Chapter three: 1528 Samhain
Kinan mountains
He stood tall upon the ridge overlooking Kinan's southern reach, where the tree line fractured into hills and open fields. A lean figure draped in dusk-colored wool and plated leather, Lord Akarr carried the chill of command in his bearing — sharp-backed, silent, his long black hair tied at the nape and left to fall with solemn weight. Blue eyes, cold as winter-fed steel, swept the valley below with the precision of one who had spent a life reading the signs of war.
The scent of smoldering pine clung to the morning mist as he dismounted. The southern woods were thick with the kind of silence that follows blood. Smoke still curled from a thatched roof in the distance — one of the outer farmsteads, now blackened and hollowed. He said nothing. He did not need to. The land had already spoken.
"Another raid?" he asked, voice low, eyes scanning the tree line.
His captain, a wiry man with a bow slung over his back, gave a single nod. "The markings were... familiar."
Akarr did not ask which markings. They both knew. Jhaljie script burned into the wooden fence. Crude, desperate — but deliberate.
He exhaled slowly, breath clouding in the air. His armor bore soot from the last skirmish. He had not removed it in three days.
"We sent word to the capital," the captain added. "They'll expect you at council."
Akarr grunted. "They can expect." He gestured toward the smoldering ruins. "This is the council."
He walked forward, boots crunching on charred debris. A doll lay among the wreckage — one eye burned out, the other intact, watching him.
The trees whispered in the distance. He glanced toward the border ridge where the forest deepened into Jhaljie territory — a terrain he knew too well.
He did not hate the Jhaljie, not in the way the city folk did, not with the same bile and slurs. But this? Raids, arson, blood scrawled with meaning. This was no accident of wild clans. This was something older waking.
"Call the scouts back from the ridges," Akarr ordered. "Send riders to the eastern outposts. If Jhaljie wants war, they'll find we're not sleeping miners."
He mounted again, jaw tight, and glanced once more at the burned farmstead.
Tell your court, he thought, tell your princess: war is already here.
And I'll hold the line until she's ready to answer it.
Ash caked the heel of his boot as he stood atop the broken ridge, watching black smoke rise from what had once been a mining camp. Below, the shafts gaped like open wounds in the earth — silent now, the pulleys stilled, the workers either fled or slain. A dozen men lost. No warning. No cause.
The southern wind reeked of char and blood.
"They think we're soft," he muttered, voice low and raw. "Miners with dull blades and brittle pride."
Beside him, his steward hesitated, arms tucked against the chill. "My lord, we've begun clearing the bodies. Scouts are still finding signs—"
"Don't call it a sign," Akarr snapped, rounding on him. "It was a message. Burned into our land, carved into the backs of our dead. They want us to beg."
The steward lowered his gaze. "We've confirmed it. Jhaljie raiders — the markings match. The scouts found fletching wrapped in eastern twine, and—"
"I don't need proof to know a bite when I feel it in my bones," Akarr said. He turned back to the ruined camp. "I've fed those woods more men than the capital has spared names. I gave peace a place at my table, even when they spat in my wine."
And now?
Now, the miners he'd known by name were gone — limbs scattered like timber, throats slit as if to silence them forever.
"Enough," he growled. "No more talks. No more mercy."
He took a slow breath, his rage cold and precise. The kind of rage that doesn't shout — it sharpens.
"I want the southern ridge fortified. Ten men at every mile. And summon the stone forged — we seal the mines until the blood is answered."
"My lord, the Council—"
"Let the Council rot." His voice cracked like iron on frost. "Let the princess play politics. Down here, we bleed. The Jhaljie don't want peace — they want our land, our coin, our silence."
He turned his back on the smoke. The last of the firelight caught the red seams of his cloak — a cloak now stained at the hem.
"This isn't defense anymore," Akarr said, mounting his destrier. "This is retribution."
And with that, he rode toward the border — not with diplomacy, but with war at his heels.
—---
The sky broke just past dawn. A dull, sallow light spilled across the hills, not golden, not red, but the ashen hue of tarnished brass—an ill omen, if anyone still believed in those.
Giovanni did not. He rode at the front of the procession, helm hanging from his saddle, jaw clenched beneath an unshaven face. The forest track behind him was a scar of crushed leaves and hoof marks, winding down from the Jhaljie woods like a snake's trail.
