Varen Drayvar's office occupied the highest level of the North Tower, with wide windows overlooking the dark sea and the cliffs where waves crashed incessantly. The sunset stained the sky orange and purple, but inside, luminous stones installed in wrought iron arms along the walls emitted a constant pale blue glow. Ancient magic, residue of Aether crystallized in special minerals extracted from the deep mines of Stormvale. They did not flicker like oil lamps. They did not consume themselves. They just shone, eternal and indifferent.
Varen was seated behind his oak desk, reviewing production reports from the last quarter. Maps of Stormvale territory, the southern peninsula of the continent where the Stormy Sea crashed against black stone cliffs, were spread out on the side table. Small wooden figures marked patrol positions, important towns, and strategic points.
Silas Torvan, his fifty-year-old political advisor, gray hair tied back in a short queue and an old scar crossing his left cheek, was standing by the maps organizing documents with official seals. The door opened without prior announcement. Master Torin entered, his training clothes still stained with dust from the courtyard. Former commander, now weapons instructor, the man had calloused hands and broad shoulders that spoke of decades spent holding a sword.
"Varen. Silas."
"You're late," Silas commented without looking up.
"I was finishing the evening training," Torin replied, approaching.
Varen set down the documents and rose. He walked to the side cabinet, where three crystal goblets waited next to a bottle of dark wine, a southern harvest from the lowlands near the coast. He poured three goblets. The three men took theirs and drank in silence. The wine was strong, tasting of oak and earth.
"Good," Varen said, returning to his chair.
"Silas, reports on the territory. Torin, we'll talk about the training later. Let's begin."
Silas set his goblet on the map table and unrolled the first document. It bore the seal of House Drayvar, a lightning bolt piercing a spear, in blue wax.
"Northern border," he began with a professional and direct voice.
"Confirmed movement from House Greythorn."
House Greythorn, one of the six Great Houses of the Empire, controlled the northern mountains. Monopoly on iron, stone fortifications, warriors hardened by cold and constant conflict with barbarian tribes beyond their borders. Their motto: "Iron fears no fire."
"The iron caravans have increased," Silas continued.
"Three in the last two weeks. But also reconnaissance squads. Groups of ten to fifteen armed men, moving through Eagle Pass and Gray Valley. It does not correspond to a normal commercial pattern."
Varen frowned.
"Is Lord Garrick preparing something?"
"It's not clear. Could be preventive. Or it could be preparation for... something more. Their trade routes are also military routes. Iron travels on the same carts that could transport troops."
Torin drank from his goblet.
"If Greythorn mobilizes seriously, we'd have three days' notice. Four if we're lucky. Their mountain roads are fast."
"That's why I recommend doubling patrols on the northern border," Silas said, marking two positions on the map with red figures.
"Two squads, twenty men each. Observation, not provocation. Discreet."
"Do it," Varen approved.
"But without fanfare. I don't want Greythorn to interpret this as aggression."
"Understood."
Silas changed documents. This one bore a different seal, also Drayvar, but lateral, indicating a secondary family branch.
"Now, the internal problem," his tone became more cautious.
"Lord Thailon Drayvar."
Thailon Drayvar, Varen's cousin, commander of the eastern garrisons, a forty-year-old man with barely contained ambition and an old resentment for not having been chosen as Grand Duke when Varen's father died. Family, yes. Loyal... questionable.
"Thailon has formed five new squads in the last four months," Silas reported.
"Each squad: twenty-five men. One hundred twenty-five soldiers in total. Armed, trained, under his direct command."
Varen leaned back.
"Financing?"
"That's the problem. The coffers he controls shouldn't support that expansion. The Counts and lesser nobles under his supervision report normal income. So, where does the gold come from?"
"External benefactor?"
"Possible. Or he's using funds from another source within the family without reporting it," Silas paused.
"He's your cousin. Your blood. But his actions generate... questions."
Torin grunted.
"One hundred twenty-five men loyal to him, not you. That's a problem."
"Thailon has always been ambitious," Varen said with a neutral tone.
"But he's family. Drayvar blood. He wouldn't move against the main House. His honor wouldn't allow it."
"Honor and ambition don't always coexist peacefully," Silas observed.
"Keep him observed. Discreetly. But don't act unless there's evidence of real treason," Varen drank from his goblet.
"Next."
Silas unrolled another map showing Stormvale's trade routes, the sea lanes connecting the main port with other territories of the Empire and beyond.
