The chamber beneath the Cathedral of Endless Faith was unlike any other in Struttsburg.

  It had no windows, no tapestries, no frescoes of saints. It was carved deep into the rock below the holy nave, a place where sunlight had never touched. A long, blackened table stretched the length of the hall, and behind it stood candle-brackets, each flame shuddering as though it feared to burn in such a place.

  At the head sat Archbishop Luc de Presti, robed in scarlet and white, his miter casting a long shadow across his gaunt face. His eyes, pale and sharp as frost, studied the bishops gathered before him. Beside him stood Sir Danviel Morn, commander of the Holy Knights of Vrorn, clad in gleaming mail and a crimson cloak. His hand rested upon the pommel of his greatsword, though his face betrayed nothing.

  The bishops—eight in all—shifted uneasily in their seats.

  “Brothers,” Luc said at last, his voice a low murmur that carried across the stone like a whisper of doom, “you know why we are gathered.”

  “Aye,” replied Bishop Sarric of Eltwold, his round face slick with sweat. “The name day of the usurper’s whelp. A celebration of stolen crowns and false legitimacy. I must ask, your grace—why must we soil our vestments with such a farce?”

  Murmurs followed, some nodding agreement, others glancing to the archbishop in fear of reprisal.

  Luc de Presti steepled his fingers. “Because, brother, wolves wear their patience as sheep’s wool. It is not yet time to bare our fangs.”

  “Not yet?” snapped Bishop Harnel of Craswick, his voice harsh as gravel. “How long shall we bow to this sellsword-king? He was not born to the line of emperors. He carved his throne from corpses and called it Vrorn's will.”

  “And the people call it victory,” Luc answered, his tone cold as the catacombs. “Do not mistake the roar of the mob for truth, but neither dismiss it as naught. To stand against Gregor now is to stand against every soldier who lived because of him, every widow who swears her children eat bread because of him. A blade swung too soon cuts only the hand that wields it.”

  Silence followed.

  Sir Danviel’s gauntlet scraped as he adjusted his grip on the sword. “And yet, your grace, we must ask: is it not heresy to grant this man recognition? Every knight of the Order whispers unease. They see him crowned, yet they know no coronation was blessed here beneath the Eternal Flame.”

  Luc turned his eyes upon him, cold and sharp. “It is heresy to forget purpose. And our purpose, Commander, is not to fret over mortal crowns. It is to guard the flame of Vrorn against the coming dark.”

  That word—dark—lingered like a chill draft.

  Bishop Sarric licked his lips. “The… the rumors, then. Of the lich. Of Malekith. You think they hold truth?”

  Luc leaned back in his chair, and for a moment the candlelight seemed to bend away from him. “Rumor is a fire in dry grass—it spreads without root. But yes, I have heard the whispers. Too many. Too detailed. Reports of shadows walking in the east, of graves unsealed in the north, of noble houses falling silent overnight. Our agents scour these tales. Some prove false. But enough remain… troubling.”

  “Blasphemy,” muttered Bishop Harnel, though his voice had lost its edge. “The lich king was undone centuries ago. His soul scattered, his crown shattered.”

  “Was it?” Luc’s pale eyes glinted. “Or was it only caged, awaiting a key? Tell me, brother, why have our seers fallen silent in the past year? Why do our augurs dream of rivers running red and skies raining ash? Why do the bones in the crypts rattle though no wind passes there?”

  A shiver traveled the length of the table.

  Bishop Edrath of Norrin, the eldest of them, leaned forward, his voice a thin rasp. “If this is true, then why cling to pretense? Why stand beside Gregor as he parades his bastard line? Should we not prepare the people for the holy war to come?”

  Luc’s gaze settled on him. “Because war is not won with truth, old friend. War is won with unity. The Empire, for all its rot, is still the spine of these realms. If the lich rises, if shadows spill across our borders, only Gregor commands armies enough to bleed them back. Let him rally the lords, let him squander his strength. While he wars, we watch. We listen. We learn who bends the knee willingly, and who waits with knives.”

  “And when the time comes?” asked Bishop Sarric, voice trembling.

  Luc smiled faintly, like a vulture spreading wings. “When the time comes, the people will cry for salvation. And they will not call upon Gregor, no. They will call upon Vrorn’s Church. Upon us. Until then, we bow, we bless, we bear witness. The wolf waits. The wolf watches.”

  A silence fell so deep it seemed to choke the flames.

  At last, Sir Danviel spoke again. “And the ceremony, your grace? How shall we conduct ourselves?”

