06:30 p.m. - At Council Chamber, Castle of Aurelthorn
The road rolled like a long, slow bruise across the land. He had ridden from Veyndral for five days — a steady, spare pace with the small halts a man must take: one night at a fortified post, two short sleeps under roofed barns, a broken spoke fixed with a hammer and a curse, water drawn from a well that smelled of iron. The country had not been kind, but it had been honest; the hours taught him the kind of patience that makes men useful.
Varrik sat the saddle with a stiffness that had nothing to do with armor. His horse walked with the same old surefoot way it always had — a single, steady step that did not ask why a man rode him. Behind Varrik rode two captains and six men: not a great guard, only what Kael allowed. The leather crest at his wrist was raw; the strap left a dark mark that would not wash away with river water.
He kept his head down. He kept the map in his mind smaller than it wanted to be. The memory that had not left him was short and sharp: Mersha swinging like a blade, the beast throwing her up, the silence after. He tasted ash and iron when he closed his mouth. He tasted the voices of men that had died because he had not checked the wood.
The first weeks of any envoy's journey are simple and full of small problems: a washed ford, a broken wheel, food handled rough that rubbed a raw edge on temper. Varrik dealt with those things without speech. He tightened straps, fixed a split spoke with a hammer and a steady hand, took water from a roadside well and offered it to his men without saying more. That was the kind of leader he could be now: the one who did the small things and left words for a room where they must be exact.
At night by the fire his mind returned to the War‑Forge Hall in short, sharp images. Kael's voice had been the kind a man cannot ignore: quiet, with iron under it. "Measure. Verify. Deny your pride." He felt the leather at his wrist like a teacher's hand. He thought of the Ashen Wing sending dragons like hot knives into the dark — not to hold, but to steal hours. Steal time. Buy a month.
Vaelor had been there too, full of flame and eager to push. Varrik had looked at the prince before the room and seen the hunger a young man gets when he sees the chance for song. He had thought of that hunger and told himself he would be the blunt instrument Kael wanted, not the song. He would go to Aurelthorn with Kael's words in his mouth and Mersha's absence in his chest.
They crossed wheatfields and low hills. The world was quiet in the way it is before men are asked to choose. Twice Varrik saw children looking from behind doors — faces small, frightened, eyes wide. That made the sentence smaller in his mind: measure, verify, deny pride. Why had they gone so big? Why had they not looked deeper? Why had they not listened to the wood?
On the third day a rider brought news that followed the ash: Belmara's men had pulled a smoke line farther east. The skirmish lines bucked and then sank. The map he had left under Kael's hand had new marks in his mind now. The world was not waiting for grand speeches. The world wanted bread and the chance for a man to sleep at night with his child under a roof.
They reached the hills that look down to Dawnspire at late day. The city sat like a crown on its little plain: white stone and low towers and a river looping like a silver snake. Dawnspire smelled like bread and animals and a little fear. The city gate loomed, a dark mouth with guards and a slow wheel that turned once and then again. Varrik tugged the crest under his sleeve, hid the red leather under a rolled cloak. The strap still bit.
The captain at the gate measured his men. Guards asked the simple questions a city always asks: name, business, papers. Varrik gave his name and the name of the king who sent him. He handed over a short sealed paper that Kael's clerk had tied with ash and a quick knot. The guard read the seal, felt the leather in his hand, saw the crest, and the gate opened. Small things, again: the right seal, the right countenance.
Inside the city the streets were narrow, and the noise of merchants filled the air. Varrik moved through it like a man who kept his thoughts small. He rode past half doors and loaves stacked warm on boards. Men crossed themselves as he passed; women watched him with weary eyes. He kept his look steady and the leather at his wrist reminded him not to ask for pity.
He made for the castle in the quiet way envoys move: direct, but not loud. The Castle of Aurelthorn stands above Dawnspire like a watchful animal. Its stones were older than many of Kael's banners. Men looked softer there, not softer in courage but softer in the way that comes of less blood washed in the doorways. Aurelthorn had lost men too. Varrik felt that at once.
The guards at the castle were different from the gate men. They took his papers, read the seal, and led him inside with less word, more eyes. The hall smelled of old wood and ink. The final clerk led him to a waiting room where the air felt like a held breath. He waited. He had promised Kael he would be plain. He would be plain and he would carry no dragon, no march, no threat. He would look like a tired man bearing an older command: buy time.
When the doors opened and the king's men led him into the council room, Varrik bowed deeper than custom. He wore the leather crest on his wrist where it showed a little, like a wound that would not close. The man across the table — King Aldric — sat tall but tired, the ring of his years and decisions in the line at his mouth. Aldric's eyes had the same weary steadiness a captain learns when he has seen too many boys go under.
Varrik's voice came even then, not practiced and not full of lie. He told the truth exactly: what had happened at Eryndral, what the beast had been, how the Ashen Wing had burned through forges and roads, how Mersha had died. He did not hide the shame in his hands. He let the crest's leather show. He told them Kael's order: thirty days of truce, nothing more, nothing less — a pause for both sides so Kael could strike in the east and buy time.
