Chapter 11. The Corsair of the Cursed Runebound

At the sudden clamor of mystic omens, King Luvien of Eldrath abruptly pushed aside the obsidian, rune-carved table where he and his council had been deep in discussion. Arcane lights flickered around the grand hall of the Auroral Citadel—a palace sculpted from enchanted marble and living crystal—where every hushed conversation seemed to carry the weight of prophecy.

"What is it, Baron of the Twilight Veil?" King Luvien demanded, his voice echoing like a chiming fey bell. "You look as though you've seen spirits. Has your distress been provoked by the ominous news delivered by M. de Blacas, and confirmed by the seer Villefort, whose visions pierce fate itself?"

de Blacas, dressed in robes marked with ancient sigils, hurried toward the baron. The baron, known throughout Eldrath as the Prefect of Arcane Watch, looked terrified, as though any slip in his runic duties might unleash havoc. Despite his fear, he clearly wanted to keep his dignity before the king.

"Sire…" the baron began, his voice quivering as though haunted by forbidden glyphs.

"Speak!" King Luvien ordered, his dark eyes flaring with a sorrowful intensity. The baron, trembling from a mix of guilt and dread, almost bowed at the king's feet. But Luvien, mindful of the fragile balance between mortal resolve and divine enchantment, merely stepped back with a concerned frown.

"Unburden yourself," he pressed.

"Oh, Your Majesty!" the baron cried. "A terrible fate has fallen upon me—I am cursed by these events! I shall never free myself of the shame!"

"Monsieur," said King Luvien firmly, "I command you to tell the truth. The realm deserves no secrets."

The baron drew a shaky breath. "Sire, the dark usurper—the one who defies our sacred runes—left the enchanted isle of Elvoria on the twenty-sixth night of the Frost Moon, then landed on our shores on the first of March, guided by the twin moons' silver light."

"Where exactly?" asked Luvien. "Somewhere in Faerion?"

"In our own domain, sire—an out-of-the-way port near the ancient forest of Antybriel, on the Gulf of Jhuan," the baron replied, voice still trembling.

"So the usurper has set foot on Eldrath itself," the king said, anger rising in his tone. "That place is two hundred and fifty leagues from our capital, Aurelion, and you bring this news on the third of March? Are we sure these warnings aren't just illusions or the wild talk of a mad prophet?"

"Alas, sire, it's all too real," the baron answered, sounding close to despair.

King Luvien straightened as if struck in both heart and mind. "In our own realm!" he cried. "How could our wards fail? Is there treachery in the council of runes?"

"Sire," implored the venerable Duc de Blacas, whose family had long been guardians of the old rune lore, "do not be too quick to blame M. Dandré, our master of lesser runic arts, or accuse him of betrayal. We were blinded by our own complacency, even the minister of arcane watch—"

"But—" Villefort began, only to pause under the weight of the king's stern gaze. Regaining composure, he bowed. "Pardon me, sire. My devotion to the truth overcame me."

"Speak up, seer," said Luvien gently, "for you alone foresaw this threat. Now help us break the spell that endangers our kingdom."

"Sire," said Villefort, "the usurper is hated across the southern fey lands. If he should appear in Languedoc or Provence, the local folk would rebel against him in an instant."

"True," added the minister softly. "But rumor says his hidden armies are moving through the perilous passes of Gap and Sisteron, where ancient runes guard unwary travelers."

"Then he's marching toward Aurelion?" King Luvien exclaimed. The silence from the minister of arcane watch was telling enough.

"And what of Dauphiné?" Luvien asked, turning his gaze on Villefort. "Might the old mountain clans, masters of the highland runes, fight him too?"

"Sire, I'm afraid not," Villefort admitted. "Those clans are strangely loyal to Bonaparte's dark legacy, even though much of the realm opposes him."

"So he knew exactly where to land," Luvien said bitterly. "Do we have any estimate of his forces?"

"We do not, sire," the minister replied, evidently frustrated.

"What? Not even a hint?" Luvien snapped. "Then again, perhaps it doesn't matter," he added with a dismissive wave.

"Sire," the minister said, trying to explain, "our only information came in scraps: the usurper's landing and his general route."

"And how did you receive these scraps?" Luvien inquired. The minister lowered his head, cheeks flushing.

"By the runic telegraph, sire," he said quietly.

