The council chamber of House Marestel was choked with tension. The walls, draped in dark blue banners stitched with silver serpents, seemed to lean closer with each raised voice. Torches spat faint smoke, and the air was thick with unease.
At the head of the table, Lady Ysoria Marestel sat rigid, her pale fingers curled around the edges of the letter from Duke Caldus Verentis. The wax seal was shattered, the words within read and reread until they burned in her mind.
> "Within three days, return Lira Verentis in exchange for your Duke. Fail this, and know that Verentis steel will not rest until Maren is avenged."
The words taunted her. She had not admitted aloud what the entire council already knew: they no longer held Lira.
She was gone. Vanished like mist from the dungeons, leaving no trace behind.
Now, the only piece on their board was Duke Maren himself, bound and broken in their cells below.
Sir Aldren, her captain of arms, was the first to break the silence. His voice rumbled like distant thunder.
"My Lady, we must face the truth plainly. Without the girl, the exchange cannot be made as written. Caldus may already know she is gone. If so, then holding Maren only paints a target upon our backs. Perhaps it would be better…" He hesitated, then forced the words out. "…perhaps it would be better to rid ourselves of him. Quietly. A blade in the dark, before he becomes the noose that strangles us."
The council erupted.
"You would kill a duke of our own blood?!" Lord Henric bellowed, his fleshy face red with outrage. "Are you mad, Aldren? His death by our hands would mark us traitors before the Crown itself!"
Others shouted in agreement.
But Aldren did not flinch. His weathered face was stone, his eyes locked on Ysoria. "Better to slit one throat in the dark than invite the Verentis horde upon our gates. With the mine already uncertain, can we risk his life being used against us? His presence is a liability."
"Liability?" sneered Chancellor Veynar from the shadows, his voice sharp as glass. "He is our only hold! Without the girl, yes, but Caldus does not know this for certain. He thinks we have her. That is our strength. If we release Maren, we reveal our weakness. Worse—we lose the very chip that keeps Caldus at bay."
Lord Henric slammed his fist onto the table. "Aye! Veynar speaks true. With Maren in our grip, the Verentis must think twice. They may posture, they may send letters, but they will not risk his head falling before theirs. Sacrificing him would be folly."
Another noble, Lady Corvessa, cut in with a harsh laugh. "And what then? You cling to Maren like a drowning man clings to driftwood, but the sea still swallows him in the end. What if Caldus already knows the girl is gone? What if he wants us to keep Maren, to brand us villains when the truth breaks? Do you not see? The old wolf's letter is a trap—one that tightens with every hour."
The arguments flared hotter, voices rising like fire in a dry field.
"Kill him before Caldus comes—"
"Hold him as our shield—"
"If the mine is lost, none of this matters—"
"The mine is not lost! Do not speak such defeat into the air!"
Ysoria listened, her jaw clenched, her mind weighing each word. Her heart beat with fury at their division.
The mana stone mine hung over them all like a storm. Two detachments had been sent to secure it. Neither had returned. That silence alone told a grim story, but none dared speak it fully.
If the mine had fallen, then their grip on this war was already slipping. Without the stones, their coffers would bleed. Their soldiers would be underfed, their enchantments dulled, their alliances bought by rivals instead.
And still, the debate returned to Maren, circling endlessly like vultures.
At last, Ysoria rose. The scraping of her chair against stone silenced the chamber.
"Enough."
The word cracked like a whip. Her voice was cold, deliberate, each syllable sharpened with command.
"You speak of killing Maren as though it were a matter of spilling wine. You speak of keeping him as though he were a shield made of steel. Both are errors. Listen to me well—Duke Maren is neither our doom nor our salvation. He is a piece upon the board, and nothing more. But how we play him will decide whether House Marestel rises… or burns."
Her eyes, dark and merciless, swept across the faces before her.
"To kill him now," she said, voice lowering to a hiss, "would be to hand Caldus the sword with which to gut us. The Crown would call it murder, and Verentis would march with justice on their lips. To keep him without plan would be to invite their fury upon us when the deadline passes. And as for this letter…" She let it fall upon the table, the parchment crumpling beneath her hand. "…this letter is nothing but smoke. A feint. A provocation. Caldus tests our resolve."
Veynar's smile deepened, though his eyes gleamed with venomous amusement. "Then you would have us do what, my Lady? Keep Maren alive as bait? Return him, and pray Caldus chokes on his gratitude? Or perhaps…" He leaned forward, his voice dripping like oil. "…perhaps you think we should fashion our own deception."
The chamber stilled.
Ysoria allowed the silence to hang before she answered.
"Three days. That is what he has given us. In those three days, we will not release Maren. We will not kill him. We will not crawl like dogs to Caldus's demands. Instead—"
Her hand tightened into a fist.
"—we will send our riders to the mine. We will learn the truth of its state. If it is lost, then Maren becomes the only weight left to balance the scales. If it still stands, then we hold the stronger hand. Until then, Maren lives."
Murmurs rippled through the council.
But she was not finished.
"And should the mine be lost… then perhaps," she said slowly, her eyes narrowing, "perhaps his death may yet serve us. Not as a hidden crime, but as a spectacle. A message. If Caldus believes us desperate enough to slit the throat of his ally rather than bow, it may stay his hand long enough for us to draw new strength. Or," her lips curved into something sharp and cruel, "it may drive him into rashness. Either path, it is we who set the board."
The council sat stunned. Some nodded, grim-faced. Others looked pale at the thought of slaughtering a duke before the eyes of the realm.
Lord Henric finally spoke, voice heavy with unease. "My Lady… to make such a choice, with the Crown watching… it is a dangerous gambit."
"All war is a gamble," Ysoria said simply. "And this one is no different."
Her eyes drifted once more to the letter. Three days. A deadline that would either shatter them or sharpen them into something stronger.
She whispered, barely loud enough for those nearest to hear.
"Let the wolf come. He will find the serpent's fangs waiting."
---
That night, riders once more departed from Marestel, spurred toward the mine. Unlike those before them, they rode under harsher orders: to return at all costs, with word of the mine's state.
But in the forests, unseen, shadows stirred.
Skotos was waiting.
The serpent's riders would not reach their Lady. Their words would never darken her halls. And the deadline of Duke Caldus's letter ticked ever closer to its end.