Byronard stared across the scarred expanse of the Crownlands. Morning light washed over the Capital City, gilding broken towers and shattered walls. The citadel—once a beacon of peace for centuries—now stood battered, diminished.

  Months had passed since the attacks began. They came less often now, scattered skirmishes flaring without pattern. Losses had slowed to something almost manageable.

  Almost.

  Respite in war was never mercy. It was a warning.

  Byronard knew this well. Former crown regent. Commander of the Royal Guard. Veteran of the Civil War. He had survived enough battlefields to recognize the silence before the storm.

  Sleep had abandoned him weeks ago.

  To the people, he remained unshaken — a pillar for soldiers and civilians alike. But each night his thoughts turned to Godric. He had sent the boy to Azane with an impossible burden, knowing full well it might be a death sentence. Their forces had been scattered. There had been no alternative.

  When word arrived that Godric had secured allies, Byronard felt something unfamiliar stir in his chest.

  Hope.

  From Wolfsbane Keep’s parapet, he surveyed the kingdom. Beyond the city walls, Tariq of the Wandering Arrows had established camp—hundreds of bright tents scattered across the fields like spilled paint against gray earth.

  Their presence had been a blessing. Skilled, disciplined, tireless—they had helped repel threats and rebuild what the war had broken.

  If only Septimus were here.

  Lord Brother, grant me strength.

  “Sir Byronard.”

  He turned. Gabriel stood at attention, armor polished, golden hair loosely tied.

  “You’re early, Gabby,” he said. “What is it?”

  “A messenger from the eastern shores. House Ilyn’s retinue. King Alexander repelled an assault on Vandralis. Heavy losses avoided—Godric arrived in time, with Xhiamas, Ziyad, and Michael.”

  Byronard stilled.

  “The Circle of Gluttony led the attack,” Gabriel continued. “Godric forced it to retreat after Ióm? intervened. Reports claim the elven prince commanded the Circle.”

  Byronard’s brow furrowed.

  “…Interesting.”

  “The king, Godric, Wyatt, and the Azaneans are en route. A few days out, but that’s not all,” she added. “Lord Grimguard and Lord Browgan are coming as well. The letter’s tone…” She hesitated. “Something has gone very wrong.”

  Byronard exhaled slowly.

  “When does it ever not?”

  He started down the steps, ruffling Gabriel’s hair as he passed.

  “Prepare veal and the finest wine. We’ll be receiving lords.”

  A few hours later, the mess hall roared with life. Royal guards and Arrows filled the benches, steel and leather mingling beneath banners of the crown. At a stone table beneath a faded portrait of the royal family sat Lords Dunwick Browgan and Menethil Grimguard, with Lord Rykard Wintertomb beside them, notes spread neatly at his elbow.

  Dunwick drank as if wine were water, chasing each swallow with roasted veal. Menethil barely touched his plate. Elbows on stone. Fingers laced. Eyes distant. Byronard approached as Rykard spoke.

  “…our discoveries are significant. The Nameless are more organized than we believed.”

  Dunwick snorted into his cup. “After months of cutting them down, I’d say we’ve exchanged more than pleasantries.”

  He slid a plate toward Menethil and clapped him on the back.

  “Eat. Brooding won’t rebuild walls.”

  Menethil did not look up. Byronard stopped at the table.

  “Lord Menethil. News from the west?”

  Silence lingered a heartbeat too long.

  “My barriers fell,” Menethil said quietly. “Shire’s Eye is lost. Hundreds dead. The Nameless march on Blackbarrow.”

  The table stilled. Byronard’s jaw tightened. Mana stirred beneath his skin. Shire’s Eye controlled the river routes. Supplies. Movement. Losing it was not symbolic—it was crippling.

  Rykard cleared his throat. “The dwarven kings arrive within days. Armies, food, medicine.”

  It sounded hopeful. It did not feel hopeful.

  A flicker of light—Gabriel appeared at Byronard’s side.

  “Send me,” she said. “I can reinforce the west. A few hundred Nameless would be easy pickings.”

  “No.” His answer was immediate. “The Capital holds too many key figures. If something strikes here, I want the Seven intact.”

  “Byronard,” Dunwick said carefully, “this city is drowning in soldiers. One of the Seven could turn the tide at Blackbarrow.”

  “I’ll go.”

  All heads turned. Chamuel stood at the hall’s entrance. “My magic complements Lord Grimguard’s. Let me fix this.”

