"When councils barter truth for comfort,
kingdoms bleed in silence.
For thrones are not broken by enemies,
but by the hands sworn to protect them."
— The Scrolls of Tharn, Verse IX
There are moments in a kingdom's life when even the gods seem to pause. The broken angel lay in pieces, and somewhere beyond the walls, thunder rolled like an omen that had finally found its voice.
Duty has a way of calling even the wounded back to the throne room. And in Crest Keep, duty never waited for the heart to heal. Not for kings. Not for queens. Not for Daeryn.
Ser Stewford stepped into the room once more, his boots echoing softly against the marble.
"The Lord Reach, Your Grace," he announced.
The King's Reach — the man who bore his will beyond the throne — had come to seek audience.
Daeryn where he knelt traced his fingers through the edges of the fragments, trembling slightly.
"Even beauty shatters when touched by my hand," he muttered under his breath, his tone half a whisper, half confession looking upwards to his advisor the King's Reach.
"I have called a meeting for the small council Your Grace" the Lord Reach said.
A faint breeze crept in from the open balcony, carrying the scent of rain. It cooled the heat on his skin, but did little to quiet the storm beneath it.
"You see me, do you?" Daeryn murmured, a bitter laugh breaking his lips. "Then why does it feel as though you look upon a stranger?"
He rose and stepped out onto the balcony. The night stretched wide before him — the palace gardens dim under the weight of clouds, the torches below flickering like dying stars. He leaned on the balustrade, his knuckles whitening as the first drops of rain began to fall.
"Brother," he whispered into the night, the word trembling with old hatred and older grief. "You took her heart in life, and somehow you still hold it in death. What does a man become when even love denies him peace?"
The rain thickened, running down his face in cold rivulets. He did not wipe it away. It felt almost like penance — or mercy.
Behind him, the Lord Reach stood quietly by the door, waiting with the patience of one long accustomed to kings.
"You were the Reach to my brother — what is so different between us that he rules my reign even in his death?" Daeryn asked, turning toward Akimbo, the Reach.
"You make a great king yourself, Your Grace," Akimbo said softly. "Even the realm acknowledges it — and remains grateful."
He paused, lowering his gaze slightly. "If you don't mind, the small council awaits your presence in the courtroom."
THE ROUND RULE
Twilight draped itself upon Crest Keep, and the torches of the Round Rule burned low with amber light. The council chamber was a circle of stone and echo — its walls lined with carved emblems of every great House sworn to the crown. At the center stood the great round table — smooth obsidian veined with gold — its edge marked by twelve small crests, one for each seat of the King's Circle. Above it, the banners hung heavy, unmoving, as though the air itself dared not stir before the crown.
When King Daeryn entered, all rose to their feet. At his side walked Lord Akimbo, his Reach and High Regent, the quiet shadow of the throne. Behind them came Ser Stewford, the King's sworn protector, whose eyes missed nothing and whose tongue knew silence well.
"Be seated," said King Daeryn, his tone cold and measured. The scrape of chairs followed. For a moment, only the soft crackle of flame filled the chamber.
Lord Theon Mervail, the Keeper of Vaults, leaned forward, his rings clinking faintly against the table. "Your Grace," he began, "The vaults bear news for the crown."
Before the king could reply, Lord Akimbo lifted a hand slightly. "Before we hear of gold," he said, voice calm, deep, deliberate, "the crown would know where our stands lie with the Iceese."
The chamber tensed at once. The name carried the chill of distance — The Iceese, rulers beyond the Black Sea of Dusk, a realm of iron cliffs and bitter winds. Their ships had not crossed southern waters in decades, not since the treaty of Frosthaven was signed — and broken.
"They have sent word," murmured Lord Coren Daelion, the Master of Tides. "A proposal for peace, or so their letter claims. But their envoy docks unbidden, two nights past. No banners, no heralds."
King Daeryn's eyes hardened. "Unbidden?"
"Yes, Your Grace," said Coren. "Their flagship, The Pale Swan, entered the lower harbor before dawn. My wardens say they fly no royal seal — only a white crest, bare and unmarked. Their intent remains unclear."
Lord Hadrien Vale, Chancellor and Keeper of Seals, shifted in his chair. "Then it is an insult, Your Grace. An envoy who hides his seal speaks either treachery or fear. Either way, we cannot allow them audience without clear parley."
High Chandel Eldric had been silent until now. His voice came softly, almost as if recalling from memory rather than speaking to the living. "In our annals," he said, "the Iceese first crossed the Black Sea bearing olive branches. Yet within a moon, they bore blades instead. Every peace they have offered has come wrapped in ice and shadow."
The king turned to him. "And what say you now, Chandel?"
Eldric inclined his head slightly. "That history repeats only for those who fail to remember it, Your Grace. If the Iceese come in peace, let them prove it where words can be recorded — not whispered."
Lord Theon frowned. "And what of the crown's coffers, Your Grace? Our ships have bled coin for the watch along the Black Sea for months. If this envoy means trade, perhaps it is time we listen."
