By the time Arasha reached the gates of Scion Hold, the sun had begun to dip below the horizon, casting long, warm shadows over the sturdy ramparts.
The banners of the Scion Order fluttered proudly, their sigils crisp in the twilight breeze. Knights on patrol straightened as they saw her approach, offering salutes of respect.
Waiting just beyond the gate stood Sir Garran, her steadfast second-in-command, arms crossed, his face a mixture of relief and restrained worry.
"Commander," he greeted, stepping forward.
Arasha dismounted, handing the reins to a stable squire who darted in wordlessly. "Sir Garran," she nodded, brushing a speck of dust from her cloak. "Status?"
He fell into stride beside her. "The hold remains secure, morale high. All missions concluded successfully. However…" His voice lowered slightly. "The bandits you faced during your escort weren't acting independently. We've confirmed reports that suggest… manipulation. Coin and arms trace back to Lord Vexen of Frightmist."
Arasha's stride slowed, her brows furrowing. "Vexen?"
Garran nodded grimly. "And a few lesser nobles, likely allies or under obligation. The target—the caravan from the south—was deliberately chosen. That route trades heavily in spell-thread, rare metals, and enchanted silks. If they disrupted the flow, it would cause political tension with the southern duchies."
Arasha's eyes narrowed. "And destabilize trade agreements," she muttered. "Dangerous games to play. Dig deeper. I want to know why Vexen risks provoking both the Scion Order and the southern houses."
"Already on it," Garran replied. "I've dispatched scouts and informants. You'll have a full report within the week."
She gave a curt nod. "Good. Keep this quiet for now. If Vexen's playing chess, I won't tip our pieces too soon."
With that, she dismissed him and made her way into the heart of the stronghold.
****
After a quick stop at her chambers, where she changed into a more comfortable tunic and tied her hair up in a practical braid, Arasha began her rounds.
First, she stopped by the training grounds, where senior knights drilled with blunt blades and shields.
She observed quietly before joining a pair in a bout, disarming one and lightly tapping the other's helm before stepping back with a faint smile. "Your footwork still gives you away, Delric."
She moved on to the squire's wing, where younger trainees were cleaning equipment and copying combat forms from scrolls.
Arasha offered a few tips and corrected a lad's grip, her tone firm but not unkind. Many of them looked up to her like a storm-wrought star—distant, awe-inspiring, but never cold.
Afterward, she passed through the staff kitchens, where cooks bustled preparing dinner.
She exchanged nods and a brief word with the head cook, then picked up a wrapped sandwich and a flask of berry water with a quiet "Thank you" before heading out again.
She ate while standing near the archery range, eyes following the line of arrows hitting their marks with rhythmic thuds.
By the time her sandwich was gone, she had helped two squires adjust their stance and coached another in breathing control.
When the moon had risen high and the hold began to quiet, she returned to the commander's office, where a small lantern cast soft light across a cluttered desk.
John, the hold's meticulous secretary, was waiting with his usual stack of neatly organized documents. He stood as she entered, giving her a polite nod.
"Commander. Most of the day's paperwork has been handled—training logs, patrol shifts, inventory counts. What remains are these…" He held up two stacks. "First, budget proposals requiring your review and approval. Second, correspondence from nobles. Requests for appearances, favors, and… one asking if you would bless a piglet."
Arasha sighed. "Of course." She dropped into her chair, already skimming the first sheet. "Let me guess. Lady Herra?"
John didn't smile, but there was a twitch at the corner of his mouth. "The very same."
She shook her head and took a sip of tea that someone—likely Garran—had left warming by the hearth. "Thank you, John. You've done well."
"It's my duty, Commander."
She spent the next hour sorting through the documents—signing approvals, adjusting figures, writing succinct replies. By the end, her hands were ink-stained, but her mind was steady.
She leaned back, exhaling slowly.
The hold was running smoothly. Her people were safe. But the shadow of Vexen's scheme weighed heavy on her.
