The second rider didn't come alone.
By mid-morning, the thunder of hooves rolled up the Vale Road, scattering birds from the bare trees. Guards rushed to the gates, but when they looked out, it wasn't one traveler wrapped in gray. It was a column.
Ten riders, armored and armed, their horses stamping as if impatient for blood. At their head rode a man in black steel, the crest of the city etched faintly on his breastplate, though he wore no banner. His face was hidden under a helm, only his mouth visible—thin-lipped, grim.
The people of Vale House gathered, tense, as the gates opened. The riders trotted in without hesitation, the iron-clad leader pulling his horse to a stop in the middle of the courtyard.
He dismounted with a heavy thud, boots striking the stone like hammers. Unlike the smiling emissary before him, this one didn't bow. He didn't smile. He simply looked around the ruined courtyard, then up at the cracked Tower, before letting his gaze settle on Elma.
"You are the Vessel," he said, his voice deep, unadorned, the kind of tone used to read executions.
Elma's spine stiffened. The shard pulsed hot against her ribs, urging her to burn through the armor, to silence the insult in his voice.
Calista stepped forward first, her gown whispering against the stone. "You ride into our home without permission. You bring soldiers to our gates without invitation. And you greet us like prisoners on trial."
The envoy didn't flinch. "Permission is given by those who hold power. My presence here is proof enough that the city doubts yours."
Whispers spread through the crowd, sharp and fearful. Some servants took a step back. Guards shifted, uncertain.
Elma stepped forward then, shoulders square, eyes fixed on the iron envoy. "And what does the city send in you? A threat?"
He removed his helm slowly, revealing a weathered face, scarred and hard, eyes like cold iron. "A test."
The word cracked across the courtyard like a whip.
He gestured, and two of his men dragged something forward—a chest bound in iron. They slammed it onto the stones and flung it open. Inside lay weapons: curved blades, spears, axes, all gleaming, freshly oiled.
"Prove you can rule," the envoy said. "Choose your weapon. Face me. If you fall, the city takes Vale House. If you stand… then perhaps they will send their next message with a softer hand."
The shard roared inside Elma, her veins heating, her vision sharpening. Fight. Burn. Destroy.
But Calista's voice cut through the noise, low and steady. "This is a trap."
Elma's hands clenched. "So what do you suggest? That I bow?"
"No," Calista murmured, her eyes sharp, calculating. "That you show him you don't need his game to win."
The iron envoy's gaze flicked between them, patient, waiting.
Elma stepped to the chest, staring down at the gleaming weapons. Her fingers brushed a blade's hilt, and for a moment the shard screamed for release. But instead of drawing steel, she turned and looked the envoy in the eye.
"My weapon is not yours to choose," she said coldly.
The shard flared. Her veins lit faintly under her skin, a quiet glow threading down her arms. Gasps rippled through the crowd as whispers rose: the Vessel, the fire, the shard.
The envoy's eyes narrowed. His men tensed. But he didn't step back.
"You would burn your own house to prove your point?" he asked.
Elma's voice sharpened. "I would burn the city if it meant never wearing chains again."
For a long, tense beat, the courtyard held its breath.
Then the envoy smiled—not warm, not mocking, but grim. He slammed his helm back on and barked a command. His men hauled the chest closed, the iron ringing like a bell.
"You've given your answer," he said. "The city will decide what to do with it."
Without another word, he mounted his horse. His riders followed, and in moments they thundered back down the Vale Road, leaving only the echo of iron and the smell of fear.
The courtyard was silent after they left. Every eye was on Elma, some filled with awe, others with terror. The shard pulsed, basking in it. See how they look at you. See how they kneel without chains.
Elma's throat tightened. She turned to Calista, her voice rough. "This isn't going to stop."
Calista's expression was calm, but her grip on Elma's hand was iron. "No. It's only beginning."
And in the hush of the courtyard, with the echoes of iron still fading, Elma knew the city had declared war in everything but name.