Chapter 96 Dreams, Drowned, Damned

  Baern Korrikson had never liked ignoring a nagging thought.

  It gnawed like a pick left in soft ore, rattling his skull until he gave in. For days now, something on the southern ridge of Gloamhollow had been needling him awake in the dark hours—a whisper beneath the stone, a hum in the back of his teeth. It was maddening.

  So, one morning, when mist still slept low in the Hollow, and the clang of the forge rang faint and muffled, he left his tools behind and began to climb.

  Below him, the Hollow was waking. He could see Caelen—a small figure from here, but still unmistakable—directing the Free People and villagers as they worked. Smoke trailed from the kilns. The dwarves’ own fire belched white over the forges, and the water trench a black line barely visible in the pre-dawn glow. The sound of life and labor rose like a slow hymn.

  Baern adjusted his pack and muttered, “A fine day for madness,” and began the climb.

  The path wound past the baths, still steaming faintly with their ghostlike vapors, and as he crossed the last rise, he came upon something he’d only half noticed before—two ravines splitting the slope like deep-hewn scars, each bridged by a stone arch. Upon those arches ran water, clean and quick, coursing through troughs cut neatly into the masonry.

  He stopped.

  The water glittered.

  But the sun was not yet high enough to strike it.

  Baern squinted, rubbed his eyes, and looked again. The shimmer was not from light above—but from within. The water pulsed faintly with a glow, something that reminded him of molten quartz veins deep under the mountain. Magic. The word crawled to the back of his tongue, heavy and uncomfortable.

  He knelt and touched the stone. It was alive.

  He withdrew his hand quickly, heart beating like a hammer blow.

  “That’s no happenstance,” he muttered. “Nor,was this old work.” He had seen this method of dry-stone building from that strange young man.

  He followed the water higher. The ridge grew steep, the air thinning and tasting faintly of salt. Then, just as the land leveled to a knife-edge plateau, the world opened before him—and Baern Korrikson, a dwarf who did not like high places, son of the Deep Quarry, forgot to breathe.

  The sea lay stretched like hammered glass, endless and glinting in the dawn. To the east, a faint glow marked the volcano’s heart; to the west, a ribbon of light where Avalon’s coast curved away.

  But it was not the view that held him—it was what sat at the crown of the ridge.

  A jut of stone, thrust out over the drop, almost octagonal in shape and old beyond reckoning. It called to him—not with voice or vision, but with the deep resonance of the earth itself, thrumming through marrow and memory.

  Baern took a step forward, then another, boots scraping on loose shale until he stood before it. The air grew thick and strange. The hum beneath his bones became a song, low and wordless.

  He stepped onto the stone. He felt the connection as one standing before a sacred forge—the ground itself consecrated by toil and tempered by time.

  And the world changed.

  His breath quickened as everything around him blurred—not into blinding light, but into the deep, steady weight of stone and soil. He saw beneath the surface, into the roots of the mountains. He felt the pulse of the world, slow and steady, ancient as time.

  The thought burst into his mind before he could even name it.

  A leyline. Ancient. Old as the first hammer fall.

  He could feel it—deep, resonant, alive—the blood and breath of the world itself.

  To a dwarf, such power was not mystery but a memory; the slow, patient pulse of stone speaking to its own.

  Baern’s knees nearly gave way as he realized where he stood—upon a current of the earth’s making, the kind their forefathers only whispered of in forge-prayers.

  Images formed: columns of pale white stone rising around the central stone, their surfaces carved with runes that shone faintly blue, as though the sky itself lived in them. A dome above—white as bone, open in the center so that moonlight and starlight could fall upon the heart of the sanctum. Around the base, glyphs were set in spiraling patterns, like the veins of a gem converging toward a single flawless point.

  He could hear it—though there was no sound. The stone whispered names and purposes long forgotten, secrets of shaping and foundation, the language of the deep earth. It was not a place of worship as men knew it, but something older: a covenant between sky and stone, a union of the heavens’ breath and the world’s bones.

  Then, like the last echo of a chisel’s strike, a name filled his mind.

  Caerelith.

  The word rang in his skull—blue stone, sky’s heart, sapphire shrine.

  And he understood.

  This was no ruin. It was a spire of the world—where the earth exhaled, and the heavens stooped to listen—a pillar of balance and binding.