Still, she did not falter.
****
Storm clouds were beginning to gather, not in the skies above Scion Hold, but within the quiet reports trickling into Arasha's war room.
It was late evening when Sir Garran returned, his usually calm features lined with tension. He carried with him a weathered satchel of sealed reports, coded transcripts, and signed confessions—evidence gathered from informants, intercepted messages, and subtle interrogation.
Arasha stood at the map table, eyes scanning the newest patrol routes when he stepped inside and bowed low.
"They're moving faster than we thought," Garran began, his voice low but sure. "Lord Vexen has secured a private audience with three other city lords, and there's mention of a pact. It's not just political maneuvering anymore. They've reached out to a faction of warlocks once believed scattered. Dark pacts are being made. The end goal—control of the throne. They mean to turn King Alight into a puppet monarch."
Arasha's hand tightened on the table's edge. "And the King?" she asked, her voice like honed steel.
"Too young, too trusting," Garran said grimly. "He seeks to unify the fractured nobility, not realizing the wolves he's inviting to his court."
There was a long silence before Arasha spoke. "You will take these reports to the capital yourself. Hand them directly to the Royal Advisor, Linalee. Work with her to present this to the King—subtly. If he's surrounded, we cannot let our knowledge become a noose around our own necks."
Garran hesitated, looking at her as one might a younger sibling they couldn't stop worrying about. "And what of you?"
Arasha looked up at him, a calm but exhausted smile on her lips. "I will remain here. The Scion Order must stay strong. If these nobles move openly, we need to be prepared to act without delay."
He didn't budge. "And rest, Commander?"
She let out a breath that was part laugh, part exhale. "I promise. I'll rest. Eventually."
He gave her a long look. "Your word?"
"My word."
He clasped his fist to his chest in salute. "Then I ride tonight."
As Garran rode into the night toward the capital, Arasha stood alone in the tower office, overlooking the moonlit courtyard below.
The torches cast dancing shadows over the stonework, but her mind was turned inward, back to what Garran had said—a pact with warlocks.
"Dark forces rising again…" she murmured, turning from the window and walking slowly toward her desk.
There were signs—unusual activity near the Southern Obsidian Crags, sightings of creatures thought long sealed, villages reporting dream plagues.
They were all pieces of a puzzle whose shape she couldn't yet see, but the edges were growing clearer.
Arasha placed her palm on a leather-bound tome detailing older accounts of forbidden pacts, her eyes briefly closing. "If they take the throne, what future will this kingdom have?"
She rang the bell once.
A moment later, John appeared, as prompt as ever, his hair slightly disheveled, as though he had foreseen her call.
"You summoned me, Commander?"
"Yes," Arasha said, her tone measured. "I want you to begin a comprehensive analysis of our current funding, supply lines, reserve assets—everything. Prioritize routes that may be used for emergency mobilization, including fallback positions and alliances we can reinforce."
John raised a brow but nodded, reaching into his coat to pull out a slate. "Preparing for a siege?"
"Preparing for war," Arasha said softly. "A different kind of war."
"And if the nobles notice we're shoring up?"
Arasha met his eyes. "They'll notice. Let them. I'd rather they prepare for our defense than dismiss us as irrelevant."
John jotted notes with his usual quiet efficiency, then said, "Understood, Commander. I'll begin immediately."
"And John," Arasha added, her voice softening, "thank you."
He glanced up, surprised. "Of course, Commander."
Alone once more, Arasha walked back to the terrace outside her chambers, where a small lantern flickered in the breeze.
She looked up at the stars, their gentle light unbothered by the troubles of the world below.
"Garran's right," she whispered to the night. "I should rest…"
Still in her uniform, she sat on the stone bench, letting the silence of the high walls wrap around her like an old friend.
Her body ached, her mind burned with strategy and concern, but she allowed herself—just for a moment—to close her eyes.