  There was no pride in his voice. Only guilt.

  “Failure has followed me since King Ithilien fell,” he added. “I won’t sit idle again.”

  Byronard studied him. Chamuel was right. His command of seals rivaled Menethil’s—and where Grimguard fortified, Chamuel amplified.

  “Very well. You can leave within the hour,” Byronard said.

  “Thirty minutes.”

  Chamuel bowed and was gone. Gabriel watched the doorway. “He blames himself.”

  “He’s grieving,” Dunwick said. “You Royal Guards pretend you’re iron. You forget you’re flesh.” The words lingered.

  Byronard kept his eyes on the door long after it closed.

  Dunwick is right.

  He demanded perfection. And when perfection failed, someone bled for it. He straightened himself. “Lord Rykard,” he said. “Tell me everything.”

  Rykard smiled faintly, a rare sight.

  “I was hoping you’d ask.”

  The days that followed dissolved into one another like ink bleeding through parchment.

  Plans were drafted, redrafted, and argued over beneath the flicker of candlelight. Patrol routes shifted. Supply chains were recalculated. Scouts were sent farther than comfort allowed. Messengers came and went at all hours, their boots never quite dry from the riverbanks.

  War did not always roar.

  Sometimes it whispered.

  A raven arrived on the fourth morning—black feathers slick with mist, its message sealed in blue wax marked with the sigil of House Grimguard. Chamuel had been sighted near the southern ridge, just beyond the Crownlands’ border. He was days from Blackbarrow.

  Menethil, in his precise and deliberate hand, had instructed him to seek the Brotherhood of Priests—a hidden order sworn to House Grimguard generations ago. Awakened men and women who tended ancient sigils carved into bedrock and riverstone. Quiet guardians who maintained the great lattice of barriers that shielded the west.

  If those wards were failing…

  Byronard folded the message carefully. He did not allow himself to finish that thought.

  He was overseeing Tariq’s defensive formations when the warhorn sounded. It was not a human horn—too deep, too resonant. The note rolled across the plains like distant thunder, vibrating through soil and bone alike. Every movement in the encampment stilled. Arrows paused mid-stride. Royal guards lifted their heads. Even the horses shifted uneasily.

  Byronard turned toward the western horizon.

  Banners broke the line of sight first — storm-grey cloth stitched with a silver hammer and crossed axes. Behind them marched ranks upon ranks of dwarves, armor gleaming beneath the late morning sun.

  Steel, but not northern steel.

  Their armor had been reforged for Primera—lighter in the joints, ventilated along the breast and spine, shaped for endurance beneath warmer skies. Dwarves were not known for compromise. That they had altered their craft spoke volumes.

  Sindras and Vargas Stormguard rode at the vanguard, twin helms crested with iron braids. Even from a distance, Byronard could see the difference in them—Sindras composed, eyes always measuring; Vargas restless, shoulders loose as if already anticipating a fight.

  For the first time in weeks, Byronard allowed himself to breathe fully. Reinforcements. Not a rumor. Not a hope. Steel.

  “Blessed ancestors, is that you, Byronard?” Vargas called once they had closed the distance. His voice carried easily, bright and unrestrained. “You’ve grown old, good man! Grey suits you.”

  Byronard stepped forward to meet them.

  The three moved without hesitation—forearms clasping, bracers scraping with the familiar ring of tempered steel. It was not a courtly gesture. It was the greeting of soldiers.

  “It has been too long,” Byronard said. “I trust your journey was not without incident.”

  Sindras removed his helm, revealing hair braided close to the scalp. “We met resistance.”

  “Nameless,” Vargas added dismissively. “They scattered easily. Though I will say, they move differently than before. Less frenzy. More intent.”

  That caught Byronard’s attention. “You observed command structure?”

  Sindras gave him a look that said more than words. “Something like it.”

  The dwarven ranks were already dispersing with disciplined efficiency. Camps would rise within the hour. Defensive perimeters would follow. No motion was wasted.

  “You are welcome within our walls,” Byronard said, gesturing toward the Capital. “Tents and provisions have been prepared. We thank you for coming as soon as you could.”

  Vargas snorted. “I've been meaning to ask for human wine as well.” He quipped, Sindras rolled his eyes. "It's been far too long since we've drunk from the reserves of House Huntingborne."

  Byronard smiled. "You'll get it within the hour."

  A tall man in layered orange robes approached, hands folded within his sleeves. He bowed respectfully.

  “Your majesties.”

