Chapter XVI
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Luminaris — City of Perfection
The Allthing Council
The chamber was built to make men feel small and certain at the same time — high vaulted ceilings, long table of dark stone, twelve seats arranged with the careful symmetry of people who believed order was the same thing as righteousness.
"The prisoner has confirmed the boy's death." One lord kept his voice clipped, professional. "We haven't heard a word from Vespers. The demon spawn has been long dead."
"I'm not asking about him." Another lord didn't look up from the documents in front of him. "Is there any information on Valthor?"
Before anyone could answer, the heavy doors swung open.
Every man at the table rose.
The Grand Regent moved to the central seat with the unhurried weight of a man who had long since stopped needing to perform authority. His robes were deep crimson edged in gold. His face was lined with years of command and something beneath command — something older and more tired than that.
He settled into his chair heavily. "I heard the report from Quitfrot," he said. "Have the Knights of Valor been dispatched to aid in driving back the reapers?"
A hesitant voice answered. "No, Grand Regent. It seems the four we sent handled the attack themselves."
The Grand Regent coughed — dry, weary. "Ever since the mages' realm fell, reaper incursions have multiplied. There is no one left to suppress them at the source." He looked across the table. "We are fighting the symptom."
"True, Grand Regent." The man in the red cloak leaned forward. "But we must focus on the greater threat. We suspect someone is orchestrating these attacks. Directing them."
"Who?"
All twelve heads turned toward the man in red.
"We aren't certain yet," he said carefully. "Not until we have more answers."
"Nonsense," another lord muttered.
"Grand Regent." A third lord sat up straighter. "We've received reports of raids at East Bay. Someone calling himself a Monarch. His army is massive — full of Drevaries, they say."
The Grand Regent's eyes sharpened. "Is this confirmed?"
"Not yet."
"Send scouts. Verify it." He paused. "And Valthor — any information? The false knight traveling with him?"
Silence around the table.
Someone answered quietly. "No."
The Grand Regent rose. The table rose with him. "Find him," he said. "Before he fully understands what he's capable of."
He strode out. The doors closed behind him.
The council stood in silence for a moment longer than necessary.
Somewhere in Yutor
Blood pooled thick and black across the cobblestones, running between the cracks in dark, branching lines. Bodies lay where they'd fallen — crumpled, abandoned, the careless arrangement of a slaughter already finished. Soldiers in red tabards moved between them without pause, stepping over the dead with the efficiency of men clearing ground rather than ending lives. A man crawled forward on his hands, gasping, making for the alley mouth.
A spear drove through his back with wet finality.
He stopped crawling.
Inside the shadowed tent, a chained prisoner slumped against the post at its center. Bruises bloomed dark across his face. One eye had swollen nearly shut. He was still breathing — deliberately kept that way.
The interrogator stood before him, unhurried, hands clasped at his back.
"What happened to the pirates here?" he asked. His voice was calm the way certain kinds of dangerous are calm — not the absence of something, but the careful containment of it.
"I have no answer to that," the prisoner said.
The interrogator's expression tightened — only slightly. He turned toward the tent flap. "Bring them in."
The flap opened.
The prisoner's wife and young daughter were dragged through, wrists bound, stumbling into the lamplight.
"Stop — stop — I'll give you anything, please don't—"
"Answer." The interrogator didn't raise his voice. "What happened to the pirates?"
"They were killed." The man was sobbing now, past pretending otherwise. "Mercenaries. Mercenaries killed them."
"Their names."
"I don't know. I swear it, I don't—"
"Kill them."
"Wait — please — all I know is they traveled with a royal. And one of them—" He choked on it. "One of them can't die."
The interrogator was still for a moment.
Then he smiled — thin, satisfied, the expression of a man who has just been given exactly what he came for.
"There," he said quietly. "Wasn't so hard."
He moved toward the tent flap. "Thank you. Please — leave my wife and daughter. Take me instead. Kill me—"
He stepped outside.
The screaming started behind him before the flap had finished falling.
A woman was waiting outside, arms crossed, expression sharp with impatience.
"What were you doing in there? The Lord Commander is waiting."
"Shut up." He reached into his coat. "I'm coming."
He lit a cigar. The flame held for a moment before the night wind took it — long enough to catch the sigil on the tent ahead, stitched large across the canvas.
A dragon with the head of a tree. Scales twisting into bark where they met the neck, the two things growing into each other rather than joined.
He looked at it for a moment.
Then he walked toward it through the dark.
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— To Be Continued —