Boom—! The palace’s sealed gates yawned open, iron thunder rolling across courtyards like storm surf, rousing light sleepers who then let the noise ebb and drifted back to dreams.
...
Near the Royal Capital’s coast, tsunami-scoured walls slumped like broken teeth. Only a scant few held watch tonight, lanterns shivering in salt wind.
Kasda stood at the lip of the surf. Splintered hulls and shattered masts littered the strand like bones; grief streaked his handsome face like cold rain.
A whole fleet—seven thousand souls—snuffed out like candles under a wave. No bodies to bury. How could a former Grand Admiral’s heart not break?
Yet the beached ships before him mattered more, dark hulls crouching like sharks in the foam.
“That rock-eagle crest… You’re Duke Harrison. The sleeping tiger—Duke Ted. The hook-beaked white rat—Duke Harrison again. And so many titled lords…” Kasda’s voice tightened. “What are you doing?”
He stood alone before a column near a thousand strong. His mind stitched recent dates together; tension crept up his spine like frost.
Duke Ted traded glances, smoothed his coat, and spoke unhurried, tone calm as a lake at dawn. “We heard the Royal Capital suffered heavily today. We brought house forces and small gifts for His Majesty.”
“We carry an invitation from His Highness, Prince Paris.”
“Prince Paris?!” Fear pricked; Kasda’s knuckles whitened. Ted’s sidelong look flashed steel, a silent threat. Kasda pivoted to a smile, smooth as a mask. “Then I won’t delay you, my lords. It’s late, and every inn’s shut. Perhaps you could…”
“No need. His Highness arranged everything.” Ted’s smile stayed gentle. The column rolled forward like a river and flowed into the city.
“Do we strike?” Harrison’s eyes cut to the lone Kasda, cold light slipping like a blade. Killing intent bled through.
Ted shook his head. “Bloodless blades. Remember His Majesty’s words—don’t rattle the people. Besides, a former Grand Admiral didn’t earn that rank by luck.”
Harrison nodded. Another lord looked unready, face pale as wax, terror crawling across it like shadow.
“Rest easy, Duke Harrison. We won’t need to swing a sword. Our presence speaks our intent.” Ted’s confidence gleamed like a lantern.
Brows furrowed, the lords traded confusion.
Ted bared a grin. “Think. With His Majesty’s years of stockpiled strength, why would he need our muscle? We can’t steer this tide either way. He wants our stance—something for others to see.”
“‘Look, a crowd of nobles already stands with me. Oppose me, resist me, it won’t matter.’”
“Then their walls inside will crumble without a siege. You think nobles are truly loyal?”
“Loyalty lasts only while their necks stay attached.”
Realization broke over them like sunrise. No wonder Paris hinted at his iron, yet demanded they arrive with men.
“Strong prey on weak. Fair winds and gentle rains—what’s that to us? We were shoved to the map’s corners to starve quietly.”
“Fine words call us dukes, marquises, earls. Strip the paint, they’re hollow seals. In the city, we might not outrank a viscount.”
“Exactly! Our Curris family served faithfully for centuries, and because Ostos hadn’t ascended and we missed that decisive war, he stripped our titles, ground our blood-oath to dust. Heartless.”
“Tonight, it ends…”
...
“Your Highness, at this hour, why come?” Pullman stood with hundreds of Erene Guard, a ring of spears like a frost rim. The vassal forces had vanished into silence, leaving hope hanging on Erene alone.
Prince Paris wore radiant gold robes, cutting a figure bright as dawn. He stood before a thousand White Dragon warriors, their scale-mail pale as bone.
Behind him, Velledo gleamed in silver plate, a dragon-tooth visor shadowing her eyes. Her hair flowed like a banner; a heavy crossbow rested in her grip, sights locked on Pullman.
“Lord Pullman,” Paris’s voice fell calm and inevitable, like a decree. “Former Chief Commander of the Royal Capital’s City Guard. Retired due to wounds, chosen by my father as a trusted core of the Royal King’s Guard.”
“You served as the King’s Leg—handling burdensome matters and linking distant nobles. You’re a talent. Bow, serve me, and I’ll keep your place safe. Your line will prosper.”
“Refuse, and die with the rest. Whoever wears the crown, the King’s Leg serves them. Isn’t that so?”
Pullman answered with silence. He drew a silver blade, frost-hard across his face. “You all heard it. Prince Paris stands guilty of treason, of intent to regicide, and of publicly threatening a key office of Eunomia.”
“Multiple crimes, one sentence. Execute on the spot. Kill without pardon. No trial.”
Spears rose behind him, a forest of steel aimed at Paris.
Paris shook his head, pity and disdain like ice and fire in his eyes. “Lord Pullman, I’m being kind. If you won’t value your life, think of your son, Kasda.”
Pullman’s face didn’t twitch. He lifted his greatsword. “I taught him this: soldiers prize honor and loyalty above all. Life comes last. Unlike you—prince by blood, yet you wave a rebel banner, even custom-stitched.”
“Then we’re done talking.” Paris’s smile tilted, feral and careless. “Tell me—do you feel it? Isn’t the city quieter than you expected?”
The words struck like a drum in Pullman’s chest.
Paris walked toward him alone, steps soft as falling ash. “Want to know why? Because…”
“They’ve either bent the knee to me, or…”
“…the Commander killed them all.”
“Wh—” Pullman’s breath snapped. Black-gold lances punched through his chest like thunderbolts.
He stared at the familiar and alien Black Spear, recognition dawning like a cold sun. He finally understood Paris’s surety.
But the night swallowed him before any word could escape.
