Chapter 93

Vaelis stood outside the window of a small farmhouse with a bag of popped corn, watching the scene unfold inside.

Within, the woman - Lydiora - was shouting at her husband, Edwarr. Her voice trembled with fury as she accused him of bedding a girl from the village, a slip of a thing ten years younger than she was. The rumor had reached her ears only that morning. It had spread quickly, carried from whisper to whisper, helped along in no small part by Vaelis herself.

It was well within her purview to reveal such things. Even when they weren’t true.

Especially when they weren’t true.

She tossed another handful of corn into her mouth and listened with quiet fascination as the argument escalated. These small dramas were comforting. Petty scandals, jealous hearts, the slow unraveling of marriages - they were easy to manage. Predictable. They soothed the mind when larger matters loomed.

Such as the **** of a god.

The whispers had reached even her. Urzan-Brak destroyed. The new godling - Seth - blamed. Then, somehow, absolved before the High Witan.

Vaelis found the whole affair deeply unsettling. For someone to destroy a god as powerful as Urzan-Brak was nearly unthinkable.

For someone to destroy her… slightly less so.

She had never pledged herself to either camp. Not the High Witan, not the God-Kings. Alliances were chains, and Vaelis had never cared for chains. Besides, scandal thrived best on the edges of power, not within it.

Both factions had warned her about that. Twice. Keep their secrets. Leave their courts alone. Another indiscretion and they would unite long enough to erase her.

“A lie masquerading as truth,” came a voice from behind her.

Vaelis jumped.

She hadn’t sensed anyone approaching - not mortal, not divine. A few kernels slipped from her hand as she spun around.

The woman standing there seemed made of glass. Golden threads drifted through her translucent form, weaving words and symbols in a flowing script before dissolving and forming again. Her long hair hung loose, the pale color of aged parchment, and her eyes were featureless opalescent orbs - no pupil, no iris - nothing to suggest where she was looking.

Her gown was simple linen, pinned at the shoulders and cinched with a delicate chain of gold. Almost austere for a goddess.

Vaelis felt her stomach tighten. “I didn’t expect it would be you,” she said, doing her best to keep the tremor from her voice.

Elyndra smiled kindly. The expression did nothing to ease Vaelis’ rising dread. “Who were you expecting?” Elyndra asked.

Vaelis opened her mouth to answer, then thought better of it. “It doesn’t matter,” she said instead. “So what happens now?”

Elyndra turned her attention to the window.

Inside, the argument had worsened. Lydiora’s accusations had broken into sobs. Edwarr had stopped shouting and started swinging. His fists rose and fell as the woman crumpled beneath the blows.

Carnage still ran wild in the world. Every quarrel edged toward ****. Every anger sharpened into bloodshed.

Elyndra’s glassy lips curved into a small, pleased smile. “Now,” she said softly, “you give me what I want.”

* * *

I stepped into the royal library.

I wasn’t looking forward to this conversation. Not after what happened the last time I tried convincing the queen to pull her troops back.

I didn’t even know if she still had soldiers up north. For all I knew, they were already dead. But at the very least she needed to stop sending more. She needed to understand what was happening.

The two guards stationed in the room snapped into motion the moment I appeared. Halberds lowered toward me in a sharp, practiced gesture.

“I would like to speak with the queen,” I said evenly. “It’s urgent.”

They exchanged a glance. One nodded and slipped out of the room, leaving the other to stand watch.

The remaining guard tried to look stern, but I could see the unease creeping into his posture. His grip tightened on the shaft of his halberd as if he expected me to do something dramatic.

I ignored him.

Pulling a book from the nearest shelf - a dense treatise on enchantment - I settled into one of the plush leather reading chairs and began to read.

And I waited.

I finished the first book. Then another. By the time I was halfway through the third, the guard finally returned - with four more at his back.

Five hours.

I closed the book and set it aside, wondering if the delay had been deliberate. A power play. Or perhaps she truly had been that busy. Honestly, I couldn’t decide which bothered me more.

The guards flanked me and led me through the palace to the garden where I had met the queen before.

There were far more people waiting this time.

The archmagus stood beside her as before, surrounded by soldiers in Arvellian livery - but they weren’t alone. Nearly a dozen others stood nearby in mismatched gear - polished plate, travel-worn leathers, robes stitched with arcane sigils.

Adventurers.

Just like I used to be. Contracted through the Office of Public Contracts and Civic Commissions.

I wondered briefly what rank commission this would qualify as.

The palace guards remained rigid and silent. The adventurers, however, straightened as I entered, eyes sharpening with professional interest. Their job was about to start.

I walked forward and dropped to one knee before the queen, then rose again. “Your Majesty,” I said, inclining my head, “thank you for taking the time to meet with me again. I apologize for the altercation last time. It’s been resolved.”

She studied me carefully, suspicion written plainly across her face. “Did you kill the Oathbound King?” she asked, blunt as a hammer.

“No,” I replied. “I convinced him of my innocence. I had nothing to do with Urzan-Brak’s ****.”

Her expression didn’t change. I couldn’t tell if she believed me or not.

“I would like to return to our conversation from yesterday,” I continued. “Please recall your soldiers from the northwestern border. The orcs are consumed by bloodlust because of Urzan-Brak’s uncontrolled Faith. I may be able to-”

“No.” The word fell like a blade. “I will defend this kingdom and its people from all threats,” she said coldly. “Mortal or divine.”

