Morning came quietly to Ridgehall.

  The dawn did not announce itself with trumpets or bells. Instead, it crept in softly, a pale silver wash spreading across the sky as the sun rose behind distant stone walls. Thin clouds drifted lazily overhead, catching the light and diffusing it until the world felt suspended between night and day.

  From the western gate, Kael stood with his hands clasped behind his back, watching.

  Orin mounted his horse with steady confidence, though Kael could tell the weight of what lay ahead still pressed on him. Dawnreach banners had already been prepared—deep crimson cloth edged in black and gold—secured carefully to the saddle so they would not tangle during the ride. The sigil caught the morning light, vivid and unmistakable.

  Joran adjusted his gear beside Orin, restless energy radiating from him as he checked straps that were already tight. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, as though eager to be moving already. Rhea stood calmer nearby, her posture relaxed but alert, eyes scanning the road ahead as if committing every bend and slope to memory before they even departed.

  “You sure you’re ready for this?” Joran asked, flashing Orin a crooked grin. “Lord Orin of Dawnreach sounds strange coming out of my mouth.”

  Orin chuckled, gripping the reins. “It sounds strange to me too.”

  Rhea stepped closer and placed a hand on Orin’s arm, her touch firm and grounding. “You won’t be alone,” she said. “And Dawnreach won’t swallow you whole. Not with us there.”

  Orin nodded, gratitude plain in his expression. “Thank you. Both of you.”

  Kael stepped forward then, boots scraping lightly against the stone. “You’ll do fine,” he said simply. “Dawnreach needs someone like you.”

  Orin met his gaze. “And Ridgehall needs you alive,” he replied evenly. “Don’t disappear too long.”

  Kael smirked faintly. “I’ll try.”

  With that, the three of them turned and set off. Hooves struck stone in a steady rhythm as they passed through the gates and onto the open road beyond. Kael remained where he was, watching until their figures shrank against the horizon and finally vanished beyond the curve of the hills.

  Only then did he turn back toward Ridgehall.

  By late afternoon, the reports arrived.

  Four sealed parchments lay neatly arranged on Kael’s desk, each bearing the distinct crest of a lord under House Veyren. The wax seals were unbroken, pristine—clearly delivered with care. Kael took his time, breaking them one by one, his movements measured as he read.

  The first report bore the sigil of Thalwyn Morr of Highveil.

  Kael’s eyes moved quickly across the page.

  Infrastructure repairs underway. Grain reserves replenished. Border patrols reinforced.

  If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  At the bottom, the number stood clear.

  Fifty-two percent.

  Kael nodded once and set it aside.

  The second parchment belonged to Veyric Calder of Stormhollow. The wording was polished, the language confident. Trade routes reopened. Coastal defenses strengthened. Merchant activity increasing.

  Fifty-five percent.

  Better. Still not ideal.

  The third seal carried the mark of Deymar Rauth of Blackcrag. The report was blunt, almost harsh in tone—less ornamentation, more raw accounting. Mines secured. Labor disputes reduced. Security tightened.

  Sixty percent.

  Kael raised an eyebrow, mildly impressed.

  Then he reached for the final parchment.

  The crest of Aric of Frostspire.

  Kael read more slowly this time.

  Food distribution networks expanded. Rural settlements reinforced. Soldiers rotated to prevent exhaustion. Public morale rising steadily.

  At the bottom of the page—

  Seventy-five percent.

  Kael’s gaze lingered.

  “Aric…” he muttered.

  The numbers reassured him. No—more than that—they impressed him. At least on parchment, the houses were improving. The damage left by corruption and neglect was being addressed. Order was returning.

  Still, Kael leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping lightly against the armrest.

  Numbers could lie.

  Reports could be polished.

  Words could be dressed up to please a lord.

  “I won’t take this at face value,” he said quietly.

  He rose and moved toward the door. “Tarin.”

  A moment later, Tarin appeared, arms already laden with scrolls.

  “Yes?” he asked warily.

  “I need four people,” Kael said. “Quiet ones. Sharp-eyed. People you trust.”

  Tarin frowned. “Why? The reports just came in.”

  “That’s exactly why.”

  Tarin stared at him for a long moment. “You don’t trust them.”

  “I trust Aric,” Kael replied. “I verify everyone else.”

  Tarin sighed deeply. “Why four?”

  “Because there are four lord and orin just started.”

  “And why me?”

  Kael’s mouth twitched. “Because if they’re compromised, you’ll know. And if they aren’t, you won’t send me fools.”

  Tarin pinched the bridge of his nose. “You know I hate this part.”

  “You love this part,” Kael said calmly.

  “…I really don’t.”

  Kael leaned closer. “Tarin.”

  Tarin groaned. “Fine. Four people. The best ones. If they die, I’m haunting you.”

  “Fair.”

  Tarin paused at the door. “What exactly do you want them to do?”

  “Observe,” Kael said. “Speak with the people. Look beyond what officials show them. I want to know how the common folk are really living.”

  Tarin nodded slowly. “And if they find something ugly?”

  Kael’s eyes hardened. “Then I’ll act.”

  Tarin left without another word.

  Kael exhaled slowly once the room was empty.

  Until they returned, there was no point in leaving Ridgehall. His mission beyond these walls could wait a little longer.

  He glanced toward the window.

  “…Lunch,” he muttered. “I’m starving.”

  Only then did another thought strike him.

  Daren.

  Kael frowned slightly. He hadn’t seen him since the meeting with the lords and elders. That was unusual. Daren was never far—always lingering just out of sight, always present when needed.

  Kael rose and left his office, footsteps echoing softly through the stone corridors.

  He found Daren in the eastern hallway.

  The old butler stood alone near one of the tall windows, sunlight spilling across the floor at his feet. He wasn’t moving. Not even breathing noticeably. His posture was rigid, his attention fixed on something held carefully in his hands.

  “Daren?” Kael called softly.

  No response.

  Kael stepped closer. “What are you looking at?”

  Daren didn’t turn. His fingers trembled—just slightly—as he held a small framed picture.

  Kael leaned in.

  The image was old, the edges worn smooth by time and handling. It showed a younger Daren, standing stiffly but proudly, one arm wrapped protectively around a woman with gentle eyes and a warm smile. In front of them stood a little girl, no older than five or six, clutching a small flower and grinning brightly at whoever had taken the picture.

  Kael stared.

  His breath caught.

  “…Isn’t that—”

  The realization struck him like a blade slipping between ribs.

  And suddenly, everything made sense.