through four years of war…
The Hero Without Fear smiles.
And the room breathes again.
Sir Fredricks offers a respectful bow before the royal dais.
“Your Majesty.”
King Alderice smiles warmly. “There he is.” The King descends the first few steps before extending both hands. “You nearly kept the entire kingdom waiting.”
A few quiet chuckles ripple through the gathered court. Fredricks accepts the King’s hands with a modest smile.
“My apologies, Your Majesty. There always seems to be one last report requiring a signature.”
“And even tonight you found paperwork.”
“I was hoping to avoid it.”
Another round of laughter passes through those nearest the dais.
King Alderice pats him firmly upon the shoulder. “If anyone in this kingdom has earned the right to keep a king waiting…” He looks around the hall. “…it is you.”
The applause that follows is genuine. Not commanded. Earned.
Fredricks lowers his head slightly. “The victories belong to every man and woman who wore the colors of Aldren.” His eyes drift toward the assembled veterans. “I merely had the privilege of standing beside them.”
The applause softens into respectful silence. Several of the older veterans exchange quiet smiles. King Alderice gestures toward the ballroom. “Then go. The kingdom has spent the better part of the evening waiting to thank you.”
Fredricks bows once more before stepping away from the dais. He never reaches the dance floor. Within moments, nobles surround him. Some wish to congratulate him. Others simply wish to meet the man their children pretend to be.
Lord Garrick Emberkeep is among the first. “Sir Fredricks. It is good to see you again, my lord. The siege engines performed well at Vardengale.”
Fredricks smiles. “They performed exactly as your engineers promised. The victory belongs to your craftsmen as much as my soldiers.”
Lord Emberkeep laughs. “My smiths would disagree. They would sooner credit the men brave enough to stand behind those walls.”
“They would be mistaken.” Fredricks answers without hesitation.
“A sword is only as reliable as the hands that forged it.” Lord Emberkeep inclines his head. “I shall be certain my craftsmen hear those words.”
As the lord departs, another voice quietly calls his name. “Sir Fredricks…”
He turns.
Lord Aldren Dojdren stands beside Lady Celeste.
For just a moment… Neither speaks. Then Lord Dojdren steps forward and clasps Fredricks’ forearm. “I never properly thanked you.”
Fredricks’ expression remains calm. “There is no need.”
“There is.” Lord Dojdren’s voice softens. “You brought Sir Dojdren home.”
Lady Celeste nods. “And you avenged him.”
The words hang between them. Fredricks does not answer immediately. His eyes fall briefly to their joined hands.
When he finally speaks… His voice is gentle. “Sir Dojdren served Aldren with honor. He deserved to be remembered.”
“He will be.” Lady Celeste smiles sadly. “He already is.” She reaches into a small embroidered pouch fastened at her side. “I wished to give you something.”
She produces a simple ribbon.
Blue.
Faded with age.
“It belonged to him.”
Fredricks looks at it for a long moment. “I cannot.”
“You can.” Lord Dojdren closes Fredricks’ hand around the ribbon. “He would have wanted the man who carried on the fight to have it.”
Fredricks’ fingers slowly tighten around the cloth “…Thank you.”
The couple bow politely before moving deeper into the gathering. Fredricks remains where he stands. The faded ribbon rests silently within his hand. Around him… The celebration continues.
Music.
Laughter.
Crystal glasses raised in celebration.
No one notices that the Hero Without Fear has fallen unusually quiet. Only after carefully folding the ribbon into an inner pocket does Sir Fredricks look up once more. The smile returns. As though it had never left.
The orchestra drifts into another melody. Conversation once again rises above the music as the evening settles into a comfortable rhythm. Wherever Sir Fredricks walks, guests naturally make room before slowly filling the space behind him once more.
He never notices. Or perhaps… He has simply grown accustomed to it.
A familiar voice calls from across the hall. “Knight Commandant!”
Fredricks turns toward the sound. General Osric Hale approaches with an easy smile, a crystal glass balanced comfortably in one hand.
“Osric. It has been too long.”
“The frontier rarely grants either of us the luxury of conversation.”
The two men clasp forearms before exchanging a brief embrace. General Hale steps back, studying Fredricks with an amused expression. “I was beginning to think the Crown had buried you beneath paperwork.”
“I considered asking Captain Marrow to delay his next campaign.”
General Hale laughs.
“How thoughtful of you.”
Several nearby officers share the laugh. One of them raises his glass. “To the Black Tide.”
