Lord Hirias Lomnet had never liked silence.It was the sound of debt, and he had too many of those.
The study of his manor overlooked the misted rooftops of Preta, where the evening sun clung to the horizon like a coin about to be lost. From that height, the city looked smaller, humbler than it was: a tangle of narrow streets, merchants closing their stalls, children shouting in the distance, the smell of barley and damp soil rising from the lower quarters. A good city, by any measure. Honest, industrious, and utterly forgettable.
That forgettability was its greatest strength.
He adjusted the ring on his left hand, its sigil of Velovia faintly gleaming in the candlelight. It was the only thing of his lineage that still shone. The rest, his titles, his alliances, his peace of mind, had been pawned away in small, clever increments.
He leaned forward over the ledger. The numbers mocked him. He knew their language too well to be deceived.He had borrowed too much, too soon, and too often. The grain levies from last winter had failed. The tithes demanded by the Valval Priesthood had doubled. And now, like the final seal on a pact he didn't recall signing, came the debt to Alexander of Dromo, charming, dangerous Alexander, who lent favors with the same elegance he drew a blade.
The arrangement had been simple in words, impossible in consequence.His youngest son, Stephen, would wed Alexander's infant daughter, Dimitria. A political union meant to bind Velovia's fringe to Dromo's rising influence.It had seemed harmless at first, until Hirias realized that a man who owed Alexander anything rarely lived long enough to repay it.
Still, if the rebellion succeeded, Preta would rise again under his banner. He might even be remembered as a man of foresight rather than fear. But if the Priesthood triumphed...He exhaled, running a thumb along the page's edge. Then there would be no House Lomnet left to remember.
The knock came softly, like a warning. "My lord," said his steward, "the representatives of Lord Alexander have arrived."
Hirias straightened, smoothing the front of his coat. "Send them in."
The door opened, and two figures stepped into the amber light.Aros entered first, sharp, lean, the face of a man who had killed for causes long turned to ash. His eyes, grey and calm, seemed to carry the weight of silence itself. Beside him walked Talon, broader, older, his armor streaked with dust and wear but still carrying the air of command. Even weary, he looked like a statue that refused to crumble.
"Commander Talon. Kingslayer," Hirias said, rising with a courteous bow that was almost genuine. "Your reputations precede you, though not always kindly."
Talon smiled faintly. "Kind words rarely survive the truth."
"Then we understand each other," Hirias said, gesturing to the chairs before his desk. They didn't sit. Soldiers rarely did. He took his own seat, letting the power tilt toward him. "Lord Alexander speaks highly of your work in Bondrea. He tells me you are... efficient."
Aros's gaze didn't waver. "He would say that, wouldn't he?"
"A practical man," Hirias murmured, steepling his fingers. "He and I share an appreciation for pragmatism. Which brings us to you."
He slid a folded parchment across the desk. A map: rough, inked hastily, but clear."This land here," he said, pointing toward a mark beyond Preta's southern edge, "was once a monastery, then a barracks, and finally a ruin. The Priesthood has ignored it for years. The wells still run. The roofs... less so. But it can shelter your men, perhaps even your refugees."
Talon leaned closer. "And your price?"
Hirias smiled, a thin and tired thing. "Discretion. If your presence draws the eye of the Valval Priesthood, I'll deny you ever existed. And I'll hand over anyone who can prove otherwise."
Aros studied him. "You sell loyalty by the hour."
"I sell survival," Hirias replied, tone calm. "It's a far rarer currency these days."
For a long moment, the three men regarded one another. The wind shifted, tapping the window with the rhythm of distant bells. Then Talon inclined his head.
"Understood. We'll take it."
They spoke of supplies and routes, of scouts and signal fires, of how to hide banners and bury insignias. Hirias listened, nodding when needed, filing away their words. He learned how the Knights of Light organized themselves, how they rotated guards, how many soldiers they had lost in Bondrea.He made mental notes of weaknesses.
When the formalities ended, he rose to escort them out. "You'll find the old quarry road clear," he said. "My guards have orders not to question your passage. You may rest at the estate by nightfall."
"Appreciated," Talon said. He paused. "And your people, Lord Lomnet? Will they turn us in?"
"Preta is a city that values its skin," Hirias said. "If you keep yours hidden, no one will look for more."
Aros lingered near the door. "You play a dangerous game, Lord Lomnet."
"Every man of worth does," Hirias said, his tone so mild it almost masked the edge beneath it. "Some just play it better."
They left without another word, the sound of their boots fading down the corridor.
The moment the latch clicked, Hirias exhaled and reached for the wine. He poured only half a cup, the measure of restraint, and sat again, listening to the city breathe beyond the walls.
He could almost see it now: if the rebellion gained momentum, if Alexander's name rose higher, Preta could become the gateway to the new Dromo alliance. His debts forgiven, his family restored.He might even live to see his son a duke.
But if the rebellion failed, if the Priesthood sniffed out this meeting...He sipped, letting the bitterness roll across his tongue.Then he would make himself indispensable to the victors. He would offer them everything: the names, the locations, even Alexander himself. A single betrayal, artfully delivered, could buy back a lifetime of debts.
In truth, he didn't despise Alexander. He admired him, his refinement, his poise, his ability to stand in a room full of wolves and make them believe they were guests at a dinner party. But admiration did not mean loyalty. And loyalty did not pay creditors.
He looked again at the ledger.There was a thin line beside Alexander's name, written in smaller, sharper script: Due upon victory.
A soft knock interrupted his thoughts again.
His steward entered, bowing low. "My lord, the watch captain reports that the Dromo envoys have reached the southern gate safely. They're moving toward the old estate as planned."
"Good," Hirias said. "Ensure the guards remain silent. Any man who asks too many questions will lose his tongue before his pay."
"Yes, my lord."
When the steward was gone, Hirias walked toward the window. The torches of the lower city flickered like a constellation of wavering stars. He could see the faint outline of the southern hills, the direction Aros and Talon had taken.
"Fools," he whispered. "Every idealist dies the same way, thinking the fire they carry will warm the world."
But even as he said it, there was a shadow of doubt in his chest. Because he'd once believed too: in reform, in justice, in something purer than the gold of the Priesthood or the blood of politics.He had seen too many men burn for that illusion.He had chosen to live instead.
He sat again at the desk, dipping his quill into the ink, and began to write a new message on fine parchment. The address at the top read: To His Grace, Alexander of Dromo. The lines that followed were full of measured courtesy and mild optimism, the tone of an ally both loyal and cautious.
When the letter was done, he let the ink dry and sealed it with the crest of House Lomnet. Then, on a smaller slip of paper, written in the same hand but without the crest, he added only a single line:
"If things turn, I can deliver them both, the King-Slayer and the girl. Await my word."
He folded it, slid it into a separate envelope, and sealed it with black wax instead of gold.
One for the rebellion.One for the Priesthood.Balance, as always.
He leaned back, looking at the two envelopes side by side, twin paths leading to salvation or ruin.
"Perhaps," he murmured, smiling faintly, "this arrangement isn't so terrible after all."