Chapter 2: The Tower (XVI) - II

Veylin Lorien

The wind howls through the graveyard, carrying whispers of the dead. The scent of damp earth and decay lingers in the air, a grim reminder of what remains beneath our feet. I stand among the tombstones, the names of Redmont's fallen carved into stone, some fresh, others long worn by time. Callen sits on the edge of a grave marked by his wife and son's name, his face gaunt, his wounds still raw. He should be dead. He was supposed to be dead.

"You want revenge, right?" I ask, my voice steady, carefully measured.

Callen looks up, his eyes burning with cold fury. He hesitates, but only for a moment before nodding. "Yes."

I watch him, taking in the way his fingers curl into fists, the slight tremor in his shoulders. He is desperate, grasping for something-anything-to anchor himself. That desperation will be his undoing. I smile, barely perceptible, offering him the illusion of solidarity. "Good. Then we will plan accordingly."

I feign concern, speaking softly, as though I care for his plight. But in truth, my stomach churns with disdain. He should not be here. He should be buried beneath this very soil, another forgotten casualty of war. And yet, here he is, breathing, plotting-defying my plan...

"You should not act so recklessly," I say. "Your survival is remarkable, but it will mean nothing if you throw yourself into danger without thought."

Callen scoffs, wincing slightly as he shifts. "I didn't have a choice. They came for me, but I fought them off. I survived."

The words grate against me. A miscalculation, an oversight I will not repeat. But I keep my expression schooled, nodding in feigned admiration. "Impressive. Perhaps your will to live is stronger than I anticipated."

Callen narrows his eyes slightly, suspicion flickering behind them. He is not an idiot-he must wonder why I am so willing to help him now. But he is also wounded, physically and mentally. He will cling to any lifeline offered.

"If you seek revenge, Callen, you must be patient. They believe you are dead. Let them believe it for a while longer. Striking now would be foolish."

He nods again, slower this time, the fire in his eyes flickering, dimming slightly as my words sink in. Good. Let him trust me. Let him lean on me. I will be his support until I am his ruin.

The conversation stretches between us, woven with half-truths and feigned camaraderie. We speak of vengeance, of strategy, of the pain that fuels him. I encourage him, stoking the embers of his hatred, letting him think I am a kindred spirit. But in my mind, I see the moment I will end him. The moment I will correct my mistake.

Then, a shift-subtle, yet undeniable. A presence approaching. The air tightens, a foreboding pressure settling in my chest. My fingers twitch before I suppress the reaction, keeping my composure.

"Someone is coming," I murmur, my voice barely audible above the wind. Callen tenses, his hand reaching instinctively for the hilt of his sword. I raise a hand to halt him. "Hide yourself. Let them believe you are dead."

For a moment, he hesitates. Then, without a word, he slips into the shadows of the mausoleums just as the retainer steps into view. The man's cloak billows behind him, his face impassive as he approaches.

I straighten, folding my arms behind my back, meeting his gaze without reaction. "What brings you here?"

"The King summons you."

I incline my head, neither surprised nor concerned. I have no quarrel with the King. If anything, this is an opportunity-a chance to strengthen my ties, to secure influence, to ensure that when the time comes, I will have the power I need.

I glance toward the darkened space where Callen hides, though I do not acknowledge him directly. "Very well," I say. "I will go at once."

The retainer nods, then turns and vanishes into the night as swiftly as he came.

For a moment, silence reigns. Then, in a whisper, I speak. "Stay hidden. Let them believe you are gone. It will work to our advantage."

Callen steps from the shadows, his expression guarded. "And what will you do?"

I offer him a measured smile. "I will do what I must. Trust me."

He hesitates, but then he nods.

Fool.

I turn away before he can see the truth flicker across my face. The game is far from over. And I intend to win.

***

The grand hall of Castellan Keep looms before me, its towering pillars stretching toward the vaulted ceiling, where banners of House Castellan hang in solemn authority. The scent of burning tallow and aged parchment lingers in the air, mingling with the hushed murmurs of courtiers and the occasional clank of armored sentries shifting in place. I step forward, my boots echoing against the marble floor, the weight of expectation pressing upon me.

