CHAPTER SIX

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The hour was late. Halemond's skies were washed in deep blue, the kind that blurred the ridgelines of the mountains and pressed silence into every stone. Outside, the rain had quieted to a whisper — a soft, persistent mist that slid down the windows like tears no one dared to shed.

Lord Velmorn's study was lit only by two lanterns and the flickering fire beside his massive oaken desk. The chamber was crowded with relics — spears from his youth, old maps pinned with curling edges, half-spilled goblets of ink, and dog-eared letters from lords who barely remembered his name.

He sat slouched over a map of the Bannerlands, his fingers resting over Halemond. The smallest region. The least favored. No banners from Halemond had ever flown in the royal court. No queen had ever come from these mountains. No daughter had ever been summoned by the Crown.

Until now.

A gentle knock stirred him. He did not look up.

"You may enter," he muttered.

The door creaked, and Neriah stepped in, her crimson hair bound in a modest braid, her gown damp at the hem from the grass outside. She paused by the door, unsure whether to speak.

"Father," she said softly.

Lord Velmorn glanced up, surprised.

"Neriah," he said, folding the map closed. "What are you doing awake?"

"I… I came to speak with you. Alone."

He gestured faintly to the chair across from him. She sat, hands clenched in her lap.

"I have made a decision," she began. "About the matter you discussed this morning."

Lord Velmorn raised an eyebrow. "I wasn't aware you were the one making decisions."

"I wasn't either," she said gently. "But things… changed."

He frowned, leaning back in his seat. "Your sister has made her choice, I presume."

"She did." Neriah nodded. "And I'm here to make mine."

A silence stretched between them.

"I will go to Arkenfall," she said, her voice low and sure. "I will marry the Storm Lord."

Lord Velmorn blinked — once. It was not surprise that colored his face, but something heavier. Wearier.

"No," he said after a moment. "No, this is not for you, Neriah. This is for—"

"Kara is not going," Neriah interrupted, voice rising. "She won't go, Father. And we both know that forcing her would do more damage than good. She would bring shame to our name before the ink on the royal scrolls dried."

Lord Velmorn said nothing.

"I know this isn't my duty," she continued. "And I know I am not the one they expected. But… if someone must do this, let it be me."

Still, he was quiet.

"I won't lie to you," Neriah added, the emotion catching in her throat. "I'm frightened. Of him. Of that court. Of leaving this land I've known all my life. I never dreamed I'd be a queen, Father. I dreamed of a quiet marriage, of children who looked like me, of a husband who said my name gently."

Her voice shook.

"I want to be loved. Truly loved."

At this, Lord Velmorn's gaze lifted to her face. And he saw her clearly — He saw the storm behind her eyes. The strength in her stillness. The steel wrapped in silk.

"You have your mother's eyes," he said softly. "And her hair. I can still see her — that first day she rode into Halemond. Red curls spilling down her back."

Neriah blinked, startled. Her father rarely spoke of her mother.

"She died a while after you were born," he said, voice low. "I held you before I buried her. And in my grief, I asked the gods why they took her and left me a child I did not know how to raise."

Neriah swallowed, her heart aching.

"But as you grew…" Lord Velmorn's voice thickened, "you reminded me of her. Not just in face — but in grace. In patience. In how you never asked for praise, but deserved it more than anyone."

She blinked hard, willing the tears to stay in.

"Are you sure, you - "

"I am," Neriah whispered. "If it brings honor to our house. If it restores our name in the eyes of the realm… I will go."

Another silence stretched between them. Lord Velmorn stood slowly and crossed to her side. For a long moment, he simply stood there. Then he lowered his hand and placed it on her head — gently, reverently.

"I have failed you many times, Neriah," he said. "But I will not forget this."

She closed her eyes as the tears slipped free.

"You are the pride of Halemond now," he said. "And gods be damned… I pray the Storm Lord sees it."

*********************

ARKENFALL

The message that arrived in Lady Rhea's hand was one that would ripple through the stones of Arkenfall.

She stood near the tall bronze pillars of the eastern wing, where the light of morning pooled like honey on marble. In one hand she held the parchment — a sealed missive from Halemond. The other hand curled loosely at her hip as she read it once more, though the words had already branded themselves in her mind.

