Chapter 6: Judgment (XX) - I

Veylin Lorien

Pain lingers at the edges of my consciousness, a dull ache pulsing at my temples. I press two fingers against my forehead and exhale slowly. What a drag. That ambush was not part of the plan. It was an inconvenience, an irritation, but at least one of my contingencies played out well enough. That means I can still move forward. If anything, I can use this to execute my other plan and avoid suspicion.

I push myself up from the velvet couch in my chambers, the dim candlelight flickering against the dark wood of my surroundings. My study is waiting. I need to think.

The city of Eldoria hums beyond the walls of my mansion—the capital is never silent, even at this hour. I make my way through the dimly lit halls, my footsteps quiet against the polished floors. My body still hurts from the attack, but I ignore it. There are more pressing concerns than my discomfort.

Regis is watching me.

I suspected it before, but now I am certain. He is marking me down, analyzing every move I make. That can only mean one thing—he has an idea. He knows. Or at least, he suspects that Callen Aldric is alive.

I reach my study and close the door behind me. The scent of parchment and ink greets me, grounding me in the familiar. I let out a breath, leaning against the edge of my desk. My fingers tap against the wood in thought.

"Damn it all," I mutter, rubbing my temple. "How did it come to this?"

I have spent so much effort ensuring Callen's end, maneuvering the pieces so that he would die where he was meant to. I was so certain, so meticulous. And yet—here we are.

I move to the bookshelves, trailing a hand over the spines of old tomes without truly seeing them. The weight of my own reasoning presses down on me, insistent, nagging. I circle back to my desk, then pace again. Back and forth, back and forth, like a caged beast.

Why?

Why have I fought so hard to see him dead? Isn't it more reasonable—more efficient—to assist him instead? Callen lost everything to this war. Regis' war. His home, his people, his comrades. His wife. His son. What does he have left but vengeance?

I let out a humorless chuckle. "If I were him, I'd do the same."

I stop pacing, gripping the edge of the bookshelf, my fingers curling against the wood. The thought disturbs me. It is an unfamiliar sensation—this hesitation, this crack in my resolve. I have always prided myself on my foresight, my ability to remain three steps ahead of everyone else. But this? This was never in my calculations.

I turn and begin pacing again. This is foolish. Emotions are a hindrance. Sentiment is a liability. I have always known that. And yet...

I sit down in the chair before my desk, pressing my knuckles against my temple. I have always worked toward the best possible outcome for myself, for the stability of my position. Keeping Regis in power ensured that. But now? Now I find myself questioning that very foundation.

"He will seek vengeance," I whisper to myself. "He will come for Regis, after all that's what I intended."

And I—

I exhale slowly, shaking my head. I had always assumed I would be the one to eliminate Callen, that his death was inevitable. But if it is inevitable, then why has he defied it? Why does he still live when every calculation, every move I made should have secured his end?

Perhaps the answer is simpler than I thought.

Perhaps he was never meant to die by my hand.

I rub at my jaw, exhaling sharply. "Regis does not matter. Not anymore."

There. I have said it aloud, and the world has not collapsed around me. My mind does not rebel against the notion as it once might have. If anything, it feels... right. For once, not some elaborate game of deception, no intricate scheme for my own gain. Just a simple truth—Callen Aldric deserves vengeance. And I will give him the means to take it.

I push back from my desk and rise to my feet. My mind is still screaming at me, still demanding I reconsider. But my heart—damn my heart—is silent. It has already decided.

I move to the window, pushing the curtains aside to look over the city. The lights flicker below, the streets still alive even in the dead of night. Somewhere out there, Callen moves with purpose. Somewhere out there, he sharpens his blade, preparing for the reckoning to come.

I inhale sharply, the weight of my decision settling over me. Then, I reach for a fresh sheet of parchment. If I am to do this, I must begin at once.

"The game is changing," I murmur, dipping my quill into the ink. "And this time... I'll choose a different path."

***

I lean back against the worn leather seat of the carriage, absently rolling a silver signet ring between my fingers. The rhythmic clatter of wheels against the uneven dirt road fills the silence as I stare out at the darkened landscape rolling past. The journey to Hillcrest is not particularly long, but it is tedious, and every mile allows more time for my thoughts to drift to the man I am about to meet.

A small mercenary settlement—Hillcrest—is where I told Callen Aldric to hide. A place where loyalty is a currency traded as easily as coin, where men and women live by the sword and die by it just as quickly. It is fitting for him, I suppose. Here, he is not the once-proud knight of Castellan. Here, he is Cedric the Mercenary.

The carriage slows as we near the outskirts of the village. The driver glances at me briefly, awaiting instruction, but I simply gesture for him to continue. The village is rough and unpolished, built from necessity rather than design. Smoke curls from blackened chimneys, and the scent of damp earth mingles with the acrid tang of steel and sweat. Hillcrest is not a place for the weak.