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  “Tariq of the Wandering Arrows,” Byronard said. “His people have stood with us since the first breach. They have proven time and time again why the Arrows have been an invaluable ally.”

  Sindras studied him carefully.

  “The Arrows vanished from Primera two decades ago,” the dwarf king said. “We assumed extinction or exile.”

  “Neither,” Tariq replied evenly. “Merely…redirection. But we are here now, as we always did in the years past.”

  Vargas chuckled. “A polite answer. I like him.”

  “Our loyalty lies with Xhiamas,” Tariq added. “We act under his command.”

  “Then this Xhiamas commands well,” Sindras said, surveying the sprawling encampment. Humans, Arrows, and now dwarves were united against a common foe.

  Byronard allowed himself a small smile. “You may find him familiar. He keeps company with Wyatt and Cassian.”

  “Really now?” Vargas and Sindras exchanged looks.

  They entered through the western gate, royal guards falling into step around them.

  “How about Wyatt?” Sindras asked, voice lowering slightly. “You know what he is. The Vessel of the Smith.”

  Byronard did not answer immediately.

  “He trains,” he said at last. “He doubts himself. That is not a weakness.”

  “No,” Sindras agreed. “It is youth.”

  “The war slows us,” Byronard continued. “Progress has not been what I’d hoped. The boy possesses unfathomable power which he has only scratched the surface of. He must learn to control, to understand, that despite the unbelievable burden, it too, is a gift.” Vargas clapped him on the shoulder hard enough to jostle his armor. “Power tempered slowly does not shatter. You know this. You've walked in his footsteps before. Give him time.”

  Byronard understood. He simply did not have the luxury of time.

  “And the king?” Sindras asked.

  “He approaches,” Byronard said. “With the others from Vandralis. They're expected to arrive soon.”

  Sindras exchanged a glance with his brother. “You mentioned he was your nephew,” the elder dwarf said. “Strange. We believed Septimus had but one heir.”

  Byronard kept his gaze forward as they ascended toward the keep.

  “War,” he said quietly, “reveals many things long kept hidden.” And some truths, he thought, were better met with armies already assembled.

  The meeting chamber had been built for a fuller council than the one gathered that morning.

  Fifteen seats formed a wide semicircle around the central table. Eleven were reserved for the lords and ladies of men, their sigils carved into the high backs of polished oak chairs. Two broader seats, reinforced with iron bands, had been crafted generations ago for the dwarven kings of the mountains. A slender seat of pale wood marked the place for the elves of the forests, its design elegant and impossibly smooth. The final chair—carved from dark stone veined with silver—belonged to the Abussonians of the deep.

  Only a handful were occupied.

  Lords Rykard Wintertomb and Dunwick Browgan settled into their places after greeting the dwarven kings, who lowered themselves into their iron-banded seats with the comfortable heaviness of warriors used to stone halls rather than human keeps.

  The remaining chairs sat empty. War had a way of thinning councils.

  Byronard remained standing beside the seat of House Ilyn. Behind him stood Gabriel, arms folded, posture straight as a spear. Her eyes moved constantly, tracking every motion in the room.

  For a short while, the gathering was almost pleasant.

  Dunwick traded stories with Vargas, the dwarf king laughing loud enough to shake the rafters. Rykard quietly compared notes with Sindras, the two discussing supply lines and river traffic in careful, measured tones.

  But the mood shifted abruptly.

  Gabriel stiffened. A ripple of unfamiliar mana brushed against the chamber like a cold wind beneath a door.

  Old power. Ancient.

  Her eyes snapped toward the entrance.

  Byronard felt it as well—not aggressive, not hostile, but immense in a way that made the air itself seem to pause. Conversations died mid-sentence. Vargas’ hand moved instantly to the haft of his war axe.

  Dunwick pushed his chair back, the legs scraping against stone as he rose. Rykard followed suit, his hand drifting toward the dagger at his belt. Even Sindras straightened slightly in his seat.

  The great doors of the chamber creaked open.

  For a moment, no one spoke. Footsteps echoed in the corridor beyond.

  Then a voice carried through the doorway.

  “—I’m telling you, if the ships had been any slower, we might’ve actually grown old waiting.”

  Godric stepped into the chamber mid-conversation, walking beside Alexander and Wyatt. His expression was relaxed, his tone animated, hands moving as he spoke.

  He took three more steps before noticing the room.

  Everyone was standing.

  Weapons half-drawn.

  Eyes locked on him.

