On the high terrace of the northern hall, Prince Fenrel Kelanor stood watching the horizon, his cloak loose around his shoulders, eyes fixed on the golden edge of the desert.

  Beside him, Ser Halrik Drayven — knight and trusted advisor — remained respectfully silent, as always.

  “Do you miss Draykor?” Fenrel asked at last, breaking the stillness. “What’s it like… coming home?”

  Halrik offered a faint smile, his gaze distant.

  “It’s strange. Familiar, but not the same. The stones haven’t changed… but the voices have. Not every face comes back with us.”

  Fenrel nodded, his gaze dropping to the wide walls that guarded the city.

  “And the Marchioness? Still as ruthless as they say?”

  “Always. Lady Merissa never needed to raise her voice to be heard.” He paused. “My family has served House Drayven for generations. My father was her cousin, actually.”

  “Cousin?” Fenrel raised a brow. “You’ve never mentioned that.”

  “It never mattered. He was a soldier. She… was born to command. Different paths.”

  The silence returned, broken only by the dry wind drifting from the southern reaches.

  “House Drayven has a peculiar reputation,” Fenrel mused. “They’re said to host more Level 4 Adepts than many duchies. Even more than some of the Great Houses.”

  “It’s true,” Halrik said, glancing toward the courtyard where youths trained with swords. “But even with that, they’ve yet to forge a single master — in blade or magic. It’s a hidden wound.”

  Fenrel inhaled deeply, eyes falling to the mosaic floor.

  “Well… then maybe I shouldn’t mention that I haven’t been assigned a master either.”

  Halrik turned to him, stern.

  “Don’t say that in front of the Marchioness. It’s a… sensitive topic. For House Drayven, forging a master matters more than winning a war.”

  Before Fenrel could reply, hurried footsteps echoed down the corridor. A messenger burst in, breathless, eyes wide.

  “Your Highness!” he gasped. “The city of Durnhal has fallen.”

  Fenrel spun around.

  “What do you mean fallen? Bragol didn’t arrive in time?”

  The boy hesitated, swallowing hard.

  “He did arrive. But he was gravely wounded. And the specialist with him… the Silver Sparrow of Valtteri… is dead.”

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  The silence that followed was suffocating. Even the wind held its breath.

  “Bragol is an expert. Of royal lineage. The Sparrow had Valtteri blood. And there was another specialist in the city. Three Level 5 rankers…” Fenrel ran a hand through his hair. “And even then, they fell?”

  He turned to Halrik, who could only shake his head, stunned.

  The war was no longer a game between princes.

  On the other side of the realm, under the shade of brittle vines, Uren Kelanor sipped tea beside Riven Falwyn. They sat in the filtered light of a dead trellis, tucked away in a narrow café buried within a forgotten city — the kind of place where nobility only moved in disguise.

  Steam rose from Uren’s cup, but his eyes were far off.

  Bartoli arrived as she always did — from the shadows, as if the night itself had shaped her.

  “I see you came directly,” Uren said without turning.

  “It was urgent,” she replied. “Durnhal has fallen.”

  Riven straightened, eyes wide. Uren stayed still for a moment, then furrowed his brow slightly.

  “That was faster than I expected,” he said softly. “I’ll need to move my plans forward. Two weeks… maybe less.”

  “How…?” Riven murmured, still reeling. “How is that possible?”

  Uren took a calm sip of tea.

  “Several theories. The obvious one: the enemy used an absurd number of experts. But given that two of ours had noble bloodlines — and there was a third specialist in the city, not to mention the army — the opposing force would have to be immense. Unlikely. And impossible to move without me noticing.”

  Bartoli tilted her head.

  “So your conclusion?”

  “The most likely?” Uren set down the cup. “A master was involved. And we’ll confirm that soon enough.”

  “And the king?” Riven asked cautiously.

  “We haven’t intercepted the reports yet,” Bartoli replied, annoyed.

  Uren waved dismissively.

  “Knowing my father… he’ll appoint Celina to take command. She has the Hawthornes. And the Crone. And even old… a master is still a master.”

  Bartoli nodded slowly.

  “There’s a town between Thornbridge and Durnhal. Elevated terrain, good supply routes. I assume they’ll set up there.”

  “And the generals?” Uren leaned forward.

  “Now they’ll move. Until yesterday, they thought this would be simple. The last war was won too easily. But this… changes everything.”

  Uren chuckled softly, almost amused.

  “Celina and Bragol were so focused on the Five Duchies… they forgot about the other ten.”

  Fenrel — until now, a quiet piece on the board — was beginning to draw the right kind of attention. The fall of Durnhal didn’t just expose Bragol, the favored prince — it forced the ten neutral houses to reconsider their alliances. Among them, House Drayven had already made its stance. And that mattered.

  Though politically unstable due to decades without forging a master, House Drayven was militarily respected — they hosted the largest number of Level 4 rankers in the realm.

  Riven stayed quiet for a long moment, avoiding Uren’s eyes.

  “You’ll need to report to your father?” Uren asked with a sly smile. “I’m sure he’ll love passing this along to the Duke.”

  “Never,” Riven said — too quickly.

  Uren reached out, gently brushing the young man’s cheek.

  “You’re sweet. But don’t lie. I know you’re reporting to your family.” His tone was affectionate, almost fond. “And honestly? I’d be disappointed if you weren’t.”

  Riven stared at him, speechless.

  “You’re not my only contact in House Falwyn, darling,” Uren continued. “And even if you tried to hide it, these are matters the Five Duchies never miss.”

  He turned to Bartoli.

  “Prepare everything. We’re heading north.”

  “Is that wise?” Riven asked, hesitant. “I thought you were in charge of the southern front…”

  “I am,” Uren said, rising with quiet elegance, adjusting his cloak. “Prince Uren is currently in the south. Inspecting borders, commanding troops, issuing orders. One of my shadows is there. With my face. My robes. My voice.”

  He smiled.

  “Of course my father isn’t fooled. Nor the dukes. Nor the masters. But as long as nothing goes wrong… no one will care. And if something does go wrong, well… House Falwyn will send a master. That’s… implied in our arrangement, isn’t it?”

  Bartoli said nothing — only nodded. Her eyes glinted with the sheen of veiled steel.

  Now, yes.

  The game had left the board.