  Baern staggered back, panting as the vision faded. The ridge lay silent once more; only the trickle of water and his own ragged breath disturbed the stillness. The air felt heavier now—charged, alive.

  He looked back down at Gloamhollow, where tiny shapes still moved in labor and light. Then he looked again at the outcropping—at Caerelith—and felt a strange certainty settle in his chest.

  He had found something, unsure if it was meant to be forgotten or if it was something that waited—not for kings, nor priests—but for builders. Now he understood why Caelen was called here.

  And Baern Korrikson, stone carver of the Hollow, whispered to the wind:

  “So that’s your secret, eh? A shrine of sky and stone… and you’ve been humming in my bones for days.”

  He chuckled softly, still trembling. “Well then, old beauty, let’s see if we can’t wake you proper.”

  …

  The chamber of the Close Council was still as stone, lit by the dim, steady pulse of a single blue crystal at the center of the table. Its glow washed over papers, maps, and faces alike, lending every line and shadow a cold clarity. The air smelled faintly of wax and parchment; no fire burned—the season was too warm—but the lamps flickered softly, gilding the edges of the chamber’s carved ceiling and banners of Avalon’s crest that hung motionless in the air.

  If one were to walk through the tall oak doors, they would see the council gathered in a full circle—a ring of power, tension, and unspoken thought. Lord Eldric sat at the head, unmoving, his focus like drawn steel. Around him, the high lords and lady of Avalon leaned in their chairs, some intent, others restless. The rustle of a sleeve, the scratch of a quill against parchment, the indistinct murmur of someone shifting in their seat—all small sounds swallowed by the gravity that hung in the room.

  To one side was marked with a soldier’s bearing mixed with noble discipline: the hard faces of men who had seen too much of war and rule. To the other, scholars and a magus cloaked in patience and secrets, their calm masks concealing the fire of calculation. At the far end, a few advisers of each lord hovered near the wall, silent, eyes following every word as if history itself were being written before them.

  Only one notable absence left an empty chair near the head of the table—Aldric, Eldric’s eldest son—gone west to the Dry Pass to take delivery of horses from the merchant cities. His absence, though understood, left a quiet gap, for Aldric’s voice was often one that bridged duty and daring.

  The blue light trembled faintly, reflected in the sheen of ink and the whitened knuckles resting on the table. Lord Eldric’s voice cut through the silence—quiet, yet sharp enough to draw every gaze.

  “The royal levy has been confirmed,” he said.

  And as the echo faded into the rafters, the crystal flared once—cold and bright—as though even it understood the burden of the words that followed.

  “One million silver.”

  The stillness was shattered. Chairs creaked, breath hissed, a quill snapped in a trembling hand. The room, moments ago disciplined and serene, now felt charged—like a storm waiting to break.

  It was Lord Malric of Isenford who finally broke the silence, his voice a low grind of steel.

  “One million silver.” He said it as though testing the words for poison. “That’s not a levy—it’s a noose. They mean to bleed the Marchs dry.”

  Across the table, Master Odran, the Treasurer, dabbed sweat from his brow with a linen cloth. “My lord, the correspondence confirms it. The Royal Exchequer claims the levy reflects war-preparation costs. The frontier holds grow restless, and…” His voice faltered. “And there are new expenditures for the Crown’s coastal fleets.”

  “War-preparation,” Luceron muttered, leaning back in his chair, sea-gray eyes narrowing. “More likely a noble’s excuse to fatten his purse.” His tone was sharp as salt air. “The fleets have not seen sail in two seasons. The royal admirals are too busy at their banquets.”

  Malric’s heavy hand struck the table. “And while they dine, Isenford, along with Avalon, will be stripped. My people already give grain, men, and ore. What more will they take—our blood?”

  Lady Anastara of Hollow March, composed as ever, folded her hands in her lap, the light catching on the silver rings on her fingers. “Perhaps the question, my lords, is not what they will take, but what they seek to be provided.” Her voice was silk over steel. “A levy so steep is not about coin. It’s about control. The Crown is watching who will bend, and who will balk.”

  Luceron snorted. “A dangerous game for the king to play.”

  “And an impossible one for us to win,” muttered Sir Cuthred of Dalmere, his scarred hands clasped before him. “If we resist, we are traitors. If we pay, we are beggars.” His eyes flicked toward Odran. “And from what I hear, we’ve no silver left to spare.” He paused with an intake of breath. I propose we recall all the companies. If war is coming, we can’t have them used as fodder by unskilled lords. Even if we don’t recall them home, raise the rates to reflect the times!”

