The throne hall of Harland lay in silence, yet the air was heavy with unease. Maps and parchments were scattered before King Visernes, while the faces of his advisors had turned pale as chalk.
The war against Dronya had been won, but at a terrible cost. The treasury lay empty, soldiers went unpaid, and in the south the villages were being devoured by shadow, torn apart by monstrous creatures of darkness. Those who survived fled northward, pouring into the capital. The streets overflowed with refugees, while hunger and fear rooted themselves deep within the city.
The treasurer spoke with a trembling voice:
— "Your Majesty, both the war and this flood of refugees have drained our coffers. If we do not find resources soon, the army will collapse. There is but one hope: House Tark. Their vaults overflow while ours run dry."
Visernes' jaw tightened. The Tarks were no kings, merely lords sworn to Harland. Yet their trade routes stretched from east to west, their wealth rivaled that of crowns, and their arrogance matched it in kind.
Still, there was no other choice.
— "Send word," he said at last. "Umay Tark shall stand before me."
---
The great doors of the hall opened with a heavy groan.
She entered like a storm of silk and gold. Umay Tark—Visernes' first wife, mother of Feiren and Harlax, and of Seiren who had died too young. Jewel of House Tark, whispered through the court as the "Queen of Intrigue."
Her gown shimmered with silver embroidery, her black hair adorned with precious stones. Her beauty was undeniable, but so too were the cold pride in her eyes and the sharp disdain on her lips. Her allure was matched only by the danger she carried.
Each step echoed, as if even the stones of the hall bent to her presence.
And yet she bowed to none.
— "Your Majesty," she said, her voice soft but cutting like a blade, "how curious it is that when steel breaks and bread runs out, it is always Tark gold that is needed. How curious that the crown always finds its way back to our door."
Visernes' gaze hardened, but before he could reply the doors burst open once more.
Visrok entered, his white cloak torn and dusty, his breath ragged. His eyes burned with fire.
— "Father!" he cried. "Gold and armies will not be enough. The shadows in the south are growing, and neither sword nor spear can stop them. There is only one way to fight them: Light of the Elves."
The hall fell into stillness. Visrok drew a long spear from his back. Its tip gleamed as though it held the light of a captured star.
— "This weapon I received from Seron Valar. Forged of pure Elven Light. All of Trolos holds no more than two hundred such arms. The only way to gain more is to persuade the elves of Elandur."
The young prince drew a deep breath, finishing his words:
— "That is why Mamir has gone north, to Elandur. Because only through the alliance he can forge, can we hope to win this war."
Silence weighed heavier than stone. Umay's eyes narrowed, her lips curving into a smile colder than ice. Visernes' gaze was firm, yet weary. And in the corners of the throne hall, the shadows seemed to stir as though listening.
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