At the far end of the hall, seated upon the high throne, is King Regis von Castellan. A man of formidable presence, draped in a deep blue mantle lined with silver filigree, his crown resting lightly upon dark, streaked hair. His sharp eyes meet mine with measured regard, though behind them, I sense the weariness of a ruler beset by war.

Beside him stands his ever-present retainer, Lord Edric Valenfort, an aging but keen-eyed man whose stern expression never wavers. I have no doubt he has advised the King well in my absence, though it remains to be seen if the counsel of lesser men has clouded the King's judgment.

"Veylin," King Regis' voice carries across the chamber, firm and commanding. "You return to my court at a critical time."

I kneel briefly before rising to meet his gaze. "Your Majesty, I am at your service."

King Regis gestures to the great table in the center of the hall, where a vast map of the kingdom lies unfurled, the inked borders and mountain ranges spread before us like the battlefield that awaits.

"Our conflict with Valendria is at a turning point," King Regis continues. "The enemy presses against our eastern front, threatening to seize the only viable passage through the Narthis Highlands. If they succeed, they will drive into the heart of our lands before winter sets in."

I step closer, my eyes tracing the landmarks carefully. The Narthis Highlands-a treacherous stretch of ridges and valleys, flanked by the Ebonwood to the north and the winding Serpentine River to the south. To the west lies the fortress city of Ironhold, a bastion that has long served as the kingdom's last line of defense. Beyond it, the capital itself.

"If Narthis falls, we will have no natural barriers to slow their advance," I say, tapping a gauntleted finger upon the parchment. "And the Serpentine River can be forded in two places: the Shadowmere Crossing and the Sunhollow Bridge. If they take both, we will be forced to engage on open plains, where their cavalry will outmaneuver us."

Edric nods grimly. "A sound assessment. But what do you propose?"

I exhale slowly, eyes flickering over the battlefield of ink and paper before me. "We must not think as soldiers alone, but as poets of war. Every battle is a composition, and every stroke of our strategy must be deliberate. The Valendrians are strong, but predictable. We must make them dance to a tune they do not know."

Lady Seraphina steps forward, her arms crossed. "King Armand of Valendria is not reckless. His forces move with precision. If he advances through Narthis, it will not be with blind aggression but calculated intent."

"True," I reply, giving her a sly grin. "Which is why we will compose a deception so grand that even his wisdom will betray him."

I tap the map with purpose. "First, we reinforce Narthis, but not as a single front. The Ebonwood's dense thickets will hinder their march. We embed archers in the northern ridges, hidden beneath the canopies, ready to rain fire upon them. In the valley, we prepare entrenchments, concealed spikes, and oil traps. If they attempt a straightforward advance, they will find themselves bleeding at every step."

Lord Harvin, ever the pragmatist, furrows his brow. "This strategy demands resources-fortifications, weapons, provisions. The coffers must support such a maneuver."

I wave a hand dismissively. "Resources? Gold does not win wars, my lord. Ingenuity does. The timber from Ebonwood will supply our fortifications, the mines of Ashford will provide the metal, and our scouts will move ahead to acquire what we lack from the enemy's own supply lines. We will let them furnish our war."

King Regis smirks slightly, though he says nothing.

"We must also mislead them," I continue. "We allow them to believe Shadowmere Crossing is their best option while secretly sabotaging Sunhollow Bridge, rendering it impassable at the right moment. If they commit their forces prematurely, we will strike while they are divided. The bridge's destruction will send their supplies into the river, leaving them weakened."

Edric crosses his arms. "Destroying Sunhollow Bridge carries its own risk. If we fail, we trap ourselves."

I give him a knowing look. "Which is why we do not destroy it outright, but weaken its foundation. At the right moment, with a mere push, it crumbles. And they, my dear lord, will believe the gods themselves have turned against them."

Silence stretches as the gravity of the plan settles in.

"We will need men who can execute it without fail," I admit. "Captain Varlen's scouts know the eastern front well. They will serve as our eyes. As for the bridge, I trust Commander Rholdan to handle its collapse."

King Regis studies me, then the map, then me once more. "A dangerous strategy, but if executed correctly, a brilliant one."

