The third day dawned. Merren felt trapped in the room. He knew outside his door there’d be water for washing. Breakfast would be ready at the appropriate bell. Everything in its place. Everything at the Iron Citadel happened to an exact schedule.

  Merren dressed carefully again—the green velvet coat, the slowly murderous cravat—and tried to look like someone who was happy to be there. He wasn’t.

  The steward arrived at precisely the third bell.

  "Master Thorn. His Highness will see you now."

  This time, Rhodri was alone. No council. Just the king in a smaller, more private chamber with afternoon light streaming through narrow windows.

  "Master Thorn." Rhodri gestured to a chair. "Please, sit. I wanted to speak with you directly before the council reconvened."

  Merren sat. This felt either very good or very bad, and he couldn't tell which.

  "We've considered your request," Rhodri continued. "The strategic implications. The costs. The risks."

  Merren stayed respectfully silent.

  "And the council is divided. Lord Garrett believes we should mobilize immediately. Lord Edric is concerned about the expense. Lord Oswin believes the High Spine makes intervention unnecessary." Rhodri folded his hands. "The others have their own positions. As you might imagine, reaching consensus is... difficult."

  "Councils," Merren said, "are where good ideas go to die slowly."

  Rhodri's mouth twitched. Almost a smile. "An apt observation."

  "Your Highness, if I may—every day you spend reaching consensus is another day Jorvan spends making Eldmere his. Benjamin is signing documents. Valgarr is restructuring the Church. The people are watching their kingdom become more Garanwyn’s and less Eldmere’s piece by piece through paperwork. Consensus is a luxury they don't have."

  "I understand your urgency, Master Thorn. But Vyrden cannot commit its army on urgency alone. We need certainty. Clear strategic benefit. Assurance that intervention serves Vyrden's interests, not just Eldmere's needs."

  Merren leaned forward. "What happens to Vyrden's interests when Jorvan controls two kingdoms? When his armies can march from the south without crossing the High Spine? When trade routes you depend on flow through territories he controls?"

  "Theoretical concerns," Rhodri said. "Not immediate threats."

  "Not yet," Merren agreed. "But by the time they become immediate, be more costly to resist."

  Silence.

  Then Rhodri stood and moved to the window, looking out over his organized, geometric, perfectly safe kingdom.

  "I will give you my answer before you depart Vyrden, Master Thorn. That's the best I can offer."

  It wasn't a no. But it absolutely wasn't a yes.

  Merren stood. "Thank you for your time, Your Highness."

  "One more thing." Rhodri turned from the window. "This King Cocky. You're certain he's alive?"

  "I smuggled him from Garanwyn to Eldmere myself," Merren said. "Very much alive. Very much committed to reclaiming his throne. And very much trapped in a city occupied by the man who thinks he's dead."

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Rhodri nodded slowly. "Interesting."

  The word hung in the air with the weight of significance Merren couldn't quite identify.

  "That will be all, Master Thorn. The steward will escort you back to your quarters."

  ***

  At dawn a steward delivered a sealed letter to Merren and informed him that his ship was cleared to depart, thanking him for his visit to Vyrden.

  Ink followed him down the corridors, through the courtyards, past the guards who barely looked at them.

  At the harbor, The Black Ballad waited with the tide.

  "Well," Merren said to his first mate as they prepared to cast off. "That was productive."

  "We mobilizing, Cap'n?"

  "No idea. Possibly. Possibly not.” He held up the letter. “Very thoroughly. With great attention to procedure."

  His first mate grunted. "Where to now?"

  "North," Merren said. "Caladwyth. And hope King William is more inclined to support Eldmere."

  The ship pulled away from the dock.

  Merren didn't look back. Didn't see Eustace standing at the window of a tavern overlooking the harbor, watching The Black Ballad's sails catch the wind.

  Didn't see him turn away from the window and walk through the tavern's back room to where a thin-faced lord with calculating eyes sat waiting at a corner table.

  "He's gone," Eustace said, settling into the chair across from Lord Aldwin. "Now. Tell me everything the council discussed. And I mean everything."

  Lord Aldwin smiled. "That depends. What's it worth to you?"

  Eustace produced a small purse and set it on the table between them. The weight of it said enough.

  "Everything," Lord Aldwin agreed. "Starting with Lord Garrett's position on mobilization and ending with the king's private concerns about whether this cockatrice is actually alive or just a very convenient story."

  ***

  Three days later, as The Black Ballad sailed north toward Caladwyth and Merren tried to figure out how to convince one king when he might have just lost another, Eustace the Monk walked through the Iron Citadel's third gate with the easy confidence of someone who'd been invited.

  Which, technically, he had been.

  The steward who met him was the same one who'd escorted Merren. If he recognized the irony, his face didn't show it.

  "His Highness is expecting you. This way, please."

  The private chamber was the same one where Rhodri had met Merren. Same narrow windows. Same afternoon light.

  But this time, when Eustace entered, Rhodri wasn't alone.

  Lord Aldwin stood by the window. Lord Edric—the treasurer—sat in the corner with his ledger. And Lord Oswin, the one who believed in mountains, leaned against the wall with his arms crossed.

  Three of the five. The ones who mattered.

  "Brother Eustace," Rhodri said. The title hung in the air with just enough weight to show he knew exactly what it meant and exactly how little the "Brother" part mattered. "Lord Aldwin speaks highly of your... discretion."

  "Your Highness honors me." Eustace bowed—perfect form, perfectly calculated. "I come representing interested parties who believe Vyrden's neutrality in the current Eldmere situation would be... mutually beneficial."

  "Neutrality," Rhodri repeated. "Interesting word for it."

  "Strategic patience," Eustace amended smoothly. "Allowing the situation to resolve itself naturally while Vyrden maintains its considerable strength behind the High Spine. Uninvolved. Uncommitted." He paused. "And well-compensated for that wisdom."

  Lord Edric's pen paused over his ledger. "Compensated."

  "My clients believe in fair exchange," Eustace said. He moved toward the door, speaking as he walked—casual, unhurried. "Neutrality isn't free. Maintaining readiness costs money. Keeping borders secure while neighbors quarrel requires resources."

  He opened the door himself.

  Two sailors carried in an iron-bound chest, their steps careful under the weight. They set it down between Eustace and the council with a solid thunk.

  The sound seemed to hang in the air.

  Eustace knelt beside it. Drew a key from his coat. Let the lock's click fill the silence.

  Then he opened the lid.

  Gold. Stacked in rows, gleaming in the afternoon light streaming through the narrow windows. Enough to outfit a garrison. Enough to make patience profitable.

  Nobody spoke.