In a brightly lit study lined with dark shelves and gleaming brass lamps, a young man lounged on a velvet cushion, idly plucking grapes from a silver plate. The fruit's sweet juice stained his fingers as he watched a figure kneeling on the marble floor—cloaked in black, sword sheathed, head bowed low.
Before the kneeling man stood a woman whose beauty was sharpened by fury. From the cut of her crimson riding coat and the jeweled dagger at her hip, no one would mistake her for common.
"How can you tell me he swallowed the poison and yet still breathes?" she hissed, voice rising to a sharp cry. "Do I look like a fool to you?"
The kneeling man said nothing, his forehead nearly touching the floor.
"Cercil," drawled the man with the grapes—Rickon Veynt, lord of a dozen secret trades and heir to a house older than the hills. He rose from his cushion, languid but watchful. "Good gods, take a breath."
"Are you even listening, Rick?" Cercil snapped, eyes flashing. "If he can't finish a simple task, why is he still alive?"
Rickon crossed the room in two long strides and slid between her and the silent assassin. "Easy, darling. Easy." He waved the kneeling man away without looking. "Leave us."
The man bowed once and vanished like smoke.
Rickon caught Cercil's face gently in his palm, his other hand settling at her waist. "Breathe," he murmured. "In…out…that's it."
Her anger trembled, then ebbed as he leaned closer. Their noses brushed. She closed her eyes just as his lips found hers—slow, coaxing, a promise rather than a conquest. His kiss tasted of wine and When he drew back she exhaled, some of the heat gone from her eyes.
"You'll drive yourself mad," he whispered, pressing a soft kiss to her brow. He guided her toward a paneled wall, pressed a hidden brick, and a concealed door whispered open to reveal a small chamber lit by amber lamps. Inside, he eased her onto a wide bed and slipped off her riding boots.
"I feel so…angry," Cercil admitted, voice rough as he drew the covers around her.
"I know," Rickon said. "I'll find the bottom of it."
"One assassin after another disappears," she muttered. " She too disappears and that boy still refuses to die."
He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "If you want him gone, he will be gone."
Her breath slowed. "I love you," she whispered.
"And I, you…sister," he murmured after her eyes fluttered closed.
When her breathing deepened, Rickon straightened, brushed a final kiss across her temple, and slipped back through the secret panel. The study welcomed him again with its warm glow. He tapped the door twice; a moment later the kneeling man—Greyworm—reappeared.
"Master," Greyworm said, bowing.
Rickon set the grape plate aside. "You're certain the boy drank the poison?"
"I admit, I did not serve it myself," Greyworm began.
"Who did?"
"No one, my lord."
A long silence. Rickon's thoughts flickered through possibilities, each discarded as quickly as it came. "Then it was surely consumed. What of his mother?"
"She hides her tracks too well."
Rickon exhaled slowly. "And the other task?"
Greyworm's jaw tightened. "The witches still hold Sleeping Island. Impenetrable. Even the Church has no progress. My spy speaks of…experiments, but nothing certain."
Rickon nodded once. "And the alchemist?"
"Arch-Alchemist Feron, my lord. He called the poison his finest work."
"Good," Rickon said coldly. "Hang him."
Greyworm bowed and left.
Alone, Rickon crossed to the window. Beyond the dark glass, stars swam in the velvet sky. Winter approached—and with it the Dominion Games, the great contest that came every few years when the snows sealed the roads. For six months each house would battle for territory without drawing a drop of blood. Conquest by wit and cunning alone, under the penalty of death for any who shed it.
Usually Winter began in five months, but his astronomer had predicted the snows a month early. Rickon smiled, eyes alight with calculation.
"Time to place the first pieces," he murmured.
***
Six young women sprawled across a sunlit sitting room that smelled faintly of jasmine and warm honey. Cushions lay scattered across the carpet like fallen petals, teacups half-forgotten as laughter rippled through the air.
"I'm leaving in three days," announced Lady Serena Prescott, her porcelain skin glowing against a cascade of sea-blue hair. Though not much older than the others, she carried herself with a calm, maternal grace that made the room instinctively hush.
A chorus of groans followed.
"You can't," Lily protested. Barely fifteen, she had hair black as midnight and eyes the color of a clear summer lake. "Take us with you."
Serena's soft chuckle held both affection and authority. "No, Lily. The Dominion Games will begin soon—you need to stay here and help your sisters."
"But what about you, Mother?" asked Flora, her green hair and matching eyes shimmering like new leaves.
"I'll be fine," Serena assured her.
"At least take some of us," Musa urged, her musical voice bright as wind chimes. The others nodded eagerly.
Serena exhaled in mock defeat. "Very well. I'll take Lily, Musa, Aurora, and Shadow. That's final—no more."
Nana, swinging her legs over the arm of the couch, arched a brow. "Will Lady Dina even let you take Lily and Shadow? They're witches, after all."
"I'll plead," Lily said with a playful lift of her chin, "and if she refuses, I might just escape anyway."
Lily's heart fluttered. She'd known Lady Serena only a month, yet the bond felt unbreakable—strong enough that she would risk her queen's displeasure to follow her.
"Don't worry," Serena added quickly. "No need for rebellion. Lady Dina has already agreed."
Lily let out a breath of relief. "Thank the gods."
"Alright, alright, no need to rub it in," Nana grumbled, rolling her eyes as the room broke into easy laughter again.
Serena smiled and joined their chatter, sipping her cooling tea. Yet beneath her composed exterior her thoughts strayed far from the cozy circle.
She had worked so hard to keep him safe, believing that limiting his movements to Ridgewell would protect him. Now distance gnawed at her resolve.
Franklin, Veyra… please keep my boy safe, she prayed silently, her heart tightening as the others' voices swirled around her like a distant melody.
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Hello it's the Author here. What did you think of this groundwork? In the next chapter we'll return to Moon—time to decide what his first taste of entertainment should be. Suggestions welcome! (^o^)