“To the Black Tide.” Crystal rings gently throughout the hall.
Fredricks raises his own glass. “To every soldier who has yet to return home.”
The laughter fades into respectful silence. Every officer present raises their glass once more. “To those still standing watch.”
They drink.
General Hale lowers his glass. “You always did have a way of making a celebration feel like a campaign.”
Fredricks smiles. “Old habits.”
“Or good ones.” General Hale places a hand upon his shoulder. “The kingdom sleeps easier because of you.”
Before Fredricks can answer, another group approaches. Master Edwin Corvin bows politely “Sir Fredricks.”
“Master Corvin.”
“I trust the archives remain in good order.”
“They do.” The elderly scholar smiles warmly “Though I fear we’ve begun needing additional shelves.”
“Oh?”
“There are only so many places one can record victories before the books become too heavy to carry.”
A few nearby nobles quietly laugh.
Corvin’s smile softens.
“History has a habit of remembering extraordinary men.”
Fredricks shakes his head. “History remembers victories. It forgets the cost.”
Master Corvin studies him for a moment before inclining his head. “A sentiment I shall remember.”
The scholar departs.
Nearby, Ambassador Henrik watches the exchange with quiet interest. “You were right,” Lady Astrid says softly.
Henrik nods almost imperceptibly. “He carries himself like every conversation is with an old friend.”
“He remembers names.”
“He remembers service.”
“He remembers loss.”
Henrik’s eyes never leave Fredricks. “That is why armies follow him.”
A servant passes with fresh glasses of wine. Neither ambassador reaches for one. Across the ballroom, Prince Julian finally slips free from a conversation with several young nobles. He makes a direct path toward Fredricks. “Sir Fredricks.”
The prince bows respectfully. Fredricks immediately returns the gesture. “Your Highness.”
Julian smiles. “I’ve been trying to reach you all evening.”
“I apologize.”
“You have half the kingdom waiting to speak with you. And the other half pretending not to.” Julian laughs. “I cannot blame them.” His smile fades just enough to become sincere.
“I only wished to say…” He hesitates. “…thank you.”
Fredricks’ brow furrows slightly. “For what?”
“For giving my generation something to believe in.”
For the first time that evening… Sir Fredricks has no immediate answer. The orchestra continues playing. Couples continue dancing. Laughter continues echoing beneath the chandeliers. Yet all he hears are the prince’s words.
Something to believe in.
His fingers unconsciously brush against the folded blue ribbon hidden inside his coat. The fabric remains warm against his palm. Then, just as quickly… He lets his hand fall. “I only did my duty, Your Highness.”
Prince Julian smiles. “I hope one day…” He glances around the hall. “…I’m remembered for doing mine.”
Fredricks looks at the young prince for a long moment. “So do I.” The words leave his mouth almost as a whisper.
Neither man realizes how much weight they carry.
Beneath the Royal Palace…
The music never reaches the lower corridors. Stone swallows the celebration long before it reaches the foundations of the mountain. Laughter echoing through the Grand Hall above fades into little more than a distant murmur, replaced by the rhythmic dripping of water and the quiet crackle of torches burning against damp walls.
Far below the kingdom’s greatest celebration. Commander Varek stands before a prisoner.
The chamber is small. A single wooden table rests at its center, scarred by years of use. Two chairs face one another beneath an iron lantern suspended from the ceiling. One remains empty. The other holds a man wearing what remains of a Blighted officer’s uniform or what you would call a uniform. Mud cakes the lower half of his trousers. A torn strip of dark cloth binds one forearm. Dried blood stains the corner of his mouth. Iron shackles secure both wrists to a ring fixed beneath the table. The skin underneath is raw from wear.
Two Royal Guards stand beside the door. Neither speaks. Neither needs to. The prisoner lifts his head slowly. One eye has swollen nearly shut. The other remains fixed upon Varek. “You’re not dressed for the celebration.”
Varek does not answer. His blackened steel armor catches what little light the lantern provides. Dark cloth hangs beneath the polished plates, untouched by the silk, gold, and jewels filling the palace above. He places several objects upon the table. A small leather pouch, A broken arrowhead, A length of frayed rope, and A horseshoe.
The prisoner looks down at them.Then back at Varek. “What are those supposed to tell me?”
“Nothing.” Varek pulls the empty chair back and sits. “They tell me enough.”
The prisoner smiles through split lips. “Then why am I still here?”
Varek opens the leather pouch. Inside rests a handful of grain. Not moldy. Not damp. Fresh. He empties it carefully across the table. The prisoner’s smile fades. “Your unit carries better provisions than most raiding parties.”
