The city of Harta breathed differently now. Where once the markets had rung with the cries of merchants hawking wares and the laughter of children at play, now the air was heavy, choked with fear. Yet fear has a strange way of giving birth to whispers, and whispers can grow into something far more dangerous than swords.
Darian Duskbane's name was a whisper.
At first, it was only spoken in corners, murmured by those who still remembered him as Jameson's knight. A butcher, upon handing a haunch of meat to a loyal customer, muttered, "Duskbane still walks. He hasn't bent the knee." A seamstress, sewing late into the night, told her daughter, "He will not let Mansis reign forever. Mark me, child."
And then the whispers spread, growing in shape, in color. Darian was said to walk unseen through the barracks, loosening sword belts so soldiers' blades would fall at their feet in shame. Others swore he stalked the alleys at night, slitting the purses of tax collectors and scattering coins to the poor. One wild tale even claimed he had ridden into a patrol on a black steed, his face hidden by a hood, leaving ten men bleeding before vanishing like smoke.
None of it was true — yet. Darian had done little more than meet in secret with Garran and a handful of sympathizers. But he understood something vital: the people did not need truth. They needed hope, and they wove it around him like a cloak.
And hope was a weapon sharper than any blade.
The serpent king, meanwhile, sought to silence the whispers. Mansis prowled his throne room like a caged beast, demanding names of those who dared speak of rebellion. Men and women vanished into the dungeons beneath the palace, their families left with nothing but silence.
But Mansis could not silence everyone — not even within his own household.
For his queen consort, Queen Nina, hated him as much as any commoner.
Nina had been a gift to Mansis, a union sealed to cement an alliance with the northern lords. She had walked into the palace as a bride but soon found herself caged in gilded halls, a consort to a man she despised. Mansis treated her not as a partner but as an ornament, a jewel to be paraded when convenient and ignored when not. He had not sought her counsel, nor her comfort, only her silence.
But Nina had eyes. And she had ears. And she had not forgotten what kind of man her husband truly was.
So when she heard the whispers of Darian Duskbane, outlaw-knight, she listened. And when she learned that he lived still, moving through the shadows of Harta, she made her choice.
The message came to Darian on a strip of parchment folded into the loaf of bread given by a baker who supported him. The words were written in a hand too fine to belong to any commoner:
At moonrise, two nights hence. The Ashwood beyond the eastern gate. Come alone. — N.
Darian studied the note by the light of a single candle, Garran watching over his shoulder.
"Trap?" Garran grunted.
"Almost certainly," Darian said. His fingers rubbed over the parchment. "But if it is not…"
"Well, you're either meeting a friend or signing your death."
Darian's lips curved faintly. "Is that not true of every day I draw breath now?"
Two nights later, the Ashwood lay silent under the moon. The trees swayed like dark sentinels, their branches whispering in the wind. Darian came alone, as bidden, his cloak wrapped tight, his sword sheathed but never far from reach.
He did not wait long.
A figure emerged from the shadows of the trees, her cloak of deep green lined with fur, her hood drawn low. Two guards trailed her at a distance, but she raised a hand, and they remained behind. When she reached him, she lowered her hood.
Her face was pale, framed by dark hair, her eyes sharp as glass.
"Sir Darian," she said softly. "At last."
"Your Grace." Darian bowed stiffly, though surprise flickered in his gaze. "I had not expected… you."
"Nor should you have," she said, her lips curving into a bitter smile. "Mansis parades me as his queen, but I am nothing more than his prisoner. You should know, he trusts no one — not even me. Especially not me."
"Then why risk meeting me?"
"Because the realm cannot survive under him," Nina said, her voice taut with anger. "I have watched him. I have endured his cruelty. And I tell you this, Sir Darian: Mansis will destroy this kingdom. He will devour it until nothing remains but ash and fear."
Her eyes held his, unwavering. "I cannot raise a sword. But I can give you something more precious — knowledge. Access. Secrets whispered in the halls where he thinks me deaf. And coin, when it can be moved without his notice."
Darian's breath caught. Allies were rare enough. But an ally in the queen consort herself? That was a gift of the gods — or a trap of the devil.
"You understand what you offer me," he said carefully. "If Mansis learns of this —"
"Then I will be dead before sunrise," Nina finished. "Do not think me blind to the risk. But I would rather die with purpose than live as the serpent's plaything."
Darian studied her for a long moment, then inclined his head. "Then we are allies. But if you betray me —"
Her laugh was short, bitter. "If I betray you, Sir Darian, then I betray myself. And I have had enough of betrayal to last a lifetime."
They parted in the woods, the moonlight casting pale fire across their faces. When Darian returned to the city, he carried not only her pledge but the weight of possibility. The rebellion was no longer his alone.
Within the palace, two boys lived under watchful eyes.
Prince Narion, on the edge of manhood, and little Prince Calen, still with a child's roundness to his cheeks, were kept close by their uncle's decree. Mansis called it protection. But all in the palace knew it was a leash.
Yet the boys were not entirely without comfort. They had their nurse, Mistress Lira, a stout woman with hair streaked with gray and hands calloused from years of care. Lira had nursed them both since birth, for their mother — Queen Lyric — had died bringing Calen into the world.
Lira was no noble, but she was fierce in her devotion. She shielded the princes as best she could, distracting guards with chatter, sneaking extra bread when meals were thin, whispering stories of their father, Jameson the Just, when nightmares stole their sleep.
And in her heart, she prayed for salvation.
It was in the kitchens, while eating her meals with the rest of the castle's staff, that she first heard Darian's name whispered among the scullery maids. She froze, her breath caught. Darian Duskbane — Jameson's knight, the one man who had loved the king as fiercely as the people.
That night, as Narion lay awake staring at the ceiling, Lira bent close and whispered, "There are those who still remember your father, my prince. And one among them is Sir Darian. He has not forgotten you."
Narion's eyes widened, hope sparking in their depths. Calen stirred beside him, and when Lira whispered the name again, the boy smiled in his sleep.
In that moment, Lira knew what Serena had already sworn, what Nina had risked to promise. Darian was not just a man. He was becoming a legend.
And legends are not so easily killed.