The stone table in the war chamber of Keep Ysara had seen the planning of countless battles, but today, it hosted something far more delicate, the first council of a man who had never dreamed of being lord.
Kell stood at its head, armor polished but heavy with the weight of decisions yet to be made. The banners of House Ysara hung behind him, muted by the still air. He hadn't replaced them, he had inherited them.
To his left sat Dama, still armored, hair tied back in the fashion of war. Her sharp eyes scanned every person in the room. Whistle lounged at the far end of the table, boots crossed and a toothpick between his lips, but even he looked more alert than usual. Ithren was next to him, ink-stained fingers folded tightly, eyes tired but sharp.
Torik leaned against a column at the back, as he often did. He didn't sit at tables like this. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
A few high-ranking soldiers filled the rest of the chairs, Ysara's old tacticians and Kell's loyalists. The room held the scent of polished steel and quiet tension.
The old man Olinar, Ysara's longtime attendant, stood quietly near the door, hands folded. His presence alone made the air feel heavy with memory.
Kell looked down at his gauntlets, then removed them. He placed them gently on the table. A symbol. A man not yet claiming a crown.
The door creaked open, Maribel appeared.
She entered with her usual grace, silks trailing behind her, earrings catching the light, eyes sharp and knowing. But there was a softness in her gaze as it found Torik.
"Well, if it isn't the thief turned spy. I heard about your little adventure inside the Unbound," she said, her voice warm but edged.
Torik blinked. "You heard about that?"
"I hear everything," she said. Then more gently: "You did good. I mean that."
Her eyes looked down, almost out of pity. Had she heard about Mox?
Torik nodded, unsure how to respond.
Maribel turned to Kell and dipped her head. "And congratulations, Lord Kell."
Dama cleared her throat. "King."
Maribel raised an eyebrow.
Kell raised a hand. "No. Not yet. We don't get to name ourselves."
A respectful hush fell over the chamber.
He looked around. "We're not here to anoint crowns. We're here to decide what happens next. The Bound killed our Highlady. They turned the people against her. And now they tighten their grip with silence and steel. We need to know what our options are."
Ithren spoke first. "The Bound won't stop. They've always feared dissent. Ysara's death was a message. They'll claim it was a rogue agent or an accident, but it wasn't. It was a purge."
Dama nodded. "We still have soldiers loyal to the Ysara name. But morale's thin. The city watches us, wondering if we'll fold or fight."
Whistle yawned, then sat up straighter. "We need allies. Fast. Not just swords. Lords. Names with pull."
As if summoned by fate, a young courier burst into the room, cheeks flushed, a sealed scroll in his trembling hands.
"Message for Lord Kell. Urgent."
Kell accepted it without a word and broke the seal.
He read silently. His face hardened.
"It's from Highlord Galrick."
The room straightened collectively.
Kell began to read aloud:
To my old friend,
I grieve with you in the loss of Lady Ysara. She was a fierce soul, but she made a grave mistake in turning against the Faith and thus the Crown. Her path was... misjudged.
You and I have fought side by side. I know your honor. That is why I write this not as an enemy, but as a comrade.
The king is displeased, but not without mercy. I ask, for the sake of peace and your legacy, that you bow to the throne and reaffirm your loyalty to the kingdom. Abandon this path Ysara set you on.
Choose the kingdom, Kell. Not the fire.
Signed, Highlord Galrick of the Crown Vanguard
The silence after the reading was deeper than the first.
Dama was first to speak. "He mourns her with one hand and curses her with the other. Typical."
Ithren's voice was cold. "That letter is veiled threat. He says 'peace' but he means submission."
"Galrick has always been pragmatic," Maribel said. "He respects obedience. That means if we bend, he might let us live. Might."
Whistle leaned forward. "He says bow or burn. And the king's army is already moving. Doesn't matter what the letter says."
Kell looked over to Whistle, eyebrow raised.
"Heard a whisper from one of my sources, the king is not present so Galrick will likely lead it." Whistle said.
Kell just nodded and thought for a moment.
Torik finally spoke. "So, what's the plan? Bow, and we become pawns. Resist, and we're rebels."
Kell looked down at the letter, then folded it with calm precision. "The king never wrote me. Galrick did. That tells me one thing, Galrick is the one making this decision."
"Which means he's coming," Dama said.
Kell turned to the Olinar.
"Send messengers. To every lord who remembers Ysara's name. Every officer I fought beside. Every noble whose banner flew beside mine. I want to know who we can count on."
The old man bowed, voice steady. "At once, my lord."
Kell exhaled.
The room swirled with whispered conversations. Plans. Fears.
Torik watched them all. He'd never belonged at tables like this. And yet, now, he couldn't walk away.
The Crown was repaired. The Bound were moving. And the kingdom was choosing its king.
And for once, maybe the right man would win.