Tashi walked beside his horse, hands bound in front of him with velvet cord, not iron. A gesture, nothing more. The rope of nobles. His gait was steady, unhurried. Unrepentant. As if he were a guest in a strange ritual, one he'd agreed to out of courtesy.
"You should've fought," Giovanni muttered without looking down.
Tashi didn't answer. His breath was soft and regular, the rhythm of a man on his morning walk. He was still dressed in the high-collared robe of his station, the threads now dulled by forest dust and the sweat of sleepless nights.
Behind them, the soldiers marched in silence. No songs. No banners. Even the warhorses seemed subdued, their snorts muffled as if they, too, sensed the weight of what was to come.
It was not just a prisoner they brought. It was a storm.
By midmorning, they passed the outer watchtowers of Acacia's walls. The guards did not cheer. They did not jeer. They stood rigid as pillars, eyes fixed ahead. Even they knew this was not a triumph.
A boy spat from the shadows, missing Tashi's feet. His mother pulled him back with a hiss, but the act hung in the air, sharp as cut glass.
"Did he confess?" one guard whispered as they passed.
"Not in words," said another.
At the palace gates, the heralds hesitated before announcing the arrival. No trumpet. No fanfare. Just the slow grinding open of the ironwood doors and the hush that followed.
Giovanni dismounted. His legs were stiff, his back soaked with sweat, but his hands were steady as he gripped Tashi's arm and led him through the halls.
The palace interior was a study in silence. Courtiers pressed themselves to the edges of the corridor, robes drawn close, eyes downturned. Even marble statues seemed to recoil.
Whispers flowed ahead like a tide:
"The clan elder—"
"But the war was never declared—"
"It was his blade in the prince—"
"They say he stood over the king's corpse—"
Giovanni's jaw tightened. He felt them scraping at his armor like flies on old fruit. Not one dared speak to his face.
They reached the grand chamber just before noon. Tashi was made to kneel in the center, beneath the gold-flaked mosaic of the royal tree. A mockery of peace, that tree. Roots strangling its own trunk.
Giovanni stood beside him, silent.
Soon, the nobles would gather. Soon, the flags would rise. Soon, Princess Winnifred would step into the light, draped in mourning, wearing her brother's circlet.
And the world would demand blood.
—-----
Winnifred
Father had ordered the arrest of the Jhaljie clan leader—Tashi.
He looked out of place beneath the court's vaulted ceiling, not shackled, but surrounded. Silent. Still. His long golden hair clung to his shoulders, dulled by sweat and forest dust. Eyes the color of deep emeralds stared forward, neither defiant nor afraid—only unreadable. A statue carved from shame or pride, I could not tell.
He stood alone in the center of the hall.
Around him, nobles fanned out in anxious silence, their robes whispering against the marble floor. Scholars murmured in half-syllables. The court judges sat with unreadable faces, their ledgers open, quills poised. No one dared speak above the weight in the room.
My father—the king—was absent.
He had not taken the throne this morning, not even for the trial. Lately, he has not felt well, though none dare name it. To the court, he remains a pillar: stern, commanding, sharp-eyed. But I've seen the tremble in his fingers when he lifts his cup. I've heard his breath falter in sleep.
He is ninety now. Still young, by Fae measure. But age is not always measured in years.
I fear he will name me his successor soon. I am not ready. The crown was never meant for me.
And yet here I stand—watching the man accused of murdering my brother, as the world demands justice.
She stepped forward when the hall had stilled, the hem of her mourning cloak brushing against the stone like a whisper. The weight of her brother's circlet pressed against her brow, colder than iron, heavier than grief.
When she spoke, her voice carried not through volume, but through stillness—measured, low, and irrefutable.
"By the authority of the crown, I speak in the stead of my father, King Tamir, who has entrusted me with his voice during this hour of judgment."
She let the silence return. No one interrupted.
"You all know why we are gathered. Not for spectacle. Not for vengeance. But for truth."
Her eyes moved across the room—not toward the nobles, but toward the space just beyond them. The space her brother once filled.
"Prince Armett was slain. Not in war. Not in fair duel. He was murdered—within these palace walls, on sacred ground, under the seal of truce. The blood of royalty was spilled in a house where no blade should be drawn."
She turned her gaze to Tashi.
"The accused stands before us. Tashi of the Jhaljie, bearer of an ancient name, elder to a clan that has served and challenged this kingdom in equal measure for generations."
