Western Ceredan, a few days later.

  The throne hall of Lugarn had been carved directly into the rock. Stone—high, cold, gray. Behind the throne opened the black maws of caverns, from which a dull rumble echoed—the mines worked there without pause.

  Lugarn was the first and oldest kingdom of the continent. Small, pressed in by mountains on every side, it had endured invasions, coups, betrayals, and enemy banners over its walls. Yet it had endured.

  It was here that Luga was first discovered. And from here it was sent across the entire continent.

  Upon that rested the kingdom’s wealth. And its curse.

  A state built on a single resource grows rich quickly—and just as quickly becomes a target. For years, neighbors fought for control of this land. Whoever held the mines could dictate terms.

  Life in Lugarn turned into endless survival. The supply of Luga depended not on laws, but on who had most recently conquered the mountain passes.

  Eventually, all the great powers understood a simple truth: if the mines constantly changed hands, everyone suffered.

  For the stability of Luga extraction, this land had to become neutral.

  An unspoken agreement was reached. No armies to enter. No open war to be waged. The price of Luga was to be frozen at a low level, so that the ruler of Lugarn could not accumulate enough wealth to build a great army of his own.

  Now no one fought for Lugarn with swords. They fought with treaties, marriages, debts, and advisors. The mountains remained cold. But the struggle here never ceased.

  Inside, upon the stone throne, sat an old man. Bald, with a long gray beard falling to his chest. Deep wrinkles cut across his face like cracks in dry rock. His age was not concealed—it was displayed.

  This was the king of Lugarn—Vladur of the Trikrat dynasty. The longest-reigning ruler in the continent’s history. He was older than all the other states that now existed upon it.

  Around the throne sat members of his family and his closest lords. All elderly, cautious, experienced. There was no young blood here. To enter this circle was nearly impossible—years filtered more efficiently than any intrigue.

  Only two figures broke this pattern: Irshava, Vladur’s granddaughter, with a cold and attentive gaze, and Nikola, his personal informant—the only younger man in the hall who did not bear the mark of decades.

  The reason for the gathering was simple. A letter from Serain of the Veytur dynasty. The king of Ceredan informed them that he would soon arrive in Lugarn with a delegation.

  The hall was silent.

  Vladur’s voice, like his skin, revealed his age. Hoarse, quiet, with pauses between words. The lords had to lean closer to hear his commands.

  Not one of them dared interrupt.

  “When will Veytur arrive?” Vladur asked raspingly.

  “According to his letter, he will be here in a week,” one of the lords replied.

  “Did he write what he wants?”

  Nikola leaned forward.

  “I can assume that he will ask—”

  The king cut him off.

  “He wants to make sure that the years will soon finish me, and then he will fully take control of our lands.”

  Irshava exhaled, not hiding her irritation.

  “You are at it again. Perhaps for once you could listen to your informant?”

  “That is secondary,” Vladur waved it away. “The main reason is obvious to me.”

  He turned his slow gaze toward her.

  “Unless you intend to surprise me and say he is not coming because of his son? The one he wishes to send into your chambers?”

  Irshava clenched her jaw.

  “Yes,” a lord added dryly. “Cael is traveling with him.”

  “There you have it,” the king grunted. “I hope you have not yet lost your senses. At least wait until I die. I do not wish to watch us surrender our independence over youthful infatuations.”

  Irshava rose abruptly.

  “Where does such certainty come from? From Nikola? Or from the stories of those women who leave your chambers with empty eyes?”

  The hall grew colder.

  “Do not forget who you are speaking to,” Vladur hissed.

  “I am not going to listen to your paranoia.”

  She turned toward the doors.

  “Let me know when you decide to concern yourselves with something useful.”

  The doors closed behind her.

  “The younger generation,” one of the lords muttered. “No respect.”

  “In time, she will understand that you were right,” Nikola said calmly. “If the proper man stands beside her.”

  “Do not even start,” Vladur cut him off. “‘The proper man’ is not some errand boy from an obscure line.”

  He leaned forward.

  “Gather information. How matters stand on their front. What exactly will he ask for? And what we can demand in return.”

  “You intend to help him in the war?” Nikola asked carefully.

  “Of course. If Ceredan falls, none of you will be able to defend Lugarn.”

  He slowly rose to his feet.

  “And begin preparations. A king is coming to us, not a merchant.”

  He waved his hand. The lords dispersed, murmuring among themselves.

  The hall emptied.

  Vladur remained alone. Leaning on his cane, he stared ahead—not at the doors, not at the caverns, but somewhere into the past.

  The mountains remembered more than anyone in that room.

  And so did he.

  The road between Mosun and Lozova.

  The last mercenary detachments were leaving the city. The tents were gone—only tracks in the mud and empty spaces by the walls remained. In Mosun, only the gravely wounded stayed behind. The rest were moving toward the rapids.

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  The change of surroundings felt like relief.

  Yes, the rapids were open, stony, and swept by winds. But the road passed through Lozova, where The Compact could replenish supplies. And the rapids lay closer to their own lands.