  Godric blinked.

  “…Uhm.”

  He glanced at Alexander, then Wyatt, then back at the assembly. “I’m sorry,” he said carefully. “Did we interrupt something?”

  The silence that followed was profound. Then Byronard slowly lowered himself into his chair. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

  Six months.

  That was all it had been since the boy had left for Azane. And yet…

  The difference was unmistakable.

  Godric still looked the same—same open expression, same earnest eyes, same disarming sincerity that made it nearly impossible to take offense at anything he said.

  But the power surrounding him now was something else entirely.

  Subtle. Contained. Like a storm resting beneath calm waters. Byronard had read the reports. At first he had doubted them. Battles turned by a single man. Ancient forces driven back. Even the Nameless retreating before him.

  Exaggerations, he had thought. They were not. The boy who had departed for Azane had returned…changed.

  Not hardened. Not colder. Just…larger, somehow. As if the world itself had begun to bend slightly around him.

  Godric shifted awkwardly under the attention. “Seriously,” he added, scratching the back of his head, “did I miss something?”

  Dunwick let out a loud laugh and dropped back into his seat.

  “Well I’ll be damned,” the lord muttered. “The lad walks in like a baker entering his own kitchen. That was quite the entrance, boy!”

  Vargas finally released the grip on his axe, shaking his head. “And here I thought we were about to fight a god.” Giving off a somewhat disappointed tone.

  Byronard leaned back slightly, studying the young man standing in the doorway.

  In a way, he thought quietly…

  You already have.

  Godric. A Vessel of the Divines. Son of the Stranger.

  And somehow—impossibly—still the same kindhearted boy who apologized for interrupting a room full of armed nobles.

  "Welcome back," Byronard said, rising from his seat as Anarór?, Michael, and several unfamiliar figures entered the meeting chamber. "It is good to see you all in good health."

  His eyes swept across the group, his brow knitting together.

  "I do not see Xhiamas, nor Ziyad."

  Alexander stepped forward, clearing his throat.

  "Xhiamas suffered a near-fatal blow during the skirmish at Vandralis. Ziyad remained behind to watch over him. He is also assisting Jophiel in locating the rest of the Azanean fleet."

  A quiet murmur spread across the chamber. Byronard’s expression darkened slightly, though he gave a slow nod.

  Alexander turned and gestured toward the unfamiliar figures behind him. Godric suddenly jolted as realization struck him.

  "Oh—right! Introductions."

  Gabriel blinked at the abruptness, holding back a laugh. Godric scratched the back of his neck sheepishly before stepping forward.

  "Sir Byronard, everyone—I'd like to introduce the respective leaders of the royal clans of Azane."

  A tanned man stepped forward first, dressed in flowing silks layered beneath light armor. His features bore a striking resemblance to the Primerans, though his amber eyes carried a warmth that felt both inviting and calculating. Godric gestured enthusiastically.

  "This is Rashid al-Qadarin, Greater Lord of House Qadarin. He’s an expert in politics, trade and…"

  Godric paused, glancing at Rashid.

  "...diplomacy."

  Wyatt and Alexander exchanged knowing looks, smirking.

  Rashid bowed slowly, one hand behind his back and the other resting across his chest.

  "A pleasure to meet your acquaintance, noble lords of Primera," he said smoothly. "Not only am I honored to stand upon Primeran soil, but to meet the people of my ancestors… it is a rare privilege."

  Byronard inclined his head.

  "The honor is ours. Once this war is over, you are welcome to establish trade within Primera, Lord Rashid. I believe both our peoples would benefit greatly from such an exchange."

  Rashid smiled faintly.

  "You are most generous, Lord Byronard. I shall give your offer the consideration it deserves."

  He stepped back. The next figure moved forward—and the room subtly shifted.

  The towering humanoid wore armor crafted from enormous bones, scales, and iron plates. Every step carried the weight of countless battles.

  Godric spoke with clear excitement.

  "This is Chieftain Khor'gul. Slayer of the Ten-Helmed Wyrm. Bearer of the Broken Tide. Last descendant of the Old Roar, and leader of the Shahr Zulm?n."

  The orc grunted. His sharp eyes fixed on Byronard. Slowly, he lifted a massive finger and pointed.

  "You."

  Everyone in the room stiffened.

  "I see it in your eyes," Khor'gul rumbled. "You carry the same power that flows in the blood of the Uhrihim." He scanned the room, studying each noble in silence.

