Baron Lionel Marcaster walked through the hallways of a castle so vast that for a brief moment he thought of the royal palace itself. Its marble arches rose higher than the tallest trees he had seen as a boy, and the stained-glass windows spilled colored light across the stone floor like rivers of fire and emerald. The sheer scale pressed on him, reminding him that this was not his world, not truly. Only weeks ago he had first stepped inside the king’s own castle, and now here he was again, wandering another seat of power—this time the stronghold of House Kellius, one of the greatest ducal houses in all of Lancephil.

It was not his rising fame or sudden importance that had brought him here. No. The truth was uglier. The kingdom was bleeding, and the war that had begun as whispers in the court had now broken into full cries of rebellion. Each day more banners were raised, more swords sharpened, and every prince of the realm moved his pieces as though the land itself were no more than a game board.

Lionel had refused to follow any of them. Once, he had bent his knee to Prince Aldrin. The prince was kind enough to remember his name, even to greet him with a smile, but his vision had never matched Lionel’s own. Aldrin was steady, cautious, noble—good qualities, but not the fire Lionel searched for.

The Baron came from a house of Mages, though the word “Mage” clung loosely now. His great-grandfather had been a true wielder of the magic, a man whose spells were remembered in old ballads, but the flame had died with him. His father, his grandfather, even Lionel himself—none carried that same gift. They were barons by name and nothing more, small men in a kingdom of giants. Lionel had made peace with that truth once. But peace was not what he wanted anymore. He wanted change. He wanted something to spark.

And so he had turned his eyes to the one man no one had expected to rise—Arzan Kellius. The dark horse. The name still echoed in his mind, like a whisper in the Assembly chamber the day he had raised himself in support. At the time, he had not even realized what he had done. He acted with hope and now… now Arzan stood closer to the crown than anyone dared to imagine, and Lionel found himself caught in his shadow.

He told himself he would hold onto Arzan not out of loyalty or cunning, but out of hope. Hope that if this man triumphed, he would drag the kingdom into an age of magic.

And Baron Lionel wanted to ride that wave—both for his own sake and for the sake of his house. If Arzan could bring magic roaring back into the heart of the kingdom, perhaps Lionel might finally awaken something buried in his blood. Perhaps the name Marcaster would carry weight again. His wife had argued bitterly against it, calling him reckless, even foolish, for throwing himself into the lot with a man who wasn’t even his prince. Yet his father, who was old, tired, but still proud, had clasped his shoulder and told him to follow his gut. And so Lionel had chosen, and he would see it through.

With those thoughts, he made his way down the last hallway. He was extremely close to the chamber where the meeting would be held. Finally, the great doors stood before him—tall and ironbound, carved with the sigil of House Kellius.

Two guards stood before the gate.

When Lionel approached, the guards bowed slightly. “Baron Lionel,” one said in a respectful voice, “you may go inside.”

Lionel blinked, caught off guard. They knew his face. He had never set foot here before, and yet these men recognized him at once. He felt a small shiver creep down his spine, but he hid it, offering only a curt nod before pushing the doors open.

The hall swallowed him the moment he stepped inside. For a heartbeat, Lionel froze where he stood, struck dumb by the sight.

Nobles filled the chamber. Not one or two, but rows of them. Silks, jewels and all kinds of shiny stuff shone beneath chandeliers heavy with candles. Murmurs buzzed like restless insects. His eyes darted first to the high seat at the far end of the hall.

There sat Duke Blackwood, broad-shouldered and grim, his presence heavy enough to anchor the entire room. Beside him was his son Leopold, leaning back in his chair with his arm crossed. A cluster of nobles surrounded them, mostly viscounts, their heads bent together. Lionel counted two barons among them, both men known for clawing their way upward with unusual success.

Further down, nobles scattered along the table in smaller groups, cups of wine in hand, some laughing too loudly, others whispering to each other. Lionel’s gaze drifted across their crests stitched into fine coats and cloaks.

And then his eyes landed on one side of the hall—where the whole of Sylvan Enclave had gathered. There sat Viscount Buck, speaking low with Viscount Redmont, his face drawn with thought. Around them sat others, though Lionel did not know them by face. Younger men, sons and nephews most likely, wearing the crests of houses whose elders were conspicuously absent.

Lionel’s mouth tightened. He remembered what had happened. The Sylvan lords—every one of them save Buck—were either locked in confinement or cut down, their houses thrown into chaos. Only Buck had been spared, and from what Lionel had heard, it was by Arzan’s will alone.