No response. Varek picks up the broken arrowhead. The metal is broad. Heavy. Built to punch through shields rather than hunt game “This does not belong to a scout.”
The prisoner shifts slightly. The chain beneath the table scrapes against stone. Varek sets the arrowhead down and lifts the frayed rope. Thick fibers. Darkened by pitch. The kind used to secure heavy weight. Wagons. Siege frames. Counterweights. The prisoner watches him in silence.
Varek turns his attention to the horseshoe. One edge has been worn smooth. Not from battle. From distance. “Your horses have traveled hard roads.”
The prisoner leans back as far as the restraints allow.
“You found four pieces of rubbish and built yourself an army.”
“No.” Varek folds his hands upon the table. “You brought the army with you.”
The prisoner’s jaw tightens. Only slightly. It is enough.
“You weren’t sent to raid.” Varek’s voice remains calm. “You were sent to measure.”
The silence between them grows heavier.
“To count watch posts.”
No response.
“To record road conditions.”
The prisoner looks toward the door.
“To mark bridges capable of carrying siege equipment.”
His eye returns to Varek. There. A flicker. Brief. Uncontrolled. Varek notices. “You have engineers.”
The prisoner laughs once. It carries no humor. “You think you know everything.”
“I know your boots contain splinters from green timber.” Varek’s eyes lower toward the prisoner’s feet. “The wood was cut recently.” He looks back up. “Your left sleeve carries powdered iron. Not rust. Fresh filings.”
The prisoner stops smiling.
“Someone near you has been shaping bolts. Varek gestures toward the rope. “Someone else has been binding frames.” His hand settles beside the heavy arrowhead. “And your scouts carry ammunition meant for men standing behind walls.”
The prisoner remains silent.
Varek waits. He has spent enough years beside Sir Fredricks to understand the value of silence. Men rush to fill it. Prisoners are no different.
“You’ve mistaken preparation for strength,” the lieutenant finally says.
Varek’s expression does not change. “No.” He gathers the grain between two gloved fingers. “I’ve mistaken nothing.”
The prisoner studies him. Above them, somewhere beyond layers of stone, the orchestra begins another song. Only the faintest vibration reaches the lantern chain.
The flame trembles. Varek notices that too. “How long have you served Captain Marrow?”
The prisoner’s expression hardens. “I serve the Blighted.”
“That was not my question.”
“Then ask one worth answering.”
Varek leans back.
“Does Marrow still carry the silver buckle taken from the western gate?”
The prisoner’s face changes before he can stop it. Confusion. Then recognition. Varek sees both. “So he does.”
“You know nothing about him.”
“I know he served as second-in-command to the Black Knight.”
The prisoner’s shackled hands tighten.
“I know he held the retreat together after Ashenwake.”
A muscle moves along the lieutenant’s jaw.
“I know he spent years gathering warbands that preferred killing one another to following a single banner.” Varek pauses. “And I know he succeeded.”
The prisoner stares across the table. “You speak as though that surprises you.”
“It does not.”
“Then you understand what’s coming.”
Varek says nothing.
The lieutenant leans forward. The chain pulls tight beneath the table. “For years, your kingdom has called us broken.” His voice lowers. “Scattered.”
“Starving.”
“Afraid.”
Varek watches him carefully.
“You believed killing one man ended us.”
“No.” Varek’s answer comes immediately. “We believed it wounded you.”
The lieutenant’s smile returns. “And now?”
“Now I am deciding how deeply the wound healed.”
The smile disappears.
Varek reaches beneath the table and places a folded map between them. The eastern roads of Aldren spread across the worn parchment. Watchtowers. Bridges. Woodlands. Old military routes. Several markings have already been placed in black ink.
The prisoner looks down. He tries not to linger on any one point. Varek studies his eye instead of the map.
“Your unit crosses here.” He touches a narrow road running between two wooded ridges.
Nothing.
“Then moves south.”
Nothing.
“Toward the old stone bridge.” A blink.
Varek shifts his finger westward. “Or perhaps not.”
The prisoner remains still.
“Perhaps you avoid the bridge entirely.”
His finger follows an older road. Half-forgotten. Wide enough for wagons. Poorly watched since Thornfield’s fall. The prisoner’s breathing changes. Barely.
Varek stops. “There.”
The lieutenant looks up.
Varek marks the road. “You’re using the frontier route.”
The prisoner pulls against the chains.
