The halls of Arkenfall Castle were quieter than usual, but it was not a peaceful quiet. It was the silence that followed a landslide—when the earth still trembled beneath one's feet, even though the rumbling had passed.
Travis of Stonecrest was dead.
And though the body had long been cleared from the execution courtyard, the blood still stained the stones. Servants whispered of the King's unflinching hand, of the way silence fell like a blade across the gathering of noble lords. The air itself seemed changed.
But Damon knew better than to mistake silence for obedience.
They were still watching. Still plotting.
And he would meet them, eyes open.
It was for this reason he summoned the Round Table.
The Round Table gathering was an age-old practice in the Bannerlands—called rarely, but with weight. It brought together the reigning Lords and Ladies of each region to sit in a shared circle, no seat higher than another, a gesture of unity before the crown. There was no throne in that chamber. No dais. Only the circle and the truth it forced.
They arrived one after the other.
Lady Elena of Varketh Hold, veiled in silks and sapphires, walked like water and smiled like frost.
Lord Carlisle of Caldrith Vale, old and leathery, draped in storm-colored fur, with a voice that growled like thunder.
Lord Draven of Braemorin—youngest of them all, sharp-witted and charming, with ink stains on his cuffs and mischief in his eye.
Lady Vax of Edravon was already there, naturally—her posture knife-straight, her face unreadable.
Lord McCain of Stonecrest followed, flanked by his quiet guard, his expression set in flint. The death of his nephew hung over him like smoke, but he wore it with the restraint of a seasoned wolf.
The chamber doors opened with a reverberating groan, drawing every gaze to the figure standing tall in the corridor's shadow.
Lord Velmorn of Halemond entered with the bearing of a man who had ridden through storms to reach this place—and perhaps he had. His emerald cloak, embroidered with the white stag of Halemond, flowed behind him, streaked faintly with dust and travel. His silver-streaked hair was tied neatly at his nape, but his pale eyes were sharp, clear, and assessing.
Damon stood as Velmorn approached.
"My Lord," the King said.
Velmorn bowed, as was proper, and rose with dignity. "Your Majesty."
They exchanged pleasantries.
The rest of the table filled out in silence. Lady Elena of Caldrith Vale, poised and cold as winter glass, offered no words as she took her seat. Lord Draven of Braemorin, deceptively easygoing, smoothed his ink-stained cuffs as he nodded at the others. Lord Carlisle of Varketh Hold, grizzled and quiet, leaned his forearms against the carved edge of the ashwood table and muttered something under his breath to no one.
Lady Vax of Edravon was already seated, ever early, her fingers steepled beneath her chin.
And Lord McCain of Stonecrest—silent, unreadable—entered last, his footsteps measured, his face cut from stone.
The Round Table of Arkenfall was now whole.
What followed was long. Measured. Deliberate.
They discussed the grain shortages in the western coasts, the uprisings festering along the border between Edravon and the Vales. The steel tariffs proposed by Braemorin's guild masters. The growing unrest in Varketh Hold. All of it discussed in clipped tones, weighed in long pauses, each Lord and Lady speaking carefully, like the edge of a knife sat just beneath their tongues.
Lord McCain, Travis's uncle, offered little.
He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, responding only when pressed. Damon never addressed him directly. But every now and then, when the wind stirred through the narrow stone vents of the council dome, McCain's gaze would drift to the blood-colored banner of Arkenfall hanging above the chamber.
A banner that reminded them all where power lived now.
Damon listened more than he spoke. His silence was never passive—it was a force. He asked questions when needed, tilted his head slightly when a Lord spoke too confidently, and never once betrayed emotion. It made the others shift in their seats. It made them wary.
And it was working.
By the time the meeting ended, the sun had fallen from the sky and the castle's braziers had been lit. The Lords and Ladies filed out with civil nods, their faces unreadable masks of diplomacy. Damon did not escort them. He stayed in his seat until the last of their footsteps faded.
Only then did he rise.
He stepped toward the arched window behind the Round Table, looking out at the courtyard below—lit now by lanterns and torchlight, guarded by steel and shadows.
This was no longer the kingdom of his father.
This was his.
And if the lords could not see that yet—they would.
One way or another.
The chamber was empty now. The shadows along the high, carved walls stretched long and lean, flickering gently with the torches that lined the stone. The scent of melted wax mingled faintly with ink and parchment.
His eyes were fixed outward, but his mind—his mind had long since drifted.
To Neriah.
He had done so well, or so he believed. Carefully carving out a space for her in his world, softening what could be softened, dimming the sharpest edges of who he was so she might not flinch.
It had worked.
Gods, it had worked. They were smiling more, laughing more. She had begun to open, to touch his hand first, to lean into him when he reached for her. Her gaze had begun to linger. The kisses had tasted of more than curiosity—there was trust there. Trust, and something tender that had undone him more than any battle wound ever could.
And then came the execution.
He should have known better.
Neriah was not made for bloodied courtyards and severed heads. She was not born into that. She had not grown up as he had, in a court where power was defined by who could command a blade and not tremble.
She came from Halemond—quiet, moral, full of books and old scrolls and dreamers. Her world was not one of knives behind curtains and smiling men with poisoned wine.
She was innocent.
Untouched by the rot.
And now… now he had taken a part of that away.
He swallowed hard and leaned more weight against the stone, exhaling through his nose.
He had known many women in his life, who knew precisely what to say, how to arch a wrist, how to slip from a gown like they were born for it. But not one of them had ever made him ache with want simply by smiling at a red flower. Or by tugging his hand beneath a garden bloom. Or by watching him—not with calculation, but with hope.
None of them had made him feel like Neriah did.
Hopeless. Absolutely, stupidly hopeless.
He would wait.
If she needed space—he would give it.
If she needed time—he would grant it.
He would not rush her. He would not demand what she could not give. Because he wanted her not just to love him… but to feel safe with him.
And if that took days or months or years, then so be it.
He would wait.
For her love. For her smile to return. For the shadow in her eyes to ease when she looked at him.
Because he adored her.
Gods help him, he adored her.
He pushed away from the window, shoulders stiff, the ache in his chest unfamiliar and unshakable. He didn't summon a steward. Didn't call for wine.
He simply left the chamber, silent as stone.