The smell of burning oak stuck to thick velvet curtains, curling like shadowy fingers in the stillness of the chamber. Outside, the trees in the courtyard of Grisval’s grandest property basked under the afternoon sun, painting them with a soft, golden glow. The fire inside the chamber cracked gently, its light flickering across stone walls and tapestries faded by time and war alike

  On the high bed, supported by pillows stuffed with silk, lay King Dyso. His formerly golden beard was streaked with white, and his face was sunken into the hollowing that illness brings. For forty-six summers he had ruled, and just by looking at his eyes, one could tell he carried them all.

  Standing by the fire with a hand swirling lazily over the flames was the regent of the Kingdom of Osharis. Myrril Zastan was cloaked in robes of gray. The wizard’s hair was silver, unbound and wild. Despite being only two years younger than the King and his eight decades of life, he looked young enough to be his son.

  “You’re stalling,” the king said with a smile tugging at the edge of his cracked lips. “Say what you want to say, Myrril. Before you tongue becomes like mine.”

  Myrril turned, his mouth twitching as if caught between a smirk a sorrow.

  “You always did know when I came bearing ill news.”

  “It’s just about the only kind you bring to me these days.”

  Myrril crossed the room slowly, his staff clicking against the stones.

  “Then allow me to disappoint you with tradition. We’ve received word from the border. Mizan rides under banners again.”

  “Which banners?” King Dyso grimaced as he shifted.

  “The lion and sword,” Myrril’s voice grew low. “Nevan’s House, that of Orryn.”

  “So they’re tired of pretending.” Dyso sighed, his breath thin.

  “They’ve sent diplomats, too. Smiling ones,” Myrril added. “Sharp teeth behind the smiles.”

  “Pfft,” Dyso growled weakly. King Nevan never did master the art of subtlety. Even as a boy, he beat his rivals with the hilt, not the blade.

  “Which is exactly why he’s dangerous,” Myrril said as lowered himself into a chair beside the king’s bed. “Men like him bluff only when they believe their fists are stronger than your walls.

  A period of silence passed, interrupted only by the wind whispering through the stonework and the distant toll of the keep’s noon bell.

  Dyso’s pale and dimmed eyes locked onto the wizard’s.

  “And what of our people? Will they follow my daughter if it comes to war?”

  “Your daughter is untested, but they know their King. They will follow. If not for her, then for you.”

  “I won’t be here much longer,” Dyso said softly, his eyes drifting to the stained glass window above. Single ray of crimson light spilled through the figure of the Crimson Divinity. “And you? Will you stay by her side?”

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  The wizard did not reply immediately.

  “I gave you my oath in the mountain snow, remember? The night you pulled me from the river like a half-drowned dog,” Myrril finally said, a wistful smile on his lips. “I shall serve the crown of Osharis, no matter whose head it rests upon.”

  “And what if that crown burns?”

  “The I will walk through it.” Myrril looked to the fire again.

  A soft knock at the door interrupted the gloom. Neither man spoke as it creaked open. She entered with no entourage, no gown, and no crown. Just a wooden tray and steady hands. She wore a simple blue tunic dusted with the hay scent of the stables. A rectangular piece of cloth of the same color lay atop her skull, fastened around her forehead with a simple fillet, creating a veil that reached her shoulders and fully obscured her head and neck.

  Princess Jeralia, barely twenty-five summers.

  “I told them I’d bring it myself,” she said, her voice soft but resolute. “I told Merek if he tried to stop me again, I’d split his helm.”

  Dyso chuckled. It came out more like a wheeze, but there was a light behind it.

  “Leave it to you to threaten your guard captain over soup.”

  “There was no threatening. I promised him.”

  Myrril stepped back as Jeralia set the tray down and pulled a small stool beside her father’s bed. She dipped a wooden spoon into the broth, bringing it to his lips carefully.

  “It’s awful.” Dyso drank slowly, grimacing.

  “You say that every time.” Jeralia replied.

  “And it’s true every time,” Dyso croaked. “But I’ll choke it down if it means I get to eat from your hand.”

  “Only because I can’t eat from my own hand,” Jeralia said with a giggle. “But I imagine it would feel just as good as what I’m doing right now.”

  Dyso playfully rolled his eyes. Though he wanted to laugh again, his strength had not returned enough to do so.

  “So I hear war’s coming. Father,” she said, gently resting a hand on his as she swallowed a spoonful of broth. “Why don’t I take the southern post as fall comes in? If it's war—

  “You will not throw yourself onto a blade before I’ve even returned to the stone,” Dyso spoke, more sharply than he meant to. “You are heir to Osharis, not its martyr."

  “She’s both,” Myrril said from behind her. “She’s your daughter.”

  “You sound proud, Uncle Myrril.” Jeralia turned to him, and although he couldn’t see it, he could tell she was smiling faintly.

  “Only when you remember your guard stance.” Myrril muttered.

  “You shifted your back foot last time we sparred,” Jeralia said. “That’s why you ate dir.”

  “I let you win. You’re still holding your breath when you strike. An eager fool’s habit.”

  Dyso watched them with tired eyes, though something soft bloomed behind the emptiness.

  “I should’ve known better than to let you train her, Myrril. She swings a blade like she’s starting a fight with divine beings.”

  “Better than ending one on her knees.”

  The fire cracked. Outside, a gust of wind swept dead, brown leaves against the shutters. For a long moment, the silence was shared, and not unwelcome.

  Dyso’s next words came low.

  “If Nevan—or even Pallius march, I won’t live to meet them on the field.”

  Jeralia stiffened but said nothing.

  Myrril met her hidden gaze over the bed.

  “Then it will fall to her.”

  “There are other ways,” Dyso shifted. “I suggest we use non-violent solutions before we go to war. They haven’t formally declared any war. Neither should we, if we have the option.”

  “I am ready,” Jeralia said quietly, spoon forgotten in her lap. “Let them come. I’ll show them what your daughter has learned in these halls.”

  “You’ll show him wisdom before steel, if I’ve raised you right. Perhaps a little kindness and compassion, as well,” Dyso said, wheezing out a chuckle. Though this was said in jest, there was rarely anything the King of Osharis said that didn’t have a little bit of truth. “Though, I suppose a little fear in his belly wouldn’t hurt.”

  Myrril placed a hand on Jeralia’s shoulder, firm and familiar.

  “Your father speaks the truth. We did train you well in not only the sword, but in diplomacy as well. But let’s not take any chances, Young Jeralia. We’ll train again at dawn.”

  “Oh, like we do every other day?” Jeralia snorted under her veil.

  “Daggers this time.” Myrril said with a cheeky smirk.

  “Only if you bring your real ones.”

  Dyso smiled again, weak and content.

  Leaves fell from the trees in earnest outside. Inside, in the shadow of an ending reign, the embers of something new—and seen never before—began to glow.