Lionel’s hand curled at his side. He realized once again what the council was going to decide today. This was a council carved from survivors, opportunists, and men staking everything on a dark horse’s rise.

And now he, Baron Lionel Marcaster of a fading Mage’s line, was among them. He studied the room even more.

Other than Duke Blackwood and the Sylvan lords, two faces caught Lionel by surprise that he almost took a step back.

Viscountess Vessa and Baroness Marren. For years, they had been known enemies—women who spat venom at each other in gatherings, whose houses had feuded over every petty thing for as long as anyone could remember. Yet here they sat side by side, their gowns brushing against each other as though they were the oldest of companions.

They smiled as they spoke, lips curved in pleasant masks. But Lionel’s eyes lingered long enough to catch the truth. Their smiles never reached their eyes. Those sharp glares beneath their lashes told the real story. Friends? Hardly. Allies of convenience, perhaps. Or vipers nesting in the same basket, waiting for the chance to strike.

It almost made him laugh, but deep inside, he felt a twinge of unease and turned away, only for the sound of heavy doors creaking open on the far side of the chamber to draw every gaze in the hall.

Duke Arzan entered.

The duke moved with a stride so assured that even in a room filled with lords and ladies, he seemed the only figure of true weight. His cloak, dark as midnight, trailed behind him, and the candlelight caught the silver clasp at his shoulder like a flash of steel. Around him walked his closest circle. Lionel recognized Killian, the knight who had been in the banquet he’d attended and had made a name for himself in the previous fief war. Another face walked on his side and if he guessed correctly, it was Francis, the administrator he had briefly heard of.

But it wasn’t Arzan’s men who stirred the most whispers. It was the figure walking directly beside him.

Princess Amara.

Her step matched his, steady, unflinching, as though she belonged at his side. Her gown flowed like river silk, but her expression was carved from stone—it was unreadable. Only her eyes moved, flicking from one corner of the hall to another. She did not speak a word, yet Lionel could feel the weight of her gaze, as though she were weighing each noble like a merchant considering wares.

So the rumors were true. The princess and the duke were together.

Even Lionel, who had tried to ignore gossip, felt a jolt at the sight. It was no small matter. Whatever else it meant, it gave Arzan’s claim a crown-shaped shadow of legitimacy.

Lionel realized, a moment too late, that he was still standing stiffly near the entrance, gawking like a newcomer at a market fair. His breath caught when Arzan’s eyes swept across the hall and landed on him.

“Baron Lionel,” the duke said, “please, take a seat. I believe we can begin the council at once, since all are gathered. The others cannot join us—some are trapped in the western territories, where Thalric presses hard.”

Every noble turned their head slightly at the name, a ripple of unease moving through the room like wind over tall grass.

Lionel’s heart thudded in his chest. He managed a quick nod, his mouth twitching into what he hoped was a polite smile. Moving quickly, he crossed to the nearest empty chair. As he sat, he smiled again at those whose eyes lingered on him—a smile too quick, too nervous, but all he could manage.

Duke Arzan took his place at the head of the table, waiting just long enough for the shuffling of chairs and rustle of cloaks to die down. Only when silence settled over the hall did he nod, a small gesture that seemed to carry the weight of command.

At once, servants moved like clockwork. A pair unrolled thick maps across the length of the table, weighted at the corners with polished stones so that every detail could be seen. Others stepped lightly between the nobles, handing out thick bundles of parchment bound with string, one for each seat. Not a word was spoken as they worked; even their footsteps seemed muted against the stone floor. When the last of them bowed and departed, everyone in the hall looked down on the parchments.

Lionel turned the bundle in his hands, curiosity prickling at him. It was heavier than he expected, the parchment stiff and well-prepared. Slowly, he pulled it open.

His breath caught as he read it.

Each page was filled with writing so neat it looked almost mechanical. The title of the first section leapt at him: Prince Aldrin, his core retainers and sworn lords. Below, line after line of names, descriptions, notes stared back at him. Lionel’s eyes widened further as he turned the pages. Not only were the princes listed, but their strongest Knights and Mages, their known tactics, their armies’ estimated size, even the disposition of their families.

One page showed a Viscount’s Mage with notes on the spells she favored and the battles she had won. Another described a baron’s loyalty, down to the fact that his wife’s family owned shares in a business the first prince controlled.

Lionel’s mouth had gone dry. He had known nobles kept their eyes sharp, their ears sharper. Spies spread across the kingdom, and everyone collected rumors. But this, this was no collection of rumors. This was knowledge bound. He had never imagined records so thorough existed, not in one man’s hand.