"The court will deliberate. The judges will speak. But know this: the crown does not forget. The blood of the royal line runs deeper than politics, deeper than treaties. What has been broken here will echo."
She stepped back, but did not retreat. Her hands remained at her sides—unclenched, but ready. She would not cry. Not here.
"Let the trial begin."
The court chamber settled into a hush as the High Chamberlain stepped forward, his voice cutting clean through the thick air.
"Tashi of the Jhaljie, you are brought before this court under the charge of high treason, and with the gravest accusation of all—the murder of His Royal Highness, Prince Armett of Acacia."
He paused, letting the name strike the stone walls like a curse.
"The prince was slain beyond the southern borders, near the forest that cradles your lands. A place of supposed neutrality. And yet, it was there that his body was found—stripped of weapons, pierced through the spine, his royal crest defiled."
A ripple of restrained gasps. Tashi remained silent. His expression had not changed since his first step into the chamber—calm, unreadable, distant as snowfall.
Another judge, tall and hunched from years bent over verdicts, spoke next.
"Witnesses say the prince rode under truce. That your riders met him in peace. That there was no warning, no parley, no time to defend himself."
He lifted a sealed letter.
"This was found torn at the scene—bearing the crest of your house. Do you deny it was yours?"
Tashi looked up, slowly.
"No," he said. "It was mine. I sent it. But its words were not those I wrote."
The court stirred again. Whispers passed behind raised hands. But the judges did not flinch.
A third judge, her tone like the cold edge of winter, narrowed her eyes.
"Then who altered it? Who gave the order, if not you? Are you claiming forgery—conspiracy—within your own council?"
Tashi's voice remained even.
"I claim nothing. I answer nothing not asked in truth."
"What is truth, in this court? A blade pointed at the neck of a dead prince?"
The Chamberlain's hand trembled as he raised the verdict scroll.
"You say nothing. You offer no names, no account, no denial. That silence weighs heavier than guilt."
He struck the staff once.
"Let it be known—the accused remains unrepentant. Unless a witness speaks or evidence is brought before the final bell, judgment will be passed before the sun's descent."
Tashi closed his eyes. The guards came to stand beside him, hands on hilts. But he did not flinch.
He only said, quietly:
"Your kingdom buries more than sons. It buries the truth alongside them."
The Chamberlain's voice still hung in the air, echoing faintly in the marble silence.
"This court shall reconvene before final bell. If no new testimony is given, judgment will be delivered."
Tashi stood motionless. The guards began to turn him away.
But he spoke—softly, clearly.
"I wonder," he said, "how long your king will remain upright, once the weight of his dead son settles in his spine."
The room froze.
The words had not been loud. Not cruel in tone. But they landed with precision—like a stiletto to the ribs.
Gasps stirred from the courtiers. One of the younger scribes dropped his quill. The Chamberlain blinked, as though he had misheard.
Winnifred stepped forward. Slowly. Deliberately. Her heels clicked like a funeral march on stone.
"Repeat it," she said, her voice cool and flat. "Here. Before the court."
Tashi turned to face her. His emerald eyes were calm. Empty.
"I said your king wears grief poorly. He lets it hang off him like spoiled velvet. The realm sees it. The throne feels it."
No mockery. No raised voice. Only truth, sharpened like a ritual blade.
Winnifred stood still. Mira saw her throat tighten, just once. No anger rose to her face. No shouting, no fury.
Only this:
"Remove him," she said.
The guards moved.
But as they took Tashi's arms, his final words passed between them like a curse pressed to the wind:
"Your court believes I killed your brother. But grief makes strange kings of weak men. Ask your father, when he next wakes."
The doors closed behind him.
And silence fell like ash over the chamber.
Giovanni – Watching the Fall
He stood behind the gilded pillar near the east arch, where guards were meant to be statues. One hand rested on the hilt of his blade, the other curled loosely behind his back.
From where he stood, Giovanni had seen it all: the narrowed eyes of the judges, the shifting weight of nobles on their benches, the way Winnifred's fingers twitched when Tashi spoke. And then—
That line.
"I wonder how long your king will remain upright…"
It wasn't the words that chilled him. It was the stillness that followed. As if the stone itself dared not echo it.
Giovanni didn't move. Didn't even blink. But the breath in his lungs grew tight, like it knew something had just torn and would not mend.
Tashi's voice echoed faintly even as the guards dragged him past the threshold.
"Ask your father, when he next wakes."
The doors shut with a boom that rang like judgment.
