The great hall of Grey Ridge stood quiet in the early hours, its vast space emptied of banners and voices that normally crowded it during council sessions. Light filtered down from high windows, pale and diffused, catching on polished stone and long tables left bare. The absence of the council made the chamber feel larger, its silence heavier.

  King Darius Locke stood near the central table, hands resting on a spread of parchment pages. Inked lines and figures covered them in careful rows. Trade tallies. Port records. Tax assessments. The machinery of the kingdom laid out in quiet order.

  Across from him stood Averic Corvessa, representative of House Corvessa, his posture formal and controlled. He did not fidget. He did not rush. But the tension beneath his stillness was evident to anyone who knew what to look for.

  “This cannot continue,” the King said at last, his voice level but unyielding. He did not look up from the documents. “The ore discrepancies have reached a point where patience is no longer an option. I require resolution.”

  Averic inclined his head. “We have been investigating the matter, Your Grace. Our efforts have isolated the issue to Rivermark. The irregularities originate there.”

  The King lifted his gaze. “What is the resolution? The crown will wait no longer.”

  “I will be meeting with the manager overseeing that region today,” Averic said. “House Corvessa will satisfy the crown with great haste.”

  The King’s adviser, standing a half step behind and to the side, spoke without inflection. “The crown will expect an answer today. Failure to do so will require significant restitution. That will be in addition to the loss in tax.”

  Darius returned his attention to the parchments, turning a page with deliberate care. His focus appeared to shift fully to the work before him, yet the room remained tightly bound to his presence. The scratching of parchment was the only sound as the conversation continued.

  “House Corvessa serves at the crown’s pleasure,” Averic said. “Additionally, I wished to discuss one further matter.”

  The adviser’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Quickly. His Majesty has many matters to hear this day.”

  “There has been a report of something unusual to the north,” Averic said.

  “The crown is well versed in all matters of the Clawborn,” the adviser replied. “So if there is nothing else.”

  “This report is not of the Clawborn,” Averic said. “It concerns matters even further north.”

  The King stopped turning pages.

  Silence settled across the hall as Darius lifted his head, his eyes locking onto Averic with sudden intensity.

  “What matters do you speak of that come further north than the Clawborn?” the King asked.

  Averic held his gaze. “Matters that should be for the crown’s eye alone.”

  ***

  Osmund stood in the main office of House Corvessa with his hat clenched tightly in both hands. He had paced until the fine woven area rug beneath his boots showed the faint beginnings of wear, his nervous energy tracing the same short path again and again. Nervous would not have begun to describe him. His shoulders were rigid, his jaw tight, and every sound from beyond the heavy door made his pulse jump.

  The office itself was a statement of wealth that needed no words. Dark hardwood panels lined the walls, polished to a deep sheen that reflected the glow of hanging crystal lamps. Shelves of ledgers bound in dyed leather stretched from floor to ceiling, their spines marked in gold leaf. A wide desk of blackened oak dominated the room, its surface unmarred except for a single inkwell of silver and a neatly stacked pile of parchment. Tapestries depicting ports, caravans, and laden ships hung between tall windows, each scene a reminder of how far House Corvessa’s influence truly reached.

  The door finally opened.

  A servant stepped aside as Averic Corvessa entered, his pace unusually hurried, his expression hard and already sharpened by purpose.

  “Sit,” Averic said.

  Osmund turned at once and nearly stumbled in his haste to reach the chair opposite the desk. He lowered himself into it, perching on the edge as if ready to flee at any moment.

  Averic did not sit. He remained standing, hands braced against the desk as he leaned forward slightly.

  “Ore shipments have come under scrutiny,” Averic said. “They have been isolated to Rivermark, and the crown is now aware. What say you of these matters?”

  The room seemed to tighten around Osmund. His breath came shallow as the weight of his worst fears settled fully into place.

  “I have always followed instructions to the letter,” Osmund said quickly. “Even when those instructions were less common.”

  Averic’s expression did not change.

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  “House Corvessa has no knowledge of less common instruction,” he said. “It is your reason for existence to protect the trade and deal with all matters for Corvessa in Rivermark. If there are misdeeds, then they lay at your feet. Guards.”

  The door opened at once and two Corvessian guards marched into the office, boots striking stone in perfect unison.

  “Guard this man,” Averic said.

  One took position on either side of Osmund. The change in his demeanor was immediate and alarming. Sweat broke across his brow, soaking into his collar. His chest rose and fell unevenly as his breathing turned ragged.

  “Someone will take responsibility for the crown’s accusations against the house,” Averic said calmly.

  “It wasn’t my doing,” Osmund blurted. “I know who it was. It wasn’t me.”

  Averic lifted a hand and the guards stepped back, though they did not leave.

  “If not you,” Averic said, his voice low and precise, “then whom?”

  Osmund swallowed hard, his eyes darting between the guards and Averic before fixing on the desk.