  The words hung heavy. Odran winced as though struck. “The other lords will see this as a betrayal!” He stated.

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  At that, Magus Calvred, who had been silent all this while, raised his head. The lamplight flashed on the silver in his hair, his eyes storm-gray underneath. “Silver isn’t the only thing that pays for survival,” he said, voice low.

  Malric’s scowl deepened. “Spare us the riddles, Magus. We’re not your students.”

  Calvred just nodded, calm as ever. “Then plainly: if we cannot pay the Crown in coin, we must pay them in appearance and substance Strength, order, obedience—even if it’s just for show. Let them think Avalon’s thriving, that Isenford’s nearly empty mines are full, that the ports stay loyal. When power’s at stake, truth is the first thing to die. We should learn to use that.”

  He leaned back, eyes steady. “If they want ships for war, we send timber and pitch, not gold.”

  Odran’s hand shook around his quill. “So you want us to lie?”

  “I want us to survive,” Calvred shot back. “Call it what you like.”

  No one had a chance to reply. The doors swung open, no warning, and Lady Seraphine stepped in—pale, steady, quiet as moonlight on stone. The whole room seemed to fall still at her entrance.

  “My lords,” she said, “forgive the intrusion. Another message has come—this time from the capital itself.”

  She placed a letter, sealed in gold and blue, upon the table before her husband. The sigil was unmistakable—the Crown Prince’s own.

  Odran’s hand flew to his chest. “The Prince?”

  Seraphine’s gaze moved to each face in turn. “It seems His Highness intends to visit either Avalon or Isenford before year’s end. The tone is cordial—too cordial. It speaks of inspection and solidarity in these taxing times.”

  The silence that followed was taut as a drawn bowstring.

  Malric was first to speak, voice low and cold. “Inspection. They mean oversight. They send the Prince to ensure the levy is taken—and to sniff out dissent.”

  Anastara’s lips curved in a thin, humorless smile. “Or to find where the money has gone missing.”

  Luceron’s jaw set. “If he rides south, he rides with purpose. And it will not be friendship that follows within his retinue.”

  Calvred’s fingers traced the rim of his cup absently. “The Prince was ever a student of power. If he suspects weakness here, he will make Avalon his testing ground.”

  “Then we must not appear weak,” Seraphine said softly. “He must find us united, compliant—yet unbroken.”

  Malric leaned forward. “And if he seeks to break us?”

  Seraphine met his eyes, steady as ever. “Then we’ll remind him that Avalon’s power never came from the crown, nor the court, but forged by its people—and kept by the will of its Lord.”

  Her words hung heavy, like that hush before thunder breaks. Everyone felt it—Avalon might bend, but it doesn’t break. Push it too far, and it hits back twice as hard.

  Anastara broke the silence, calm but sharp. “We need to be ready for every mask the Prince choses to wear; diplomat, judge, even executioner. If we get this wrong, we could lose more than money.”

  Odran’s throat tightened. “So, what do we do?”

  Malric turned to Seraphine, waiting.

  “We do what we must. Ready the ledgers. Summon the captains. And pray that Eldric quickly understands what game he’s playing at.”

  Calvred’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Aye, I agree, this game began long before any of us were summoned, my lord. The question is only who will finish it.”

  …

  Seawatch

  The sails cut through the dusk light like a hawk’s wings. The ship, lean and dark, drove across the waves with a whispering hiss, gulls crying in its wake. The pennant of Seawatch—black and silver, marked with the serpent—snapped in the salt wind. Dockhands scattered as the vessel slewed into the harbor, lines cast and caught, the deck crew moving with the grim precision of those who had killed to earn their places.

  From the veranda above the waterline, Captain Sareth watched the approach through half-lidded eyes. She reclined in her chair of woven sea-reed and dark wood, a cup of spiced wine dangling loosely from her fingers. Across from her, trying too hard to appear at ease, sat Lord Joral of Eastmarch—minor son of a lesser branch, his honor thin like his purse, and his smile even thinner than the blade at his belt.

  The breeze carried the scent of tar, salt, and blood—Seawatch’s perfume.

  Then came the pounding of boots.