  Balrek rode at the front. Beside him—Atrion and Skeld.

  Velm lay in a wagon, wrapped in a cloak, no longer carrying the deathly pallor he had worn days before.

  “In Lozova, we will leave you,” Atrion said. “After that, we ride on alone.”

  “Did you send a messenger to Innorat?” Balrek asked without turning.

  “Knowing Dagmar, it is better not to,” Velm replied from the wagon. “He does not like being warned about guests.”

  “As you wish.”

  They rode in silence for several minutes. The wagon wheels thudded dully against stone.

  “I hope,” Atrion added, “you will be able to ride. It would not do to arrive in Innorat lying down.”

  “Do not worry,” Velm answered quietly. “I will be ready.”

  Skeld leaned toward him, explaining something in a low voice—the route, possible passes, the escort.

  Meanwhile, Atrion and Balrek urged their horses forward, pulling ahead of the main column.

  Once they had gained distance, their conversation lowered.

  “What are you planning at the rapids?” Atrion asked.

  “We prepare the ground quietly,” Balrek replied. “No unnecessary movement. So scouts see nothing, and neither do passing travelers. I will take builders, engineers, and a small cover force. No more.”

  “And if they strike earlier?”

  “Then we will be fortunate enough to die on our own fortifications, not on someone else’s.”

  A few seconds of silence.

  “And you?” Balrek continued. “What will you do when you meet Dagmar?”

  “I do not know. I have not seen him in a long time. I will try to draw out as much as I can.”

  He paused.

  “I will not resist. Velm advised me to keep my mouth shut and listen.”

  “Perhaps we should have taken someone else from the cohort. We need to prepare…”

  Balrek fell silent for a moment.

  “…someone to replace Rianes. The way he prepared Feren.”

  “Skeld has already chosen one. An archer. Philip.”

  “The one who pulled you out in Mosun while you were unconscious?”

  “Yes. I owe him.”

  Atrion looked ahead.

  “But to be honest, I trust no one else there. Except Skeld, Syra, and Naelis.”

  “In Mosun, rejected knew too much. They were so close.”

  The wind lifted dust from the road.

  On the horizon, the outlines of a city emerged—Lozova. Stone walls and rooflines cut against the pale sky.

  The column quickened its pace.

  The mercenaries were finally approaching a place where they would not be received as outsiders.

  And that was a rare luxury.

  Lugarn, a week later.

  The diplomatic retinue of Serain approached the capital, Brestiv. A city carved into the cliffs, as if it were an extension of the mountains themselves, and forever crowned with gray clouds.

  At the head of the column rode Cael and Stepeth. The horses moved steadily; the mountain wind carried the scent of stone and damp.

  “Well then,” Stepeth smiled, “is Irshava already preparing your chambers?”

  “Princess Irshava,” Cael corrected dryly.

  “Oh, forgive me. Did she make you call her that? Or did you decide to look more serious on your own?”

  He leaned closer.

  “I understand. She’s older than you. Might educate you. Teach you something new.”

  “Leave it.”

  “I’m only curious. Or are you afraid she’ll put you in a corner before the entire court?”

  “First, we need to marry,” Cael replied calmly. “And for that, her grandfather’s consent. Which he does not give. So we wait for the years to do their work.”

  “You’re seriously relying on the natural passage of time?”

  “I’m relying on politics. And patience.”

  “Boring.” Stepeth snorted. “So you two are still… nothing?”

  “No.”

  “I don’t believe you. You’ve been to Lugarn several times. Stone caves, narrow corridors, mountain romance… And not once?”

  “Leave it.”

  “So you just stare at each other across halls and talk about diplomacy?”

  “We talk about the future of states.”

  “Ah. Sounds very passionate.”

  Cael exhaled.

  “It isn’t a whim. If the marriage happens, it shifts the balance of the continent. Lugarn cannot be forced.”

  “So you decided to storm the heart instead of the gates?”

  “I’m not storming anything.”

  “Of course not. You just happen to end up in her company every time. And happen to look at her as if she’s the last fortress standing.”

  Cael shot him a warning glance.

  “Fine, fine. I’ll stop.”

  A pause.

  “But if you come here a fourth time and nothing happens again, I will personally lock you both in the cave where they store Luga.”

  “Then my father will lose a scout.”

  “But the kingdom will gain an heir.”

  A faint smile touched Cael’s lips, though he quickly faced forward again.

  “I’ll ask again,” Stepeth added, “when we ride back. And if you say ‘no’ again, I’ll lose all respect for you.”

  Ahead, the black smoke of Brestiv was already visible.

  And both of them suddenly grew more serious.

  Behind them, riding at a slower pace, were Serain and Syra.

  “You will stand and remain silent,” the king said quietly. “If asked, answer briefly. If he starts speaking too freely, you will say that I permitted you to ignore it.”

  “Has he grown any less repulsive with age?” Syra asked.

  “Quite the opposite.”

  Serain allowed himself a faint smile.

  “But most likely, he won’t even notice you.”

  “Does he still have his memory?”

  “He does. And his mind as well. Do not underestimate him.”