A quiet took the room. Words are heavy things in such halls. A king listens for the weight in a man's voice and the blood on his skin. Varrik felt every one of his failures like cold iron on his neck. He stood there as the man sent to ask for mercy and sense in equal measure.
Aldric did not answer at once. He let the quiet do its work. Then he asked the kind of question a ruler must ask: "Why should I trust that this truce will hold? If I stop now, who will stop Belmara later for me? If I give you days, what will you give me in return?"
Varrik had answers to that. He had Kael's words and the memory of ash. He had no promise of peace, only the truth of what the east would do if both sides kept burning. He said the simple thing a man says when he is sent to ask for mercy: "I will speak for my king. I will stand before you with the truth. The price is the hour. Buy it with us if you must. If you refuse, you must measure the cost of blood with your own hands."
Aldric leaned back. For the first time Varrik felt the crest at his wrist move like a tide. He had asked his king for days. Now a second king could deny him or accept him. Varrik had to bear the look of that choice on his shoulders.
The room waited. Outside, the dusk gathered. Varrik listened to the slow rise of the city: bread ovens, a child's measure, a bell at the temple. Time was a furnace and he had been sent with bare cup to ask coins for a few more hours.
He had no swagger now. He had only the leather that bit and a mouth full of ash. He would speak as if the dead followed him, and he would hope that speaking made them believe. If he failed, Kael had said what would happen: apology in person to Mersha, and a lifetime of that shame. He did not want that road. He wanted the pause — thirty days — to do what the ruler in Veyndral had ordered.
The first answer came slow. Aldric's mouth moved like a man considering the cost of bread. The hours pressed down on Varrik like the weight of the leather strap. He could not turn back. He had been sent to buy time. He would try to buy it. He would try to bring home men to beds and roofs and warm bread.
The castle candles threw thin light. Varrik kept his head still. He would speak straight, as Kael had ordered. He would tell his truth and carry what truth they gave him back. He had no right to do more. He had no right to take less. He had to live with what he had done and then try, with words, to put some hours between the two crowns.
Aldric watched Varrik with eyes like river stone — steady, cool, not quick to heat. Around the long table, the king's men sat in careful lines: Draemyr leaned forward, fingers curled on the wood; Aemond kept a small distance, robes neat, his hands folded as if holding a thought. Others watched with thin faces. The castle smelled of oat porridge and old paper. It felt ordinary and therefore heavy.
Aldric cleared his throat. "You ask for thirty days. Why should I give time to a man whose men were cut down in the night?"
Varrik did not flinch. He had rehearsed nothing. He had no lies to sell. "Because Emperor Kael will not stop burning if this city is a stepping stone," Varrik said. "He moves the Ashen Wing to break supply. He is not blind — he knows where to strike. Thirty days buys our people bread and walls. It buys time to move grain, mend forges, and prepare wards. Without days, we burn until both sides are empty."
Draemyr's voice came low and sharp. "You ride in here and speak of ash and peace, and you expect me to trust you? How do I know you are not sent only to stand between two fires and watch my men die?"
Varrik looked at Draemyr, and for the first time a thread of anger showed in him. Not the hot kind that Vaelor wanted, but a slow, honest heat. "Because I will tell them the cost I know. I will speak plainly. If I return empty, I will wear that truth on my skin. Kael tied leather to my wrist in the hall. I wear it now. If I come back saying yes and I lied, I will not be believed by any man who counts the dead."
A quiet moved. Men listen to courage that is not boast. Aldric folded his hands. "Words are wind until they gain shape. Let us shape it."
Aemond, who had listened without speaking, now leaned forward. He spoke softly, each syllable clear. "Kings speak with swords and with wizards. If there is to be a truce, it must not be a shadow game. We will need guarantees the truce will not be a springboard for a deeper strike. If Aurelthorn acts openly with the Mage Council and we set watch wards, we can watch whether men move in secret. I can place runes to warn us if troops cross certain lines."
"That will not stop a beast from the wood," Varrik said. "The forest holds older things. But it will stop men moving women's bread and wagon goods under the cover of night."
Aldric nodded. He was not a man of magic words but of back‑bone. "I will consider your request. But I will not hand days away like coin. I will ask three things of you."
Varrik braced. Three things were a small ledger he could carry.
"You will accept hostages," Aldric said. "Not children. Trusted men from your command who will sleep in Dawnspire. You will give one hundred spears — not to be used offensively inside our borders — left at the border watch to protect towns if needed. You will let the Mage Council inspect the Ashen Wing's orders. You deliver the maps of their supply lines as proof of the eastward push."
