Once again in the dining hall, Azaerin sat at his usual place at the head of the table chatting with Raewyn on his left and Edessa on his right, with Marcus this time serving both his lord and guest.
The first course had barely been served when a commotion echoed from the entrance hall—muffled shouting, heavy boots, and something that sounded suspiciously like a chair being broken.
Raewyn arched an elegant brow.
“Bet I know who’s responsible for that racket.”
Azaerin didn’t even look up from his plate.
“Everyone at this table knows who’s responsible.”
Marcus, with a subtle nod from his Lord, slipped out of the room. The noise stopped almost immediately. A minute later, he returned looking ruffled but composed.
“My Lord… it seems you have two more guests this evening. Lords—”
But before he could finish, the doors burst open and Marcus was almost bowled over as two men swaggered into the dining hall like they owned it.
The taller of the two men was a lion beastkin, his golden mane braided along the sides, a scar slicing clean across his right eye. He wore a mix of leather and fur over well-worn armor, and moved with the confident swagger of a man who thrived on the battlefield.
His companion was a dwarf—stocky, powerful, and broad in the shoulders. His black beard was magnificent, knotted tightly and streaked with soot. He wore sturdy leather overalls and a tool belt heavy with smithing instruments. The scent of forge-smoke clung to him like a second skin.
Kael, the beastkin, grinned wide and called out in his booming, gravel-laced voice,
“Blackthorne! Good to see you, old friend. Looks like we arrived just in time for dinner!”
“You speak as if you didn’t time our arrival specifically to join him for dinner,” Borin said, elbowing past Kael with practiced ease.
“Good evening, Lord Blackthorne. Lady Raewyn,” he added with a nod, surprisingly formal for a man still dusted in soot.
“Don’t pretend like you’re not here for the ale, Borin,” Kael rumbled, eyeing him suspiciously.
“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” the dwarf replied smoothly. “I came regarding a certain summons to the capital addressed to our dear Lord.”
Kael scoffed but didn’t get a word in before Azaerin raised a hand.
“Gentlemen—enough. You’re always welcome at this table.”
Edessa, who had been quietly seething with a stare that could curdle cream, rose from her seat. Without a word, she and the young cook beside her shifted their plates farther down the table to make room for the newcomers—though the scrape of the chairs might’ve been a touch more aggressive than necessary.
“Oy! Short-stack, your high chair is at the end of the table!” Kael growled.
“And you’d be better off with the horses, given the way you chew your meat,” Borin snapped back. “Move over, or I’ll hammer you flat and use your mane to polish my forge!”
“No weapons at the table,” Azaerin said dryly, piercing a piece of meat with his fork—clearly unbothered by the chaos unfolding beside him.
“You seem confused, Borin,” Kael sneered. “This is the grown-ups table. Go find the children’s one!”
Before either could escalate, a sharp whack rang out, followed by a matching one half a second later.
Unbeknownst to them, Edessa had returned wielding a thick wooden spoon, the kind reserved for stirring cauldrons, not settling squabbles.
She planted it against her hip and gave them both a look that could freeze molten iron.
“Sit. Down. Or you’ll be dining in the stables.”
“My Lord, you shouldn’t allow such behavior,” Edessa said sharply. “Keep your subordinates in line.”
Azaerin was still focused on his plate.
“Why do you think I have you here, Edie?” he replied, taking another bite.
“Boys—flip a coin.”
Kael and Borin immediately began fumbling through their pockets for a coin, muttering curses under their breath and elbowing each other the entire time.
The rest of the table watched the spectacle unfold with quiet amusement, several of the younger staff trying—and failing—to hide their smiles.
Kael and Borin—despite their antics—were, along with Raewyn, Azaerin’s bannermen: the three pillars that helped govern the province of Xenia. Each one represented their people and managed a vital domain.
Raewyn oversaw the forests and elven settlements, where her people hunted dangerous beasts, gathered rare herbs, and maintained magical wards. Elves also served as the province’s primary mages and scholars, tending to arcane matters and magical infrastructure.
Kael commanded the plains and farmlands, where the beastkin trained the military, led cavalry drills, and kept the roads and borders secure. Their strength and resilience also made them the backbone of Xenia’s construction and physical labor force.
