Silence hung like smoke over the grand chamber.
The great lords of the Bannerlands remained seated at the long stone table, lit only by the flickering chandeliers above and the moody grey light pouring through the stained-glass windows. Their goblets remained untouched. Their faces still.
And then—
"Well," muttered Lord Halden from Braemorin, swirling the dark wine in his cup without drinking. "That could've gone worse."
"Could it?" Lord Eric from Varketh Hold said dryly. "We just watched a lion bare its teeth. And not one of us had the stomach to roar back."
"The king was right," someone else said — low, almost reluctant. Heads turned toward Lord Carwin from Caldrith Vale. "About Travis. About the trade. You know it. We all do."
Murmurs stirred like coals.
Lord Halden exhaled. "Travis got reckless. That's the only reason we're even talking about this."
"He got caught," corrected Eric, his voice sharp as flint. "That's what you mean."
More silence. But not out of shock. Out of knowing.
Because it was true.
Lord Travis hadn't been acting alone.
He had built the trade. But others had helped fund it — discreetly, of course. Silent partners. Men who now sat at this very table. Who now sipped their wine like it didn't taste of blood and coin.
"We've all taken our cuts," said Lord Richard from Edravon, his voice quiet but firm. "Half the lords at this table. If the king digs deeper…"
"He won't," said Lord Halden quickly. "Not unless we keep forcing his hand."
"By defending Travis," Eric finished for him. "By pushing too hard. By insisting on his release."
A long beat passed.
Then Carwin spoke again. "Then, let him fall alone."
The words settled over the table like a shroud.
Several lords looked down. Others exchanged slow glances. And then, one by one, heads began to nod.
"Travis built it," said Richard. "He ran it. He got greedy. He dared to lay a hand on the king."
"And he'll die for it," Halden said simply. "Better him than all of us."
At the far end of the table, Lord McCain of Stonecrest said nothing.
He hadn't spoken once since the king left. His fingers were still laced tightly together, knuckles pale. His jaw had hardened like stone, eyes fixed on the empty throne where King Damon had sat.
Travis was his nephew. Stonecrest blood.
But he, too, understood the nature of fire. When a blaze begins, you can either burn with it — or throw something in to keep it from reaching your home.
He said nothing.
Because he agreed.
Travis would die alone.
Let him.
******************
The long marble corridor of Arkenfall's east wing gleamed with afternoon light. Outside the windows, the last of the sun caught on garden fountains and drifting golden leaves, but inside the castle, the air felt colder — like the wind of something gathering.
Neriah stepped out from the inner chamber with a stack of parchments clutched tightly in her hands. Her eyes were still on the final line she had written, lips silently mouthing her own words. The day's testing with Lady Rhea had been rigorous, more philosophical than practical — matters of foreign custom, regional appeasement strategies, and how a mistress of Accord should measure honor against loyalty.
It wasn't the sort of test that had a clear answer.
"You've done well," came Lady Rhea's voice from behind her.
Neriah turned, still slightly flushed from the hour-long debate.
Rhea walked with the smooth grace of someone who always knew when she was being watched. Her blonde hair was braided down one shoulder, her silk gown a deep navy that caught silver in the light. There was something striking about her — not just her beauty, but the way she wore it like armor.
"Thank you," Neriah said, offering a small, polite smile.
Rhea's lips curved, but only faintly. "You're sharper than you appear. Most girls would've stumbled twice over that Braemorin treaty clause."
"I studied late," Neriah replied simply.
"Hmm. So I see." Rhea's gaze dipped briefly to the stack of notes in Neriah's arms. Then she turned toward the window, folding her hands before her. "Of course, it'll take more than books to survive Arkenfall."
Something in her tone made Neriah glance up.
Rhea was watching the courtyard now, far below. Servants scurried in the distance, banners being changed. Guards were assembling.
"Is something happening?" Neriah asked carefully.
Rhea tilted her head. "You haven't heard?"
"Heard what?"
Rhea gave a soft breath of amusement — the kind that wasn't quite a laugh. "The court is in uproar today. The king —" she paused delicately, as if weighing the words, "—is expected to preside over an execution."
The parchment in Neriah's hand nearly slipped.
"An execution?" she echoed.
Rhea turned to face her again. "Lord Travis. One of the high lords of the realm. He's been held in the dungeons for treason — slave trade, among other things. A bold move."
Neriah's brow furrowed. "I… I didn't know."
"Of course not. They wouldn't trouble your testing with politics." Rhea's voice was smooth, but there was a glint in her eyes now. "But I thought you might want to see it."
"See it?" Neriah asked, unsure.
Rhea took a step closer. "Yes."
Neriah shifted where she stood, unsure what part unsettled her more — the execution itself, or the faint curve of Rhea's lips as she spoke about it.
"I didn't realize he would do that," she said quietly. "That Damon…"
"You thought him softer?" Rhea raised a brow.
"No," Neriah replied quickly. "Just… I suppose I never thought of him that way."
"Well." Rhea turned, her gown trailing as she walked past. "Now's a good time to start."
Neriah followed without thinking, caught in the sudden whirlwind of curiosity and unease. The halls of Arkenfall had begun to shift — guards in full armor moved with purpose, servants lowered their gazes, whispers carried between stone columns like wind before a storm.
They walked together in silence for a time — Rhea leading with poise, Neriah trailing a step behind, her mind racing.
Was Damon truly going to kill someone?
And not just anyone — a noble. A Lord.
Rhea cast a glance over her shoulder. "You're pale."
"I'm fine," Neriah murmured.
"Let's hope you don't faint," Rhea said with a smirk. "I hear Halemond girls are delicate."
Neriah bristled, but said nothing.
She didn't like the way Rhea said it. As if being soft was a failing. As if gentleness didn't have its own kind of strength.
Still, the knot in her stomach twisted tighter.
She didn't fear Damon.
But she didn't know this side of him — the one that passed judgment, that wielded not just swords but law. She had seen his kindness. His cleverness. The softness behind his eyes. The way he touched her hand as if it were the most precious thing in the world.
But this…?
She wasn't sure what she would see in him now.
And yet — part of her needed to know.
If she was to stand beside him. If she was to be anything more than a guest in Arkenfall. She had to see the full shape of him — even the edges that drew blood.
They turned a final corner.
Ahead, the great courtyard gates were yawning open.