The Highgarden estate felt less like a home and more like a courtroom where guilt had already been decided and the proceedings existed only to savor the punishment.
Lord Halvar's voice carried through the grand hall with practiced cruelty, echoing off marble pillars carved with generations of victories that now felt like accusations etched in stone. The tall windows admitted a pale afternoon light, but it did nothing to soften the atmosphere, as though the sun itself hesitated to witness what unfolded beneath the Highgarden banners.
"You failed," Halvar said again, slower this time, as if savoring the word. "Both of you."
Cedric stood before his brother with the rigid discipline of a soldier who had long ago learned that posture was armor, though today it did little to protect him. Rowen remained slightly behind his father, hands clenched behind his back, knuckles whitening as Halvar's gaze flicked between them like a blade searching for the deepest cut.
"You were entrusted with the safety of the royal family," Halvar continued, his tone sharp with disdain. "The gala was meant to be a display of unity, strength, and order. Instead, it became a farce whispered about in taverns and shouted about in broadsheets."
Rowen felt the words dig beneath his skin, stirring anger and frustration in equal measure. He wanted to speak, wanted to say that no amount of training could have prepared them for smoke that twisted the senses, dulled reflexes, and turned even the most disciplined guards into stumbling silhouettes. He wanted to say that the chaos had not been born of incompetence but of something far more calculated and dangerous.
But he said nothing.
Rowen had seen this version of his uncle before, and he knew better than to fan the flames. Even so, beneath his silence, his thoughts churned restlessly, circling back again and again to Stephanie. The image of her laughter, her defiance, her quiet moments of vulnerability haunted him more fiercely than Halvar's wrath. Unrequited love was a familiar ache, but the belief that she had been taken against her will transformed that ache into something raw and unmanageable.
Halvar's attention shifted fully to Cedric, and his mouth curled into a smile that held no warmth.
"And you," he said, his voice dripping with contempt. "Knight Commander of the palace, undone not by a master assassin or a rival general, but by a decorative garden pot."
A low, humorless chuckle escaped him.
"I almost admire the irony," Halvar went on. "The mighty Cedric Highgarden, brought low by clay and soil."
Cedric's jaw tightened, muscles in his neck straining as he fought to maintain composure. The memory surged unbidden, the sudden blow, the dizziness, the sickening realization that consciousness had slipped from him at the exact moment the princess fled beyond his reach. The shame burned hotter than any battlefield wound he had ever sustained, but he swallowed it down, knowing any reaction would only delight his brother further.
Halvar's gaze lingered on Cedric a moment longer before sliding, inevitably, toward Arthur.
Arthur felt the weight of it settle over him like a physical pressure. That look had followed him his entire life, measuring him against expectations he had never asked for and standards he could never quite meet. Even now, standing tall in polished armor, he felt small beneath his father's scrutiny.
"Arthur," Halvar said coolly, "you have an uncanny talent for disappointment."
Arthur drew in a careful breath, steadying himself before speaking. "I reviewed the reports from the Thornveil Syndicate raid," he said, his voice controlled despite the tension coiling in his chest. "Do to the smoke several suspects managed to escaped during the operation, the investigation is still in progress."
Halvar scoffed, the sound sharp and dismissive. "Excuses."
He leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing. "I would never have permitted such negligence. When you strike an enemy, you do not allow them the luxury of escape."
Arthur lowered his gaze, heat rising to his face despite his efforts to remain stoic. He had followed protocol. He had coordinated units under extreme conditions. He had acted decisively. Yet none of it mattered in the face of his father's judgment.
Cedric felt anger flare within him, fierce and immediate. He knew his nephew's heart better than anyone in that room, knew how hard Arthur worked to fulfill a role he had never wanted. Arthur had grown up with soil under his nails, not blood on his blade, had learned the patience of tending plants from his mother long before he learned the rigidity of drills and commands. That gentle passion had been buried beneath duty, suffocated by expectation.
Cedric said nothing, forcing his rage into silence for Arthur's sake.