Varrik felt the leather cut his skin. The request was sharp. He had not expected all of it — especially the map demand. He had wanted only time. But Aldric was a king who counted bread and men. "I will bring names for hostages," Varrik said slowly. "I will deliver the spears. I will bring the maps to your men for inspection — limited to a council watch. But I cannot and will not allow the maps to be copied and used against my own lines. Kael will not let me hand over secrets naked."
"Then we seal them under oath and seal," Aldric said. "Aemond, you will place a binding rune that lets us see a change in one copy only. If the Emperor breaks faith, we will know."
Aemond's mouth pressed thin. "I can do that. Not a perfect ward but a trace. It will not stop a blade, but it will show if a route is altered."
Draemyr's grip tightened around the arm of his chair. "Hostages. Maps. Watch runes. If this fails, we bear the cost. If this works, we buy days. I do this for my men."
Aldric looked at Varrik with the patience of a man who had weighed too many lives. "If you return and say no, there will be no shame for asking. If you return and say yes, you will bring clear proof of the agreement. If you return and offer lies, I will expect you to kneel in the hall and call what you deserve."
Varrik bowed his head like a man who had seen the thing happen. "I will do it. I will bring the names. I will bring what I can. I will speak as if the dead stand behind me."
They drew terms. The council made them plain and small: thirty days; one hundred spears to the garrison at the border; ten named captains to lodge in Dawnspire until the truce was firm; maps to be inspected under council runes; the Mage Council to post early warning wards along three roads.
It would later emerge — after pins and seals had been laid down — that the prisoner at the centre of the exchange was General Lyscia. In the nights, Seraphina had found Lyscia in the dark and carried her back; Dawnspire learned that the clasp had been opened and Veyndral held the paper and the runes. Yet when the council moved from words to practice Aldric was told that Aurelthorn could not produce the prisoner. Whether by fear, calculation, or deliberate concealment, that claim proved false in hindsight. The concealment weakened Aurelthorn's bargaining hand and scuppered the narrower prisoner‑swap; the broader pause survived, but the lie left a residue of distrust the two crowns would now have to carry.
Yet the small, awkward truth worked like a lever. In the talks that followed, Aldric and his men told Varrik and Kael that Aurelthorn could not — at that moment — produce the prisoner for the exchange. Whether by fear, calculation, or the frayed nerves of a city still counting its losses, that claim proved false in hindsight. The concealment reduced Aurelthorn's bargaining hand and scuppered the prisoner‑exchange: the broader pause survived, but the narrower swap collapsed under that lie, leaving a residue of suspicion the two crowns would have to carry.
If any side broke the truce, they would meet immediate sanction; if Belmara tried to use the pause to mass deeper forces against Aurelthorn, Dawnspire would call it and strike where they could.
A clerk took the words and wrote them. Everyone signed with hands that did not shake. The seals were waxed, then faintly runed by Aemond. It was not a peace. It was a pause measured in bread and watchmen.
Outside the castle windows the city stirred. Torches were snuffed in the lanes. The sky was thin and hard. Varrik left the hall bearing a folded roll with the council's terms sealed. The leather crest at his wrist bit and bled a little more. He did not think of what he would hear when he reached Veyndral. He thought of the men who would sleep safer for a month, the children who might see a next harvest.
On the road back the wind tasted of ash and metal. Every cart that passed carried news. Each face he saw was a ledger of the same thing: men wanted days and men wanted bread. When he turned the crest under his hand, it felt like both a warning and a prayer.
Kael had told him to go with the voices of the dead behind him. Varrik walked with the bone of that voice in his mouth. He would speak plainly. He would tell Kael what he had won and what he had given. He would show the seal and the wards and the hostages and the spears. He would keep the word, and he would hope a month could be more than a gap.
He rode knowing one thing: if any man in Veyndral thought this was a victory in glory, he would have to stand against him. This was not glory. It was the only clean trade he had — time for the living to prepare. If the world would be cruel, then he would do the cruel thing that fought it — buy an hour so others could fix a wall.
At dusk he came back under Veyndral's gray shadows. The forges still breathed. His men looked harder and quieter than when he left. Kael waited at the map table like a man who had not had sleep in a long time. The leather at his wrist had left a red line.
Kael looked at his envoy. "Did you get them?" he asked, voice small and straight.
Varrik worked the seal open and slid the paper across the table. The words were plain and thin. Kael read without change. When he folded the paper, his hand never shook. He tapped the map and the new pin took its place.
"Thirty days," he said. "No parades. Watch the borders. If we learn they prepare a trick in the open, we will feed them ash again. But for now, measure and hold. Verify. Deny your pride."
Varrik bowed, the weight on his wrist a living thing. He had done the thing asked. He had not done more. He had not come back with song. He had come back with a pause, a set of small hard guarantees, and the knowledge that the war would not stop unless men chose to stop it.
Kael watched the fire and said nothing else. Around the hall the men turned to lists and tools, to running the wing and mending wings that had burned. The furnace went on. The city breathed. Time had been bought, for a while. Men counted the cost and the hours, and the war kept its slow, terrible pace.