King Luvien paced a few steps, arms folded in a pose reminiscent of the ancient heroes who once harnessed cosmic powers. "So," he said, his face turning pale with rising anger, "seven allied armies worked together to defeat this man before, and by the will of the runes, I sit on my rightful throne after twenty-five long winters in exile. I've toiled to understand my people's needs, but now the very power I've reclaimed might undo me!"

"Sire," the minister murmured, "this is simply fate at work. No mortal can fully control it."

Luvien let out a harsh laugh. "Our foes say we've learned nothing—and they might be right. If I were betrayed by enemies, I could accept it. But to be threatened by those who owe their rank to me—who I trusted to guard the kingdom—this truly feels like Providence mocking us!"

The minister trembled beneath this rebuke. M. de Blacas dabbed at his brow with a cloth that glowed faintly with enchanted runes, while Villefort secretly felt relief. He was glad his warnings had brought him closer to the center of power.

"From the start," Luvien continued with a quiet rage, "this crisis has loomed like an abyss beneath our crown. To learn of our downfall through the telegraph—would I not prefer the same scaffold that claimed my uncle, King Louvius the Just, rather than endure this humiliation at Tuilarion's tower? Ridicule is a force as potent as any old magic in this kingdom!"

"Sire, if you'll allow me—" the minister tried, but the king silenced him with a glare.

"Come forward, Villefort," Luvien commanded. The seer approached, listening intently as though the fate of Eldrath hinged on every word. "You have shown insight that escaped so many others. Share any knowledge you still hold."

"Sire, in truth, it wasn't any special genius on my part," Villefort said humbly. "I merely followed the clues as Providence allowed."

"Providence indeed," the king murmured, "and yet it's strange that the minister, with his treasury of fifteen hundred thousand gilded runes for intelligence, missed what you uncovered on your own. Perhaps, had you that same telegraph at your disposal, you'd have saved my throne outright," he added with a wry, accusing look at the minister of arcane watch.

The minister's face turned ashen, while Villefort bowed, trying to hide the flicker of satisfaction that rose within him.

"Still, Blacas," said the king, "at least your skepticism kept you on alert. Many would have dismissed Villefort's news as ambition or a desire for favor. But you listened. Take that as some small comfort."

Villefort realized the king was warning the minister that his inaction could not be forgiven. The minister, looking chastened, glanced at Villefort with a silent, grudging respect.

"Sire," Villefort said with quiet earnestness, "events are moving so fast that only divine will can decide the outcome. Please don't credit me with more skill than I have. I wouldn't want you later to recall our first meeting and feel disappointed."

The minister of arcane watch, touched by Villefort's polite humility, offered him a subtle nod of gratitude.

"That's enough for now," said King Luvien. "We need the Minister of War to organize our armies. The rest of you may step back for the moment."

"Every messenger says our troops remain loyal, sire," M. de Blacas noted.

"That is well," Luvien replied, though he offered a tight smile. "But let's not trust words alone. Baron," he added, looking at the baron of the Twilight Veil, "what did you discover about that disturbance in the Rue Saint-Jacryl?"

"The Rue Saint-Jacryl!" Villefort exclaimed, suddenly remembering an ominous incident. "Forgive me, sire; so much has happened that I forgot to report it."

"Then speak," the king urged, leaning forward. "We must leave no stone unturned."

"Sire," the minister of arcane watch said, "I was about to share new details, but our attention shifted to the usurper's landing. Now these revelations may prove vital."

"Exactly," King Luvien agreed. "If General Quesnel—a loyal supporter of mine who once excelled in ancient battle runes—really was killed there, it could point to a conspiracy right in our midst." At this, Villefort turned pale as though a chill wind had passed over him.

"All signs indicate General Quesnel was murdered," the minister confirmed. "He'd just left a secret Bonapartist meeting under the ruins of an old temple, then disappeared after heading toward a private rendezvous in the Rue Saint-Jacryl. The general's valet heard him mention that street but didn't catch the house number."

As the minister spoke, Villefort's expression changed from shock to dread, but he forced himself to remain still. The king noticed his tension.

"So, M. de Villefort," Luvien said calmly, "does it not appear that General Quesnel—once wrongly suspected of supporting the usurper—was actually devoted to me and was ambushed by Bonapartist agents?"

"It seems likely, sire," Villefort replied softly. "Is that all the information we have?"

"They're now tracking down whoever arranged that deadly meeting," the king said.

"Tracking them?" Villefort repeated, his voice tight.

"Yes," the king answered. "A servant glimpsed a shadowy visitor—a man around fifty, with dark hair and eyes, a deep blue frock-coat buttoned high, and the insignia of the Legion of Arcane Honor. He was last spotted near the crossroads of the Rue de la Jussienne and the Rue Coq-Héron, but the agent following him lost sight."