  "I have heard tales of warriors across the sea. I believed them false. No one could match the warriors of Azane." His lips curled into an amused grin. "I was wrong." He gave a slight bow.

  "The Shahr Zulm?n will stand with Primera."

  Byronard placed a hand over his chest and nodded solemnly.

  "You honor us, Chieftain."

  From the side of the chamber, Vargas leaned toward his brother and whispered—only barely quietly enough.

  "I still want to see if he can actually fight."

  Khor'gul’s ears twitched. The orc slowly turned his head and flashed Vargas a knowing grin. Vargas grinned right back. Godric pretended very hard not to notice. Wyatt ducked his head in embarassment.

  A calm voice then spoke from behind them.

  "Peace be unto you, Primerans."

  A man cloaked in layered black cloth stepped forward. His form was wrapped in ceremonial bands, his face hidden beneath a dark headpiece.

  He removed it slowly.

  White hair fell over features that bore a striking resemblance to Xhiamas and Ziyad.

  Godric brightened again.

  "And finally—Malrik ibn Qadari al-Umr, monarch of the Dhilāl al-Qadar." Malrik stepped forward with quiet dignity.

  Godric added proudly,

  "He’s a master shadowwalker, and a man of deep faith. His people were the first to place their trust in me. Honestly…" He scratched his cheek. "...I probably wouldn’t have survived Azane without them."

  Malrik placed a hand over his heart.

  "Our lives are yours, Uhrihim. We follow the Stranger. It is only fitting that His son deserves our utmost loyalty."

  Silence filled the chamber. Byronard studied each of the figures standing before him—the diplomat, the warlord, and the shadow king.

  Then he exhaled slowly.

  "Gentlemen," Byronard said, stepping forward and bowing with genuine respect, "on behalf of Primera, I thank you for lending your strength to us in these trying times." He straightened.

  "If there is anything you require, say the word and it shall be provided."

  His voice carried through the chamber.

  "I swear it before the Codex itself."

  For a moment after Byronard’s oath, the chamber remained still.

  The air felt heavy, as though the walls themselves were listening.

  Then the tension broke.

  It began with a quiet shifting of chairs, the scrape of boots against stone, and the murmur of voices slowly returning to life. The rigid formality that had filled the chamber moments ago softened, replaced by the cautious warmth of allies learning to breathe in the same room.

  Across the chamber, Wyatt let out a long breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

  “Well,” he muttered, stretching his arms over his head, joints popping. “That went smoother than I expected.”

  A familiar laugh boomed across the chamber.

  “Wyatt!”

  The young warrior barely had time to react before King Vargas Stormguard closed the distance between them in three thunderous strides.

  The dwarven king grabbed Wyatt’s forearm in a crushing clasp, steel bracers clanging together with a sharp metallic scrape.

  “You stubborn bugger,” Vargas said with a grin that could split stone. “How fares the son of the Ironclad?"

  Wyatt grinned back.

  “Still breathing, I guess. Still trying to do better with every day that passes.”

  Sindras approached more slowly, his long beard swaying gently with each step. Unlike his brother, the elder king carried himself with a quieter presence—calm, thoughtful eyes studying Wyatt carefully.

  Vargas barked another laugh. "That's good to hear, lad."

  His gaze drifted across the chamber, landing on the towering figure of Khor’gul.

  The dwarven king’s grin widened. “Well now,” Vargas muttered. “That’s a warrior if I’ve ever seen one.” Vargas pushed away from Wyatt and began walking toward the orc.

  Khor’gul noticed him immediately.

  The two warriors stopped a few steps apart. Neither spoke. Vargas tilted his head slightly. Khor’gul raised a thick brow ridge. The dwarf tapped the handle of his axe, then pointed casually toward the courtyard outside.

  Khor’gul glanced toward the door, then back at Vargas. The orc slowly lifted a single finger.

  After the council. Vargas frowned theatrically. He tapped his wrist as if measuring the passing of time. Khor’gul snorted. Then the orc gave a small, knowing grin. Vargas held the stare for another moment before chuckling.

  “Fine,” he muttered. “But I’m holding you to it.”

  Behind him, Sindras sighed.

  “Must every diplomatic gathering turn into a sparring challenge for you?”

  Vargas glanced back.

  “If I don’t test him, someone else will.”

  Near the council table, Godric stood beside Anarór?.

  The elven princess had quietly moved to his side sometime after the introductions ended, her presence calm and grounding amidst the bustle of the room. Her silver hair caught the light of the braziers, shimmering softly against the dark stone walls.

