He had made good time since leaving Fendri behind.

  Risens knew the interior of the opulent room well, having been there dozens of times throughout his service to the King. One wall of the room was lined with shelves, packed with countless tomes. A ladder connected to a metal runner served as the access to the several rows that were well above his reach. A wide, elaborately carved and decorated desk dominated the area in front of the books. The massive piece of furniture looked as if it had been carved from a single piece of wood and was large enough to give the impression that the room had been built around it.

  As impressive as it was, the wall it overlooked held a veritable museum of priceless artifacts from the storied history of the realm. Light flashed off the polished yet pitted blade of a great sword affixed to the wall. Wielded by Lathrenon’s great-great-grandfather, King Jandriel, during the Battle of Bloodsnow. He had been outnumbered, betrayed, and locked into a position where his defeat was inevitable. The armies of the Shial Empire—the denizens of the frozen north—no longer content to eke out their existence, had stormed Halthome in search of warmer climates and thawed prospects. Stories held that the fabled blade cut down a piece of Shial’s Sliver, burying the warlord and his armies in rock and ice.

  An ornate shield, marked with the sign of the majestic raven of Halthome, was scarred by a deep gouge across its face. Though the owner was unknown, it highlighted a tale of great turmoil throughout the Kingdom. At the right place when fate needed him, a young shepherd raised the shield of one of the King’s dead bodyguards, deftly deflecting the blow that would have ended the monarch’s life. With no training beyond the shepherd’s staff, he fended off the attack until reinforcements arrived. His name, if known, was never revealed. He returned to his grazing sheep as an unknown hero of legend.

  In the center was the piece that had always commanded Risens’ attention. Locked behind mageLocked glass, a shapely purple velvet cushion held a large brooch. Though it was simple in design, lacking the shimmering jewels and majesty of its owner, there was no question as to its form.

  The hunting raven—descending with its talons outstretched—was the eternal symbol of the realm. The item held a definitive air of antiquity, the weathered steel cleft and marked with the imperfections of its creation and extreme age. The first King, Adalhard, had worn this brooch with pride as he united the scattered tribe under a single banner, fending off a great evil that threatened them all.

  Strangely enough, as much as he had searched, he’d never found any mention of who had harried the King of old, beyond the mention that it was legions of evil. Scholars theorized that this was an intentional omission, the cruelest punishment the King could have leveled on his foes. Having written their name out of history, he had entirely erased their existence.

  He found it curious that the items featured along this wall were all relics of war and strife. Each was the property of a great king, who in the past had defended the Kingdom with their might and sword. He was now the very blade that struck the blows against those who’d seek to destroy the realm.

  In stark contrast to the stories of the Great King Adalhard, the man silhouetted against the picturesque vista of the city had never bled with his troops on the field of battle. It was true, he’d participated in war throughout his tenure as ruler of Halthome, yet none had died by a blade in his hand.

  Risens quickly disguised the look of disgust that crept into his face. His lips curled slightly as if smelling spoiled milk. As much as he would have enjoyed perusing the galley, immersing himself in the history, the voice from the balcony demanded his focus.

  “I assume that you’ve remedied the error of your mercy, Rightmaker.”

  The King leaned heavily on the illustrious bannister of the balcony. The large glass double doors were ajar, the sheer white curtains billowing in the stiff breeze. How he, when so many others were unaware of Risens’ presence, always knew of his arrival without even averting his gaze was a mystery. He felt the discomfort, the sudden meekness that came with being in Lathrenon’s company, wash over him as if his power of the man alone was enough to crush him.

  The sensation, for the first time, felt wrong. Not in a sense that it had grown or shifted, but that it was unnatural. It left a slimy residue in his mind now that he had tasted true power.

  This was not it.

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” Risens lied, bowing his head slightly as he spoke.

  The ruler of Halthome turned his attention from the vista of Windwake. His cold gray eyes burned as they probed him, scrutinizing him for any hints of deceit. He’d experienced similar regard on many occasions, yet today, it felt heightened beyond the norm. His own internal guilt ate away at him under the scrutiny.

  “The reports of a courtesan’s body in the river are not uncommon nor typically celebrated, yet today, it brings me satisfaction,” Lathrenon growled, his voice not echoing his claims of mirth. “You were careless. I trust this will not be happening again.”

  “No, My Leige. It will not.”

  Again, Risens weathered the withering glare, though he felt the fieriness fade quickly.

  “Indiscretion aside, your work was thorough. Your actions have made the Kingdom a safer place.”

  A compliment from Lathrenon was, indeed, rare.

  The King turned and took his place at the substantial desk. The strength and power that exuded from the man were impressive. Yet, Risens noted the slight wince of discomfort as he rested himself into the plush comforts of the regal chair behind the desk.

  “The traitorous Duke has been a stain on Halthome,” the King said. “His death and that of his ilk will be mourned by none other than those complicit in his treason.”

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  He riffled through a stack of parchments on his desk, pulling one only a few sheets down. His eyes darted from one side of the page to the other as Risens waited, maintaining a pose of patience. However, each passing symbol flashing in his vision ratcheted up the torment of his anxiety.

  “Those working to conspire against me have been dealt a devastating blow to both their influence and finances, though Karieas was not your last mark.”

  Risens was certain that in all the times he’d met with the King, before or after satiating the bloodlust of his Majesty in the name of the realm, he’d never noticed the King use those specific words. “Conspiring against me.” Not the Kingdom, but him, as if the affronts he’d been tasked to avenge were nothing more than personal vendettas.

  “That the council chooses to honor the man according to the ancient traditions is expected and graciously, I have acquiesced to their desires.” Risens’s attention was snapped back into focus as the King continued. “Were I to have denied it outright, I would have implicated my hand in his demise.”

