Silk spilled lazily across bare skin — a sheer veil, more symbolic than practical, beneath the flickering light of candles. The bed was a throne of indulgence: golden posts held up canopies of purple linen, and the sheets, imported from Esmir, carried the touch of wind and the faint perfume of myrrh.
Prince Uren Kelanor, third in line to the Kelthos throne, lounged among tall pillows, his torso partially exposed, his skin flushed golden from the heat of wine. His fingers — elegant as a scribe’s stroke — slowly twirled a crystal goblet, the ruby liquid catching the candlelight in lazy spirals.
Beside him lay Riven Falwyn — a young man with lake-blue eyes and golden hair. A minor branch of House Falwyn, nobles of Ruthwald. But here, in this secluded night forgotten by the world, he was just Riven — a shared secret with the least-watched heir.
“Ruthwald has its charms… but none like this manor,” Uren murmured, kissing the young man’s shoulder. “And none quite as indulgent as you.”
Riven laughed softly, tracing a finger down the prince’s chest.
“Do you say that to everyone?”
“Only to those worth remembering.”
Outside, the wind stirred the hanging gardens. The manor, tucked away on the outskirts of the capital, belonged to an ally of House Kelanor and served as a discreet haven for meetings that protocol preferred to ignore.
Uren reclined deeper, eyes lost in the velvet-blue ceiling.
“There’s no hurry,” he said, voice languid.
“And your brothers?” Riven asked, lightly, curiously. “Aren’t you afraid they’ll pull too far ahead… while you rest here?”
Uren let out a low, mocking laugh.
“Let them run. The ones who race ahead… bleed first.”
That’s when the shadows in one corner of the room rippled, as if breathing. A figure emerged — a woman, her steps light, clad in the simple uniform of a servant, yet her presence was magnetic. Her eyes glowed crimson like embers. Her hair — a dusky rose-gray — fell in soft waves. Bartoli.
“What news do you bring, my flame?” Uren asked, not turning, but smiling with razor-edge charm.
Bartoli gave a graceful bow, every movement deliberate.
“The first prince reached the northern front this afternoon. He has made camp in Elarin. In three days, he will march on Durhal.” Her crimson eyes lifted. “With him is the Silver Sparrow — a ranker from Valtteri. A specialist.”
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Uren’s smile grew.
“So Bragol decided to bring an assassin dressed as a knight. Interesting…”
He sipped his wine — a silent toast to another piece moved on the invisible board.
“Thank you, Bartoli. Stay close. The night… isn’t finished yet.”
She vanished into the shadows like mist on the wind. The room returned to stillness, broken only by the chime of glass and Riven’s curious sigh — now more intrigued than enchanted.
Draykor was hot, dry, and vast. From above, the city looked like a mosaic of stone and sand, broken by narrow rivers and gardens too symmetrical to be natural. When the golden-winged beast soared over the rooftops, all eyes turned upward.
Its hoarse cry echoed between the walls. Children pointed. Merchants shaded their eyes. Royalty rarely visited — let alone mounted on a magical creature.
In the central courtyard of House Drayven’s palace, everything was ready. Crimson banners fluttered. Soldiers stood at attention. A path of red carpets stretched toward the main gates. When the beast landed, its massive limbs absorbed the impact with eerie grace. Servants hurried forward, placing steps beside the saddle.
Prince Fenrel was the first to descend. His travel cloak still clean, posture controlled, golden eyes scanning not the landscape — but the ground. Ser Halrik Drayven followed, silent, hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. Two royal knights flanked them.
At the base of the stairs stood Marchioness Merissa Drayven.
No jewelry. No crown. She wore ceremonial armor, gray hair braided into heavy ropes over her shoulders. The house crest — a falcon upon a wall — gleamed at her chest.
“Your Highness,” she said, voice firm. “It’s an honor to receive you in Draykor.”
Fenrel dipped his head.
“Marchioness. They speak of you often in Caer Myrr… and rightly so, I see.”
She offered a measured smile.
“Your quarters are prepared. But I imagine you’d prefer to speak business.”
“There’s no need to wait,” he replied.
Servants dispersed. A page led the luggage and retainers away. Fenrel followed the Marchioness, Halrik two steps behind.
Through the palace halls, tapestries depicted battles and oaths forged in blood and steel. No excess. Draykor was all stone and strength — dry, practical, deliberate.
Just before the war room, they passed the Marchioness’s children.
Elwyra Drayven, the eldest, wore light armor. Her greeting was curt, direct.
“Your Highness.”
Kain, the younger, was less restrained. He laughed:
“A prince crossing half the realm on a winged beast… hard not to notice. The children are still chasing its shadow.”
Fenrel smirked.
“That was the idea.”
They went their separate ways, and the prince entered the war room.
It was spacious, with tall windows letting in the desert heat. At the center stood a long table already covered in maps and reports. Draykor’s nobility awaited him.
One figure stood out.
Ilenna Vorein. Twenty-one. Adept. Her hair was pulled back into a neat bun, her cloak marked by rank insignias. Her eyes gleamed with ambition. She reminded Fenrel of his younger sister, Mowe. A prodigy too. Also a mage. But Mowe had surpassed her — adept at nineteen, with command over three circles. The memory stirred both pride and unease.
Behind Ilenna, standing like a living shadow, was Lysenne Marvol. One hundred years old. Rank 4. Personal advisor to the Marchioness. A silver veil covered her white hair, and her silence spoke louder than most words.
The introductions were brief. Everyone already knew why the prince had come.
Fenrel paused before sitting. He scanned the faces. He saw respect — and calculation.
There was something in the air he couldn’t quite name.
