The study smelled of pine resin and old parchment. Moonlight pooled on the warped floorboards, threading through the cracks in the shutters like liquid silver. Alden Varkaine sat hunched at his desk, a half-empty bottle of amber whiskey at his elbow, his fingers tracing the grooves of a Valatium ingot.
The ore glinted dully in the firelight, its surface etched with the Varkaine wolf—a relic from better days, when the mines still sang with promise.
Kairus lingered in the doorway, watching his father's silhouette flicker against the wall. Alden's shoulders, once broad enough to carry the weight of the Frostmarch's winters, now curved inward, as though the room itself pressed down on him.
"You missed lunch," Alden said, not turning. His voice was gravel wrapped in velvet, worn smooth by years of command.
"The smithy needed oversight," Kairus replied, stepping inside. The floor creaked beneath his boots, a familiar chorus of groans. "The Remes shipment leaves at dawn. Their mages want the Valatium rods tempered in—"
"Sit."
Kairus paused, then sank into the chair opposite his father. The leather was cold, cracked at the seams. Between them lay a map of the empire, its edges singed from the night the Verris set fire to the eastern granary.
Alden finally looked up. His eyes—pale blue, like frost on a blade—narrowed. "Since when do you care about tempering rods? Or trade contracts? Or any of this?"
"Since it became necessary."
"Necessary." Alden spat the word like a curse. He leaned forward, the Valatium ingot clenched in his fist. "You've commandeered my guards, overruled the council, and turned this house into a damned armory. You speak of alliances as if they're chess moves, not lives."
Kairus held his gaze. "Would you prefer I let the Verris pick us apart again?"
A log collapsed in the hearth. Sparks skittered across the stone, dying in the shadows.
Alden's grip tightened on the ingot. "I prefer my son not become a stranger. You used to flinch at the sight of blood. Now you talk of war like a veteran."
'Because I've lived it', Kairus thought. 'Because I've watched you hang from our own gates'.
"War's coming," Kairus said quietly. "Whether we invite it or not. Trading raw Valatium is suicide. Finished goods give us control—and allies. The Tristans need armor for their border forts. The Remes crave catalysts for their spells. The Joshuas…" He hesitated. "They'll pay anything to keep Valatium from their rivals."
Alden snorted. "The Joshuas haven't left their towers since the Archmage Wars. They're scholars, not warriors."
"Exactly," Kairus said, leaning forward. "They're desperate. Valatium could revolutionize their artifacts. They'll beggar themselves for exclusivity."
Alden studied him, his gaze sharp as a surgeon's scalpel. "And where did you learn this? From dusty scrolls? From dreams?"
Kairus's chest tightened. The truth coiled in his throat, bitter and impossible. 'From watching the empire burn. From your corpse swinging in the wind'.
"I learned," he said slowly, "by listening. The smiths, the miners—they know more than the council gives them credit for."
Alden slammed the ingot onto the desk. The clang reverberated through the room. "Don't lie to me, boy. I've fought beside liars. I know their smell."
Silence stretched, taut as a bowstring. Somewhere in the keep, a shutter banged in the wind.
Kairus reached into his coat and slid a folded letter across the table. The parchment bore the Tristan seal—a stooped hawk clutching a sword. "Duke Tristan's terms. He'll take two hundred breastplates by next moon. In exchange, his knights patrol our borders."
Alden didn't touch it. "Since when does a child negotiate with dukes?"
"Since the 'child' unearthed the ore that saved this county." Kairus's voice hardened. "You gave me command. Or did the council forget that too?"
Alden flinched, a flicker of shame crossing his face. He'd handed Kairus the title of acting count weeks ago, after the Valatium strike—a hollow gesture, he'd thought, to placate the miners. Now the boy wore it like armor.
"This isn't you," Alden muttered, more to himself. He lifted the whiskey bottle, then set it down untouched. "You used to beg me for stories. Now you speak like… like them."
'Them'. The council. The Verris. The ghosts of men who'd sold their souls for power.
Kairus softened. "We can't afford stories anymore."
Alden rose abruptly, his chair screeching against the floor. He paced to the hearth, gripping the mantel until his knuckles whitened. Firelight carved hollows beneath his eyes, deepening the scars that laddered his arms—relics of Wolf's Cleft, where he'd held the northern clans at bay with fifty men and a prayer.
"You think I don't see what you're doing?" Alden said, his back turned. "Playing the ruthless lord. Bartering lives like cabbages."
"I'm keeping us alive."
"At what cost?" Alden whirled, his voice cracking. "You don't sleep. You barely eat. The servants say you train until you collapse. What happens when the Valatium runs out? When the allies turn? What then, Kairus?"
[Skill Activated : Unparalleled acting]
Kairus stood, the legs of his chair scraping stone. "The Valatium won't run out. And the allies will stay loyal so long as we're useful." He nodded to the letter. "Sign the Tristan accord. Please."
Alden stared at him, then laughed—a raw, hollow sound. "Since when do you say 'please'?"
"Since I need you to trust me."
The fire popped. Somewhere in the walls, a mouse skittered.
Alden slumped into his chair, suddenly old. "You sound like her."
Kairus froze. 'Her'. His mother. Her name hung unspoken, a ghost between them.
"She begged to go side with them," Alden whispered. "Said she'd make us proud." His thumb brushed the Valatium ingot, tracing the wolf's snarling jaw. "I should've stopped her."
Kairus's chest ached. 'You couldn't have. They'd have taken her anyway'.
He stepped closer. "We'll get her back. But first, we need to be strong. Please."
Alden's hand trembled as he reached for the quill. "If this fails…"
"It won't."
The quill scratched across parchment, sealing the Tristan pact. Alden's signature—once bold and sweeping—was now a spidery tangle of ink.
The Once proud Black-Knight of the South- Alden Varkaine was just about to crumble down in his study, but now he was relieved he now had hope.
A new hope had arrived - "The Sun of Hope" had arrived.
Kairus took the letter, resisting the urge to clutch it like a lifeline. "Thank you."
Alden didn't look up. "Get out."
Snow crunched beneath Kairus's boots as he crossed the yard. The smithy's glow painted the keep's walls crimson, the rhythmic clang of hammers a counterpoint to the wind's mournful howl. He paused, watching workers haul Valatium ore into the forge. Their breaths plumed in the cold, their laughter sharp and bright against the night.
A hand clasped his shoulder.
"He'll come around," Ser Garrick said, falling into step beside him. The knight's breath smelled of mint and ale. "He's just not used to being the second-strongest wolf in the den."
Kairus glanced back at the study window. Alden's shadow still hunched over the desk, a silhouette of regret. an aura too strong to forget. "He thinks I've lost myself."
"Have you?"
The question hung in the air. Somewhere in the forest, a wolf howled.
Kairus tightened his cloak. "Does it matter?"
Garrick smirked. "Not to me. But you might want to sleep before you drop dead mid-negotiation."
[Stamina: 12% – Severe Fatigue Detected]
Kairus ignored the flickering text. "After the Remes shipment."
Garrick groaned. "Stubborn as your father."
"Worse," Kairus said, allowing a faint smile. "I'm smarter."
The knight's laughter chased him into the keep, where the shadows clung like old friends.