Ser Deryn Halver, the Sentinel of the Crown, spoke at last — his voice rough, forged by the field. "Trade means nothing if their peace hides knives. We should have sunk their ship before it reached the harbor."
"Then we are divided," said Akimbo quietly. He leaned forward, his gaze moving from face to face. "Some would listen, others would strike. But the realm cannot afford another war across the sea — not while the crown itself weakens from within."
The words hung heavy in the air.
King Daeryn's jaw clenched. "Do you speak of weakness, Regent?"
Akimbo met his gaze without flinching. "Of burden, Your Grace. Of the weight you bear alone."
Silence. The fire popped.
Then King Daeryn rose slowly from his seat, his shadow stretching long across the table. "If the Iceese wish for peace," he said, "they shall have audience. But not in this hall. Let them wait. Let them see how long a king's silence lasts."
He looked over the gathered lords one by one.
"Prepare the harbor watch. No man from the Black Sea walks my court without my leave. Until then, you will hold your tongues — and your trust."
The council remained still after the King's decree, the air thick with the weight of his words.
When at last the silence broke, it was Lord Theon Mervail, the Keeper of Vaults, who rose.
"If it please Your Grace," he said, his tone sharp but respectful, "the vaults bear brighter news. The crown's coffers have begun to fill once more. The grain tariffs from the lower provinces have doubled, and the mint at Darnwall now forges its first gold in six years. With trade steady, our debts to the Western Marches may be settled before the year's turn."
King Daeryn's eyes softened a little, and a faint smile touched his lips. "A realm that fattens its purse fattens its people, Lord Theon. You have done well."
Theon bowed, pride gleaming faintly through his modesty. "I serve the coin, Your Grace — and thus the crown."
Before another could speak, Lady Cyrayne Volare, the Veilwarden, leaned forward in her chair, her gloved fingers steepled. "And speaking of the crown, Your Grace," she began, voice smooth as silk, "my informants whisper of a proposal from House Valceryn of the Riverlands. They seek to bind their blood to ours — through the Princess Saphirra."
The council stirred at once.
"Valceryn?" murmured Lord Theon. "They are rich beyond counting. Their silver mines run deeper than any in the South."
"And their banners," added Ser Deryn Halver, the Sentinel, "command a thousand swords. Their pledge would steady the realm, Your Grace."
The murmurs swelled — names of other Houses floated across the table. "House Arvayne of the East… House Mallore, with its fleets… House Thorne, old and proud…" Each name carried a promise of coin, of soldiers, of advantage.
King Daeryn listened, eyes narrowed, as the lords bartered his niece's future like spice upon a merchant's stall.
Lord Akimbo, the High Regent, said nothing. He sat with his hands folded, his gaze heavy upon the table.
Only when the talk began to sound like laughter did he rise.
"Enough," he said quietly — but his voice carried through the hall like a bell through mist.
All eyes turned.
"She is sixteen." His words came slow, deliberate. "A child, not a bargaining chip for your ledgers and your banners. The Houses you name are filled with men twice her years. You speak of peace and profit — but where is your honor?"
Lord Theon frowned. "You mistake prudence for cruelty, Regent. The realm bleeds. A strong pact may—"
"A strong pact?" Akimbo's tone sharpened. "And who bleeds for this pact? A girl who should still be learning her letters, not her husband's name?"
He looked around the table, his eyes cutting from face to face — men who flinched but did not answer.
"The duties of the realm," he continued bitterly, "have been laid upon the shoulders of a little girl while you cocksuckers drink your wine and count your fortunes."
The words struck like a hammer. Even the flames seemed to shrink back.
King Daeryn's brow furrowed. "Watch your tongue, Akimbo."
"My tongue speaks only truth, Your Grace," said the Regent, unmoved. "No House will wed the princess — not while her skin bears the marks of your Chandels' rituals. You speak of alliances, yet the realm whispers already. They say the King burns his blood to waken ghosts."
A flash of something crossed King Daeryn's face — not rage, but shame. His knuckles tightened upon the table's edge.
"We shall not speak of this again," he said sharply. "The princess is unwell. There will be no pact until her full recovery."
He sank back into his seat, his tone quieter now. "See that it is so."
For a long moment, no one spoke. Then Lord Hadrien Vale, the Chancellor, cleared his throat softly. "If I may, Your Grace… the envoy from the Black Sea will require quarters. I suggest the lower halls beneath the eastern tower — far from the princess's chambers."
The King nodded faintly. "So it shall be."
High Chandel Eldric added, "I will send a chronicler to attend their words when they are received. History has long ears, Your Grace — better that it listens truthfully."
The King gave a small nod of assent.
As the council's talk shifted to lighter matters — tax levies, harvest shipments, the repair of the western road — Akimbo remained silent. He stared at the flames, his mind far from the hall, his heart still with the girl whose cries haunted the stones of Crest Keep.
When at last the King dismissed them, the chamber emptied slowly, leaving only embers and silence.
And in that silence, the truth lay heavy — that the realm's greatest battles were not fought with swords, but with words spoken in rooms where mercy seldom entered.