  A messenger, drenched from sea spray, burst through the archway, a waterproof satchel clutched to his chest. “Captain—urgent dispatch—from the coast!”

  Sareth was on her feet before he’d finished. She took the satchel, her fingers sliding into the folds of the little material that was her bodice. A flick of her wrist drew the edge hidden there, its curved blade glinting. She slit the waxed leather and tore free the rolled parchment within.

  As her eyes danced over the script, her painted lips curved into a snarl. The beauty that men whispered about turned cold and savage.

  “Fools,” she hissed.

  The word dripped venom.

  Her hand shot down; the dagger slammed into the table, quivering, its hilt buried to the guard in wood. “Idiots and drunkards! The Brotherhood has lost what little wits they had! Look at this—” She jabbed at the letter with a crimson-tipped finger. “They’ve set the city aflame with their stupidity. Hangings, riots—guards clashing in the streets! One even torched a watchtower!”

  The young lord’s face drained of color. He had not known panic until this moment. The plan—his plan—to quietly shift blame, to profit from her excesses—would now collapse under scrutiny. If the city tightened its net, his coin lines would be cut, and his name dragged into the light.

  And if she suspected—

  His gaze flicked to the dagger, still humming from the impact, and for a heartbeat, he thought she would turn it on him.

  But Sareth was already pacing, the wind snapping her silks. “Signal my captains,” she barked. “All of them, in the city, the port, and manor. I want them here before moonrise. If one’s drunk, drag him. If he resists, drown him.”

  “A-as you wish,” the messenger stammered, bolting down the veranda steps.

  Only when the echo of his boots faded did Lord Joral speak, his voice cautious. “Should I—inform Minister Scaevinus of these…developments?”

  Sareth froze.

  For the first time since he’d known her, the flash in her eyes wasn’t arrogance or lust—it was something closer to fear.

  Her lips parted, shaping a word she didn’t speak. No.

  Then she swallowed it, voice low and uncertain. “It may be… best.”

  That single hesitation chilled Lord Joral to the bone. He had seen her gut men without blinking, seduce and slaughter with equal grace—but the thought of Scaevinus unsettled her.

  He bowed slightly, careful to mask the tremor in his hands. “As you command, my lady.”

  Sareth turned toward the sea, the wind whipping her dark hair across her shoulders. The horizon burned red where the sun bled into the waves, and for a long moment, she said nothing.

  Then, softly, almost to herself, she murmured,

  “Let the city tighten its noose if it must. We were pirates before we were Tax collectors.”

  Behind her, the dagger still stood buried in the table—its edge gleaming like a promise.

  …

  The lamps in the private chamber burned with a low, steady glow, their wicks trimmed to a scholar’s precision. Shadows lay soft across the stone walls, touching the edges of books, maps, and a globe of carved brass that still ticked faintly with some ancient enchantment.

  Minister Scaevinus sat alone at a borrowed desk of blackend oak, the air a perfume of sealing wax, a letter spread before him like an accusation. The wax bore the serpent crest of Seawatch Manor, and the words within, penned in Lord Joral’s elegant but nervous hand, reeked of fear.

  He read it twice, once for what it said and once for what it did not. By the time he finished, the faint tremor in his left hand had turned to stillness, the stillness that always came before anger.

  “Fools,” he whispered. “A nest of arrogant children playing at daggers.”

  So the pirates were losing their restraint. That would not do. They were meant to be instruments—sharp, discreet, and obedient. Not a mob setting fire to watchtowers and getting hanged in the streets. Their chaos endangered everything—the covert shipments, the network of debts, the slow turning of the wheel that only he could see. There would need to be judgment—swift, brutal, exemplary. Just a reminder—even pirates answered to someone in the end.

  He was still working out his next move, trying to trim away any hint of weakness before the Crown caught on, when someone knocked, sharp and quick.

  “Enter.”

  A narrow man in gray livery slid in, bowing so low he nearly folded in half. “My lord, news.”

  Scaevinus didn’t bother to look up. “If this is about the undertaking, I already know—”

  “Not the harbor, my lord. The Crown Prince himself is said to be riding to Avalon. Before the year’s end.”

  For one exquisite instant, the world narrowed to silence. His quill froze above the parchment.

  Only his pulse betrayed him—three sharp beats under his ribs.

  “Repeat that,” he said softly.

