EDRAVON
The sun burned low over Edravon, casting molten gold across its sunbaked ridges and ochre rooftops. The air buzzed with the scent of dry earth and cumin, the markets long closed, leaving only the soft murmur of courtyards and the distant clink of goblets in noble halls.
King Damon Dragarth sat in the solar chamber of the Lord Governor's estate, the long windows open to the lazy wind that stirred palm leaves beyond the terrace. Maps were rolled out on the table before him, a few sealed scrolls to the side, yet his eyes weren't on any of them.
He stood instead, near the open balcony, watching the sun melt into the horizon.
"Your Majesty," Ethan said, stepping up behind him. "They're ready. Lord Richard and the others are waiting for the second audience."
Damon didn't look back immediately. "And what are they waiting for this time, I wonder?" His voice was calm, but Ethan heard the edge beneath it. "My approval? My forgiveness? Or my blindness?"
Ethan tilted his head. "All of the above, I'd say."
Damon finally turned, a dry smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth. He looked tired, though no one would dare say so aloud—not with that jaw carved like iron and eyes that never blinked when it mattered.
"Keep them waiting a little longer," Damon said, moving back to the table and plucking up one of the scrolls. "If they want the King's ear, they'll earn it."
Ethan grinned. "I'm starting to see why the lords call you the Storm behind closed doors."
Damon's reply was quiet but sure. "They should pray I never decide to live up to the name."
Ethan only nodded. "As always, I've got your back."
"I know." At the carved table where scrolls were laid open—maps of borders, letters of request, subtle threats masked as polite correspondence.
Damon tapped one of them. "Lord Richard wants more soldiers along the trade route. Claims bandits are bleeding him dry."
"They are," Ethan replied. "But half of those bandits are likely his own men in different cloaks."
Damon gave a dry smile. "Then I'll give him more soldiers. Ones loyal to the Crown."
Ethan grinned. "That won't go down well."
"It's not meant to."
There was a pause, thick with unspoken calculations. Then Ethan said quietly, "You're quieter than usual."
"I'm thinking."
"You're always thinking."
Damon looked at him. "This realm doesn't run on trust, Ethan. It runs on fire and watchful eyes. These men—they nod in my presence, but they test the fences the moment my back is turned."
He reached for his crest ring and slid it onto his finger, the metal a cold brand of authority. The King was present now—fully.
"Let's hear what they've brought," Damon said.
"Of course, Your Majesty."
*******************
The study in Arkenfall Castle was filled with morning light, pouring in through the tall windows in golden shafts that lit the dust motes swirling in the air. The heavy scent of ink and wax clung to the space, and Gareth —stood alone at the head of the long table, rifling through parchment after parchment.
With Damon away in Edravon, the weight of court responsibilities had fallen fully upon him. And Gareth bore it with his usual steely silence, eyes sharp, spine straight, the signature of a man who allowed no room for error. He did not mind the work. In fact, he preferred it. Paper could not lie, not like people.
The steward at the door cleared his throat.
"My lord," he said. "Lady Rhea of Braemorin seeks an audience."
Gareth barely looked up. "Let her in."
A moment later, the doors opened and Lady Rhea swept into the room with her usual grace. Her deep crimson cloak trailed behind her, her hair twisted into a loose braid down one shoulder. In her hand, she held a sealed scroll—her petition.
"Lady Rhea," Gareth said curtly, dipping his head in respect.
"Lord Gareth," she returned with a faint smile. "Busy morning, I see."
"It's always a busy morning in Arkenfall," he replied. "What brings you here?"
Rhea stepped closer and placed the scroll before him. "A petition to travel to Braemorin for a few days. My brother—Lord Draven has summoned me home. I thought it best to inform the court."
Gareth raised a brow at the name. — Lord Draven of the house of Thorian, the young, sharp-tongued, overly chatty Lord of Braemorin—was known in the Round Table as much for his wits as for his inability to stop talking.
"Lord Draven," Gareth muttered dryly. "I'm surprised he managed to put the request in writing instead of speaking it for an hour."
Rhea smirked but said nothing.
Gareth unrolled the petition and read it quickly. "You're aware, of course, that the king must be informed before any high noble leaves the castle —"
"He is not in the castle," Rhea cut in smoothly. "And it is a brief visit home, nothing more."
There was a lightness in her tone, but Gareth studied her for a beat too long.
She was lying.
She hid it well—her posture elegant, her voice calm—but there was a flicker in her eyes. A quiet strain. He couldn't place it, not fully. But he didn't press.
She was Lady Rhea of Braemorin. Her name and title gave her the freedom to leave without groveling. And more than that, she was Damon's confidante.
Or had been.
Gareth dipped the quill and signed.
"Do let us know if your brother talks us into war with his mouth," he said dryly, handing her back the scroll.
She laughed softly, reaching to take it. But then her gaze drifted, and it paused—landed on his wrist.
"What's that?"
Gareth stiffened.
She was staring at the thin leather bracelet peeking out beneath his sleeve. A simple thing, really. Worn, dark brown. Unadorned.
"I don't think I've ever seen you wear that before," Rhea said lightly. "It's rather...hideous."
He gave a brief chuckle, but his fingers moved quickly, tugging the sleeve down as if it were an afterthought.
"It's nothing," he said.
Rhea's eyes narrowed slightly. "Really?"
"It was a gift," Gareth replied. "From a friend."
Rhea raised a brow but didn't press further. "Well, do send your regards to this friend of hideous taste."
"I shall."
She turned to go. But before she left, her gaze lingered once more—at Gareth, at the papers and then she was gone.
Silence returned, heavy and swift.
Gareth stood there for a long moment. Then he sat slowly and stared at his wrist, at the bare patch of skin where the bracelet had been.
Kayla.
Her name lingered in his mind like incense—warm, smoky, clinging to the corners of his thoughts.
She had given him that bracelet the night they shared wine by candlelight in the tiny back room she called home. She had laughed as she tied it around his wrist. "So you don't forget me when you go back to your polished floors and velvet cloaks," she had said.
He hadn't forgotten. Gods, he couldn't.
And yet—what was he doing?
He was the King's Hand. The voice of Arkenfall when the King was absent. He bore sigils and commands. He stood before lords with steel in his words. And yet, somewhere in the shadows of Arkenfall, he loved a woman with eyes that had seen too much pain. A woman the world had reduced to a commodity.
She was a whore. And he hated that word. Hated what it meant. Hated that it was how others would see her. But Kayla was more. She was clever, kind. She knew how to silence his demons with nothing but a touch. She saw him—not the title, not the armor, not the sarcasm.
Just Gareth.
But what did it matter?
What future could there be?
He was supposed to marry a noblewoman, someone with name and lands. His bloodline would be measured. His union would be political. Every path ahead was already charted.
And yet... her bracelet had stayed on his wrist.
Even now, as it sat curled in the drawer beside his quills and seals, it burned in his mind like a brand.
Gareth leaned back, closed his eyes, and exhaled.
He was a man at war—with duty, with desire, with a future he hadn't asked for.
And no parchment in this castle could guide him through it.