The sky had melted into a dim violet over Arkenfall by the time Neriah found herself seated on a stone bench beside her father, a fine wool shawl wrapped around her shoulders to guard against the rising chill. The scent of burning pine drifted faintly from the hearth-torches lining the garden wall, casting golden flickers across the leaves. It was peaceful here, deceptively so.
She hadn't intended to say anything.
But the silence stretched too long, and her father's gaze—ever patient, ever perceptive—was too steady to ignore.
"I have noticed it," Velmorn murmured at last. "The way things are… between you and the King."
Neriah didn't respond right away. She clasped her small hands in front of her and studied the dying light over the ramparts.
"You did?" she asked softly.
Lord Velmorn said. "I know you more than anyone else, Neriah."
She turned slightly, meeting his eyes. "Why didn't you ever correct the rumors?"
Her voice wasn't accusing—more confused than anything, full of genuine curiosity. "You heard people talk about him, Father. The stories they whispered in Halemond… that he was cruel, unfit… that he drank blood, that he killed his own blood without remorse. Why didn't you ever say anything?"
A smile ghosted the edge of Velmorn's mouth. Not amusement—something fonder. Fainter.
"Because I saw no need to," he replied.
Neriah blinked. "No need?"
Velmorn leaned back slightly, his voice lowering with the softness of memory. "I have known Damon for a long time. Before the wars. Before the bloodshed. I watched him rise through fire and betrayal. He's not perfect, Neriah—but he is a good man. A just king. I didn't need to correct those rumors because they weren't worth my breath."
He glanced at her again. "Besides, those who seek the truth will find it for themselves. And you… You were always going to see him clearly, in your own time."
Neriah lowered her eyes. Her hands twisted softly in her lap. "I thought I already had."
Silence lingered between them a moment longer before Neriah drew a slow breath.
She told him.
About the execution. About how Damon had stood there, stone-faced. About the sound of the axe. About the blood.
"I know Lord Travis did horrible things," she said. "But when I saw Damon take his head… it was like I didn't recognize him. I was terrified, Father. And I hate that I was."
Velmorn's gaze didn't shift from her. He listened, and when she fell quiet, he gave a small sigh—a sound not of frustration, but of reflection.
"Then I've failed," he said quietly.
Neriah turned sharply to him. "What?"
"I've failed you in one thing, Neriah. I protected you too much."
He looked ahead now, to the dark hills behind the garden wall.
"I kept Halemond peaceful for you and your sister. I kept you away from war, from blood, from the ugliness of the world. I made sure the worst thing you'd have to endure was choosing a seamstress for festival gowns. But that's not the world, my little flame. That was my gift to you—but it wasn't truth."
She was silent, absorbing that.
"You've married into fire," he continued, his voice steady. "Damon is not like the other lords. The entire realm fears him for a reason. But I know that man. He carries more burden than any crown should demand. And still, he chooses justice. Not comfort. Not cruelty. Justice."
Neriah swallowed, her chest aching with a quiet swell of emotion.
"I just…" she said, her voice small, "I don't want to lose the softness in me."
Velmorn reached over and took her hand.
"You won't," he said. "But you must stop flinching at the shadows. Don't let the sight of blood steal your strength. You are my daughter. You were born with a lion's heart, even if I taught you to guard it behind silk."
Neriah looked up at him.
"You are stronger than fear," he said, gently. "And Damon… he needs someone who sees beyond the crown. Beyond the axe. He needs someone who reminds him he's still human."
She bit her lip, her thoughts swirling.
"I miss him," she admitted.
Velmorn's smile was soft. "Then go to him. Or let him come to you. Just don't let fear be your master, Neriah. The BannerLands has no use for those ruled by fear."
She nodded slowly.
And in her chest, something settled.
She wasn't sure what she'd do next.
But whatever it was, she'd do it with her eyes open.
***********************
CALDRITH VALE
In the shadowed corners of Caldrith Vale, where the moss clung to crumbling stone and the lanterns burned low even at midday, a gathering stirred in a forgotten cellar beneath a seemingly abandoned tavern. The scent of damp parchment and burning tallow filled the air. Seven men sat around a table marred with knife scars and spilled wine. Their cloaks were trimmed with gold and soot, and none of them spoke above a whisper.
At the center sat Lord Halric, a powerful land baron whose ships once ferried exotic silks, iron, and something else—something forbidden now. He had not spoken publicly since Lord Travis's execution, but here, among those who understood the language of coin and shadows, he was loud enough.
"Damon Dragarth thinks one axe swing ends a network ten years deep," Halric said, his voice rasped by smoke and age. "He is mistaken."
"He's made an example of Travis," muttered another—Lord Fenraim from Varketh Hold, his fingers decked in blood-red jewels. "And if we're not careful, he'll make an example of the rest of us."
They all knew it: they had profited from Travis's operation. Not just in silver, but in silence. Noble houses had taken their cut, turned their heads, accepted the slaves—both girls and boys—as gifts or servants or worse. Many of those crates Travis had once managed... had their seals.
"And now they burn our ledgers," Fenraim continued. "They close ports. Search ships. Pull merchant houses apart stone by stone."
"We should strike back," grunted one of the younger lords, his jaw twitching. "Send a message. Let the King bleed for what he's done."
Halric shook his head slowly. "Not yet. We do nothing reckless. The realm still mourns the loss of a monster, but soon, memory will fade, and fear will return."
"So what? We wait for him to come knocking?"
Halric smiled. It was not a pleasant thing. "No. We let the rot fester elsewhere."
There was a pause. And then Halric leaned forward and whispered:
"The Pale Ember still exists."
The table fell silent. One man crossed himself. Another gripped his goblet tighter.
"Impossible," Fenraim said. "They were hunted. The King saw to that himself."
"Even a hunted beast has its den," Halric replied. "And I know where the trail begins."
---
Far across the realm, in the alleys of Caldrith Vale, a boy with only one eye carried a message wrapped in black silk. He was lean and fast, barefoot, forgotten by most, known to few.
He ducked into an alcove behind a fishmonger's stall, where a woman sat veiled in grey, carving a dagger out of bone.
"From Halric," the boy whispered, presenting the silk.
The woman took it, unfolding the message beneath candlelight. She said nothing.
Then, slowly, she smiled.
"So the rich grow desperate again," she murmured. "How convenient."
The Pale Ember was not dead.
It was simply waiting.
And soon, Arkenfall would remember what it meant to be hunted.