Rowen, watching the exchange from the side, felt a conflicted sense of satisfaction flicker through him. Arthur, the dutiful cousin, the heir apparent, was still lacking in Halvar's eyes. The realization sparked a brief, shameful grin before Rowen smothered it, unwilling to examine the bitterness behind it too closely.
Halvar straightened in his seat, exhaling sharply. "I have a meeting with the king later today," he said. "I will attempt to repair the damage you have caused. Pray that my words carry more weight than your actions have."
The statement settled heavily over the room, unspoken consequences hanging thick in the air.
Far from the Highgarden estate, where shame and legacy clashed beneath polished stone, Lord Varrick Silvain stood amid ruin.
The Thornveil Syndicate's cultivation fields stretched before him in scorched rows, once vibrant with arcane life and now reduced to blackened husks. The soil itself seemed wounded, cracked and lifeless, exhaling faint wisps of smoke that carried the bitter scent of burned resin and lost profit.
Silvain's stature was compact, his presence meticulously controlled. He wore a tailored emerald coat adorned with subtle gold threading, untouched by ash despite the devastation around him. Every detail of his appearance spoke of wealth, calculation, and restraint.
His expression did not.
He had waited three days before coming. Knights and adventurers had swarmed the area immediately after the raid, cataloging damage, gathering evidence, and interrogating survivors. A noble appearing amid such activity would have drawn unwanted attention, and Silvain understood the value of patience as well as anyone.
Now the watchers were gone.
Silvain's eyes moved slowly across the fields, cataloging losses with cold precision. Cloaking arrays lay shattered, their fractured runes flickering weakly before dying out entirely. Processing warehouses had collapsed inward, enchanted interiors rendered useless by fire and force. Entire growth cycles, months of labor and investment, had been erased in a single night.
A dealer stood nearby, trembling as though the ground itself might swallow him.
"We do not know how the fire started, my lord," the man said, his voice thin with fear. "The knights and adventurers arrived almost immediately. The cloaking arrays were active. I swear it."
Another dealer hurried to add, "There must have been an intelligence breach. There is no other explanation."
Silvain did not look at them. His gaze remained fixed on the charred remains of his product, the ashes of his empire whispering accusations with every step.
Footsteps crunched over debris.
Rothan emerged from what remained of the primary warehouse, his broad frame marked by lingering bruises and a missing tooth that showed when he spoke. In his hands, he carried a black metal box etched with golden sigils, its lid hanging open.
Silvain recognized it instantly.
Control snapped.
"How did this happen?" he roared, the sound tearing through the fields like a thunderclap. "Do you have any idea what was in that box?"
The men flinched as if struck.
The terpene formulas were not simple recipes. They were the culmination of years of experimentation, alchemical refinement, and risk, the precise balances that gave Thornveil's strains their potency, flavor, and arcane resonance. Without them, Thornveil's dominance would erode, its reputation diluted by inferior imitators.
Rothan swallowed hard. "It was taken during the chaos," he said. "I saw him. A male dark half-elf. He wasn't affiliated with Ironroot or the Velarium Consortium. I've never seen him before."
Silvain's vision narrowed, fury surging dangerously close to the surface. If it had been only product, he could have rebuilt. Fields could be replanted. Losses recovered.
Knowledge stolen was another matter entirely.
He forced himself to breathe, fingers tightening inside his gloves until the leather creaked. "If he is not with our rivals," Silvain said slowly, "then he intends to sell what he took."
His voice rose, sharp and commanding. "Contact everyone. Every Thornveil agent. Sweep the black markets of the Lonecairn Dominion and the Eboren Concord. I want that bastard found immediately."
Rothan hesitated, then asked carefully, "And the other syndicate lords?"
Silvain turned, his glare lethal. "I will deal with them."
His eyes returned to the ruined fields, to the ashes of his power, and something dark and resolute settled behind his gaze. Across the Tri-Crown Isle, forces were shifting, pride wounded and secrets exposed, as noble houses and criminal syndicates alike began to move in response to a single night's chaos.
Somewhere beyond their reach, a dark half-elf carried a spark capable of igniting far more than fields, and the roots of that fire were already spreading.