In a high chamber, the fire burned low, casting long shadows across the stone walls. King Godrick Dravenmoor sat at the table with a cup of wine in hand, his crown set aside, his face worn with the years. Across from him sat Duke Harris Greyharth, his heavy cloak of northern furs in the warm southern air.
Harris's hands clenched around his cup, the wine untouched.
"Do not think me blind, Godrick. I hear the whispers as well as you—the East stirs. Fire has taken root again, and worse, a Vyrmyr breathing in that far land. Let me ride with you. Let me be at your side. You know I will not rest while one of their kind still draws breath."
Godrick studied his old friend for a long moment before setting his cup down with a soft thud. His lips curved in a tired smile.
"Always the stag, Harris. Always ready to charge your horns in the shadows. But listen well. Vengeance may warm the heart, but it blinds the eye. You would abandon the North, your wife, your sons—all to chase a ghost across the waves? No. That is not your duty."
Harris's jaw tightened, but he said nothing, his breath heavy in his chest.
"You are needed at home," Godrick pressed, his voice gentler now.
"The North is yours to keep safe, and your lady would curse me if I stole you from her hearth. Leave this to me. If it is a true threat, I will face it. But I will tell you, my friend—it may be no threat at all. A girl across the sea cannot topple kingdoms."
Harris gave a harsh laugh, bitter and low. "That is what they said of her kin, before dragons darkened the skies."
"And yet here we sit, with no dragons above us," Godrick answered softly.
"Trust me on this. Guard your home. Guard your family. Let the crown carry this weight, Harris—it is mine to bear, not yours."
For a time, only the fire spoke. At last Harris reached for his wine and drank, though the rage still smoldered in his eyes.
Then he spoke. "Then if you will not have me, take my son instead. Edric is near-grown, and sooner or later he must learn from more than his father's hand. Better he be guided by a king than sheltered by the North."
"You've never had the patience for politics, Harris." he laughs softly as he sips of his cup
" But Edric? He's still a boy. Sixteen years may be old enough to bear steel, to kill if he must, but politics is another battlefield altogether. A crueler one. I would not have him tangled in courtly nonsense before he's ready."
Harris swirled his cup, his tone smooth, persuasive. "Sixteen is old enough to fight. Old enough to bleed. Better he learns to temper his steel with wisdom now, while he still has the chance. Under your guidance, he'd grow stronger—and our houses would stand closer than they have in years."
The king leaned back, rubbing his temple as though the weight of both crown and friendship pressed on him at once.
"You would bind our bloodlines for the sake of a shadow across the sea?" he murmured. He shook his head, though there was no scorn in it, only weariness.
"I will not wager children on phantoms, Harris. Not while the world is still uncertain."
The Duke's hand curled into a fist, the veins on his wrist straining, but his voice—when it came—was smooth as poured wine.
"Of course not, old friend," Harris said, leaning forward, his eyes gleaming in the firelight.
"I would never ask you to gamble your house, nor mine, on phantoms. But a bond between Greyharth and Dravenmoor would strengthen more than walls. It would bind North and South so tightly that no storm, no crown, no threat from the East could drive a wedge between us again."
Godrick sighed, his brow furrowing.
"You dress it in fine words. Yet I hear the edge beneath them."
Harris smiled faintly, almost sadly, as though stung by the thought.
"Do you not remember, Godrick? When we were boys, we dreamed of forging a realm where no tyrant would ever sit the throne again. And when the Vyrmyr Emperor went mad, it was you who carried the banners, you who brought us together. I was at your side then, as I am now. I have no wish for thrones, only to stand with you, as we once stood—against the flames"
The King's gaze lingered on him, old memories stirring, but his jaw tightened.
"That flame is gone, Harris. The Vyrmyrs are ash and dust."
"And yet," Harris said softly, his fingers drumming once on the table before stilling.
"A single ember can set the world alight again. Far in the East, across the sea, even if she's just a girl. What is she now? Nothing. But one day, when the winds shift, when the storm gathers, she may become something greater than either of us wish to see. I do not say we hunt her, nor that we sacrifice our children to schemes. But shouldn't our houses be ready—prepared—when the storm comes knocking?"
The words sank heavy between them. Godrick's shoulders sagged, the crown upon his brow feeling heavier than ever. He stared into the fire, as though searching for answers in the flames.
"And what lies ahead for them," Harris pressed gently, almost fatherly now.
"For your son, my ward—for all our children—when that day comes? Would it not ease you, even a little, to know they are bound, hand in hand, against what may come? Not for vengeance, but for peace. For the realm we both swore to protect."