Giovanni exhaled—long, slow. He kept his gaze forward, but something inside him twisted.
Treason, they called it.
But treason was loud. Treason raised swords and marched banners.
This? This was worse.
This was truth spoken in the wrong tongue, at the wrong hour.
He looked toward Winnifred. She had not broken—not outwardly. But he had known her since they were children. He saw it: the small, imperceptible tremble in her jaw. The tightening behind her eyes. She would not cry. She never had. But it cut her, deep as any blade.
His grip tightened on the pommel of his sword. The court resumed its posturing, whispers rising like gnats around decay.
And Giovanni? He stayed where he was. Silent. Watching.
Because something had shifted in the room.
Not just the accusation. Not just the insult.
But the air.
The scent of endings had begun to rise.
The cell door shut behind him.
Giovanni climbed the stairs slowly. The chill of the dungeons still clung to his bones. He passed no one in the hall—only flickering torches, the scent of old oil and something damp beneath.
When he reached the barracks, the lanterns were lit. Firelight flickered against polished armor and the sigils of old campaigns. There, near the inner chamber, Raphael stood at attention, his back straight, fists closed behind him.
He had waited.
"You heard?" Giovanni asked without looking up.
"I was in the chamber," Raphael replied.
His voice was clipped. Formal. But not untouched.
Giovanni unbuckled his shoulder guard and set it down with care, as though handling something too fragile to drop.
"He said too much," Raphael added.
"He said what he meant to," Giovanni said, voice low. "And no one stopped him."
There was a pause. One of those long silences that existed only between fathers and sons—filled with everything neither wanted to name.
"Do you believe him?" Raphael asked finally.
Giovanni did not answer right away. He adjusted the leather strap of his gauntlet. Tighter than necessary.
"He's a clever man," he said at last. "And dangerous. Not because he lies. Because he doesn't need to."
Raphael stepped forward. His face was tense—not with fear, but something colder. Disillusionment.
"They want him sentenced before moonrise. I heard the Chamberlain—he's pushing for it. No testimony. No evidence but a crest."
Giovanni turned then, fully. His eyes met his son's. Older, wearier, but not yet broken.
"That's not your concern."
"It is if we're not knights. Just executioners in armor."
A dangerous thing, to say. But Giovanni didn't rebuke him. He let it hang.
Then, quietly:
"You'll keep your thoughts to yourself, Raphael. Speak to them only where stone doesn't listen."
He moved to the rack, hung his sword.
"And if things go wrong," he added, "you guard her."
Raphael frowned. "Princess Winnifred?"
Giovanni nodded once.
"There are worse storms coming than a murdered prince. I'd rather you stand beside someone whose death would end the war, not begin it."
The fire crackled in the hearth. Outside, the sixth bell tolled.
—---
Winnifred
The eastern corridor was empty, save for the dim stain of light crawling through the stained glass.
Winnifred stood alone.
She hadn't slept. The weight of the court still pressed against her skull, still echoed in her bones. Tashi's words replayed again and again—not in sound, but in the sting they left behind.
The guards had knocked only once. No rush. No panic.
When she arrived, the chamber smelled of cedar and old ink. The drapes had not been drawn. The king lay still on the great bed carved with the royal crest, his face half-turned toward the fire, eyes closed as though caught mid-thought.
The physicians bowed low. One whispered, "Peacefully," though she hadn't asked.
He looked smaller now. As though death had taken not only breath but stature.
She did not cry.
She only stared at him for a long time—her father, her king. The man who ruled with stone in his voice and rot in his lungs.
She had known this would come. Still, it felt early. Or perhaps late. Perhaps bad timing was the only thing the gods gave kings.
She stepped forward.
Took the edge of the coverlet in her hand.
Straightened it.
The bell had not yet tolled. The scribes would need time to draft the announcement. The nobles would arrive in black. The trial of Tashi would now take place beneath a mourning veil—and everything he had said would sound less like insult, and more like prophecy.
Winnifred turned from the body and walked out before they could stop her.
The crown, she knew, would not wait.
And somewhere deep in the court, the knives had already begun to whisper.
Winnifred turned from the body and walked out before they could stop her.
No tears. No final words. Only the sound of her boots against the stone, echoing louder than the bell that had not yet tolled.
By the time it rang, it was too late.
The crown was unguarded.
The court already sharpening smiles.
And in the hall where her father's body cooled, the kingdom began to rot.