"The iron mines in the Gray Hills," he said.
"Reports indicate that one of our secondary foundries, the one run by Lord Tommen, a lesser noble under the supervision of Count Harrow, has been sending unusual quantities of processed iron to the port."
"How much?"
"Tons. More than corresponds to approved imperial contracts," Silas traced a line on the map.
"And here's the interesting part: some of that iron is being loaded onto ships not bound for imperial ports."
Varen straightened up.
"Where to?"
"Lysenthar."
The name fell like a stone in water. Lysenthar, the continent across the Endless Sea. Rival Empire, governed by Empress Sylvara Krenn, the last bearer of the Ascended lineage outside Aetheron. Diplomatic relations: tense. Official trade: minimal and heavily regulated.
"Unauthorized trade with Lysenthar," Varen murmured.
"That's... complicated."
"Very complicated," Silas confirmed.
"If Emperor Titus finds out that a House is trading with Lysenthar without imperial authorization, he could interpret it as treason. Or at least as disloyalty."
"Who authorized this? Lord Tommen?"
"Tommen says he has orders. But not from me. Not from you. When I press, he becomes evasive," Silas crossed his arms.
"Someone within the Drayvar family gave him authorization. Someone with enough weight for Tommen to obey without questioning it."
"Thailon?"
"Possible. But not confirmed. Tommen won't name his source," Silas paused.
"I recommend deep investigation. But it will take time. And it's... delicate. Accusing a family noble without solid evidence creates fractures."
Varen drummed his fingers on the desk.
"Continue investigating. Pressure Tommen but don't break him yet. We need to know who is behind this before acting."
"Understood."
Silas picked up the next document.
"The port. After Merchant Ferris's death, the power vacuum in the grain trade has been... interesting."
Merchant Ferris, the corrupt one Kael had eliminated weeks ago at the Rusted Anchor. His network of smuggling and fraud had been dismantled, but the vacuum he left was a golden opportunity for others.
"Three new merchants tried to fill the space," Silas explained.
"Two are clean as far as we can see. The third, a man named Roldán, sells grain at suspiciously low prices. Seventy percent of the market."
"Source?"
"Unknown. He says he has contacts in House Lunvar."
House Lunvar, the Great House of the west, lords of maritime trade and legendary privateers. Their territory: the major port of Nareth, where continental trade converged.
"But when we investigate, Lunvar has no record of sales to Roldán in those quantities."
"Then he's lying," Torin said.
"Or someone within Lunvar is selling off the official books. Which is their problem, not ours," Silas marked a position on the port map.
"But here's what worries me: Roldán has protection. Someone gave him the main market stall. Someone with authority to ignore the normal allocation rules."
"Who?"
"We don't know. The port office records were... conveniently lost," Silas smiled without humor.
"Someone within Stormvale's administration, possibly someone from the Drayvar family or a lesser noble under our control, gave Roldán that spot. And they're covering their tracks."
Varen exhaled slowly.
"Three problems. Thailon with unauthorized squads. Tommen sending iron to Lysenthar. Roldán with mysterious protection. It all points to internal corruption."
"Or that your family is bigger and less controllable than you'd like to admit," Silas said frankly.
"The Great Houses always have branches seeking their own advantage," Varen replied.
"It's the nature of power. The important thing is to maintain sufficient control over the main branches."
"And when the main branches start moving against you?"
"Then we prune them."
Varen set down his empty goblet.
"Continue investigating all three cases. High priority. Weekly reports directly to me. Do not involve other nobles until we have clarity."
"Understood," Silas gathered the documents, organizing them into a leather folder.
"Ah, a minor detail. I heard there was an interesting duel yesterday in the training yard."
Varen did not look up.
"Interesting?"
"One of your sons against another, I was told. Rylan and... Kael, I think," Silas smiled faintly.
"That's not usually seen. I thought you'd be interested to know."
"Brats fighting with wooden sticks," Varen murmured, leafing through another report.
"It's not my immediate concern."
Torin, who had remained silent, let out a sound.
"It was without Aether. That was the bet. Pure technique."
"Who won?" Silas asked, more out of curiosity than anything else.
"Kael," Torin replied.
"Although winning is a generous term."
Silas raised an eyebrow.
"The younger one beat the heir. That's... notable."
"It was a brats' duel," Varen repeated without much interest.
"Rylan is superior. A bad day doesn't change that."