He swallowed, his fingers tightening slightly on the parchment. A chill crept into his mind before he could stop it. If Arzan has this on them… does he have one on me too?

For an instant, he pictured a page bearing his name: Baron Lionel Marcaster. Weak Mage bloodline. Wife outspoken against his choice. Father is supportive. Ambitions: uncertain, seeking worth in magic. The thought sent a small shudder crawling down his spine. Perhaps not, not to that extreme at least.

Quickly, he lowered his head and let his eyes fall to the maps, hiding his unease.

And the maps—gods above, the maps were even more impressive. Where most maps he had seen marked only borders and roads, these were alive with detail. Fortresses were outlined, their walls marked with careful lines. Valleys and forests stretched in ink with notations about terrain advantages. In the northern reaches, someone had drawn a symbol for a cave with the words: Hibernation site of frost drakes—avoid disturbance. Another note warned of marshland where armies might sink to their knees.

Lionel stared, half in awe, half in disbelief.

Had Arzan been preparing for this all along? Planning not just to rise, but to seize the very crown with strategy so meticulous it felt inevitable? If so, Lionel realized, then he had grossly underestimated him.

But the realization did not frighten him as much as he thought it might. No, if anything, it steadied his choice. His lips pressed together, the hint of a smile threatening as the thought settled into him: If I am to gamble, then this is the man to gamble on.

The hall grew quiet save for the soft rustle of parchment as the nobles studied the records before them. Pages turned slowly, some lips moving as their eyes traced the writing, others glancing up now and then to read the expressions of their peers. The silence stretched long, heavy, until finally Baroness Marren leaned back in her chair. Her voice cut through the stillness.

“It seems,” she said with a thin smile, “that you have planned much in so short a time.”

Heads turned to Duke Arzan. He did not immediately answer, instead letting the pause hang long enough that Lionel thought it deliberate, a reminder that it was his council, not theirs. Then he spoke after giving a brief nod.

“Every noble being drawn into the capital has its uses,” Arzan said. “While others wasted time playing courtly games, my men were gathering what mattered. Information. They worked hard.”

A murmur swept through the table, some nodding, others frowning. Viscountess Vessa raised her chin, her smile sharp as a blade.

“And now it will come in handy, no doubt,” she quipped. “But I would like to point out, Duke Arzan, that even with all of us here—and the talk of your fine army and equipment—we are still vastly outnumbered by the princes.”

Lionel found himself nodding before he even realized it, the truth of her words pressing against his chest like a weight.

Arzan inclined his head slightly, unbothered. “I am well aware of that.”

He paused, and then with crisp certainty continued:

“Thalric commands the largest force. Seventy to eighty thousand men, most of them drawn from the royal army. They have declared for him outright, giving him the spine of his strength. And we have reports that he is swelling his numbers further—forcing commoners into service. I expect his army to double in time.”

A chill settled over the hall. The nobles exchanged uneasy glances, whispers moving like wind across the chamber. Lionel’s fingers tightened on the edge of his parchment. He had men—yes—but only two thousand five hundred who could bear arms, and that was counting farmers and household guards pressed into service. A number pitifully small in the shadow of Thalric’s army. And most of those gathered here were barons or viscounts like him. Their combined banners would still look meager beside a single prince’s.

And Thalric was not the only one.

Arzan let the silence steep in their worry before he spoke again, unflinching.

“Aldrin,” he continued, “has the lowest numbers—barely thirty thousand by our best count. But his strength was never in his men.”

Lionel glanced up at that, heart tugging with unease. He knew it was true. Aldrin, for all his caution, was well-loved by the commons and courtiers alike. His support was not measured in swords, but in loyalty and sympathy. That, Lionel thought grimly, was a weapon of its own.

The murmurs stretched until Duke Blackwood spoke, “It isn’t Aldrin’s men we should fear. It’s the armies of other kingdoms.”

The words settled around the gathered men heavily. Even Lionel felt a small knot twist in his gut.

“Precisely. Alparca will send most of their strength—everything save what they need to guard their own borders. But it is not their soldiers that should worry us most. Their Royal Mages are their true weapon. They train them to fight in groups, weaving their spells together. They have invested in them for decades… And Aldrin… Aldrin is already moving to curry their favor. With his mother being from there, he will easily get their support. And I have it on good authority that he is also talking to the other kingdoms. That means we will always have to watch our backs when it comes to him.”