Borin ruled the mountains, home to the forges, mines, and dwarven strongholds. His kin supplied the province with metal, stone, and finely crafted arms and armor. They managed the armouries, workshops, and trade goods that funded much of Xenia’s wealth.
Kael ended up winning the battle for the seat, dropping into it with a smug grin while Borin took the one beside him with a disgruntled huff.
Raewyn sipped her wine, muttering under her breath in Elvish,
“Vael’thira,”
the word rolling off her tongue like silk—savages.
Kael, oblivious or simply unfazed, pulled several dishes toward himself and began devouring them with enthusiasm. Meanwhile, Marcus filled Borin’s mug to the brim with ale, which the dwarf accepted with a grateful nod.
“So,” Kael said between mouthfuls, “we heard you're off to the capital. The Princess' debut, eh? The crown finally remember we exist? Is it true you’re going, then?”
“Yes, I am,” Azaerin replied evenly. “What were you two arguing about when you arrived?”
“Oh, that?” Kael waved it off. “Nothing of importance.”
“I was telling Kael here about those glowing lights off the eastern coast,” Borin said, taking a long drink of ale. “Rising from the sea, spinning in perfect circles, then vanishing without a trace. He thinks the sailors were drunk. I say they were the spirits of drowned mariners—there was a shipwreck near that spot, years back.”
“That’s what had you crashing in here like a one-man siege?”
“Well… some insults may have been traded.”
“Obviously.”
Borin leaned forward again. “That reminds me—rumor going ‘round the western provinces: wailing in the woods at night. Not wolves, not beasts—wailing. Some say it’s a banshee.”
Kael scoffed. “Let me guess—you think it’s real. I say it’s some drunk howling at the moon.”
“Banshees aren’t native here, are they?” Raewyn asked mildly, half-listening over her wine.
“So?” Borin shrugged. “One could’ve been transported here and escaped.”
“Who in the hells would be transporting a banshee?”
“I don’t know—carnival people. Or one of those wandering magical beast collectors.”
“Absurd,” Kael muttered.
“Now, now,” Azaerin said, raising a brow. “Unless you want Edessa to pounce on you again, perhaps lower the volume.”
Raewyn dabbed the corner of her mouth with her napkin and said casually, “Well, if we’re trading rumors… did you hear about the Crown Prince of [Insert Kingdom Name]?”
A few heads turned.
“He’s been disinherited,” she continued. “No official reason given. Some say it’s because he was… less than competent. Others claim he was caught in the palace gardens with the daughter of their Archduke.”
Kael snorted. “I heard that too. Apparently, the Archduke was so furious he threatened to tear the court apart unless the prince was removed from the line of succession.”
“A bit of a skirt-chaser, that one,” Borin added, topping off his mug.
“Lucky break for them, then,” Azaerin said, leaning back slightly. “Who's next in line?”
“His younger brother, I believe,” Raewyn replied. “Though not much is said about him. Keeps a low profile, from what I’ve heard.”
Kael, not one to be outdone, leaned forward with a glint in his eye.
“Well here’s one for you. Apparently, there was a break-in at one of the Sanctums owned by the Imperial Mage College in the capital. Done by a single man.”
That got everyone’s attention.
“Guards chased him all the way to Alabaster Row, until one of them cast a spell—meant to bind him. Problem is, it hit a cart carrying blasting gel.” Kael paused for effect. “Boom. Blew half the street apart.”
This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.
Raewyn set her goblet down slowly. “And the thief?”
“Blasted through a wall,” Kael said, his voice lowering. “And he got up. Just stood. Not even dazed. Then ran off like nothing had happened.”
“No injuries?” Borin asked, narrowing his eyes.
“Apparently not.”
“Must’ve had a barrier spell,” Marcus offered.
“Unlikely,” Borin replied. “There’s no way he could’ve reacted in time. You’d have to know it was coming.”
“Then maybe a defensive artifact?” Raewyn suggested.
Kael shook his head. “That strong? Would cost a fortune.”
“Where would a thief get something like that?” Marcus muttered.
