The Unseen Blade

The southern horizon smoldered, a bruise of smoke staining the dawn. Valencia stood at the war room's arched window, her fingers gripping the cold stone sill. The rebellion was no longer a rumor whispered in council—it was a wildfire, fed by Feron's arrogance and Pherr's desperation. And now, it bore her crescent moon.

Xyrus entered without sound, his boots leaving phantom prints on the polished floor. "You've seen the reports."

She didn't turn. "Bandits don't rally under royal crests."

A parchment landed on the table behind her, its edges singed. "They're using your symbol. Your people."

"My people?" Valencia whirled, her obsidian necklace clinking like a chain. "You think I'd burn villages to make a point? I'd start with this palace."

His gaze flickered to the map sprawled between them, Pherr's southern territories circled in angry red ink. "Then explain this." He tossed a blackened arrow onto the table. Its shaft was carved with Pherr's lunar runes—but beneath the ash, something glinted.

Valencia snatched it, her thumb scraping away soot to reveal a second sigil: a serpent coiled around a dagger. Eldrin's mark. Her pulse quickened. "Your lords aren't just stealing grain. They're planting lies."

Xyrus stepped closer, his shadow swallowing hers. "Proof?"

"Follow me."

The crypts breathed decay. Feron's dead kings watched from their silver tombs as Valencia led Xyrus past skeletal banners and rusted crowns. She stopped before a niche where a skeletal hand clutched a rusted goblet. "Your ancestors loved their secrets."

"And you love yours," Xyrus said, but his voice lacked its usual edge.

She pried a loose stone from the wall, revealing a hollow stacked with arrows—each bearing the serpent-and-dagger seal. "Eldrin's been arming both sides. Stirring chaos to justify invading Pherr."

Xyrus lifted an arrow, his jaw tightening. "Why?"

"War fills vaults faster than tariffs." She met his eyes. "And you played into his hands. Lowering the Accord made you look weak. He needs blood to reclaim power."

A muscle twitched in his throat. "You expect me to believe this?"

"Believe what you want. But ask yourself—" She stepped into his space, her breath a challenge. "—why your lords fear peace more than rebellion."

They found Eldrin in the wine cellar, his serpent pin gleaming as he inspected a cask. "Prince Xyrus. How… unexpected."

Valencia dropped the arrow at his feet. "Yours, I believe."

Eldrin's smile slithered. "A trinket. The south is full of forgeries."

Xyrus moved like winter's first frost—slow, inevitable. His dagger pressed to Eldrin's throat. "Try again."

"You'd trust her word over mine?" Eldrin hissed. "She's drafting treaties with Lysandra."

Valencia froze. The letter. She'd burned it herself.

Xyrus didn't flinch. "You mistake me for a man who needs words to see treason." He nodded to the guards. "Take him."

As Eldrin spat curses, Valencia caught the flicker of panic in his eyes. This wasn't the end—it was a spark.

Later, in the study's quivering candlelight, Xyrus poured two goblets of wine. "The mines are poisoned."

Valencia choked. "What?"

"Feron's silver. It's tainted. Rotting the land." He swirled his drink, avoiding her gaze. "Your vineyards… they're said to cleanse blighted soil."

She laughed, sharp as shattered glass. "And here I thought you hated my wine."

"I hate relying on anyone." His eyes met hers, unguarded. "But Eldrin's right about one thing—Lysandra's viper queen would gut us both."

Valencia leaned forward, her reflection fracturing in his goblet. "Then make me a better offer."

He traced the arrow's serpent sigil on the table. "Help me purge the rot. From the mines. From the court."

"And in return?"

"A true Accord. Not scraps."

She tilted her head. "You'll trust me?"

"No." His lips quirked, the ghost of a smile. "But I'll respect you."

Dawn bled through the windows as Valencia penned a letter to Pherr's vintners. Prepare the cure. Her hand hesitated, then added: And ready the guard.

Trust was a luxury. Survival wasn't.

Somewhere in the palace, a door slammed. A shadow passed her threshold—too swift to be a servant.

She slipped Eldrin's arrow into her sleeve. Let them come.

The game had new players now.