  “The news came by courier from the western post. He has departed the northern estates, traveling incognito but under royal escort. They say he means to oversee the southern levies himself.”

  Scaevinus’s gaze lifted at last, cold and sharp as a knife edge. “Where is His Majesty the Prince?”

  “In the South Parlor, my lord. With company,” he added with the bad taste dripping in his voice.

  “Of course he is.”

  He rose, drawing his robes into order, the motion controlled, ceremonial. Inside, his thoughts twisted and locked. The Avalon levy—his levy—balanced on secrets and forged reports, every number bent toward his own design. If the Crown Prince interfered now… if he saw what was truly being raised in his name…

  No. That could not happen. The pirates must be leashed, the Prince delayed, the Crown kept blind.

  He strode through the candlelit corridors of Prospera Palace, the marble gleaming beneath his boots. In his mind, each thought was an edict.

  The pirates will learn obedience. The Crown Prince will be distracted from his interlooping. The Crown must remain deaf and content. If only these people would do as they are told, the realm might yet hold together.

  The scent of wine and spice grew heavier as he neared the South Parlor. Laughter spilled down the hall—laughter too loud, too free. He schooled his face into stillness before stepping through the gilded arch.

  The room shimmered with light and noise. Bronze mirrors bounced lantern light around the room, turning everything golden. Crimson and gold silk draped the windows. Cushions were everywhere, tossed across rugs from Targal, each one embroidered with serpents and lilies.

  Right in the middle, Prince Kael Arion sprawled like he owned the place. He was the Crown Prince’s oldest son, twenty-three, handsome in that lazy, careless way some young men do. His doublet hung open, silver threads loose, one hand always wrapped around a goblet that never seemed empty. Courtiers crowded around him, all perfume and painted yet filled with intense, hungry stares. Out past them, dancers drifted to the beat of harp and drum, feet bare, jewels flashing when they spun.

  Scaevinus breathed in, nostrils flaring. The room stank of wine, sweat, and those sweet oils—decadence, all dressed up and pretending it was just politics.

  Unprofitable, he thought. Every breath of it.

  But by the time he crossed the threshold, his mouth had already shaped a smile—a pleasant, deferential curve that fooled most men.

  “My lord Kael,” he said smoothly, bowing. “I see you have declared victory over sobriety tonight.”

  The young prince laughed, warm and unguarded. “Ah, Scaevinus! Come, sit—if you can still bend your knees in those dreadful robes.”

  There was laughter from the courtiers—polite, fawning. The Minister endured it as one might endure insects.

  “I would not wish to deprive your companions of entertainment,” he replied. “But I do have tidings of interest—news from your father’s household.”

  Kael blinked, trying to focus. “My father? What mischief is he about now?”

  Scaevinus inclined his head, his voice low, conversational. “It seems His Grace rides to Avalon. Before year’s end. Surely he has spoken to you of this?”

  A murmur rippled through the gathered courtiers. Several exchanged glances—sharp, calculating. They knew a probe when they heard one.

  The prince only frowned. “Avalon? Oh—yes, something of the sort. Nothing of note, Minister. He said it was a matter of—what was the phrase?—‘communication of the realm.’ And exercise, I think.”

  Scaevinus’s eyes, dark and patient, did not blink. Liar, he thought—not of the boy, but of the message. The Crown Prince’s words had been crafted to conceal, and his son was too shallow to know the difference.

  “I see,” he murmured. “A matter of communication.”

  From the corner of his eye, he saw one of the older ministers—Lord Denar, a fox-faced man—lean forward with a sly grin. “Perhaps the Crown Prince seeks to measure the southern levies himself,” he said lightly. “Or to look into these trade… disturbances along the coast.”

  Another laughed softly. “Or perhaps,” said a lady with painted lips, “he simply wishes to escape the company of his council for a time.”

  The laughter turned sharp, political. Every jest hid a blade.

  Scaevinus’s smile never faltered, but his knuckles whitened against the carved arm of his chair. Idiots all. Chasing favor with a drunken boy while the realm trembles beneath their feet.

  Prince Kael raised his cup again. “To my father’s health, then—and to Avalon, wherever it lies.”

  Goblets clinked. The dancers spun faster.

  And behind his smile, Minister Scaevinus began to plan the quiet deaths of men who had spoken too freely, and the lessons he would teach the pirates before the Crown Prince ever reached Avalon.