For a long moment, the only sound was the crackle of fire and the faint groan of old stone in the keep's bones.
Godrick finally met Harris's gaze. His voice was quiet, though not yielding.
"You make it sound like friendship. Like duty. Yet in your heart, I know the old blood still burns for vengeance."
Harris did not flinch, though his lips curved in a ghost of a smile.
"Perhaps. But what man does not carry his scars, Godrick? Even you bear scars deeper than mine."
Godrick's hand tightened until the cup threatened to split in his grip. He forced himself to breathe, slow and steady, yet the unease clung to him like smoke. Harris's words coiled in his mind, not loud, but persistent — the tolling of a distant bell. A girl. A single ember.
He wanted to laugh it off, to call it the ramblings of an old stag who had ran for too long and found nothing running from. Yet something in Harris's tone — that edge of desperation, the way he cloaked vengeance in the garb of duty — wormed its way under his skin.
Godrick felt the echo of younger days, of battles fought shoulder to shoulder, of the mad emperor's fall. He remembered blood on steel, remembered the vows they had made to keep the world from burning again.
But was it the truth Harris spoke… or only the gnawing hunger of old hate, still unquenched after all these years?
Godrick's hand tightened around his cup until the wood creaked. He forced himself to breathe, steady and slow, but the unease remained.
Harris's voice carried on in his skull, like the tolling of a distant bell that would not be silenced.
But the silence itself was an answer.
Far from the high chamber where the crown and council weighed the realm's fate, the sound of steel rang in the castle's sparring yard. The clang of blades, the scrape of boots on sand, the sharp breath of exertion—here the realm's heirs found their measure not in words, but in steel.
Edric Greyharth and Lucien Montclair crossed swords beneath the autumn sun. The one bore the hard, unyielding look of the North—broad-shouldered, grim as the granite cliffs of his homeland. The other was quicker, sharper, all sly smiles and elegant steps, a mirror of the proud eagle that soared upon his family's banners.
Lucien's laughter broke through the clash of their blades as he pressed forward.
"Bloodly hell, boy, you've not changed. That same stony face. Do the Greyharths never learn to smile, or does your father beat it out of you at birth?"
Edric turned his blade and shoved the strike aside, his lips twitching with the ghost of a smile.
"And you haven't lost your tongue, Uncle. Still as cocky as you were when I was a boy."
Lucien pivoted lightly, circling. Sweat gleamed at his brow, though his grin never faltered.
"I hear your brothers have gone north to earn their honors. If I were you, I'd ride with them—better the bite of frost than the bite of boredom in these southern halls."
Edric's sword flashed low, quick as a wolf's snap. He swept Lucien's footing from beneath him, and the Montclair heir stumbled, sprawling back on the sand with a grunt. Edric stood over him, his shadow cutting long in the yard.
"I'd ride gladly," Edric said, offering his hand, "but I am my father's firstborn. My place is here, with his burdens. Unlike you, who cast aside your title for a knight's oaths." His smirk cut as sharp as his blade.
Lucien clasped his hand, let himself be hauled upright, his grin as bright as ever despite the sting.
"A cruel tongue for one so young. But tell me, Edric—would you rather I had clung to duty and sat a lord's chair instead? I've no love for ledgers and banners. The sword suits me better."
Edric gave a dry chuckle.
"Perhaps. But too bad for me—while I listen to greybeards drone on of duty and oaths, you'll be out in the world winning songs."
Lucien clapped his shoulder, laughing.
"And you'll be the one ruling the north after the songs have all turned to silence. A fair trade, wouldn't you say?"
The clang of their swords faded, leaving only the hum of the evening air and the tug of banners high above. Edric lowered his blade, chest rising with each breath, his eyes drifting toward the tower where his father still sat with the king.
Lucien followed his gaze, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.
"Best not to stare too hard at high windows, boy. You'll see little but shadows and hear less truth. Men like your father and the king—aye, they fight their battles in whispers."
Edric's jaw set, his grip firm on the hilt.
"And when their whispers fail, it'll be us who bleed for it."
Lucien chuckled, resting his sword on his shoulder.
"Spoken like a true Greyharth. Always brooding over storms before they break. Enjoy the sun while it shines, Edric—steel will find you soon enough."
Edric said nothing, but his eyes lingered on the keep, where the firelight still burned in the high chamber.
Above, the banners stirred restlessly in the wind, as though the stones themselves braced for what was yet to come.