****
The sun had only just begun to set behind the grand alabaster towers of Luxurite, the capital city, when Sir Garran crossed its bustling gates under the guise of a traveling knight returning from a border assignment.
The sigil of Scion Order was visible, but tarnished from dust and long travel, giving him the appearance of one among many dutiful servants of the realm.
He kept his hood drawn low, posture steady and unhurried. The golden streets and towering marble structures pulsed with evening life—merchants haggled, noble carriages rolled by, and jesters entertained idle lords with hollow laughter.
But beneath the fanfare, Garran could feel the shift—eyes that lingered a touch too long, whispers that paused as he passed.
He didn't flinch. Didn't speed up. Just another knight making his return. The enemies were watching, and he would not let them see how urgently he moved beneath the surface.
After stabling his horse in an inconspicuous alley of the Second Ring, Garran wound through the familiar paths of the court's inner circle until he reached a secluded entrance at the back of the Royal Archive Wing—a lesser-known doorway known only to trusted agents and the upper echelon of court officials.
He rapped the aged oak door thrice, waited, then twice more.
A young assistant cracked it open, recognizing him immediately, and silently stepped aside to let him in.
The room he entered was warmly lit, with shelves of scrolls and crystals humming with residual enchantment.
At the far end, standing by an enchanted window that looked out into a starlit illusion of the capital skyline, Royal Advisor Linalee turned, her piercing violet eyes softening slightly at the sight of him.
"Garran," she greeted, voice smooth as polished obsidian, her long silvery-blue hair pinned back with a crescent clasp. "You only wear that face when it's time to wake the gods or doom the devils. I assume this is no social visit."
Despite the weight of what he carried, Garran managed a tired smirk. "You always could read me too well."
Without another word, she gestured and glided toward a tall lacquered door behind a velvet tapestry. With a flick of her wrist, the entrance to her personal study shimmered open, and Garran followed her in.
Once inside, Linalee shut the door with a graceful gesture, then swept her hand through the air.
A lattice of runes illuminated across the room—a High Silence Ward, one only a royal court mage of her caliber could cast. The hum of the world fell away, replaced by a dome of absolute stillness.
Only then did Garran exhale and hand her the sealed satchel.
Linalee's fingers, adorned with a single sapphire ring, deftly broke the wax seal and unrolled the first of the scrolls. As her eyes flicked through the documents—coded letters, testimonies, sigils used in dark rites, and confirmation of meetings between Lord Vexen and the outlawed Circle of Black Accord—her features hardened.
"This is worse than whispers," she said sharply, the air around her crackling with latent energy. "They've already begun forming the chain around the King's neck."
"And the King?" Garran asked, voice low. "Does he trust you?"
"He trusts many," Linalee said bitterly. "That's the problem."
She began pacing, scrolls floating midair around her as if held by unseen hands. "We can't move directly. If we present this to the court as-is, it'll be buried in bureaucracy—or worse, spark a civil divide before we have control. We need a subtle hand."
Garran nodded. "Then we root out Vexen's allies first. Quietly. Cut off his support, expose a weakness, and only then bring what we have to the King."
"I'll have agents begin surveillance of the nobles listed here. And I'll place a stronger ward on the King's personal staff," Linalee said, conjuring a glowing sigil above the table and weaving a spell of tracking.
She glanced sideways at Garran. "And Arasha?"
"Already preparing," Garran said. "She's reorganizing our funds, reinforcing key positions. She's two steps ahead, as always."
Linalee allowed herself a small smile. "She always did make the rest of us look slow. I hope she's taking care of herself."
"She won't. Not unless someone makes her," Garran replied, dry as ever.
They fell into silence for a beat, the tension thick with possibility and peril.
Linalee finally spoke. "Then we begin tonight. You'll stay here. I'll dispatch two of my shadow-tongues to shadow Lord Vexen. In three days, we'll reconvene in the Ember Room and decide our next move."
Garran inclined his head. "Understood."