I step out onto the muddy street, my boots sinking slightly into the dirt. The villagers—mercenaries, most of them—cast wary glances in my direction. Their curiosity is fleeting; they are used to strangers passing through. Still, I feel the weight of unseen eyes assessing me as I move through the narrow pathways.

I find Callen inside a dimly lit tavern, tucked away in the corner like a shadow waiting to be forgotten. A hood shields his features from casual observation, but I do not need to see his face to know it is him. His presence is distinct—a quiet storm contained in human form.

He does not look up as I approach, but his voice reaches me before I have the chance to sit.

"You shouldn't be here."

I slide into the chair across from him, meeting his concealed gaze. "And yet, here I am."

Callen exhales slowly, setting his drink aside. "What do you want, Veylin?"

"To talk. About Regis. About the war. About what comes next."

He scoffs, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. "We already talked about this. You told me to bury Callen Aldric. So I did. Now you're here dragging up the past again."

"I am," I admit, folding my hands before me. "Because the past isn't done with us yet."

His fingers tighten slightly around his tankard. I can feel the tension in him, see the careful way he measures my words, looking for the trap beneath them.

"Say what you came here to say and be done with it."

I lean forward slightly, lowering my voice. "You want revenge. I understand that. But if Regis dies now, everything collapses. Castellan will be left vulnerable, its people—the people you and your comrade fought so hard to protect—defenseless against Valendria's forces. If we strike too soon, we doom this kingdom to a fate worse than what happened to Redmont."

His grip on his drink tightens. A muscle in his jaw ticks, but he does not speak. I know the wound I have pressed. The mention of Redmont is deliberate.

"So what?" His voice is low, tight. "We just wait?"

"Yes," I answer simply. "And also, because you can't do it. Not yet." I muttered.

His head snaps up slightly. Even with his face mostly shadowed by the hood, I see the flicker of anger in his gaze.

"You don't think I can kill him?"

"No," I say plainly. "Not as you are now. You wouldn't even make it past his guards. You know this as well as I do."

His scoff is sharp, laced with something bitter. "You always have a way of making things sound like strategy instead of what they really are—an admission of weakness."

I don't argue. "Call it what you like, but that's the truth. Right now, if you tried to reach Regis, you would die before you even stepped foot in his chambers. His soldiers would cut you down. And in the end, it wouldn't be Callen Aldric dying—it would be Cedric the Mercenary. No one would know. No one would care. And Regis would keep his throne."

The words land like stones between us. His fingers drum against the table, slow and deliberate, as if weighing his options.

"You think I haven't thought of this?" he mutters, his voice quieter now, edged with frustration. "You think I don't know what happens if I make a move too soon?"

"I know you do," I say. "But knowing isn't the same as accepting."

A long silence stretches between us.

Finally, he exhales sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. "Damn you, Veylin."

I smirk. "That is usually how these conversations end, yes."

His glare is sharp, but I can tell his mind is working through the logic of it. The anger is still there, burning beneath his skin, but now it is tempered by reason.

"Fine," he concedes at last. "We do it your way. For now. But if I see an opportunity—"

"We take it," I finish for him. "When the time is right. When we know that Castellan no longer relies on their King for safety."

His nod is slow, reluctant, but there. The fire of vengeance still flickers in his gaze, but now, at least, it is tempered by patience.

For now, patience is our greatest weapon. And when the moment arrives, Regis von Castellan will fall—but only when we are ready to ensure that what rises from his ashes is a kingdom worth saving.

_________________________________________________

Callen Aldric/Cedric the Mercenary

What kind of scheme is he plotting now?

Veylin Lorien is many things—a manipulator, a tactician, a master of deception—but he is never without an agenda. As I watch him, seated across from me in the dim glow of the tavern, I know without a doubt that he has one now. The only question is whether it serves me or serves him.

His expression is unreadable, as always. Yet, for all his cunning, for all the veiled words he spins like silk, there is something in his eyes tonight that I do not expect. No calculation, no smirk hidden beneath the surface. Just certainty.

I don't like it.

I don't trust it.

"You don't trust me." His voice is smooth, edged with quiet amusement. "Good. It means you're not an idiot."

I scoff, leaning back in my chair. "Did you expect me to be?"

"No." He studies me like one would a chessboard, assessing each move before it happens. "I expected skepticism. Perhaps even hostility."

I exhale slowly, curling my fingers around my untouched tankard. I have no intention of drinking, but it gives me something to hold—something to steady me. "Then tell me why. Why go through all this? Why turn against Regis now?"

His expression tightens for just a moment. A flicker of restrained fury, quickly smothered beneath his usual composure. "Because I have no choice."

I raise an eyebrow. "That doesn't sound like you."

"No, it doesn't," he admits. "But there are moments where personal grudges must be set aside for the greater goal."

"The greater goal?" I let out a bitter chuckle. "And what goal would that be, Veylin? Ensuring Regis keeps his throne? That this war drags on while you whisper in his ear?"