  Their hands brushed occasionally as they stood together.

  Lord Dunwick watched the pair with mild curiosity. “So,” the aging noble said at last, folding his hands behind his back. “Azane.” Godric rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah. Azane.”

  Rykard leaned against the table, arms crossed.

  “We’ve read the reports,” he said. “Desert kingdoms. Warrior clans. Cities carved from stone older than our oldest records.”

  His gaze flicked toward the Azanean leaders speaking with Byronard. “And somehow,” he continued, “you convinced them to cross an ocean to help us.”

  Godric blinked.

  “Well… when you say it like that, it sounds impressive.”

  Anarór? smirked faintly. “That is because it was impressive.”

  Godric glanced sideways at her. “You say that now. You weren’t the one nearly getting eaten by a sand wyrm as wide as the plateau we're on.”

  Dunwick raised an eyebrow.

  “A sand wyrm? And you say it's larger than this damn keep?”

  Godric waved a hand dismissively. “Long story.” Rykard chuckled quietly. “You seem to have collected quite a few of those.”

  Anarór? folded her arms.

  “Michael said he nearly died three times in the first few months.”

  Godric coughed. “That’s a bit exaggerated.” She tilted her head.

  “Five?”

  Godric sighed. “Fine. Maybe five.”

  Dunwick studied him carefully. “You left Primera as a promising young knight.” His gaze sharpened slightly. “You returned as something… different.” Godric shifted awkwardly under the scrutiny.

  “I’m still the same person.”

  Anarór? squeezed his hand gently. Dunwick smiled faintly.

  “That may be true.”

  He glanced toward Byronard across the room.

  “But the world around you clearly thinks otherwise.”

  Near the chamber entrance, Gabriel had cornered Michael. The knight looked both fascinated and mildly overwhelmed.

  “So you’re telling me,” Gabriel said rapidly, “that the deserts move.”

  “Yes.”

  “And the clans ride creatures larger than warhorses.”

  “Yes.”

  “And there’s an entire order of assasins, like Ziyad, who can walk through shadows.” Michael nodded.

  “Yes.”

  Gabriel blinked.

  “That seems…excessive.”

  Michael leaned back against the stone wall, arms crossed. “You should see their cities.” Gabriel leaned closer, eyes bright.

  “Are they really built into the cliffs like the stories say?”

  Michael smiled faintly.

  “They are.”

  “And the markets?”

  “Louder than any port in Primera.”

  “And the warriors?”

  Michael chuckled quietly. “Do you see the orc chieftain standing beside Sir Byronard?”

  Gabriel glanced toward the towering orc across the chamber.

  “…Right.”

  He rubbed his temples.

  “So what was Azane actually like?”

  Michael paused. His gaze drifted briefly across the chamber toward Godric. “Beautiful,” he said finally. Then he sighed. “And terrifying.”

  Gabriel waited eagerly. Michael straightened from the wall.

  “It’s a very long story. We'll fill you in later.”

  At the far end of the chamber, Byronard stood with the Azanean leaders. Without the formal structure of introductions, the conversation had taken on a more personal tone. Rashid al-Qadarin spoke first.

  “You carry yourself like a king, Lord Byronard.”

  Byronard shook his head.

  “I was once the regent, but now I am merely the captain of the royal guard.”

  “Perhaps not in title,” Rashid replied. “But leadership rarely waits for permission.”

  Khor’gul watched Byronard closely. “You are a warrior.”

  “I am,” Byronard said. "Apart from politics, fighting is all I've ever known. My brother was the more diplomatic one of us two."

  The orc grunted. His gaze hardened slightly.

  “Between you and the Uhrihim, who would win in a fight?”

  Byronard said nothing to that. Malrik, who had remained silent until now, finally spoke.

  “You trust the boy.”

  Byronard followed his gaze across the chamber. Godric was laughing at something Wyatt had just shouted from across the room. The sound echoed warmly through the hall. Byronard allowed himself a small smile.

  “I do.”

  Malrik nodded slowly.

  “Good.”

  Rashid clasped his hands together.

  “It seems the fate of many lands now rests upon his shoulders.”

  Byronard watched Godric for a moment longer.

  Still laughing. Still awkward. Still the same gentle soul he had always been. Yet the power within him had begun to ripple outward like a stone cast into still water.

  “Yes,” Byronard said quietly. “It would seem so.”