Villefort grabbed the back of a heavy obsidian chair for support. Hearing that the stranger had escaped pursuit gave him a flicker of hope.

"Keep searching for that man," King Luvien told the minister. "If General Quesnel was murdered by Bonapartists, or anyone else, they will face my full wrath. We've lost a precious ally."

"How easily officials declare, 'A murder occurred, and we're pursuing the killers,'" the king went on with a grim edge to his voice. "As if words alone could settle the matter in these perilous times!"

"Sire," the minister murmured, "I promise that, if fate allows, justice will be served."

The king sighed. "I won't keep you here any longer, M. de Villefort. You must be exhausted after all this. Where are you staying—perhaps with your father?"

Villefort swallowed hard. "No, sire, I took a room at the Hôtel de Madrid on Rue de Tournon."

"Have you seen him yet?" asked the king.

"No, sire. I went straight to see the Duc de Blacas."

"And you won't visit him?"

"I think not, sire," Villefort said, voice reluctant.

"Ah, that's right," Luvien said, half to himself. "You and M. Noirtier are estranged. A sacrifice for the royal cause, which shall not go unrewarded."

"Sire, the kindness you show me exceeds anything I hoped for," Villefort replied.

"Rest easy—you won't be forgotten." Then, slipping a cross-shaped badge from his ceremonial cloak, the king offered it to Villefort. "Take this token of the Legion of Arcane Honor."

"Sire," Villefort breathed, "but this is merely the cross of an officer, not the higher insignia you usually wear."

"The hour is late," King Luvien said with a dismissive wave. "Take it as it is, and, Blacas, make sure we prepare the official documents for M. de Villefort."

Villefort's eyes glistened as he held the badge, pressing it to his lips in silent gratitude. "How may I serve your majesty further?" he asked softly.

"Get some rest. If you can't assist me here at Aurelion, you'll still be invaluable at Marseilles."

"Sire," Villefort said, bowing, "I'll be gone from Aurelion in an hour."

"Go," said Luvien, "and if I forget your name—kings are only human—remind me. Baron, bring me the Minister of War. Blacas, you remain."

Stepping away from the glowing pillars of the Auroral Citadel, the minister of arcane watch murmured to Villefort, "You arrived at the perfect moment. Your destiny is sealed."

"Will the wait be long?" Villefort asked quietly. Spotting a sleek, enchanted coach, he signaled it, gave the driver directions, and climbed inside, feeling an urgent excitement stir his heart.

Ten minutes later, he reached his modest inn, a discreet old lodging nestled amid the maze of Marseilles' cobblestone streets. He ordered fresh horses for two hours hence and requested a simple breakfast. Just as he was about to eat, the inn's entrance bell rang, its tone echoing with a hint of the mystical.

A servant opened the heavy door. A moment later, Villefort heard someone speaking his name. "Who could know I'm here already?" he wondered aloud as the innkeeper returned, his eyes alight with curiosity.

"Well?" asked Villefort. "Who's calling for me?"

"A traveler, sir—he won't give his name," replied the innkeeper in a lowered voice.

"He won't tell you who he is? Why not?" Villefort demanded, a worried edge creeping into his words.

"He only said he needs to speak with you," the innkeeper explained.

"He mentioned me by name?"

"Yes, sir."

"What does he look like?"

"He's about fifty, sire."

"Tall or short?"

"Roughly your height."

"Fair or dark?"

"Dark as midnight—his eyes, hair, and brows all black as coal."

"And how is he dressed?"

"He wears a deep blue frock-coat, buttoned almost to his chin, with the Legion of Arcane Honor's emblem on the lapel."

"It's him!" Villefort gasped, turning pale.

Just then, the mystery man—exactly as described—stepped into the room. "Well, well," he said in a half-mocking tone. "So much fuss to announce me. Is it custom here to leave an old friend waiting in your entryway?"

"Father!" Villefort burst out in surprise. "I felt it must be you—I sensed it."

"Well, if you suspected," the newcomer replied, placing an ornate cane on the side table and setting his broad hat on a nearby chair, "then you ought to have let me in sooner. This is hardly how a son should greet his father."

"Please, Germain, leave us," Villefort told the servant gently. The servant—wide-eyed at witnessing such a dramatic reunion—bowed and withdrew, his footsteps echoing in the inn's enchanted hush.