STONECREST — THE IRON VINE MANSE
The raven landed on the high spire of Iron Vine just after midday.
The sky above Stonecrest was bleached grey, winds harsh and dry as they swept across the jagged cliffs surrounding the manse. Below, courtyards bustled with guards and servants—but at the heart of it all, deep in the cold-marble chamber of the western wing, sat Lord Travis.
The chamber was rich with wine-dark wood, velvet curtains, and floor-to-ceiling shelves—some with scrolls, others with ledgers and ledgers of names. The man himself lounged in a wide-backed chair carved from black ironwood, polished and engraved with the crest of Stonecrest: a serpent coiled around a stone pillar.
A servant knelt before him, arm outstretched, holding the message.
"From Duskwood, my lord," the man said quietly. "Lord Cederic's mark."
Travis didn't thank him. He simply plucked the message from the servant's hand and waved him away.
The servant bowed and retreated without a word.
Travis unfurled the parchment slowly, scanning the contents once—then again.
The muscles in his jaw ticked.
"Coward," he hissed under his breath.
He crushed the letter in his fist and tossed it into the nearby fire. It hissed as the flames licked the wax seal, curling the edges into black.
Travis stood and strode to the table behind him, where a map of the Bannerlands was spread wide—daggers stabbed through various regions. One dagger sat in Caldrith Vale, another on Braemorin, another—twisted and scorched—on Arkenfall itself.
He moved the dagger from Duskwood, pulling it free with a grunt.
"Useless," he muttered.
His steward, a thin man with a wine-stained tunic and a hawkish nose, stepped in from the side of the chamber. "Trouble, my lord?"
"Cederic pulled out. Said the king's sniffing too close."
The steward lifted his brow. "Shall we reroute?"
Travis stared at the map, eyes dark.
"No," he said after a moment. "Not yet."
"But—"
"I said no."
He ran a hand through his close-cropped beard, thinking. "If the king is stirring, we watch. We wait. I won't risk a trail back to my door."
He turned, slow and deliberate, eyes sharp as broken glass.
"Ready the horses... I'd love to pay a visit to my uncle."
"Yes, my lord."
"And the girl," Travis added.
The steward hesitated. "Which girl?"
"The one we bought from the southern camps."
There was something cruel in his smile.
"We may not move cargo for a while, but that doesn't mean we can't entertain ourselves."
The steward bowed low, then vanished.
Travis stood alone in his chamber, watching the fire eat the remnants of Cederic's letter.
He whispered, "Storm Lord or not, the game is still mine."
*****************
The morning light filtered through the towering stained-glass windows of the royal study chamber, painting the marble floors with color. Neriah stood at the center of the room, hands folded before her, her stomach taut with nerves.
Lady Vax of Edravon sat in a high-backed chair at the far end of the chamber, parchment and quill before her, posture ramrod straight. She had the air of a queen herself—and perhaps, once, might have been one, if life had drawn her a different path. Instead, she had made a name even greater: the Queen Maker. The woman who decided if a king's bride would rise to rule beside him—or not at all.
"Lady Neriah," she began, eyes scanning Neriah as though reading invisible lines on her face. "Before the crown touches your head, the court must know you are capable of bearing its weight. We begin today."
Neriah gave a soft nod with a smile, "Yes, my lady."
"Smile less," Lady Vax added. "You are not here to entertain suitors."
A flash of heat ran up Neriah's neck. So much for a good morning.
Gwen, bless her heart, stood by the side of the chamber with two other handmaidens. She offered Neriah a nervous thumbs-up when Vax wasn't looking.
Neriah suppressed a grin and cleared her throat. "I understand."
"Do you?" Lady Vax arched a brow. "Your duty, is not simply to wear crowns and attend feasts. You will be the king's voice when he is not present. The castle's pulse beats through you. You must wield presence like a blade, and diplomacy like fire."
That... didn't sound simple.
Lady Vax lifted a scroll. "This morning we shall begin with court structure. Repeat what I told you yesterday: How many courts exist in the Bannerlands?"
Neriah inhaled. "Three, my lady. The King's Court, the Triad Court, and the Eighth Court."
A single nod. "Good. And the Triad Court oversees?"
"Scholars, scribes, and the Justicars," Neriah replied carefully.
"And the Eighth Court?"
"It is composed of noble houses from each of the seven regions," she answered, recalling the brief lecture from the day before. "A noble from each, selected or appointed. The eighth seat is chosen by the King."
Lady Vax's expression did not shift. "Very well. Now then. If a message comes to the Queen from Lady Elena of Caldrith Vale, asking for an audience on behalf of a merchant's dispute in her region, what is your response?"
Neriah blinked. That name had been mentioned yesterday—briefly. Her mind raced. "I would… acknowledge the letter, consult the Master of Coin for the relevant law, and offer a neutral time for audience that suits the court's calendar."
Lady Vax eyed her. "Not terrible."