His gaze sharpens. "No. Ensuring that Castellan survives long enough for us to burn his throne to the ground."

The weight of his words settles heavily between us.

Veylin leans forward, his fingers steepled together. "We need to win this war, Callen. Without victory over Valendria, none of this matters. If Regis dies now, Castellan collapses. And you know what happens then."

I grit my teeth. "Valendria takes everything."

He nods. "Armand is not a reckless king. He is patient, methodical. He will not waste men in a fool's conquest, but if we hand him Castellan on a silver platter, he will take it."

I know he's right. As much as I hate it, as much as I want nothing more than to drive a blade through Regis' throat, I know that striking now would be a mistake. The kingdom is still too fragile. If Regis falls without a plan in place, his allies will turn on each other, and Armand will seize the moment to strike.

Veylin's voice lowers. "We cannot let that happen. That is why I must help Regis—for now."

I watch him closely. There it is again—that flicker of barely contained anger. The way he grits his teeth at the very notion of aiding the king he loathes.

"But that is temporary," he continues. "Once Valendria is dealt with, once we have secured the kingdom, then we will turn on Regis. And this time, when he falls, it will be permanent."

I tap my fingers against the table. "And how exactly do you plan to deal with Valendria?"

His smirk returns, but it's not one of amusement. It's the smirk of a man who has already played the first moves of a game no one else realizes they're part of.

Veylin exhales, rubbing his temple. "Valendria isn't just another kingdom at war. It's a beast barely held together by its own brutality. Armand rules through fear, and his army fights like savages. They aren't disciplined soldiers like Castellan's knights; they're raiders, warbands, brutes who tear through villages and leave nothing behind. If Regis falls now, there won't be a kingdom left to save. Valendria will carve through what remains of Castellan like a pack of starving wolves."

I watch him carefully, searching for the lie, the manipulation—the game. But for once, I see none of it. That doesn't mean there isn't more to this. There always is with him.

"And you want me in this plan of yours?" I ask, voice flat. "What, you think I can help take down an entire kingdom?"

His eyes glint with something sharp. Not quite amusement. Not quite calculation. "Not alone," he says. "But you are a symbol, Callen. Whether you like it or not, people still remember the Knight of Redmont. You think the men who fought beside you don't whisper your name, wondering if you survived? If you stand with me, we can rally the right people. The soldiers. The nobles who despise Regis but still love Castellan. We use their hatred for him to our advantage—but only after we win this war. Only after Valendria is no longer a threat."

I clench my jaw. The thought of working toward the same goal as Regis, even temporarily, makes my stomach churn. But Veylin isn't wrong. If Valendria's forces are as ruthless as he says, then a fractured Castellan wouldn't stand a chance. The rebellion would be crushed before it even began.

Damn him.

Damn him for making sense.

"And you expect me to be part of this?"

Veylin leans back, watching me. "You're already part of it."

I narrow my eyes.

"You think you can just be a shadow forever?" he asks. "A nameless mercenary hiding in the ruins of your past? No. You have a role to play, Callen. If you want revenge, if you want justice for what Regis took from you, then you must see this through."

I grip the edge of the table. "And what is my role, exactly?"

His eyes glint with something unreadable. "You will do what you do best. You will fight."

Silence lingers between us. I should have expected that answer, but the weight of it still sinks deep.

"You want me to fight for the very kingdom that abandoned me?"

"No," Veylin says. "I want you to fight for the kingdom that will replace it."

I look at him, at the certainty in his gaze, and I realize something. Veylin isn't just planning to kill Regis. He's planning to erase everything the king built and rebuild it in his own image.

"You want to be the one pulling the strings," I murmur.

He doesn't deny it. "Someone has to."

I exhale sharply. "And I suppose you expect me to trust you."

"I expect you to make a choice." His voice is steady. "Revenge is within your grasp, Callen. But you cannot take it alone. You know this."

He's right. Damn him, he's right.

I don't trust Veylin. I don't trust his schemes, his ambition, or his silver tongue. But I trust the hatred in his eyes when he speaks of Regis. I trust the way his hands clenched at the mere thought of aiding the king. And most of all, I trust that if I refuse him, I will lose my only chance at vengeance.

I have no choice.

For my comrades.

For my home.

For everything that bastard stole from me.

I let out a slow breath and meet Veylin's gaze. "Fine."

His smirk returns, just slightly. "Fine?"

"We do it your way." My voice is firm, but there's no mistaking the edge of warning in it. "For now. But if I see an opportunity—"

"We take it," he finishes. "But not right now."

I nod, slow and reluctant.

The fire of vengeance still burns within me, but now, it is tempered by something far more dangerous.

Patience.

And when the moment comes, Regis von Castellan will fall.

But first, we will destroy Valendria.

And I will see to it that when the war is over, there will be nothing left of the king but ash.