“I don’t know,” Borin said, eyes thoughtful. “Maybe... he stole it.”
A short silence followed.
“Fascinating,” Azaerin finally said, a glint in his eye. His voice was casual, but the keen interest behind it was unmistakable.
He always did enjoy a good mystery—especially when it involved magic.
“Well, what was stolen?” Azaerin asked, intrigued.
“No one knows,” Kael said, leaning back in his chair. “Something in the archives. Apparently, he left the place in such a mess it’ll take weeks just to figure out what’s missing.”
He waved a hand dismissively. “But never mind all that. We actually came to talk about your trip to the capital. I wish to join you.”
Azaerin raised a brow. “Why?”
Kael grinned. “Because every time you leave Xenia, you do something incredibly reckless, or incredible—and I want in on the fun.”
Azaerin let out a tired sigh. “What do you think I’m going to get up to at the capital? I plan on keeping my head down the entire time.”
Kael’s grin widened. “And how did that work out for you last time you tried that?”
Azaerin’s expression soured, if only slightly.
The last time had ended with him accidentally blasting the peak off a mountain—a story none of them would ever let him live down. Not that he told it often. He didn't have to. Kael made sure of that.
“Face it, boy,” Kael said, smirking. “Trouble doesn’t follow you. It hunts you.”
“I too wish to accompany you, Thorne,” Borin added, stroking his beard. “Figured I might pay my cousin Dwain a visit. Honestly, I could use the vacation—and he’s been pestering me to come for ages. This presents the perfect opportunity.”
“How about you, Raewyn?” Kael asked, turning toward her. “Care to join us?”
She smiled slyly over the rim of her wineglass. “Hmm. Can’t let you boys have all the fun now, can I?” She tilted her head toward Azaerin. “So, what say you, Thorneling? Are we to be your travel companions?”
Azaerin had a sneaking suspicion they decided on the spot to join him to make the trip more bearable. After all they all knew his feelings about the capital, though he also suspected they had other objectives in mind as well. Even so, he was genuinely touched.
“I suppose we can travel together,” he said with a faint smile. “Which means, Marcus… you’re in charge.”
Marcus placed a hand over his chest and bowed with theatrical grace.
“I’ll do my best, my Lord. Rest assured—Xenia will not burn down in your absence.”
With that, dinner began to wind down. As the staff cleared the plates, Azaerin and his companions adjourned to the solar for more sensitive conversation over drinks.
Marcus brought in a pair of wine bottles and several glasses. He set them down with practiced grace before turning to the others.
“Your usual chambers are ready, my Lords,” he said with a nod. “I bid you goodnight.”
“Thank you, Marcus. And goodnight,” Raewyn replied as he departed.
Kael poured the first glass and leaned back in his chair. “So,” he said, “what do we really make of this invitation?”
“I still think it was a mistake,” Azaerin said, taking his own glass. “The clerk handling the invitations was likely told to summon every Lord and Lady… and no one remembered to opt me out.”
“Possible,” Borin muttered. “Possible… or someone wants something from you.”
“Or wants to do something to you,” Raewyn added, her tone pointed.
Kael raised a brow. “Angered anyone recently, Thorne?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“What about your man in the capital? Can’t he shed some light?”
“Perhaps,” Azaerin said, swirling his drink. “So far, he’s found nothing unusual.”
“Maybe it’s just protocol after all,” Raewyn offered. “An innocent invitation. A matter of ceremony.”
“Either way,” Azaerin said, setting his glass down, “the moment the herald announces my name at the palace, all eyes will be on us. So—best behavior, all of you.”
He pointed at Kael and Borin.
“I specifically mean you two. No challenging nobles to arm wrestling. No drinking contests. No punching ambassadors.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Borin said, utterly unconvincing.
“A shame though,” Kael added with a wolfish grin. “Guess we’ll have to find other ways to amuse ourselves.”
Then, tipping back his glass, Kael asked, far too casually,
“By the way… what do they call you again in the capital?”
Raewyn’s head snapped around. “Kael.”
“What?” he replied, feigning innocence. “He’s not some fragile kid anymore.”
Azaerin let out a soft sigh and raised his goblet in mock salute.