A soft breath of relief escaped Neriah.
"And what is your posture during a receiving?"
Neriah straightened. "Back tall, shoulders relaxed. Chin neither too high nor too low. Hands placed lightly at the center of the waist unless seated."
"And your tone of voice?"
"Measured, calm, and clear."
Lady Vax finally set the scroll down and regarded her.
"You retain information quickly. That pleases me."
Neriah blinked. That might have been a compliment.
Vax stood and began to circle her slowly. "You are not here to impress with beauty, though you have it. You are not here to charm with wit, though I sense it in you. You are here to rule beside a man many fear. That takes a spine of steel hidden beneath silk. Do you understand?"
Neriah nodded. "I do, my lady."
"You will."
They moved through several more scenarios—questions on noble customs, family alliances, festivals in Arkenfall and Braemorin, the proper bow for a visiting, the proper tea to serve a Justicar from Varketh. Neriah didn't get everything right—but she held her own.
And for once, Lady Vax did not correct her posture.
When the questioning finally ended, Vax gave a slight incline of her head. "You've been paying attention. That is good. Intelligence can be taught. Presence… cannot."
"Was that… a compliment?"
Lady Vax blinked once. "Don't let it go to your head."
Neriah bowed. As the Queen Maker swept from the chamber with her usual regal speed.
Gwen hurried forward with a cup of tea.
"You were wonderful, my lady," she whispered.
Neriah only smiled faintly, her mind still spinning with titles, names, alliances, and rules.
But amidst the flurry in her head, one thing remained like an anchor:
The way Damon had looked at her last night, and called her Riah.
Her lips curved, almost despite herself.
She would learn. She would pass.
And she would be worthy of standing beside him.
*******************
Lady Rhea of Braemorin swept around the stone corridor like a storm on heels, her deep purple gown trailing behind her in waves. Her silver-blonde hair was braided neatly atop her head, crowned with the elegance that only noble birth and years of being doted upon could give. Her eyes, sharp and keen, searched the corridor ahead.
She needed an audience with the King.
There were certain matters regarding the Northern Tribute Council she wished to speak about privately. Preferably alone.
But as she turned the last bend toward the entrance of the King's court, she halted—only to nearly run into someone.
"Ethan," she breathed, surprised.
The King's General stood casually against one of the stone pillars, arms crossed. His dark cloak was slung over one shoulder, and his ever-present sword hung lazily at his hip.
He raised a brow and straightened, "My lady," he greeted smoothly, "Always a pleasure. Though I fear I may be flattened one day by your... determined stride."
Lady Rhea arched a brow. "You're never far from the King's side, yet here you are, loitering in corridors like a misplaced shadow. Is His Majesty within?"
Ethan hesitated—just for a moment.
"No," he said, far too quickly. "He's, um… went for a walk."
Rhea blinked. "A walk?"
"Yes," Ethan nodded. "You know... the fresh air sort of walk. With the breeze. For... breathing."
She gave him a look.
"A walk?" she repeated slowly, as if he were daft. "Damon doesn't walk, Ethan. He strides with purpose. He marches to war. He storms rooms. He does not simply… walk."
Ethan chuckled, scratching the back of his neck. "Well, perhaps he's experimenting with new hobbies."
Rhea crossed her arms. "Tell me the truth."
"I am," he said, holding up both hands. "The King has taken an early morning... stroll."
"Where?"
Ethan shifted uncomfortably. "Well… toward the Justicar's wing."
"You're lying."
"Pardon?"
"You're lying," she said again. "You do this thing with your eyebrow when you lie. It twitches."
"My eyebrow does not twitch."
"It twitched. Just now."
He looked away with an exaggerated sigh. "I didn't realize I was being cross-examined by the lady emissary herself."
"You're a terrible liar."
"I'm an excellent liar," he protested. "I just happen to be cursed with a painfully honest face."
She scoffed, then narrowed her eyes. "He's with her, isn't he?"
Ethan said nothing.
"I knew it," Rhea muttered. "And here I was hoping to speak with him about the Northern tribute arrangements."
"Well, perhaps wait until he's done..."
She gave him a sharp glance.
"Look," Ethan said, taking a step closer, voice lowering. "He didn't mean to miss your visit. But Damon—he's not like other kings. You know that. And it's... clear he's making effort with his queen."
"Yes," Rhea said, tone clipped. "I've seen it. I have eyes."
Ethan hesitated, then added carefully, "He's... happy. It's a good thing."
She said nothing for a long time, then finally let out a soft sigh. "I suppose it is."
"You suppose?" he asked.
"I don't particularly enjoy watching a man I once considered marrying look at another woman like the sun rises only for her," she said bluntly. "But... I'll live."
There was a quiet moment between them.
"Let me know when His Majesty returns," she said, turning to leave. "And Ethan?"
"Yes?"
"Don't ever lie to me again. You're awful at it."
She swept off in a flourish of silk and silver.