  Luc tapped a finger against the table. “As priests. As guardians. As shadows in the rafters. We shall anoint the child. We shall lay hands and whisper prayers. We shall let the usurper think us allies, while our knights walk the halls and watch for the smallest tremor of the coming storm. And if Malekith’s hand does reach through the veil…” His eyes hardened. “…then we shall know first.”

  Bishop Harnel frowned. “And what of our agents? Do they find anything yet?”

  Luc nodded once. “From the swamps, armies spill forth. In the north, horns sound where no tribes dwell. The world shifts, brothers. Even blind men can feel it. All the more reason to play the game with patience.”

  For a time, no one dared speak.

  At last, Bishop Edrath rasped, “Then it is settled. We attend the ceremony. We play the part. But mark my words, Luc de Presti—if this lich truly walks again, not even Gregor’s sword will save us.”

  Luc’s thin smile returned. “That is why it will not be Gregor’s sword that saves us.”

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  The candles guttered. The council ended.

  But in the silence of the stone chamber, it felt as though unseen ears had listened, and unseen eyes had marked each word spoken.

  Green Flame and Orange Hair:

  The wind clawed at the Tower of the Arcane Council like a beggar at a sealed door.

  Far above the clamor of the city, where noble carriages jostled in palace squares and merchants screamed beneath silk awnings, the tower sat cloaked in perpetual shadow. Even by daylight, it brooded over Struttsburg like a prophet before the gallows. Few dared enter uninvited. Fewer still left unchanged.

  Inside its highest chamber, amidst curling scrolls and relics that hummed softly with age, the air shimmered with quiet fury.

  Draumbean was packing.

  Books. Maps. Dust-covered lenses. A star-compass. Crystals in velvet. A lock of white hair from the Oracle of Marn. A coin etched with runes that no one alive could read.

  Everything had its place. Everything had its power. And everything seemed insufficient.

  He slammed a tome shut with more force than necessary, sending a plume of parchment dust into the air. It settled like fog over a cracked globe depicting the world as it had been before the Second Sundering.

  “Fools,” he muttered, voice like a blade drawn across stone. “Spineless, posturing, overfed fools.”

  He didn’t even turn when he heard the door creak open.

  “I thought I’d find you brooding,” came a familiar voice, soft and wry, like spring rain falling on old stones.

  Nylla the Green stepped into the chamber, green silks swirling about her hips, a cloak of woven moss trailing behind her. She looked younger than her twenty-five years, though her eyes bore a wisdom born from fire and hardship. Curves kissed her figure, and where others flaunted such beauty, Nylla wore it like armor—useful, distracting, but never the point.

  Draumbean looked at her over his shoulder, face lined with weariness and the stubborn scowl of a man who had argued with kings and lived.

  Draumbean sighed and gestured at the cluttered desk. "I've no time for brooding. I'm packing for war."

  She arched a brow. "War?'

  "Yes," he said sharply, his voice hoarse with age and anger. "War, child. Though it seems half the damned council believes I'm inventing shadows to scare the nobility."

  Nylla crossed the room slowly, weaving between stacks of grimoires and relics with a casual grace. "They don't dismiss your warning because they think it's false. They dismiss it because it terrifies them."

  Draumbean turned, his expression worn and lined, eyes shadowed by sleepless nights. "Fear is no excuse for ignorance. Malekith has returned. The dead stir in the north. Blackreach is ashes and still they debate over harvest tariffs and border disputes. The storm is upon us."

  “I followed the storm,” she said, stepping toward him. “And found it up here, wearing a robe and scowl.”

  He snorted. “And what would you have me do? Clap with joy while Xavert prattles on about budget allocations and border enchantments, as if we aren’t standing on the edge of a blade?”

  Nylla tilted her head, considering. “The edge is real, yes. But screaming about it doesn’t make the blade any duller.”

  Draumbean didn’t answer right away. He turned and resumed packing, folding his robes into a case embossed with the seal of the Arcane Council. His hands were sure, but there was tension in them—old anger roiling beneath the surface.

  “The council is fractured,” he said at last. “Half of them chase phantoms around the realms. The other half worship bureaucracy as if parchment can halt plague. And then there’s Xavert…”

  He spat the name like it soured his mouth.

  Nylla smiled faintly. “Still hate him?”

  “Hate is a weak word. I’d sooner trust a starving wyvern with my throat than sit through another one of his smug, silver-tongued sermons.”