House Velmorn would be sending their second daughter to marry the King. Not the first, as previously pledged.

She let out a long sigh through her nose. "Well," she muttered dryly to herself, "I suppose that's one way to start a marriage."

As the Mistress of Accord — the Crown's Lady Emissary and the realm's foremost diplomat — it was Lady Rhea's duty to oversee communications between the throne and the noble houses. She was born to the sands of Braemorin, sharp of wit and tongue, known both for her elegance and her unrepentant tendency to call things what they were. There were few who dared spar with her in council. Fewer still who won.

She swept through the inner halls of the palace, the hem of her wine-colored gown whispering across the stone.

The King was not present that morning — she had already checked the Great Hall and the outer training court, but of course, Damon had risen early to join his Kingsguard in inspection drills outside the gates.

So she turned her steps toward the King's Hand.

Lord Gareth of Edravon, the The King's hand. and the wisest man in the Royal Circle, was seated where he always was this hour: beneath the latticed window in the Chamber of Records, surrounded by scrolls of law and thin trails of pipe smoke.

When she entered, he didn't look up at first. He was mid-sentence with a court scribe, one hand gesturing at a line of text. His voice, gravel and wisdom, never needed to rise above a murmur to command the room.

"—and I don't care if House Dalwick's goats graze six feet beyond their line. They signed a treaty in ink, and if they can't read their own borders, I'll draw it on their backsides myself."

The scribe scribbled furiously. Gareth glanced up, catching Rhea's shadow.

"My lady emissary," Gareth greeted with a courteous nod. "You're early."

"Early, yes. But I believe the message I carry could not wait for a more polite hour. I bring word from Halemond."

She handed him the sealed parchment. Gareth cracked it open with a bronze blade, scanning it quickly, the tension around his brow tightening ever so slightly.

"Well, this is... interesting," he muttered.

"Indeed," Lady Rhea said. "I thought it prudent to inform you first, as His Majesty was unavailable at the time of arrival."

Gareth set the scroll down and clasped his hands together.

"They've changed the name. From Kara of Halemond... to Neriah. The second daughter?"

Rhea folded her hands at her front. "Yes. Without explanation. No official apology, no statement of ill health or political change. Just the name."

"They presume we'll not notice. Or not care."

"They presume correctly, at least where His Majesty is concerned," she replied, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. "If you recall, the King instructed the Circle that 'whichever Halemond daughter arrives in a gown, he'll wed."

Gareth huffed softly, though his expression remained unreadable. "I do recall. His exact phrasing, as I remember it, was slightly more... undignified."

Lady Rhea smiled faintly. "I cleaned it up for parchment."

Gareth tapped his fingers lightly over the armrest of his chair.

"This isn't a scandal," he said. "But it is unusual. The marriage alliance was a political offering — first daughter, first priority. Now we receive the second, with no diplomatic cause."

"Perhaps the first daughter refused," Rhea suggested.

"Refused? Then Halemond should have sent word properly. This smells more like panic than politics."

Lady Rhea's gaze drifted to the fireplace. "Do we know anything of this Neriah?"

Gareth shook his head. "No. No reports. No rumors. Not even whispers from Lord Roran. Which is, in itself, quite the statement."

"She's a ghost on parchment, then."

"And ghosts are difficult to marry."

They shared a brief silence.

Then Gareth leaned forward.

"Lady Rhea — I'd like you to prepare a proper reception for the arrival. The King may not mind which sister they send, but the court will. If there's weakness here, the other houses will sniff it like blood."

"Of course, my lord."

"And have Roran dig up what he can. Discreetly."

Rhea nodded. "And the King? Shall I inform him?"

A beat passed.

"No," Gareth said at last. "Let him focus on the border petitions for now. He'll learn soon enough. If we tell him this morning, he'll make a jest of it until sunset."

A rare smile touched Rhea's lips. "And Leon will turn it into a drinking game."

"I'd rather not attend that table."

Lady Rhea bowed lightly. "Then I shall see to the preparations. With grace — and silence."

As she turned to leave, Gareth added, "Rhea."

She paused.

"Make sure the girl's name is spelled correctly on the parchments. We wouldn't want to start a royal marriage by calling the Queen the wrong woman."

Lady Rhea allowed herself one, thin laugh. "Of course, Lord Hand."