The tower that housed the Council of Whispers was quieter than usual. Rain had kissed the rooftops of Arkenfall through the early hours of the morning, and the damp scent lingered even in the stone-walled rooms of the upper keep. The chamber Roran occupied was dim, the air thick with candle smoke and the delicate perfume of ink and secrets.
He leaned back in his chair, one leg propped lazily over the other, his fingers twirling the stem of a goblet he hadn't drunk from.
Three emissaries sat across from him. They weren't nobles—at least not in name—but power in the Bannerlands wasn't always draped in velvet or crowned with gold. Influence moved like smoke, and sometimes it reeked of something far older than dust and coin.
One of them, a portly man with a bald head and fingers glittering with too many rings, finally spoke.
"Lord Roran," he said, voice smooth but snake-thin, "there are… alignments being formed. New tides. One cannot always ride with the old wind if the storm begins to turn."
Roran smiled, slow and easy. "Storms don't frighten me. In fact, I rather enjoy the chaos. Makes the whispers louder."
Another emissary, lean and dressed in Edravon green, leaned forward. "You are close to the King. Trusted. Respected. And too clever to die for loyalty, I hope."
Roran raised an eyebrow.
The portly man reached into his robe and placed a small wooden box on the table. He opened it carefully.
Gold. Not just coins—but intricate medallions, some from foreign courts. A few contracts. And a single, dark ruby ring—impossible to trace.
Roran didn't flinch. Didn't move a muscle. He simply stared at the offering, then back at the men.
"Let me get this straight," he said. "You come to Arkenfall, into the heart of the King's home, to bribe his court whisperer? While he's still breathing?"
The men glanced at each other. One of them was starting to sweat.
"Not a bribe," the first said. "An opportunity."
Roran set his goblet down gently.
"And what makes you think I'm the sort of man who trades loyalty for pretty stones?"
No one answered. The silence stretched. Roran's smile never faded.
Then he laughed—loud, bright, and unbothered.
"Gods, you're bold. I'll give you that. Stupid, too, but bold."
He stood, finally. Slowly. His tone sharpened beneath the laughter.
"I've bled for Damon Dragarth. Stitched up wounds he doesn't speak of. And he saved me from a pit you wouldn't survive five minutes in. So, if you're thinking of planting your seeds here—think again."
He stepped around the table, the three emissaries stiffening as he moved behind them.
"There's a reason they call me the whisperer. I hear things before they're said. And right now, I'm hearing the King wouldn't like what's been offered in this room."
The bald one swallowed. "You wouldn't—"
"I haven't said anything," Roran interrupted. "Yet."
He walked to the door, opened it, and nodded to the guards.
"Escort our guests to the outer courtyard. And see that their boots are clean before they leave. I wouldn't want them tracking filth through the streets."
As the emissaries were ushered out, Roran stood in the room alone again. He exhaled slowly, and for the first time that day, his grin faded.
He moved back to the table and looked at the open box. The ruby ring still glinted in the candlelight.
He didn't touch it. But his fingers hovered for a second too long.
Then he shut the lid and slid it aside.
Loyalty wasn't always easy. And power—real power—always came with a price. But for now, Roran would pay it. He was Damon's man. And the Bannerlands needed that man to remain whole.
*****************
They met under a hollowed hill, deep in the eastern cliffs of Caldrith Vale, where the winds howled like wolves and the stars dared not shine. The chamber was old — carved stone laced with markings that only the eldest books remembered. The torches burned blue, fed by something unnatural. And the sigil marked on the floor...was of the Pale Ember.
They were supposed to be extinct.
But extinction, like silence, was often a matter of misdirection.
At the head of the gathering stood Lord Helric. The once-sea baron of the southern reach. His white-and-crimson cloak flowed behind him like sea foam soaked in blood. Around him were six others — faces hidden behind glass-veiled masks. People who pulled strings so far back that the strings were no longer visible.
