CHAPTER FOUR

To understand the strength behind the Crown of Arkenfall, one must understand the structure of King Damon Dragarth's command. His power does not lie in swords alone, but in the intricate balance of discipline, loyalty, and fear that defined the three main arms of his force: the King's Guard, the King's Army, and the King's Men.

The King's Guard are elite warriors stationed inside the walls of Arkenfall. Handpicked and highly trained, their sole purpose is to protect the palace, the king's person, and the royal family. Clad in obsidian black armor with silver dragon crests, they stood at every hall and chamber like living statues. They were not many, but they were deadly and utterly loyal. At their head stood Leon, the Lord Commander of the King's Guard —Loud, bold, and fiercely intelligent on the field. Leon had been Damon's closest friend since boyhood training in Stonecrest, and no man, not even a noble, was allowed within reach of the king without Leon's approval.

Then there was the King's Army—the heart of Dragarth's might. These were the warriors who rode out to battle, the soldiers who carried his banners into every battlefield across the Bannerlands. They were the finest warriors from every region, forged into a single blade. Fierce, hardened, and disciplined, they were Damon's wrath made flesh. The command of this mighty force was held by Ethan, Master of War and one of Damon's oldest companions. A man know for his precision and unshakable loyalty to the king. Ethan is both strategist and soldier. He was often the first to charge into battle and the last to leave.

But the most exclusive and mysterious circle of all were the King's Men.

There were only five: King Damon himself, Lord Gareth (the King's Hand ), Lord Roran (Master of Whispers), Ethan (Master of War), and Leon (Lord Commander of the Guard). Together, they formed the inner council of the king—the men he trusted above all others. They advised him on matters of state, war, and politics. They were not bound by blood but by loyalty. Each had their role, their influence, and their strength. Lord Gareth was the voice of logic and policy. Lord Roran, the witty and dangerously well-informed spymaster, knew everything whispered in the shadows. Leon and Ethan were Damon's shield and sword.

It's worth mentioning that among the five men in King Damon's inner circle — the King's Men — two stood out not for their bloodline, but for their bond.

Leon and Ethan were not of noble birth. Unlike Lord Gareth and Lord Roran, who were born into noble houses from two of the seven great regions, Leon and Ethan came from common stock. They were freeborn boys who had trained with Damon during their youth in Stonecrest. Their strength, loyalty, and brilliance had earned them their place — not their names.

Tradition dictated that seats in the royal court be held only by those of noble blood. Many of the elder council members protested their appointments — how could a king entrust the title of Master of War and Lord Commander of the King's Guard to men with no ancestral holdings?

But Damon was never a man ruled by tradition. He valued loyalty over lineage. Bloodlines could be bought, manipulated, and broken. But loyalty — true loyalty — was earned. And he would rather stand with two loyal brothers from the dirt than ten noble liars from silk.

That is why, in the House of Dragarth, loyalty was law.

—

HALEMOND

The rain had begun at dawn — soft, misting, constant — clinging to every stone like breath to glass. From her chamber window, Neriah could see the grey-tinged skies stretch endlessly over Halemond, the forested hills blanketed in fog. The light was thin, silvered, solemn.

Inside, the hearth crackled low. A tray of untouched figs and sugared almonds sat on the table between them, forgotten.

"I won't sleep, my lady, if I don't say it," Elira said, arms folded, pacing near the tall windows. Her slippers made barely a sound against the polished floors. "Tell me you're not thinking it. Tell me you've not got it in your heart."

Neriah sat in her velvet-backed chair, hands resting in her lap, gaze lowered. "Thinking what?"

"You know what," Elira said. "Don't do that — don't play coy with me like I haven't known you since you had gaps in your teeth and a ribbon tied so tight to your braids you nearly fainted."

A ghost of a smile flickered at Neriah's lips. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I don't know what you think I'm thinking."

"That you'll let them pass you the crown like it's a cup at supper," Elira said sharply. "That because your sister stormed off in one of her tempers, you'll wear the gown instead."

The words sat heavy in the air.

Neriah looked up at last. "You don't know what you're saying."

Elira stopped pacing. Her eyes — keen, stubborn — met Neriah's. "You've done it before. Taken the blame, softened the blow. Every time Kara ran off to kiss stable boys or sneak out to taverns, it was you who lied. You who sat at your Father's table and took the tongue-lashing."

"This is different," Neriah murmured.

"Is it?"

Neriah rose, slowly, smoothing her gown as she moved toward the rain-streaked window. She touched the stone frame lightly, feeling its chill. Outside, the courtyard glistened, empty but for the drip of water from the eaves. A stablehand ran across the yard, cloaked against the drizzle.

"He's a monster, they say," Elira continued behind her. "A butcher. The Stormlord. That he bathes in blood. That he took his brothers' heads and lined them on pikes along the Arkenfall gates."

"That's so horrid," Neriah said faintly.

"They say he's older than your father," Elira snapped. "They say he's got a voice like thunder and a heart like stone."

"And yet Halemond is honored," Neriah whispered. "That's what Father said. An honor. As if being fed to a wolf is an honor if you wear a velvet dress to the slaughter."

A long silence stretched between them.

Then Elira's voice came again, softer. "What do you want, my lady?"

Neriah didn't answer. She only turned her head slightly, eyes narrowed. Across the yard, near the covered archway that led to the stables, movement flickered. Two figures. One, tall and cloaked in black. The other — unmistakably Kara — with her hood drawn low, her posture careless, laughing as she nudged the man beside her.

Neriah's breath caught.

"Elira," she said.

"Yes, my lady?"

"Is that—"

"I'd wager it is."

"Gods," Neriah muttered.

Elira moved to her side, peering through the glass. "She's gone to the stables again. With him. Does she truly think no one sees?"

"She doesn't care if they do," Neriah said. "She never has."

They watched as the pair disappeared into the shadows of the stables, the great wooden doors yawning open to swallow them whole.

The rain fell harder now, drawing thin streams across the stone.

Neriah turned away from the window, her face unreadable. "Fetch my cloak, Elira. I want to walk."

"In the rain?"

"I think better in the rain."

The maid hesitated, then nodded.