  He leaned slightly closer to her.

  “And be especially careful with his advisor—Nikola. He is dangerous. Intelligent. And capable of making us commit mistakes on our own.”

  Ahead, scouts signaled.

  “Almost there,” one of them said quietly.

  The cliffs narrowed the road. The gates of Brestiv were already visible.

  Rounding the final rocky outcrop, they saw the city.

  Brestiv did not stand among the mountains—it was part of them. The stone walls were not built; they were carved. Towers rose straight from the cliffs, as if they were natural extensions of the rock. Houses were not constructed separately—they were cut into ledges, climbing upward in terraces, connected by narrow stairways and stone galleries.

  Above the city, the entrances to the mines loomed black. Vast arches reinforced with heavy wooden frames. From them, wagons crept out slowly, loaded with containers of Luga, while cranes and pulley mechanisms worked without pause. The air carried the scent of dust, metal, and dampness.

  The lower tiers were darker, denser, with narrow streets. The upper levels were lighter, balconies hanging over chasms. From some rooftops, ropes and winches dangled—part of the city’s infrastructure was vertical rather than horizontal.

  The city did not expand outward. It grew upward and inward.

  Everything here obeyed the mines. Even the throne hall stood closer to the mountain mass than to the gates. Brestiv did not look wealthy. It looked enduring.

  The soldiers of Lugarn opened the gates and stepped forward to meet the delegation.

  Half an hour later, Serain’s delegation entered the central square of Brestiv.

  The soldiers of Lugarn stood in formation along the broad staircase. The locals gathered around the square—silent, observant, faces like stone. Foreign kings were rarely seen here.

  On the wide steps before the stone hall stood the court. Vladur sat on a heavy chair brought out especially for him. His figure seemed fragile against the cliffs, but his gaze was firm. Beside him stood Irshava. Slightly apart—Nikola, motionless as a shadow.

  Serain’s delegation halted at the center of the square. Guards and townsfolk closed the circle around them.

  One of the soldiers stepped forward and spoke loudly:

  “King Vladur and the people of Lugarn welcome you to our lands and are pleased to meet their allies!”

  Serain stepped forward to meet him.

  “Thank you for the reception. I am glad to see Vladur Trikrat in good health.”

  “Ah, Veytur,” the king replied hoarsely. “Do not begin with formalities. Come greet me properly.”

  Serain approached the steps. Vladur slowly rose, leaning on his cane. They clasped hands—briefly, without excess words.

  After that, Serain stepped back, and Vladur sat down again.

  “Allow me to present my delegation,” the king of Ceredan began.

  He named those standing at the front.

  In that moment, Cael and Irshava met each other’s gaze. Only for an instant—but long enough.

  Stepeth noticed it, gave a short smile, and exchanged a look with Cael. Irshava returned a restrained smile—barely visible, almost imperceptible to others.

  But not to everyone. Nikola saw it. And so did Vladur.

  Both remained cold, their expressions dark.

  “Well then,” Vladur rasped, “there is no need to crowd the square. Nikola, see to our guests.”

  He nodded and signaled the guards. The line of warriors parted, opening a path toward the inner tiers of Brestiv.

  The delegation began to move, but the king’s voice stopped them.

  “Veytur, who is the girl with the bow? Why did you not present her?”

  Serain turned.

  “This is Syra, of The Compact. My personal guard on this mission.”

  “Of The Compact…” Vladur repeated slowly. “How interesting.”

  He lifted his eyes.

  “Girl, step forward.”

  Syra glanced at Serain. He gave a nearly imperceptible nod.

  She ascended the steps.

  Silence settled over the square.

  Vladur studied her for a long time—her armor, posture, hands. He asked her to turn sideways, assessing the gear. Then he looked directly into her eyes.

  “How long have you been with The Compact?”

  “Since its founding. I was in the Blue Cohort when it was created.”

  “Oh.” The corners of the king’s lips barely moved. “Then you do not lack experience.”

  His gaze settled on the bow.

  “An unusual design. May I?”

  Syra removed it without hesitation and handed it over.

  Vladur rose. Slowly—but without assistance. He took the bow, assumed a stance, and drew the string with such ease it was as if the years had not touched his arms.

  Several onlookers stiffened.

  “The mechanism is uncommon,” he said. “I have not seen its like.”

  A pause.

  “Nor one like you.”

  He returned the bow.

  “I wish to see you at dinner tonight. At the common table. I suspect you have something worth telling.”

  He glanced at Serain.

  “Will you allow her to be a guest rather than a guard?”

  “I cannot refuse the host,” the king replied evenly.

  “It will be an honor,” Syra said. “Should I bring the bow?”

  “No. Come to dinner as a lady. The servants will help you prepare.”

  She bowed and returned to formation.

  “Well then,” Vladur concluded, “let our guests rest. We will meet again this evening.”

  He turned and moved slowly deeper into the rock-hewn palace.

  At the last moment, Nikola’s gaze lingered on Syra. Stepeth noticed.

  It was not curiosity. Not even suspicion.

  It was jealousy.