The wizened king sat slumped upon his massive black throne, a monument carved as much for intimidation as for legacy. His long, bone-white fingers pressed into his temples, kneading the ache that had settled deep behind his eyes. The crown—golden, wrought in delicate leaves and winding vines—rested upon his brow like a living thing, its beauty betrayed by its growing, unbearable weight.
King Gabel Lorhymn, called The Mighty in younger, louder years, did not feel mighty today.
Before him, upon the cold stone floor between his slippered feet, lay the scout's report. The parchment had been unrolled in haste, its edges still curling as though it resisted the truth it carried. His eldest son—his heir—had been taken.
Captured.
The word itself felt foreign, offensive.
The royal scouts had found the bodies first. Five men—each one a veteran, each one handpicked by Gabel himself. Swordsmen who had stood beside Tarron since boyhood. They had not fallen easily. No… the report had been clear on that.
Each bore a single wound.
A black-fletched arrow, buried deep in the throat.
Clean. Precise. Executed with chilling intent.
Gabel's gaze lingered on that detail, his jaw tightening. Not bandits. Not chance. This had been deliberate.
There had been signs of a struggle—deep gouges in the earth, broken branches, blood spread in wide arcs. Tarron had fought. Of course he had. The boy—no, the man—was a storm given flesh. Stronger, faster… better than Gabel had ever been, even in his prime.
And yet—
"Overwhelming force," the scouts had written.
Gabel exhaled slowly, the breath leaving him as a low, hollow sound that echoed through the vast throne room. The chamber answered him with silence. Marble floors stretched wide and gleaming, broken only by the long crimson runners that led to his throne. Pillars of white stone rose like ancient sentinels, their surfaces etched with filigree that caught the dim light and scattered it in fractured patterns along the walls.
Empty.
He had made sure of that.
When the scout had delivered the message, Gabel's voice had thundered without thought, ordering the hall cleared before the man had even finished kneeling. No one saw the king receive bad news. No one saw him falter.
Not his court.
Not his children.
Weakness, once glimpsed, became currency among nobles.
And Gabel had never allowed himself to be spent.
He leaned back into the throne, the motion slow, deliberate. Age answered him immediately—his spine protesting, his neck stiff as iron bands. The crown shifted ever so slightly, and he reached up to steady it, fingers brushing its delicate edges.
How had something so finely made become so heavy?
His hand drifted down, threading absently through the length of his silver beard.
Tarron should have worn it already.
The thought came unbidden, unwelcome.
Abdication had been discussed—quietly, cautiously—but always postponed. There was always another matter. Another season. Another hunt.
Foolish.
Gabel closed his eyes briefly, feeling the slow, inevitable press of time upon him. Not fear. Never fear.
But awareness.
His years were no longer an endless road. They were a narrowing path.
And now his heir was gone.
The great oak doors at the far end of the hall groaned as they opened, the sound cutting through the silence like a blade drawn from its sheath. Gabel did not turn immediately. Few would dare interrupt him now. Fewer still would survive doing so without cause.
Measured footsteps approached across the marble.
He opened his eyes.
A tall woman advanced down the crimson runner, her armor catching what little light the chamber offered and returning it in sharp, gleaming flashes. Polished to a mirror sheen, each plate bore the mark of the Order of the Sun—a golden disk emblazoned upon her breast, echoed again upon the white cloak that flowed behind her like a trailing banner of judgment.
Her hair, pale as wheat in high summer, was pulled tight behind her head. Her face—sharp, composed, almost severe—wore its usual mask of cool disapproval.
But her eyes betrayed her.
Fear.
Good, Gabel thought. Fear meant this mattered.
She reached the foot of the throne and dropped to one knee, head bowed.
"My king…"
Gabel said nothing. He let the silence stretch, heavy and expectant. He had long ago learned that men—and women—would fill silence with truth far quicker than they would answer questions.
Severna of the Sun Knights inhaled slowly, steadying herself. He could see it—the discipline fighting the urgency in her. They were always like this, the Order. Driven. Devout. Desperate to prove their worth in the eyes of both crown and god.
He waited.
Finally, she lifted her gaze to meet his.
"Grandmaster Bor has received word," she began, her voice controlled but tight at the edges, "that Prince Tarron was taken during his hunt by a mercenary company known as the Black Brigade."
Gabel's expression did not change.
Inside, something colder than anger began to take shape.
"The prince was last seen," she continued, the words coming faster now under the weight of his unblinking stare, "being transported across the eastern border. Three days past."
Three days.
Three days in enemy hands.
Gabel's fingers curled slightly against the armrest of his throne, the wood creaking faintly under the pressure.
The Black Brigade.
Of all the names she could have spoken…
His mind turned, slow and deliberate, like a great engine grinding into motion. Independent, to all outward eyes. Mercenaries of ruthless efficiency. Expensive. Discreet.
And quietly—carefully—funded by the very treasury beneath his feet.
A tool.
His tool.
Run by a man he had trusted longer than most had been alive.
Grimble.
The name settled in his thoughts like a stone dropped into deep water.
Old friend. Old soldier. A man who had bled beside him before crowns and courts and politics had ever entered their lives.
What madness is this?
Why take the prince?
Why now?
For the first time, Gabel felt something dangerously close to uncertainty coil in his chest. Not doubt in himself—but in the board upon which he had believed every piece accounted for.
He had not seen this move.
A faint sound drew him back—Severna clearing her throat, carefully, respectfully.
Waiting.
Of course she was.
The king exhaled once more, but this time there was iron beneath it. The weariness did not vanish—but it was buried, locked away behind the walls he had spent a lifetime building.
When he spoke, his voice was low. Controlled.
Dangerous.
"Send word to Grandmaster Bor," Gabel said, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the knight, beyond the hall, as though already seeing the path ahead. "The Order will prepare for immediate deployment."
His eyes shifted, settling fully upon Severna now.
"And you," he added, "will remain."
A pause.
Then, more quietly—almost to himself, though she heard it all the same:
"I will not have my son carried like spoils across my borders."
His hand closed fully now, knuckles pale.
"Ready my war council."
The throne room seemed to hold its breath.
Because somewhere beyond those eastern borders, a prince still lived.
And King Gabel Lorhymn—old, weary, and burdened though he was—had just remembered why men once called him The Mighty