“Your Majesty, this isn’t defense. You’re sending them to be slaught-”

“You are dismissed, Seth Grimm.” Her gaze hardened, unyielding.

Part of me wondered if she wanted me to argue - wanted me to push back so she could test the defenses she’d gathered here. Find my weakness.

I bowed. “Very well, Your Majesty. You know where to find me if you change your mind.”

Then I stepped away.

* * *

Master Crowhurst strode through the halls of the arcane tower in Spellmarch, his feet striking the stone with heavy purpose as his eyes flicked into every doorway and shadowed alcove.

He had just been attacked.

Here. In the very heart of Morentis’ power - political and magical alike.

An assassin had slipped past the tower wards, walked the corridors unhindered, and assaulted him inside his own chambers. A man who had shrugged off binding spells and resisted corruption magic like they were nothing more than a light breeze.

Crowhurst had survived only because decades of experience refused to let him die easily. When his spells failed to hold the attacker, he had summoned three elementals in desperation.

It had not been elegant.

Summoning without circle or ritual was dangerous enough. Wearing one as armor bordered on lunacy.

He had already banished two elementals before they tore free of his control. The third remained - its will grinding against his mind like stone against stone. The creature encased him now in a suit of living granite, its weight dragging at his steps, its anger gnawing constantly at his focus.

Still, the armor steadied his nerves as he made his way toward the council chamber.

He had sounded the alarm and summoned the other Masters. Whatever this was, they needed to deal with it immediately.

A figure in blue robes stormed down a side corridor, one arm and half his chest stained dark with blood. Crowhurst slowed just long enough for the other wizard to catch up.

“Assassin?” Crowhurst asked.

“Cedrion?” the man in blue shot back.

Crowhurst nodded once.

“Yeah,” Rookhaven muttered. “Fucker struck while I was eating dinner. Fork in the eye is the only reason I’m still breathing.”

The master of malefic glanced at the spreading stains on the other wizard’s robes.

“Is the blood yours?”

“Some of it,” the master of umbrance replied. “I’ll live.”

The doors to the council chamber loomed ahead - massive slabs of etched starmetal, their surface blacker than the surrounding stone.

A flutter of orange robes rounded the far corner ahead of them and vanished through the doorway. Master Graveholt had arrived.

Inside the chamber, the three exchanged brief nods before turning back toward the open doors, watching for the others.

Crowhurst exhaled slowly and dismissed the elemental. The granite armor cracked and crumbled away in a grinding cascade, dissolving into dust.

Within the council chamber he would be safe.

“You too?” Rookhaven asked.

“Aye,” Graveholt said, brushing dust from his sleeves. “Though I fared better than you by the look of it. My chambers are a disaster though. Not sure I’ll ever get the stains out.”

“How’d you manage it?” Rookhaven asked. “They seemed resistant to magic.”

Graveholt snorted.

“You think wards protect against entropy? You need to revisit your arcane fundamentals.” He grinned. “The bitch didn’t melt on the first spell. Doesn’t mean the floor couldn’t eat her.”

Rookhaven shook his head slowly.

Illusions were powerful tools - unless someone proved immune to them. Then they were useless.

If binding spells failed, an elemental or demon could still rip someone apart. If corruption magic failed, collapsing the floor or dropping a chandelier on their head still worked just fine.

He still wasn’t entirely sure how Graveholt had convinced the floor to eat someone.

Footsteps echoed in the corridor. Harrowmont entered next, his white robes immaculate.

“What is this about?” the master of void asked, his voice flat as ever.

“No assassin for you?” Rookhaven asked.

“Assassin?” Harrowmont blinked once. “No. I only received Crowhurst’s summons.”

Graveholt leaned forward. “You haven’t seen any others?”

Harrowmont shook his head.

“I’m here,” another voice said brightly. Barrowford - master of chronomancy - was suddenly standing among them. No one had seen him enter.

Rookhaven squinted at him. “What about you? Did you get an assassin?”

“Is that what she was?” Barrowford said thoughtfully. “Huh. I assumed she was lost. I retraced her steps and wedged a chair under her door handle.”

Rookhaven frowned. “You know who she is?”

“No,” the silver-robed wizard replied cheerfully. “But I know where she stayed. A little inn in town - the Root Cellar, I believe. Filthy place. Smells like stale ale. The innkeeper has this enormous mole on his nose that looks just like-”

“No one cares,” Crowhurst cut in sharply. “We’ll track them down once the others arrive.”

Light footsteps whispered through the doorway as another wizard entered.

“At least mine was from Arvellia,” Greymarch said as he shuffled inside. The master of mortem looked even more gaunt than usual, his thin white hair clinging to his scalp like cobwebs. “Interestingly enough, her spirit proved… uncooperative. Warded against necromancy.”

He sniffed disdainfully. “I had to trace the neural pathways in her brain to determine it. Messy work. Inexact. I had to wash my hands thoroughly afterward, which explains my delay.”

A guardsman rushed into the chamber and bowed deeply. “Masters,” he said, voice tight with strain. “I bear grave news. Master Slatemourn has been killed.”

“Shit,” Rookhaven breathed. “Who the fuck are these people?”

More reports followed in quick succession.

Everwyck. Nightwell. Wolfendale. Brackenridge. Wainwright. Nearly half the council had been assassinated.

The tower was searched from foundation to spire, but the attackers were gone. No trace remained. Even the bodies of the assassins who had been killed had vanished.

Someone had gone to extraordinary lengths to erase every sign they had ever been there.