Awkward silence. Silas looked at Torin, who shrugged.
"But..." Silas began cautiously.
"One of them will be heir. The future of the House. Doesn't it concern you that...?"
"Rylan will be heir," Varen interrupted with a final tone.
"That duel changes nothing. Next topic."
Silas and Torin exchanged a brief glance. The message was clear: the topic was closed. Silas put away his documents.
"Nothing else for now. I'll prepare the dispatches for the northern patrols and the investigation orders."
"Good. You may withdraw."
Silas made a brief bow and left the office, closing the door behind him. Varen and Torin were left alone. The blue glow of the luminous stones cast soft shadows on the walls. The roar of the sea was constant, rhythmic, indifferent to the problems of men.
"Bandits," Torin said directly.
Varen looked up.
"Pardon?"
"In the Edge Mountains. Border region between our territory and the savage lands of the east," Torin approached the map, pointing to a mountainous area far from Stormvale, five days' ride away.
"Band of twenty to thirty. They've attacked minor caravans. Three in the last month. Losses: gold, merchandise, two dead."
The Edge Mountains, rough territory, mostly uninhabited except for isolated mining towns and trade posts. Natural border between the civilized lands of the Empire and the savage expanses where nomadic tribes and bandits operated freely.
"And what exactly do you want to do?" Varen asked.
"Take Rylan. Cleanup expedition. Fifteen veterans under my command," Torin crossed his arms.
"Real combat. Not duels in a courtyard. Enemies who actually kill."
Varen considered.
"Rylan leaves for the Imperial Academy in four months."
"Exactly. That's why he needs this now," Torin leaned against the map table.
"The Academy will have heirs from the six Great Houses. Some will have seen battle. Some will have killed. Rylan needs to match that or he'll arrive at a disadvantage."
The Imperial Academy in Vaeloria, the capital. Elite institution where the best warriors, strategists, and nobles of the continent trained together. Connections forged there lasted decades. Alliances, enmities, rivalries; everything began at the Academy.
"How long?" Varen asked.
"Five days to reach the mountains. A week to locate and eliminate the threat. Five days back. Twenty days total. Maybe twenty-five if the weather complicates things."
"Risk?"
"Moderate. They're disorganized bandits, not an army. With fifteen veterans, the risk to Rylan is minimal," Torin paused.
"But enough for him to experience real pressure. Decisions with consequences. Blood that doesn't wipe clean with a cloth."
Varen drummed his fingers, thinking. Rylan was strong, well-trained. But Torin was right: the Academy would be different. Brutal competition, not just physical but political. Heirs of rival Houses, all seeking advantage.
"Do it," Varen decided.
"But I want reports every three days. Carrier pigeon. If something goes wrong..."
"It will be my responsibility," Torin interrupted.
"I accept it."
"When do you leave?"
"A week. I need to prepare provisions, check equipment, inform the veterans," Torin straightened up.
"I'll bring him back better than he left. Or I won't bring him back."
"I'd prefer the first option."
"Me too."
Torin finished his wine in one gulp and set the goblet on the table.
"Anything else?"
"No. Prepare your expedition."
Torin nodded and walked toward the door. Before leaving, he stopped.
"The duel wasn't just brats with sticks," he said without turning around.
"Kael found a weakness in Rylan. He exploited it. That requires intelligence. Or dangerous instinct."
"And?"
"And nothing. Just... I thought you should know," Torin opened the door.
"Good night."
He left. The door closed.
Varen was left alone in his office. The maps remained spread out. The wooden figures marked threats, problems, pending decisions. Greythorn moving. Thailon arming himself. Iron flowing to Lysenthar. Corruption at the port.
And his children.
Rylan, the heir. Strong but with cracks. Kael, the astute one. Dangerous in ways Varen still didn't fully comprehend. Lyssara, the hungry one. Sareth, the forgotten one.
Four children. Four different paths.
'Problem for another day,' he thought.
He turned off the luminous stones one by one, a simple mechanism that interrupted the flow of crystallized Aether with copper valves. The room plunged into darkness, only illuminated by the faint light of the sunset filtering through the windows. Varen looked at the sea. The waves continued their eternal assault against the cliffs. Tomorrow there would be more reports. More problems. More decisions. But tonight, the work was done.
He left the office, closing the door behind him. The stone corridors were cold and silent. And Stormvale, with all its secrets and shadows, continued to exist under the dying light of day.
As it always had. As it always would.