The desk was a grotesque masterpiece—**polished ebony** inlaid with ivory serpents, its surface littered with wax droplets, wine stains, and a half-eaten pheasant leg. Ethan's gauntleted fist slammed into the rotting feast, sending platters clattering. Scrolls cascaded to the floor, their ribbons snapping like severed veins.
One caught his eye: **velvet parchment**, bound by a wax seal the color of dried blood.
The king's crest—a crowned falcon clutching a sword and scale.
Ethan's breath hitched. He knew that seal. It had stamped his own war orders, his promotions, his marriage license. Now it marked his death warrant.
The blade of his dagger trembled as he pried open the seal. The parchment unfurled, its ink stark and precise—**the king's personal scribe had penned this**.
>*Lord Cedric,*
>*Your report on the Draycott heir's movements is acknowledged. Ensure he does not return from the Valmari front. The "bandit ambush" you propose suffices, provided no survivors remain. Compensation (5,000 gold crowns) will be transferred upon confirmation of his demise. Burn this missive.*
>*—His Majesty, King Theron V*
The words blurred. Ethan's vision tunneled, the storehouse dissolving into fragments of memory:
- The king clasping his shoulder at the wedding feast. *"Vaelis needs men like you."*
- Theron's voice booming over the war council. *"General Draycott, you are our shield!"*
- Liora's cold smile as the guards beat him. *"You were declared dead."*
**All of it lies.**
A boot scuffed stone behind him.
*"Ethan—"* Serra's hands flickered in warning, but he was already moving.
Three Veyne guards burst into the chamber, their swords glinting. The lead man—**a captain with a braided beard**—grinned.
*"The steward said you'd come. Ordered us to save your head for a trophy."*
Ethan's dagger flashed.
*"Take it, then."*
The captain lunged, his blade slicing air where Ethan's throat had been. Ethan pivoted, driving his elbow into the man's ribs. Bone cracked.
Dain materialized behind the second guard, his knives a silver blur. One blade sank into a kidney, the other across the tendons of a wrist. The guard screamed, crumpling.
The third swung at Serra, but she ducked, her garrote snapping taut around his neck. **Hacksaw**, ever practical, brained him with a blackpowder barrel.
*"Clear!"* Dain barked, wiping his blades on a dead man's cloak.
Ethan didn't hear. He was staring at the letter again, the parchment crumpling in his grip.
*"Theron signed my death. My* ***king*** *sold me."*
Hacksaw froze, his fuse-lighter hovering over the charge. *"The* king*?"*
Serra's hands trembled as she signed, *"Proof?"*
Ethan smoothed the parchment, the falcon seal glaring up like an accusation. *"Enough to hang him."*
Dain snatched it, his eyes darting. *"Gods. He's been feeding us to Valmari for* years*."*
A distant horn blared—**reinforcements**.
Hacksaw relit the fuse. *"Time to go. This place'll be ash in three minutes."*
Ethan folded the letter into his breastplate, over his heart. *"Not yet. First, we make sure* ***everyone*** *knows."*
He grabbed a Valmari blade from the nearest crate and carved into the desk:
*THE WOLF SEES.*
*THE KING BURNS.*
They fled as the fuse spat its final inches.
Behind them, the storehouse erupted—not just in fire, but in **truth**. Scrolls, letters, and lies ignited, their ashes spiraling into the night sky. By dawn, the people of Eldrin would find remnants of the king's seal in the rubble.
And the wolf's fangs would close on the throne.
---
The wind howled off the cliffs, sharp with the bite of salt and pine. Below, the sea clawed at the rocks, its froth glowing faintly in the moonlight. Ethan crouched in the skeletal branches of a dead oak, his breath still as the grave. Through the lens of a stolen Valmari spyglass, he traced the silhouette of Cedric's new stronghold—a sprawling manor perched on the edge of the world like a vulture circling a kill.
Walls of black stone. Iron gates studded with spikes. Guards in gilded armor patrolling the ramparts, their torches flickering like earthbound stars.
*Too many guards.*
Dain slithered up beside him, his face smeared with mud and ash. "Bastard's tucked himself into a proper nest," he muttered, plucking a beetle from his sleeve and crushing it absently. "Saw a supply cart headin' in at dusk. Barrels of wine, crates of salt pork. Enough to hole up for months."
Ethan lowered the spyglass. "Weaknesses?"
The scout grinned, teeth glinting. "Drainage tunnel. Runs from the eastern kitchen down to the cliffs. Big enough to crawl through… if you don't mind a swim in shit first."
A cold smile tugged at Ethan's lips. "You've done worse."
———
They waited until the moon drowned behind the clouds. The manor's outer walls loomed ahead, slick with lichen and sea spray. Dain led the way, his body pressed low to the ground, blending with the shadows like smoke. Ethan followed, every sense taut.
The tunnel mouth was half-hidden by a tangle of brambles, its iron grate rusted through. Dain knelt, probing the edges with a dagger. "Lock's newer than the rest. Cedric's clever."
"Not clever enough." Ethan reached into his cloak, withdrawing a vial of murky liquid—Serra's concoction, reeking of acid and rot. He dribbled it over the lock, the metal hissing as it dissolved.
Dain wrinkled his nose. "Gods, that stench. Like a brothel privy after a feast day."
"Quiet."
They slid into the tunnel, the stagnant water rising to their chests. The stink was unbearable—decay, waste, and the sweet tang of rot. Rats skittered past, their eyes glowing in the dark.
———
The kitchen courtyard was a cacophony of clattering pans and shouted orders. Ethan peered through a crack in the grate, counting boots.
*Six guards. Two servants. A hound, chained by the well.*
Dain nudged him, pointing to a window on the second floor. A figure moved behind the glass—a woman, her hair a familiar cascade of gold.
*Liora.*
Ethan's hand tightened on the dagger.
She turned, laughing at something unseen, her face illuminated by candlelight. Unmarked. Unafraid.
Dain's breath hitched. "She's here. Thought she'd have fled by now."
"She's arrogant," Ethan hissed. "Thinks herself untouchable."
———
They retreated before dawn, slipping back into the forest like ghosts. In the safety of a sea cave, Dian sketched the manor's layout in the sand with a stick—guard posts, storerooms, the drainage tunnel.
"Hound's chained at sunset, freed at dawn," Dain said. "Kitchen staff swaps shifts at the bell. Cedric's chambers here—top floor, west wing. Balcony faces the sea."
Ethan studied the crude map. "And Liora?"
"Dines alone. Walks the gardens at midday. No guards."
"Arrogant," Ethan repeated, colder this time.
Dain wiped the map away with his boot. "What now?"
Ethan rose, the first light of dawn staining the waves blood-red.
"Now we bring the storm."