“It’s fine, godmother.”
He took a slow sip, then said simply:
“They call me… The Shadow Lord.”
The room quieted.
It wasn’t a name he’d chosen.
It belonged, long ago, to a tyrant cloaked in shadow and blood. A legend. A warning. But when your magic dances on the edge of darkness, and your absence is louder than your presence... people begin to whisper.
Kael gave a low whistle. “Dramatic, aren’t they?”
Borin grunted. “Makes it sound like you command undead armies.”
Azaerin said nothing, only smiled into his wine.
Once both the wine and conversation had dried up, it was time to turn in for the night.
Kael—clearly feeling the weight of several glasses too many—had to be supported by Borin as they made their way up the stairs, laughing under their breath like misbehaving schoolboys. Azaerin and Raewyn followed behind at a more leisurely pace.
At the top of the staircase, the two men gave a lazy wave of farewell before disappearing down the corridor toward the guest chambers.
Raewyn lingered for a moment, turning to her godson. Her voice softened.
“Don’t dwell on it tonight, okay? Sleep well. I’ll see you bright and early.”
She touched his arm briefly, then offered a parting phrase in Elvish.
Azaerin repeated it back with practiced ease, and Raewyn gave a faint, satisfied smile before disappearing into her room.
His own bedchamber lay at the end of the corridor, quiet and waiting.
His own chambers lay at the end of the corridor—quiet and waiting.
The door opened to reveal a space that was both grand and restrained, much like its occupant. The high, vaulted ceiling gave the room a cathedral-like stillness, the smooth stone walls tinted the soft grey of early storms. A great four-poster bed stood along the far wall, carved from darkwood and dressed in charcoal and deep grey linens. Gold thread trimmed the edges, and the Blackthorne crest—a dragon in flight—was embroidered into the fabric at the foot of the bed.
Set into the far wall was a pair of glass-paneled doors that opened onto a private balcony, its frame arched like a cathedral window. Heavy midnight-blue curtains were drawn back, letting the silver light of the moon spill across the stone floor. From here, one could see the forests stretching toward the horizon and the distant silhouettes of the mountains, cloaked in shadow.
Opposite the bed, the hearth had burned down to glowing coals, casting a low warmth across the room. Beside it, a short bookshelf lined with well-worn tomes and scrolls—many marked with his own notes. Near that, a small writing desk and a table with a decanter, two glasses, and an untouched bottle of wine.
A polished armor rack stood nearby, his gear resting with quiet readiness.
No portraits. No trophies. No clutter.
Everything here had purpose.
And yet, for all its order and quiet dignity… the room still felt empty. A space that bore the habits of a solitary man, but none of the comforts of home.
Azaerin removed his cloak and set it neatly on the hook by the door, then began unfastening the rest of his attire with quiet efficiency. His hands moved automatically—trained by years of routine—until he stood in a loose shirt and soft trousers, fit more for sleep than ceremony. He set his signet ring beside the decanter on the small table and gave the hearth a brief glance. It didn’t need more fuel. The coals would last the night.
Crossing the room, he stepped through the glass-panelled doors onto the balcony.
The wind was cool against his skin, and the sky above was awash in stars. The moon hung high and bright, casting a silver sheen over the treetops below. The lands of Xenia stretched outward in all directions—wild, untamed, and beautiful.
Azaerin rested his hands on the stone railing and let out a long breath.
There was something about the night—its stillness, its depth. Where others saw darkness, he felt… clarity. As if the world whispered just a little louder once the sun went down.
He drew in a breath, slow and deep.
The moonlight didn’t warm him, but it steadied him. The shadows didn’t frighten him. They felt familiar.
A welcome silence. A quiet strength.
He opened his eyes again, gaze lingering on the forest for a beat longer, then turned and stepped back into the room.
[Earlier in the Solar]
“What gift?”
Raewyn looked scandalized. “Honestly, dear boy, how does a prodigy such as yourself fail to grasp the basics of noble custom? You’re a Lord of the Realm. Of course you need to bring a gift.”
“You cannot grasp what you don’t pay attention to, Rae,” Azaerin replied, leaning back in the armchair. “How many trinkets does one princess really need?”