"He's cut off one of our arms," Helric said, his voice sharp and graveled. "Travis was no saint, but he was useful. He moved bodies. Gold. Secrets. Now he's a corpse. And this boy king swings the axe like he's here to cleanse the land."
"The king has always been a child," one of the masked figures said, female. "We thought he would stay tame. Stay in his castle, give orders on scrolls while we ruled from the shadows. We were wrong."
"It's more than just power," Helric said. "It's belief. This Damon Dragarth… he actually thinks he can fix the Bannerlands."
Soft chuckles rippled around the chamber. Dark. Knowing.
"He's becoming a legend," another masked man added. "And legends are harder to kill than kings."
Helric walked slowly toward the center of the ring. "The Pale Ember must rise again."
A long silence followed.
Then, finally, one of the hooded figures stepped forward and dropped a black coin onto the stone.
One by one, the others did the same. Seven coins. Seven confirmations.
"We'll begin in Arkenfall," Helric said, kneeling before the sigil on the stone. "His whispers. His heart. His hands. One by one, we remove them."
He looked up, eyes burning.
"Let the Bannerlands bleed."
*******************
Neriah sat before her mirror, brush in hand but unmoving, her thoughts miles away.
Gwen's voice still echoed softly in her ears.
"The King is back."
That was all she said. But it was enough.
Neriah's heart had leapt, her eyes flickering with a joy she hadn't realized she'd been suppressing. Gwen had seen it too — the curve of her smile, the sudden flush to her cheeks — and left without another word.
Now, alone in the Queen's chamber, Neriah breathed in deeply, as though the very air had changed. She looked down at her hands, then up at her reflection. There was something different in her eyes tonight — a clarity.
She rose.
Not in haste. Not like the last time, when she went with a half-baked excuse about a forgotten book and trembling nerves.
Tonight was different.
Tonight she didn't need an excuse.
Tonight, she was going because she wanted to.
Because her heart no longer beat in silence. Because the fear that once wrapped itself around her chest had begun to dissolve — not because the Bannerlands were less cruel or the world more gentle, but because love… was sometimes the boldest defiance.
She dressed. Carefully. Not in anything extravagant — just a deep emerald nightgown that flowed with every step and caught the candlelight as though woven with starlight. Her hair was brushed smooth, pinned loosely. Her perfume was faint, like jasmine and earth after rain.
She opened the chamber doors without hesitation, her bare feet silent against the stone floors. The corridors were asleep — only the occasional guard standing post, heads bowed in subtle reverence as she passed.
She reached the door of the King's chamber — their shared chamber — and paused. Her palm hovered over the handle. For a moment, the quiet trembled around her. Her heart pounded like a drum caught in its own rhythm.
She could turn back. She could wait till morning. She could pretend a while longer.
But no.
She was done pretending.
She pushed the door open gently and stepped into the chamber slowly, the door closing behind her with a quiet thud.
Silence wrapped around the vast room like velvet — soft and still and expectant. The flicker of firelight danced across the dark stone walls. She took a breath.
He wasn't there — or so it seemed at first. The room, wide and shadowed, hummed with the weight of him, even in absence.
Neriah's feet moved before she could stop them, drawn by a presence that had carved itself so deeply into her soul she could feel it, even without his voice.
Then she saw the glow.
The balcony.
She'd never really stepped out there before — never had reason. But now, she did. She walked slowly, almost reverently, toward the open arch, where silver moonlight pooled against marble and a tall, broad-shouldered figure stood unmoving.
His back was to her.
The view before him stretched like a living painting — all of Arkenfall laid bare under moonlight. Towers. Courtyards. The shimmer of the royal lake. It was breathtaking.
But she didn't care.
She didn't care about the stars or the wind or the glowing sprawl of the castle city.
She cared about him.
Neriah didn't stop walking. Her steps were soft but sure, fueled by something she could no longer hold back — something too loud, too deep, too heavy to be buried in silence.
She reached him.
And without a word, she wrapped her arms around his waist from behind and pressed her cheek against his back.
*************************
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