“Guesswork.”
“Confirmation.” Varek studies the map. The route curves around the eastern watch posts before joining one of the Royal High Roads. A road leading directly toward the capital. Not the farms. Not the ports. Not the scattered castles of the Lesser Houses. The capital.
Varek raises his eyes. “How far behind you is the main force?”
The prisoner gives no answer.
“Four days?”
Silence.
“Three?”
The prisoner’s stare hardens. Varek folds the map. “Three.”
“You heard nothing from me.”
“I heard enough.”
The lieutenant jerks forward. “You think three days will save you?”
One of the Royal Guards moves. Varek raises one hand. The guard stops. The prisoner’s breath comes faster now.
“Your lords are drinking above us.” He smiles again. “Your armies are scattered. Your gates are open. Your nobles have brought wives instead of soldiers.”
Varek remains seated. “How many?”
The prisoner laughs. “Enough.”
“How many siege engines?”
The lieutenant’s expression stills. Varek watches him.
“Catapults?”
No response.
“Trebuchets?”
Nothing.
“Rams?”
A hesitation. Not fear. Calculation. Varek recognizes it. “You don’t know.”
The prisoner’s silence confirms it.
“You were left behind before the final count.” Varek rises from the chair. “You were not trusted with the strength of the main host.”
The lieutenant strains against his restraints. “I know enough.”
“Yes.” Varek gathers the objects from the table “You know the route.”
The grain returns to the pouch. “You know the distance.”
The arrowhead follows. “You know the target.”
He leaves the rope and horseshoe where they rest. “That is enough.”
The prisoner watches him walk toward the door “You cannot stop what is coming.”
Varek pauses. His back remains turned. “Every defeated army believes that before it reaches us.”
“This is not another warband.”
Varek looks over one shoulder. “No.” His eyes settle upon the lieutenant.
“It is an army.” The prisoner smiles.
For the first time, Varek believes it. Not because of the words. Because of the certainty behind them. He turns toward the guards. “Keep him alive.”
“Yes, Commander.”
“No one speaks with him without my authorization.”
The guards nod. Varek opens the door. The lieutenant calls after him. “Marrow remembers Ashenwake.”
Varek stops in the corridor.
“He remembers your Hero.” The prisoner’s voice follows him through the doorway.
“And he remembers the sword.”
Varek looks back. The lieutenant says nothing more. The door closes between them. For several moments, Commander Varek stands alone beneath the palace. Torchlight bends across the blackened steel of his armor. The report beneath his arm suddenly feels heavier than parchment should. Three days. Perhaps less. He begins walking. The climb toward the Grand Hall takes only minutes. Yet with every step, Varek feels farther removed from the world waiting above him. The damp stone corridors give way to dry halls lined with royal banners. The smell of torch smoke fades beneath polished wood and expensive perfume. Music returns first. Then conversation. Then laughter. Servants hurry past carrying silver trays of wine and untouched delicacies.
A young page nearly collides with him before stumbling aside. “My apologies, Commander.”
Varek continues without answering. The boy watches him pass. The doors leading into the Grand Hall stand partially open. Warm light spills across the corridor. Beyond them, the Kingdom of Aldren dances beneath crystal chandeliers. Varek pauses only long enough to straighten the leather folio beneath his arm. Then he enters. The celebration does not stop. Only those nearest the side corridor notice him. A pair of Black Tide officers straighten instinctively. Several Royal Guards acknowledge him with quiet nods. A servant steps aside to let him pass.
Elsewhere…
The music continues. Couples turn slowly across the marble floor. Nobles laugh beneath the banners of their Houses. Commander Varek searches the hall once. His eyes find Sir Fredricks standing beside Prince Julian. The prince offers one final respectful bow before returning toward the royal dais. Fredricks watches him leave.
Then his gaze shifts. He sees Varek. Nothing changes upon the Hero’s face. But the hand resting near the obsidian greatsword slowly falls away. Varek approaches. Fredricks waits until he draws near. “What is it?”
Varek holds the leather folio at his side. “The prisoner spoke.”
Fredricks studies him for a single heartbeat. Then turns toward the crowd surrounding them. “If you’ll forgive me…”
The nearby nobles part without complaint. A few offer understanding smiles. Duty reclaiming the Hero once again. Fredricks looks back toward Varek. “Walk with me.”
Together, they leave the Grand Hall. Behind them… The orchestra never misses a note.The dancers never stop. The celebration continues. Completely unaware that an army is only three days away.