CHAPTER II — COURTS OF ASH
The next dawn found Luciel Veyne in a hall that reeked of incense and rot. High windows bled pale light across flagstones worn smooth by centuries of petitioners who had begged, bribed, and broken themselves beneath them. The air tasted faintly of iron and wet wool, the smoke curling from a brazier that fought the chill like a dying thing.
He entered slowly, boots silent against stone, and the murmurs began almost immediately. Courtiers, merchants, and lords twisted their faces in recognition or calculation. A few froze outright, hands tightening on rings or the hilt of a dagger.
"Luciel Veyne," called a voice as smooth and sharp as broken glass.
He turned. Across the hall, leaning against a carved balcony, stood Maerith Kael, a woman whose reputation had already burned its way into every corner of the realm. Dark hair cut to her shoulders, eyes like cold steel, lips thin and cruel. Where she moved, shadows followed, not out of fear, but out of understanding: she was the storm incarnate, and everyone else merely weather.
"You're early," Luciel said.
"Timing is a weapon," Maerith replied. "And I prefer to be the first to strike."
He nodded, unsurprised. Few had ever spoken to him this way and lived to explain it. She smiled faintly.
"They say you've been busy at the Blackmere," she continued. "Hanging men by their own messages. Teaching lessons that do not bear retelling in polite company."
Luciel shrugged. "I teach what is necessary. The rest… is history."
The doors banged open again. Korran Thorne entered—a hulking figure with one side of his face scarred as if fire and steel had decided to duel across it. He carried a massive sword, slung casually across his shoulder, and walked with the deliberation of a predator that had never missed. The room still had its courtiers, yet they seemed smaller, thinner, less certain.
"You bring monsters to courts," Maerith said, voice low and sharp.
Korran grunted. "Monsters don't need permission."
Luciel's eyes followed him. The knight had his own code, terrible and unyielding. Kill for what was owed, punish when necessary, and never allow weakness to survive. A blade like that in the right—or wrong—hands was an inevitability.
From a side entrance, Emric Vale appeared. Lean, sharp-featured, and dressed in dark tailored cloth that whispered wealth and intellect. He didn't enter like a man who expected obedience—he entered like a man who commanded it without question. Where Emric walked, thoughts shifted, alliances bent, and secrets leaked without a word.
He nodded to Luciel. "The southern lords are restless," he said softly. "Word of your actions spreads like fire in dry grass. It will reach ears that do not bend so easily."
"And what do you suggest?" Luciel asked, voice low, eyes narrowing.
"Not suggestion,"
Emric said. "Observation. Strategy. Sometimes the smallest pieces can topple the tallest towers if placed correctly. You'll want my counsel if you intend to survive the next turn of the game."
Maerith's eyes flicked between the three men. "The game," she said, "is no longer a court matter. It's the balance of swords and wills. Anyone standing idle will fall beneath it."
Luciel stepped closer to the dais, eyes sweeping the room. "Then let them rise or fall as they choose. I care only that the lesson is learned. The Blackmere was only the beginning."
Korran shifted, fingers brushing the hilt of his sword. "Beginnings are easy. Endings are brutal."
A guard entered, pale and trembling. "My lords… a message has arrived. Sealed in ash, with the sigil of the Ashen Court."
The hall fell into silence. Luciel's scarred half-smile returned. "Then the real game begins."
Maerith straightened, eyes glinting with sharp calculation. "And those who think themselves safe will not survive its first night."
Emric leaned closer to Luciel, voice soft enough to be missed by others. "Every move they make is a trap. And they are patient. You must be smarter. Faster. Deadlier."
Luciel's gaze swept the hall, settling briefly on each of them: the cunning woman, the monstrous knight, the calculating strategist. Allies—or threats, depending on how the evening unfolded.
He breathed in the smell of stone, smoke, and the faint iron tang that always followed him. "Then let it be known," he said, voice carrying to the farthest corner, "that Luciel Veyne plays only to win."
Outside, the wind swept across the Blackmere, carrying salt and ash and the faint echo of the gallows. Somewhere in the north, crowns tilted. Somewhere in the south, armies whispered of revolt. And in the court, the pieces had already begun to move.
The first of many oaths, promises, and betrayals would be broken before the sun set.