The palace of King Maelor IV was a sprawling fortress of marble, iron, and silent dread. Its towering spires cut into the dawn sky like spears aimed at the gods themselves. Cold winds howled down stone corridors as if mourning the lives spent to build it.
Within its high council chamber, braziers burned low with perfumed oils that could not mask the underlying stench of old blood and older secrets. High Chancellor Vaelith stood before the throne, his long black robes trailing across carved granite floors.
He was a tall man with hair black as pitch tied neatly behind his head. His face was long, elegant, and pale, with eyes dark as bottomless wells. They flickered with cold intelligence as he reviewed the parchments spread before him on a low obsidian table.
King Maelor IV sat slumped upon his throne, chin resting on his fist, staring at the chancellor with bloodshot eyes. The king was aging but robust, his greying beard meticulously oiled and braided with golden clasps. Heavy fur-lined robes draped over his broad shoulders, but even these layers could not hide the sickness creeping into his bones.
Vaelith set down the final parchment and folded his hands behind his back. "The final ledger has been cleansed," he said calmly. "No trace remains of Horen Daal's duplicity."
The king grunted, shifting in his seat. "Good. The last thing I need is rumours of embezzlement. Taxes are high enough without the people crying treason from rooftops."
Vaelith inclined his head. "Indeed, Your Majesty. The huntsman completed his duty flawlessly as always."
The king's eyes narrowed faintly. "He did not make a spectacle?"
"No, sire. A silent kill. The body will be discovered at dawn, slumped against the tavern wall. Drunkard's death, nothing more."
Silence settled over them, broken only by the crackling of braziers. Outside, dawn's first light crept through narrow windows, casting Vaelith's face in stark relief. Shadows pooled in the hollows beneath his high cheekbones.
"There is… another matter, Your Majesty," Vaelith said after a moment. His voice remained smooth, almost bored, but a subtle edge coiled beneath each word. "Regarding the huntsman himself."
King Maelor grunted again, waving a hand for him to continue.
Vaelith walked slowly across the chamber to stand beside a massive iron map of the kingdom embedded in the floor. His dark eyes studied the mountains and forests carved into black metal.
"He has served you faithfully for over fifteen years," Vaelith said. "Over a hundred silent kills on your behalf. Ministers, generals, rival nobles, even your own blood kin when necessary."
"Your point?" the king rumbled.
Vaelith turned, folding his hands into his sleeves. "My point, sire, is that he knows… everything."
The king's gaze sharpened. Behind thick brows, his eyes flickered with sudden clarity. "Are you suggesting he would betray me?"
Vaelith smiled faintly, a subtle tightening of his thin lips. "No, Your Majesty. He is loyal. Utterly. That is the problem."
Maelor frowned, leaning forward slightly. "Explain."
Vaelith began pacing slowly before the throne, his robes whispering against cold stone. "A man whose only purpose is obedience, whose entire life is defined by silent service… such a man eventually loses himself. When that happens, he becomes dangerous. Not out of malice, but because he no longer fears death."
He paused, letting the words settle in the air between them like poison drifting into open wounds.
The king's fingers drummed against his armrest. "And what do you propose?"
Vaelith looked up, dark eyes gleaming with quiet satisfaction. "I propose, Your Majesty, that we act before his usefulness wanes. Before he becomes… unpredictable."
Maelor shifted back on his throne, stroking his beard slowly. "He has children. A wife."
"Yes," Vaelith said softly. "A family he believes protected by your grace. But in truth… their lives remain under your command. As does his."
Silence fell again. The braziers guttered, casting dancing shadows along the carved walls. Outside, dawn's first crows cawed across palace spires.
Finally, Maelor spoke. His voice was heavy with the resignation of a ruler who had long ceased to see men as anything but pieces on his endless game board. "It would be easier to remove him quietly. Perhaps… an arranged accident during his next hunt."
Vaelith inclined his head, shadows pooling beneath his sharp cheekbones. "If that is your will, sire."
The king waved a dismissive hand, staring into the darkened corners of his vast chamber. "Do what must be done, Chancellor. But keep it quiet. The nobles already whisper of ghosts and curses when his name is mentioned. I will not have them emboldened by rumours of his death."
Vaelith bowed deeply. "As you command."
He turned and swept from the chamber, his robes flowing behind him like liquid midnight. As he stepped into the silent hallway beyond, two black-armoured palace guards fell into formation behind him. They marched in perfect silence down the dim corridor, past statues of forgotten kings and painted murals of divine conquest.
Vaelith's mind whirled with precise efficiency. The huntsman's death would be swift. A poisoned blade in the woods. Perhaps assassins posing as bandits. Anything that could be blamed on the savage chaos beyond civilised walls.
But within his cold chest, another thought flickered like a serpent's tongue tasting blood in the dark.
Vengeance, he thought.
The old legends whispered of it – spirits that fed on wrath, gods that drank hatred like wine. Vaelith did not fear such myths. But he respected them. And he understood power in all its forms.
He raised his eyes to the stained glass window ahead. It depicted the first king of their line, sword raised in victory over fallen enemies. Blood-red dawn light streamed through it, washing Vaelith's pale face in crimson.
"The king fears ghosts," he murmured to himself, lips curling faintly. "Let us hope he never learns what a true ghost looks like."
The guards behind him shifted uncomfortably, though they heard nothing.
Vaelith continued down the hall, robes whispering with each step. Plans unfolded within his mind like black lotus petals opening to the night. Soon, the huntsman would be gone, and with him, the last witness to the filth that kept this throne upright.
But as he descended into the palace depths to summon his hidden agents, Vaelith failed to see a final thin thread weaving itself into his tapestry of schemes – a thread soaked in silent rage, bound by a father's love stronger than any mortal fear.
And when that thread pulled taut, it would unravel everything.