STONECREST
The gates of Stonecrest groaned as they opened, steel grinding against steel. The towers loomed like giants against a fading sky, the gray stone etched with centuries of battles and bloodlines.
Roran rode through them like a stranger.
He passed the training yards — still filled with the sharp rhythm of sparring blades and barked commands. But the faces had changed. Men he didn't recognize now wore the House McCain sigil. Young wolves, hard-eyed and eager. Soldiers bred not to protect but to silence.
He dismounted slowly in the courtyard, handing his reins to a waiting stable boy. No words. No greetings. Just the ever-present silence that seemed to define Stonecrest now.
Roran walked alone through the hallways that once echoed with laughter and the clatter of his childhood. Every stone, every torch, whispered of what this place had become.
The Stonecrest Hall was dim, walled in black marble and iron, with banners of red thorns swaying gently under the breath of the torches. Men in chainmail circled the long table at the center, their voices a low tide of strategy and whispers.
At the far end, Lord McCain stood tall, hands clasped behind his back, eyes locked on a weathered map spread across the table.
When the guards pushed open the doors to the Great Hall. Boots echoed.
Roran stepped in—calm, composed, shoulders squared with a defiance that didn't need raising voices to be heard.
Lord McCain's brow lifted. He did not smile.
"Leave us," he said without turning.
No one hesitated. His men peeled off like falling leaves—silent, wordless, obedient. The last of them bowed stiffly before exiting, the doors closing behind him with a weighty thud.
McCain finally turned to face his son. "I heard you were in the region."
"I was," Roran said simply. "I needed to speak with you."
Lord McCain let out a short breath—neither amusement nor irritation, just the noise of a man constantly calculating. He moved toward the head chair, but didn't sit. "Let me guess. You've come to question my loyalty again. Or perhaps to insult it outright."
"I came to ask if you sent The Dark Veil to Arkenfall?" Roran didn't blink.
McCain's mouth twitched. "So blunt. I would expect that from your King, not from you."
"He's not just my King. He's the King. You bent the knee."
"I bent it. Not because I wanted to, but because law demands it. Do not confuse submission with faith."
"And yet you've served," Roran replied.
"I've tolerated," McCain countered, walking slowly toward the table again. "Do you know what truly vexes me, boy? It's not Damon's ideals. Not even his strength. It's his age. That a child—yes, a child—should sit on a throne while men like me must kneel. That he should win wars while men like me carry the burden of a dozen lifetimes. He wears a crown he has not bled enough to deserve."
Roran's fists clenched. "He's bled more than you'll ever know. And he's earned every ounce of the fear you think he lacks."
McCain stared at him.
"Is that what this is about?" he said at last. "You're so enchanted by your King's nobility that you've forgotten what you were born for?"
"I haven't forgotten anything," Roran replied coldly. "I just chose to follow someone who's not drunk on his own legacy."
Silence sharpened between them.
McCain scoffed. "So you believe I sent The Dark Veil to Arkenfall to smite the royal family?"
"You've been involved in worse," Roran replied.
"And yet, I didn't." McCain stepped closer.
"But you knew," Roran said. "Didn't you?"
McCain didn't answer. He didn't have to. The silence said enough. The half-smile. The twitch of his brow. The fact that he didn't even feign ignorance.
"You knew it was Travis, because he's the only one apart from you that commands the Dark Veil," Roran said, voice low. "You let him do it."
McCain stepped past him now, eyes hard. "Travis holds Stonecrest together. While you run off to whisper secrets in another man's court, he does what you were born to do. That boy bleeds for this House more than you ever have."
"He bleeds others for it," Roran spat.
"Better that than bleeding sentiment. You think your King's virtues make him powerful? No, they make him fragile. You'll see that one day. When the wolves come knocking."
Roran's voice turned to ice. "Then let them knock. And I'll open the gate myself."
McCain turned slowly, shadows crawling up his face from the torchlight. "You are not my heir. You never were. Travis understands what it takes to rule. That is why I chose him."
"You didn't choose him. You settled," Roran said, stepping closer now. "Because he's easy. Because he reminds you of you."
"And you don't," McCain growled.
"No," Roran said. "I remind you of what you could never be."
For a second, neither moved. Then Roran turned toward the door.
"Where are you going?" McCain asked.
"To do what you never could," Roran said. "Protect something worth fighting for."
*******************
The wind howled through the arches of the East Wing tower, a constant, restless sound like a beast pacing its cage. Travis stood at the center of the chamber, arms folded behind his back, eyes fixed on the stained-glass window carved in the image of a crimson hawk devouring a lamb.
The sun bled through it, casting long red veins across the stone floor. His silhouette stood still inside the light—calm, sharp-edged, surgical.
A courier entered.
He didn't speak. He simply knelt, one fist over his chest, and extended the sealed note.
Travis turned slowly. Took it. Broke the wax with a flick.
His eyes scanned the words. Then again. And again.
Roran visited Lord McCain.
He exhaled through his nose, quiet as a blade sliding into flesh. The message burned in his hand, but he folded it without expression, tucking it into his coat as if it were nothing but wind.
"Did he ride alone?" Travis asked.
The courier nodded once. "He did, my Lord."
"Was it cordial?"
"They left the room alone."
A flicker behind Travis's eyes—like a match struggling not to spark. He turned away from the light, walking toward the marble table lined with maps, ledgers, and sealed reports.
"It wasn't cordial," Travis murmured. "Roran doesn't do 'cordial.'"
He picked up a metal pin from the table and drove it into the heart of a map—straight through Arkenfall.
"Uncle entertained him," he said more to himself than the man behind him. "Which means he's still hesitating. Still pretending to play two sides."
He looked up at the flickering candle on the desk.
"Send word to Captain Lennox. Have him double the watch along Blackhollow. Quietly. I don't want rumors reaching the court."
The courier bowed. "Yes, my Lord."
"One more thing," Travis said, voice like silk wrapped around steel. "If Roran returns to Stonecrest again… I want to know the moment he steps through the gate. Personally."
"Yes, my Lord."
The courier exited as swiftly as he came, and Travis was alone again with the sound of wind and the red light bleeding through the glass.
He stared at the table. At the pin. At Arkenfall.