Inside Castle Thornecrest, sunlight poured through tall windows and spilled across a chamber reserved for business affairs. The room was quiet—too quiet. Only the faint rustle of drapes and the muted ticking of a clock marked the passage of time.
At the center of that calm sat two men—Lord Suyed of Ortenia, and Lord Powell of Marrowfield—facing one another across a modest table of dark oak, its surface polished to a fine sheen.
Lord Powell's gaze wandered to the sideboard, where bottles gleamed like captured rubies. "I see you still maintain an enviable collection of wines," he remarked, his tone easy but his eyes calculating.
Lord Suyed allowed the faintest hint of a smile. "Naturally. Ortenia remains the heart of the kingdom's vineyards. If our vines ceased to bear fruit, half the realm would go thirsty."
Powell chuckled softly. "And the other half poorer, no doubt."
Suyed's smile deepened—an expression polite, yet edged. "Indeed."
"Still," Powell continued, turning his cup idly between his fingers, "my wife has developed quite a taste for your Ezir vintage. Perhaps I might take a few bottles back to the capital—consider it a token of friendship?"
"You may take as many as you like," Suyed replied, dismissive with the grace of a man accustomed to being owed. "It would be a shame for them to gather dust when they might be appreciated properly."
Ortenia's Ezir wine was famed across the realm, its grapes said to grow only where the soil had once been stained with dragon's blood. Nobles hoarded it like treasure; poets swore it tasted of memory and fire.
"Ah, your generosity knows no bounds," said Powell, his tone light—but there was a shadow beneath the flattery. He reached into his coat, withdrawing a parchment sealed with crimson wax. "This time, however, I have come not only for wine. I bring word from the king himself."
Suyed's brow arched slightly. He took the letter, broke the seal, and read. His eyes flicked across the lines, expression unchanging.
Powell watched him the way a hunter might watch the brush for movement.
When Suyed finally spoke, his voice was calm. "An invitation. For my son."
"Indeed," Powell confirmed. "The Crown Prince is hosting a gathering of young lords. A… cultivation of promise, one might say."
"Cultivation," Suyed repeated softly, folding the parchment. "That is one word for it."
Powell smiled. "A necessary one. The king wishes to strengthen ties among the noble houses. A generation raised in unity rather than rivalry."
"Unity," said Suyed. "Or oversight."
Powell chuckled. "You always did see too much behind words, old friend."
"Words are the only weapons permitted in rooms such as these," Suyed said, setting the letter aside. "One must learn to wield them well."
Powell's smile lingered—but so did his silence. Then, as if remembering his true purpose, he leaned forward slightly."There is also the matter of the mine," he said. "You know as well as I that its discovery will shift the balance of trade across the south. I would prefer that balance remain… amicable."
Suyed poured more wine for both, the sound of it rich and deliberate. "Amicable," he repeated. "A pleasant word for profitable."
"Call it what you will," Powell said, lifting his cup, "but I would see the rights placed in steady hands. I will pay fairly, of course—and ensure your merchants suffer no loss."
Suyed studied him, silent. Then, slowly, he leaned back.
"Old friend," he said at last, "you ask me to hand you a mountain of silver and call it goodwill."
Powell's smile faltered for just a breath. "Surely you understand—"
"I understand very well," Suyed interrupted, voice still calm. "You came not for the letter, nor for my wine. You came to see whether Ortenia still remembers how to say no."
Powell met his gaze—and for the first time, his pleasant mask cracked, just a little. The air between them grew taut as a drawn bow.