Raewyn could only shake her head.
“Fine. Go without a gift and shame all of Xenia.”
“Now, now,” he said, raising his hands in surrender. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t get her something. It’s just… how do I put this? It feels inappropriate.”
“Inappropriate? How?”
“Giving someone a gift should be a meaningful gesture. An expression of affection,” Azaerin said, swirling the wine in his glass. “When nobles give each other gifts, it’s usually because they want something—unless it’s a thank-you. The gift itself should have some thought behind it. I hardly know anything about Her Highness, least of all what she likes. It’d be more practical to hand her a pile of gold and let her buy what she wishes.”
Raewyn gave him a long, level look—the kind only a godmother or a former tutor could manage.
“And yet here you are, putting this much thought into a gift you claim not to care about,” she said calmly. “Perhaps what matters isn’t what she likes… but what you choose to give.”
She leaned forward, resting her teacup on its saucer.
“A meaningful gift doesn’t always speak to the receiver’s tastes, dear boy. Sometimes it says more about the giver. About their intentions. Their values. Their presence.”
She smiled faintly.
“A princess will receive a hundred gifts meant to dazzle her. What she might remember… is the one that made feel more than a crown.
“Never thought of it that way,” Azaerin said, setting down his glass. “Still wise as ever, I see. Remind me—what are my intentions?”
Raewyn chuckled softly, eyes gleaming over the rim of her cup.
“That’s for you to decide, dear boy. I’m a teacher, not a soothsayer.”
She stood and began perusing the selection of fabrics left by the tailors, idly trailing her fingers over silk and dragonskin alike.
“But if I had to guess…” she continued, “I’d say you want to make an impression. Not one that dazzles, not one that begs… just something that lasts. Something true.”
She paused, turning back to him.
“That’s always been your way, hasn’t it? You don’t waste words, or gestures. When you act, it means something.”
He blinked, and the memory dissolved.
Back in the quiet of his bedchamber, the fire had burned lower. The wind outside whispered faintly through the balcony doors.
Azaerin had spent the rest of the day turning Raewyn’s words over in his mind, brainstorming ideas for a gift worthy of a Princess—and worthy of his name.
What were his intentions? His values?
He was a man of considerable strength, but he’d never worn it for glory. He had always seen himself as a protector.
His thoughts wandered to the Princess’s situation—young, stepping into the jaws of court politics, surrounded by wolves with polished smiles. She would need more than silk and ceremony.
An idea had begun to form. Something quiet. Personal. Subtle. But meaningful.
A spark of inspiration helped along by something said over dinner that night.
With that thought held gently in his mind, Azaerin finally crawled into bed, drawing the covers over himself.
And at last, he let himself be carried off into sleep, surrendered to the god of dreams.
[Elsewhere, far from Xenia...]
Rain drizzled across the cobbled streets of Solareia, turning the gaslamps to halos and the stones to slick mirrors. A lone carriage sat parked in a quiet alley off the merchant quarter, its crestless black lacquer already beading with water.
Inside, a man sat waiting—his cloak trimmed in silver, though the hood concealed his features. He tapped a gloved finger on the armrest as a soft knock came at the door.
Without a word, he reached over and unlatched the door.
Another figure, soaked from the street, climbed in and shut the door behind him. The two sat in silence for a moment, listening to the muffled sound of hooves in the distance.
“Well?” the man in the cloak asked.
The newcomer gave a short nod. “He’s going. Escort leaves from the pass in ten days. He’ll be there.”
A pause. Then:
“Good. Everything is proceeding as expected.”
“Are you sure this will work?”
The cloaked figure didn’t hesitate.
“Absolutely.”
A pause.
“How’s our scholar doing? Will he be finished in time?”
“He believes so.”
The man leaned back, gloved fingers steepled as he exhaled slowly.
“Then we move to the next phase. Let the dignitaries play their part. All we need now… is the right spark.”
The carriage door creaked open again, and the informant stepped out into the night without another word, vanishing into the alley.
Inside, the man in the cloak remained, watching the rain streak across the glass.
His voice, soft as breath, barely more than a whisper:
“Let the game begin.”