The Silver Stag's third floor was quiet.

  Eirik had sent away the others—Olaf with considerable protest. Only Isolde remained.

  A single candle burned between them. Beside it, a stack of blank parchment and two quills.

  Eirik picked up a quill, dipped it in ink, and began to write.

  Burn after reading.

  Isolde's eyebrows rose sharply. She watched him slide the parchment across the desk, read it, then looked up at him with alarm.

  She reached for the second quill.

  What happened?

  Eirik took the paper, held it to the candle flame, and watched it curl into ash. Then he began writing again.

  I was summoned tonight. By Archmage Velthan of the Mage Tower. The Duke's special consultant.

  Her eyes widened as she read.

  Summoned how? I heard you were with Kael at a brothel.

  They found me the moment I stepped outside. They knew exactly where I was.

  Isolde's hand paused over the parchment. She wrote slowly.

  What did he want?

  Eirik took a fresh sheet and began the longer explanation. His handwriting grew cramped as he compressed the evening's revelations onto the page.

  He told me the history of General Abercrombie. The man who built a city up the deep North. Who created cultivation itself through human sacrifice in exchange for power.

  He paused, then continued.

  He showed me a crystal shard found in my courtyard after the demon manifestation. They retrieved it before my own men found it.

  The paper passed to Isolde. She read it twice, her expression shifting from confusion to something approaching alarm. The flame consumed the words.

  Her response came quickly.

  They have agents inside Abercrombie? That's deeply troubling. But why tell you any of this? What does he want?

  He said the Duke invited me at his request. He's assembling a team to investigate these matters. He's recommended me for it.

  Isolde stared at the words for a long moment before burning them.

  This feels wrong.

  She wrote more.

  I know the legend of Abercrombie. But it's history so distant it might as well be children's stories. Why does any of this matter now? Why you? Why tonight?

  Eirik took the paper and fed it to the flame.

  I don't know. But they've been watching me closely. They knew about Coyne. Minutes after I finished extracting information, the Archmage's apprentice appeared and gave me a warning about the Duke's expectations.

  A warning?

  To speak as few words as possible at tomorrow's ceremony.

  Isolde's jaw tightened. She wrote with sharp, quick strokes.

  So they're managing you. Interesting. But if what he told you is true—if there really is something stirring in the north connected to these old powers—perhaps they genuinely need your involvement. You did destroy a demon manifestation. That's not nothing.

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  Perhaps. But where? He mentioned the north. Why summon me south to Frostfall if the threat lies in the opposite direction?

  Isolde paused, quill hovering.

  Your powers are singular, Eirik. People here may not understand what they saw at Abercrombie, but the higher authorities certainly do. Now we know for certain.

  She added another line.

  Maybe they're conducting something here first.

  Eirik read her words, then burned them. He wrote his response grimly.

  You mean detaining me.

  Isolde's reply came without hesitation.

  Could be detaining you. Could be detaining all of us. Could be sending you further away while keeping us here as leverage. There's no way to know yet.

  She continued on a fresh sheet.

  But regardless of their intentions, you have no choice. You must do what the Duke wants you to do. Refusal isn't an option when you're already inside his city.

  The papers burned. Ash accumulated in a small ceramic dish Eirik had appropriated for the purpose.

  He dipped his quill again.

  Tell me about the political climate. Anything significant I should know. Last night, Coyne implied the tournament was rigged. Despite his claims otherwise, I suspect the Duke's son will emerge as champion.

  Isolde read, burned, and began writing a longer response. Her handwriting grew smaller as she filled the page.

  The King is old. Failing. The internal strife has grown worse each year.

  She paused, then continued on a fresh sheet.

  There's pressure on the Duke specifically. The King is considering reviving an ancient law: the Alternating Residence Decree. All high lords would spend one year at the capital, then return to their lands, then back to the capital again.

  Moreover, their families—wives and children of unlanded nobles—would be required to remain in the capital permanently.

  Eirik read the words with growing unease. The paper burned.

  That sounds tyrannical.

  It is. The nobles have lobbied against it fiercely. They've failed. The King seems determined to implement it before his death—a final measure to ensure stability for his young heir.

  She added:

  It affects only the Dukes and great lords directly. You wouldn't need to worry about it personally.

  Eirik burned the papers and started fresh:

  But the Duke worries about it. Is he planning something? A coup?

  Isolde's quill hovered over the parchment for a long moment before she wrote:

  That would be extraordinary. And given Thorgrim's reputation for crushing dissent rather than building alliances, he'd struggle to find supporters.

  She continued:

  And your investigation—whatever it is—seems disconnected from political maneuvering. Unless they're planning to march you directly to the capital to take the King's head, I don't see the connection.

  Eirik replied:

  But if he had enough support. He would attempt a coup?

  Isolde's quill paused. When she wrote again, her strokes were deliberate.

  I don't enjoy hypotheticals. But yes. If the Duke could do what he wished without consequence, he would. He's not a man constrained by morals or reputation. He takes what he wants, when he wants it, through whatever means prove most efficient.

  The paper burned.

  He wrote one final question.

  Where does that leave me?

  Isolde read it, and for a long moment, she considered it. Then she wrote her response.

  Our hands are tied. You can't leave now—not when you're linked to a ducal mission you don't yet understand. And we still don't know what any of this truly means.

  She continued on a fresh sheet.

  Perhaps they simply want to interview you. Ask questions about the demon, about your powers. We can prepare for that—practice how to tell them something without telling them everything. It could be nothing other than A test you'd pass easily.

  Eirik wrote beneath her words:

  Or it could be serious.

  It could. But it's far too early to know. Isolde set down the quill and met his eyes directly. Then she wrote: Why don't we attend the ceremony tomorrow and see for ourselves? The Archmage said you'd be notified if his recommendation is approved. Until then, speculation serves no one.

  Eirik read her words one last time, then fed the final page to the flame.

  They sat in silence as the last of the ash settled into the dish. The candle flickered, casting dancing shadows across the walls.

  Isolde rose, gathering her cloak.

  "Get some rest," she said aloud—the first spoken words in nearly an hour. "Tomorrow will be long."

  ———

  Sleep remained elusive.

  Eirik stood at the window, looking out over the sleeping city. Torchlight still flickered in distant streets. The bulk of Highfrost Keep loomed against the star-filled sky, its spires like fingers reaching toward the heavens.

  How much did they know?

  His hand drifted unconsciously to the spatial ring on his finger, where the Hail Realm Advancement Crystal waited. Had they detected it? Did they know about the Kingdom Core? About the system that guided his development?

  The questions spiraled without answers.

  He needed air.

  Eirik pulled on his cloak and slipped out of the room.

  The Silver Stag's common room was mostly empty at this hour. A few late drinkers hunched over their cups. A serving girl wiped down tables with mechanical efficiency. No one looked up as Eirik passed through and stepped into the cold night.

  The street was quiet.

  He walked without destination, letting his feet carry him through the sleeping merchant district.