Blackwood’s hand slammed once, softly, on the table. A growl rumbled in his throat. “Outsiders will not come without a price. They’ll want a slice of our land for every favor they grant.”

Lionel found himself nodding almost instinctively. Several others did the same, muttering agreement. The thought of foreign banners marching on Lancephil’s soil left an uneasy chill down his spine.

But Arzan did not dwell on it. His gaze swept the table. “Which is why,” he said, “I believe that rather than Thalric—whose strength is vast but already tested on many fronts—Aldrin poses the greater threat, for now.”

A ripple of nods circled the table. Even those who had looked doubtful earlier could not deny the truth of it.

And then Leopold Blackwood, sitting tall beside his father, broke in. “And what of Eldric?”

The question shifted the air. Lionel’s eyes flicked back to Arzan. For the first time since entering the hall, the duke did not answer at once. There was the faintest hesitation—his shoulders shifting, a fleeting look that almost seemed… sheepish.

“We estimate Eldric’s forces at forty to fifty thousand,” Arzan said finally, his voice level though not as sharp as before. “That is what our network can confirm. But…” He exhaled through his nose, as if annoyed by the words that followed. “We are certain much of his true strength is hidden. Queen Regina always had the support of certain hidden organizations. I have crossed spells with them myself.”

“But,” Arzan pressed on, “if there is fortune to be found here, it is that their strength will not be pointed at us first. Their focus lies on Thalric. Eldric and his forces will move to strike him as he pushes toward the capital.”

Lionel’s hand rested on the edge of the map, his eyes drifting over the neat lines of borders and forts. Princes, foreign kingdoms, hidden factions—each word seemed to pile heavier on his shoulders. His two and a half thousand men felt smaller and smaller in his mind, like grains of sand against a tide.

Baron Lionel felt a question rise to his tongue. He wanted to know more about these hidden organizations Arzan spoke of—who they were, what powers they truly wielded, and how a duke had crossed spells with them and lived to tell of it. But the discussion rolled forward before he could open his mouth, and he swallowed the question, promising himself he would find a chance to ask later.

Still, the weight of what he had heard pressed on him. He had always known the princes’ power was overwhelming, but hearing the numbers laid out so plainly—the tens of thousands, the foreign Mages, the hidden blades in the dark—gave it a shape too big to ignore.

Finally, someone broke the silence with the one question that sat on every noble’s mind. “And what are our numbers?”

Arzan did not flinch. “Around thirty thousand including all of us If I’m right,” he said, his voice even. “That includes the commoners who have already signed to join my banners. Far fewer than any of the princes.”

A ripple of sighs moved through the hall. Some frowned, others shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Lionel’s gut twisted as doubt wormed its way in. Did Arzan himself believe those numbers could stand against what they had just heard? For a fleeting moment, he feared the duke had only gathered them to walk blind into ruin.

But when his eyes lifted to the head of the table, he found no uncertainty there. Arzan’s expression was as confident as ever. It silenced Lionel’s doubt almost as quickly as it had come.

The murmurs began to rise, nobles leaning to whisper to one another, worry seeping into their voices. Then Arzan raised his hand. The hall obeyed. The voices dwindled into silence.

“Even if we are the fewest in number,” Arzan said, “there is much we can do. Do not forget—none of the princes have ever waged true war. Not Thalric, not Aldrin, not Eldric. They know ambition, yes, but not strategy. Even Thalric has never commanded on the scale he pretends to.”

A few nods followed but Lionel saw Viscount Redmont arch a brow, lips curling faintly in skepticism.

“Then,” Redmont said, “do you already have a plan, Duke Arzan?”

The room stilled again, every eye drawn to the man at the head of the table. Arzan’s reply was slow. He gave one firm nod.

“I do.”

The words dropped like stones into a pool, rippling through the chamber. Lionel’s chest tightened, a flicker of heat racing through him. Once more, he thought, Yes. I have chosen rightly. This man knows what he is doing. He will lead us through this storm.

But then Arzan began to speak of his plan.

The words unfurled steadily, calmly, with the same quiet confidence as before, but as Lionel listened, his gut sank. The plan was bold, audacious to the point of madness. To his ears, it sounded less like a strategy and more like a gamble tossed against the heavens themselves.

And in that moment, the first spark of unease pricked at him.

Had I chosen rightly? Or have I thrown my lot in with a man reckless enough to bring us all down with him?

The pit in his stomach deepened with each word Arzan spoke.

Fuck, it’s too late now to change, isn’t it?

***

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