  “It was the Droll,” he said.

  ***

  Rivermark was busier than usual in the midmorning light as Garron’s caravan rolled through the gates for its final load of the day. Wagons crowded the road ahead of him, merchants calling out prices while guards waved traffic through with practiced impatience. Garron sat taller on the bench than he had in weeks, a rare lightness settling into his chest as the familiar streets came into view.

  This run marked the end of his work for a while. Once the last delivery was complete, he would be done. Days of rest waited ahead, along with a journey to his family’s home, his wife was already packing with more excitement than restraint. The thought of it made him grin. As he brought the caravan to a halt, he hopped down and began his final walk around the wagons, checking straps and wheels out of habit more than necessity. He whistled softly as he went, an easy tune that followed him along the length of the line.

  Closer to the market square, Tarin poured the last cup from his final pot of tea for the day. The leaves had steeped longer than usual, but he did not mind. He had returned from the capital only hours earlier, and the road had taken more from him than he cared to admit. His movements were slower, his shoulders stiff with lingering fatigue. The quiet ritual of tea helped settle him, grounding him in something small and familiar after the time spent among stone halls and measured political voices.

  The market itself hummed with activity. Coin changed hands in steady rhythm, carts rolled past in tight intervals, and voices overlapped in a constant, living noise. Zelgra barely noticed most of it as she worked. She had been busier than usual since dawn, orders stacking up faster than she could sort them. There had been no time for a midday meal, and her stomach reminded her of that fact with sharp persistence.

  She wiped her hands on a cloth and glanced toward the tea stand. She had time for that at least. One cup. As she started in Tarin’s direction, she realized she had not spoken to him in some time. The thought lingered as she crossed the packed earth of the market, already anticipating the brief pause his tea would offer in the middle of an unrelenting day.

  “Tarin, it’s been a spell,” Zelgra said as she reached the tea stand, her voice carrying a familiar warmth despite the edge of fatigue beneath it.

  “Zelgra, how have you been keeping,” Tarin replied as he set a cup before her. “I was hoping I would see you. It has been too long.”

  “The business of ore has been, well, busy,” she said, allowing herself a brief smile as she wrapped her fingers around the warm cup.

  “Yes, I should say so,” Tarin replied. “Your table has been mobbed most of the day.”

  “Yes,” Zelgra said, then paused. Her smile faded just enough to matter. “I wish it was for the right reasons. I have been doing this for some time, and a spike in ore usually is not good for the realm. At least not a sharp spike like this.”

  “Yes,” Tarin said quietly. He leaned in a fraction, lowering his voice. “Big business can drive us all off the righteous path.”

  Zelgra’s eyes fixed on him, narrowing slightly as she studied his face.

  “One should take great care in these times,” Tarin continued. “With the realm in a state of unrest and all. Even the great House of Corvessa has to lock its doors these days. Sometimes one should consider drastic change, and keep their own interests ahead of all else.”

  He held her gaze without blinking.

  Zelgra did not look away. Her stare sharpened, predatory and intent, as though she were weighing the distance between warning and threat.

  “How long do I have, Tarin,” she asked softly.

  “If I were you, I would consider visiting friends before the day is out.”

  “What friends,” Zelgra asked.

  “Your newest friends,” Tarin said. “There is no safe haven in the north or the south.”

  “My newest friend,” she repeated.

  “The day is short,” Tarin said, his tone shifting as his eyes flicked subtly across the market. “Let us speak of better days and put all this behind us. How is Riley.”

  Zelgra’s grip tightened slightly on the cup. “I do not know. I have not seen her in quite some time.”

  “Yes,” Tarin said. “Someone should check on her. Make sure she is well. One would figure Riley has not been through more difficult times in this realm. Someone could help her.”

  The market noise pressed in around them, loud and ordinary, while the meaning of his words settled heavy between them.

  “Someone could,” Zelgra said, her voice steady, “if they knew how to find her. Garron says she is north of the bend in the road, at the halfway point between Rivermark and Stonehaven.”

  “Yes,” Tarin replied thoughtfully. “Being hard to find would help some. If I were looking for Riley, I would probably ride with Garron today. He will be away for some time. Once Garron reaches the bend at the halfway point, one might head north following the path until that ends and continue deeper north from there. The trip on foot from the road’s bend is an afternoon.”

  “The forest is large,” Zelgra said. “One could get lost without a map.”

  “Latest gossip speaks of more activity up there,” Tarin said quietly. “It was once quiet, but now there are many. They are spread out day and night, gathering. They might lead someone to her, or not. Gossip can be very unreliable.”

  Zelgra nodded once, committing his words to memory. “Well, thank you, Tarin. I think I have pressing business to take care of.”

  “Yes,” Tarin said. “I thought you might. If it is pressing, then you will be leaving now?”

  “Goodbye, Tarin,” Zelgra said as she turned away. “I will miss your tea.”