Moriador. Capital of Airantis.
The meeting was held in a room behind another room. A servant had to unlock two doors to reach it. The guard stationed outside didn't ask questions.
Inside, a single desk sat between two chairs. A small flame lit the space. The walls were bare. No emblems or signs. The room had been cleaned of anything that could suggest who it belonged to.
Sarvos Ortega stood near the window, though it was closed.
The man across from him kept his name to himself. Ortega didn't ask. He already knew.
Finally, Ortega broke the quiet. "I thought you were in the west," he said evenly.
The man's eyes flicked up. "I had to return," he replied smoothly. "Things are slipping."
Ortega didn't respond. He moved toward the window, but didn't open it. The air outside was cold, but tame. The kind that stung in the evening and faded by morning.
"You've delayed again," the man said at last.
Ortega straightened and turned back toward him. "My part of the agreement is done," he said. "That hasn't changed."
"Then explain why the second letter never reached its destination," the other man snapped.
Ortega watched his fingers on the wood grain of the desk. "I'm aware it didn't," he admitted.
The man narrowed his eyes. "His Grace is also aware," he said flatly.
"I sent men to recover the courier. He'll get it. It's already in motion."
He stayed seated. "It should've been delivered three days ago."
"And they're tracking it down, same as before."
"You told me the same thing last time."
Ortega stepped forward and sat down. His coat remained on.
"You think I'm dragging my feet? Everything you asked for, I gave you. Including things I advised against."
"You also insisted Sebastian be kept alive."
"I had my reasons."
"None of which outweighed the risk."
"It's my risk to carry."
"No. It's not."
Ortega paused. "Osrik's involved now?"
The man gave a short nod.
"He'll handle it. You don't need to think about it anymore."
Ortega looked away for a moment. "I saw the report from Matthias."
"Then you know the monastery fell apart. It's your fault," the man said without emotion.
Ortega felt his pulse quicken. "He had one chance to kill the boy," he said. "He let it pass."
A shadow crossed the man's face. "That opportunity should never have existed," he said sharply. "It should never have been possible for the boy to escape."
Ortega's hands clenched in his lap. He forced them to stay still.
"What about Herrera?" he asked.
"Handled. Every connection the general had has been cut."
"His Grace gave the order?"
He let the question hang.
Ortega leaned back in his chair. "And the capital?"
"Moses is still moving," the man said.
Ortega frowned. "He won't be able to do much. The people are angry and also scattered."
"They won't stay scattered."
Ortega stayed quiet.
The other man rose to his feet then. "The next session is set," he said. "It will likely be the final trial."
Ortega gave no response.
"Caesor Vicorra's fate is already settled," he continued without waiting for Ortega's answer. "They're avoiding calling it an execution on paper, but everyone knows what it means."
Ortega let his eyes drift back to the table. He said nothing.
For a moment, the silence hung heavy between them. Then the man made a final statement.
"We're close now. Don't let your pride get in the way," he warned softly.
Ortega's jaw flexed.
The man turned and left the room, closing the door silently behind him.
Ortega stayed seated, eyes fixed on the table.
Vicorra would fall.
That was the point.
And when it did, his name would take its place.
---
Vencian landed hard on the stone floor.
Vencian hit the stone floor hard. He tried to land on one hip, but the blow was jarring. Pain shot through his bound wrists where thick rope bit into his skin. A guard had shoved him down, forcing his side against the cold stone wall.
Vencian remained perfectly still as the heavy door slammed shut behind him.
The space was small. Cold air drifted from the ceiling cracks. Stone walls, no windows. A torch bracket glowed near the doorway.
He took a breath and forced his thoughts to settle.
Before him, Jeriko and Sebastian slumped against the wall. Jeriko's head was bowed forward, body limp and wrists tied exactly as Vencian's were.
Sebastian was next to him. Still conscious. Ropes on his arms. His breathing was shallow but steady.
The room held silence for a moment.
After a moment, he recalled the moments before this nightmare began.
He remembered the sounds echoing from the stairwell: a soft crack of an arrow, a guard's startled cry cut short, the swing of a blade near the courtyard gate, someone shouting orders from around the corner.
The attackers had not come from outside at all — the ambush had come from inside the keep.
Vencian counted fourteen. There should have been fifteen. One man was missing.
Later, the ambush came from within. That meant the fifteenth was already inside.
The man who had held the knife against Vencian's throat— had arrived before them.
He came through the tunnel—hidden behind a storage panel on the lowest floor. His men used the tunnel before Jeriko's team reached the keep. The tunnel wasn't random; it had been built for this kind of movement. The rest followed in behind him. By the time Jeriko's unit split and advanced through the halls, they were boxed in.
He remembered the pressure at his throat. The calm breath behind his ear. The stillness that followed when Jeriko had stopped moving.
It was over almost instantly. Jeriko's soldiers, caught off guard and outnumbered, dropped their weapons without a fight. Resistance collapsed — none of them risked a slit throat for the sake of honor.
Now they were here.
Vencian shifted his leg slightly. No use. They had tied him well. His sword and dagger were gone; the guards had searched his coat and boots.
The door creaked. A man entered.
Jeriko looked up, shoulders tensing before settling into stillness. The tightening of his jaw showed that he recognized the man.
The man who entered gave a half-smile and stopped in front of them. He didn't introduce himself and stood with hands folded behind his back. Unarmored, but guarded. Three soldiers flanked the doorway. None of them spoke.
Vencian stared at him.
"Osrick," Jeriko said flatly.
Osrick Montaro. Bastard son of Duke Ignacio. A scandal, even in a kingdom where polygamy wasn't uncommon. The duke never claimed Osrick's mother as a wife. No one ever explained why.
That hadn't stopped Osrick from building his own legacy.
The man in front of them wore that legacy like armor.
Vencian had met him a few times but doesn't know him that well.
After a moment Jeriko spoke, his voice flat. "So it's you."
Osrick didn't reply.
"Montaro's behind this," Jeriko spat.
"That should've been obvious," Osrick said.
"You're risking open war."
Osrick's eyes gleamed with cold light. He stepped closer. "War is already here, Jerico. Your side is the one losing ground now."
Jeriko shifted his weight, rope tightening at his wrists.
He leaned forward, defiance in his voice. "You think this ends with us tied up?"
"It ends," Osrick replied, "when your house has no blood left to carry it."
A surge of anger flared in Jeriko's chest. "Then pray you're out of reach when it doesn't."
Osrick's faint grin did not falter. He met Jeriko's glare without blinking.
"You're not in a place to make threats," he said. "One word from the capital, and your brother dies along with you."
He looked down at Jeriko.
"This time, I'll make sure no one escapes."
He turned on his heel and exited without another word, leaving Vencian, Jeriko, and Sebastian bound in the stillness of the torch-lit cell.