  She walked past a shelf lined with elemental jars—earth, water, blood, bone—and touched the edge of one with gentle fingers. “He’s not as clever as he thinks.”

  “He thinks he’s the cleverest man alive. Which makes him dangerous,” Draumbean growled. “He’s always smiling. Always playing three games at once. But I’ve never once seen him draw a blade when the realm truly bled.”

  Nylla’s eyes studied him. “He envies you.”

  “He envies everyone. And still manages to look bored doing it.”

  Draumbean’s tone turned bitter, but not paranoid. Not yet. Not truly. He loathed Xavert not because of his talents or his smugness, but because he had seen the man’s soul—and found it hollow. Draumbean distrusted political mages, and Xavert had become the worst kind. All charm and calculation. No spine.

  Nylla sat down near the hearth, its flames reduced to a faint shimmer of red. She held her hands before it, calling gently to the warmth within the stones. The flame perked up, dancing green.

  “You are right to be angry,” she said. “But anger, like fire, consumes. We need you clear-headed.”

  Draumbean stopped packing.

  “I’m headed to Grimmhaven,” he said, the words sharp as a thrown dagger. “There are scrolls in the Grand library that may benefit us. That is what is needed now. A way to stop the death and destruction headed our way.”

  Nylla nodded. “You think Malekith seeks the Heaven’s Crown.”

  “He does more than seek it,” Draumbean answered. “He stirs the winds of legend. There is magic—older than the gods, older than thought. If he awakens that which sleeps beneath the world… there won’t be a realm left to squabble over.”

  Nylla’s brow furrowed. “And yet none believe.”

  Draumbean gave a dry chuckle. “They believe. But belief costs comfort. And so long as the brothels remain warm and the markets full, they will play dumb.”

  She was quiet a long while. Then, softly, “You have the Emperor’s trust. That counts for more than any council vote.”

  Draumbean’s face softened at the mention of Gregor. “Aye. Gregor remembers what we faced during the Brothers’ War. He knows the smell of a coming storm.”

  “And you have Queen Arendiel. King Zansabar. That’s half a miracle already.”

  Draumbean looked down at the cracked globe beside his desk. “The elves do not trust easily. Nor the dwarves. For them to stand beside me speaks volumes. And some of the others believe too' It just feels as if it is not enough."

  “Then stop pacing like a man with no friends,” Nylla said, rising. “You are not alone in this.”

  His gaze found hers.

  “You’ve grown strong,” he said. “Stronger than I ever expected. And wise enough to sound like my old tutor.”

  “You were my old tutor.”

  He chuckled, finally, the weight lifting slightly from his shoulders.

  Then his tone shifted.

  “I need to ask something more of you.”

  Nylla’s expression sobered.

  “Spendal,” Draumbean said. “He’s fading. Quietly, stubbornly. His strength wanes with each moon, and though he hides it well… I see the wear in his wards. He won’t last the year.”

  Nylla said nothing. The hearth flickered behind her, a faint wind stirring her cloak.

  “I need you to remain in Struttsburg,” Draumbean continued. “Stay close to the Archmage. Be his eyes. Be his voice. And if the council fractures again, remind them what we stand for.”

  “I thought you wanted me with you.”

  “I want to wrap you in a shell of stone and keep you far from what’s coming,” he said, voice low. “But I need you here.”

  She met his gaze evenly. “Then I’ll stay. For Spendal. For the council. For you.”

  His shoulders relaxed. “Good. Because when I return… gods willing … I’ll need someone to have held the line.”

  She stepped forward and took his hand. “You taught me how.”

  The tower bell tolled, distant but insistent.

  “My carriage,” he said. “Time to go.”

  Draumbean gathered the last of his things, clasping his satchel closed with a rune-lock and lifting his staff from beside the hearth. The wood hummed in his hand, whispering its secrets.

  As he opened the chamber door, Nylla stood in the archway, watching him.

  “I visit the emperor, and then I'm off."

  “And tell Xavert,” he added with a sardonic smile, “that if he tries to touch my seat at the council table, I’ll return with a lightning bolt straight and put it through his silver tongue.”

  Nylla smirked. “I’ll make sure he knows.”

  They lingered a breath longer. Then Draumbean swept down the spiral stair, cloak billowing behind him like a tattered banner in retreat.

  Nylla stood in the doorway long after his steps had faded. She turned back to the study and placed a hand on the map of the realms, resting her palm over the city of Grimmhaven.

  And then she whispered, softly, “Be safe, old man.”

  The flame behind her burned green.