"I compose nothing less than brilliance, Your Majesty."

The chamber is still. The court watches, awaiting the King's decision.

Finally, he nods. "How cunning," he muttered as he smirked "Make it so."

As the discussion winds down, the courtiers disperse, their whispered concerns trailing behind them. But King Regis does not rise from his seat. Instead, he motions for me to remain.

"You traveled through Redmont before arriving here," he says, his voice quieter now. "Tell me-have you any news of Callen?"

The question settles heavily between us.

I hold my expression carefully neutral. "No, Your Majesty."

The lie slips easily from my lips.

King Regis studies me for a moment, his gaze sharp. He knows I am withholding something, though whether it is doubt or concern in his eyes, I cannot tell. Silence stretches between us before he sighs, leaning back upon his throne.

"I see," he says simply, though his tone carries the weight of unspoken thoughts. "You are dismissed, Veylin."

I bow deeply before turning away, the heavy doors of the court closing behind me. And yet, as I step into the corridors of the keep, I cannot shake the lingering feeling that King Regis's question will not be the last I hear of Callen.

____________________________________________________

Callen Aldric

The damp scent of stone and stagnant water filled my lungs as I stepped deeper into the underground hideout. The place was carved from old ruins, hidden beneath the remnants of a crumbling district, where only the desperate or the forgotten dared to tread. The flickering torchlight cast long shadows along the walls, their wavering forms stretching and distorting like ghosts of the past.

Fitting.

I didn't like this. Meeting like this-like criminals lurking in the dark. But I had no choice. Veylin was my only lead, and if I wanted revenge, I needed to listen.

Even if I didn't trust him.

The man in question stood near a worn-out wooden table, unfazed by the damp cold that clung to the air. He looked as collected as ever, his cloak draped neatly over his shoulders, his expression unreadable. His composure was unnatural. There was always something calculated in the way he moved, the way he spoke. I knew men like him. Men who measured their words, who never showed too much.

But I wasn't a fool. Veylin had his own reasons for helping me, and I'd be damned if I let myself become a pawn in whatever game he was playing.

"You actually came," he said, his voice smooth, almost amused.

"I said I would," I replied, keeping my tone even. "Doesn't mean I trust you."

A ghost of a smile played at his lips. "Nor should you. Trust is a dangerous thing. But we have a common enemy, do we not?"

I crossed my arms. "For now."

Veylin gestured toward the table, where a rough map of the capital and the castle was spread out. It was old, the ink faded, but still detailed enough. My eyes scanned the layout-the towering walls, the patrol routes, the inner keep.

It was a fortress, and the King was at the heart of it. Untouchable.

"Getting inside won't be easy," I muttered.

"Which is why we won't just get inside," Veylin countered. "We will dismantle him, piece by piece. His allies. His support. His foundation. Only then will he be vulnerable."

I narrowed my eyes at him. "And you already have a plan for this?"

His smile didn't reach his eyes. "I have a start."

He placed a small marker on the map-on the outer district, near the barracks. "The city guards. Their loyalty to the crown is strong, but not unshakable. Some can be bought. Others... persuaded."

I frowned. "That takes time. I don't have time."

"Then we make time," Veylin said smoothly. "Or do you wish to throw yourself at the castle gates and hope for the best?"

I clenched my jaw. He was right, damn him. Recklessness wouldn't bring me what I wanted.

"Fine," I said. "What else?"

He tapped a section of the map near the noble district. "There are those in the court who resent the King. Some are weak, some ambitious. A few whispers, a few well-placed rumors, and we might find an ally or two among them."

I scoffed. "Nobles don't turn on their own unless they have something to gain."

"Precisely."

I exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through my hair. This wasn't the plan I wanted. I wanted blood. Vengeance. I wanted to storm the castle and put a blade through Regis' heart.

But I knew better.

Veylin was playing a long game. He wasn't just after the King-he wanted something bigger. Power. Control. Whatever his true goal was, I wasn't blind to it.

But for now, I would play along.

For now, I needed him.

I leaned over the table, staring at the map, at the paths we could take, the people we could use.

"Where do we start?"

Veylin smiled.

"With a name."