  Risens was familiar with the tradition carried on from the earliest days of the Kingdom. Death was inevitable and, while it was feared, it was celebrated. Parades traditionally led from the home of the deceased to one of the many pyres established throughout the city. Only the city’s elites were afforded the right to be entombed in their private mausoleums. Duke Karieas and his immediate retinue would be honored in this state, while the remainder of those would be consumed by fire. Owing to the body count, he expected that much of the city would share in the festivities of their chilling passings. He knew that the King would wait until the last of the ceremonial remembrances had faded before releasing evidence that damned the Duke as a traitor. Blades may have ended his life, though even after death, the King’s vengeance was not complete. The information would tarnish Karieas’ reputation and any legacy thereafter.

  Risens’ thoughts twisted over dark things. How many parades of masked mourners, bedecked in the vibrant colors that celebrated the glory of life, had been initiated by his blades? The music, the costumes, the revelry… they all culminated in celebrations to remember the lives lost. Tears were covered by masks as those assembled remembered the lives of the departed.

  “In its wisdom,” the King said, “the council has taken over the planning of festivities for the cursed snake for this evening. It seems that none were left to speak for the Duke. The lady of his house is visiting her parents in Bardis and is not set to return for another fortnight. If she returns, she will find her home empty and haunted by his treason.”

  The wicked gleam in his eyes was telling. He had no expectations that the woman, her servants, or guards would ever see their estate again. The only question remaining was whether or not Risens’ daggers would do the deed.

  “In their haste to honor the traitor, they have shown their hands and loyalties.” Lathrenon slammed his fist down against the solid wood table before shouting over the thump that echoed through the room. “The Lady Myrenas will host the gala at her estate in Quayside this evening.”

  The King, seemingly drawn by his own words, rose and stormed across his chamber to the open balcony beyond, motioning Risens to follow with a wave of his hand. As was protocol, he waited until the King was several steps past before following. Though thoughts of killing the ruler of Halthome had never crossed his mind, he knew that others would relish the opportunity. As such, the King rarely turned his back on anyone. Being in his service for so long had garnered Risens a measure of trust. Yet, the King was likely unaware that he knew of at least one of the discrete protections that surrounded his body. The high-collared robes that the man perpetually wore were mageGuarded, capable of saving him from the killing strikes of blade or bow.

  Lathrenon stopped again as he reached the railing, folding his arms behind his back. Risens stopped a few meters to his side, casting his gaze across the sprawling view of the city before him.

  “The parade is meaningless. There will be nothing to be gained from joining its festivities.” The King’s voice dripped with spite. “The procession will start at the Duke’s mansion at dusk.” He pointed, dragging his hand along the spoken path. “And wend through the Learners Row before culminating in Northern Quayside. You will need to join the parade before it reaches the Lady’s gates.”

  The King reached into the folds of his cloak, removing a small scroll. Without abandoning his stare downward, he held the rolled parchment out to him.

  Risens accepted the parchment, though his mind wandered. Aside from the King’s initial glare, he guessed that he could have remained in his presence with the Shadows Shroud in full view and remained unnoticed.

  “The tailors have your measurements, Rightmaker. They will have your outfit and mask ready soon. Fendri will deliver it to your chambers. Lady Myrenas was deeply affected by the death of Duke Kariaes. The investigation has uncovered numerous communications between the pair, and I have no doubt that she was among those to have departed the Duke’s manor prior to your arrival. If only they were all still there…”

  Lathrenon’s fingers spilled off the railing, curling into fists tight enough to bleach his fingernails white. Though he wouldn’t give voice to the private concern, he knew the man fumed over the missed opportunity, even though it was unexpected.

  Seemingly having composed himself, the King continued. “Their communications prove that they were planning something, though nothing definitive has yet been revealed. Myrenas has a vault below her complex. There is no doubt that you will find the evidence I require. Your visual confirmation will not suffice this time. Bring me something of substance, something tangible. Do not fail me in this endeavor.”

  There was no need to add further threat to his words. His task typically placed him in harm’s way, and it was a fact that caused him little concern. He had developed a penchant for death, yet the expectations set by the King were tricky. A life was something easily ended. Finding evidence that would suit the ruler of Halthome was a highly subjective matter.

  “The papers will grant you access to the celebration at Lady Myrenas’s.” Lathrenon’s sweeping gaze hardened as it settled on a point along the scintillating waters of the coastline. “You will assume the role of the young Duke of the Faltrun Dutchy, Marken Cortinerie. His father, Duke Havo Cortinerie, is a name well known among the court, although he has not been present for years. It was by your hands the traitorous blood spilled from his vile body nearly five years past.”

  Risens recalled the task well. It was the furthest he’d ever been from his home among the shadows of Windwake. Duke Cortinerie’s estate was not in Quayside like most others, but instead, tucked away along the edge of Ranger’s Reserve, a forest nearly a week’s ride east of the city. As planned, the Duke and his guide met their gruesome demise at his hands as they hunted for deer among the trees. He’d used a custom-formed weapon for the task—a three-forked blade—in an effort to frame their deaths on a bear. Yet even with his care, the rumors that surrounded the deaths pinned it on anything from a juvenile dragon to a vindictive sprite.

  “There are none who know that the young Duke is a mere creation of my mind.” The King smirked. “Havo had no children, but as reclusive as he was, there are none alive who know the truth of the matter. We’ve perpetuated the rumors that Marken has little desire for the courts, as his time is consumed with the revelries of bachelorhood. You will need to secure an escort for this event. The funds will be provided.”

  The King finally turned from his viewing of the city to face him. The intensity in his gaze burned like an inferno. “This time, do not let the courtesan compromise your identity.”

  The threat was solid as stone, yet through the ominous charge, Risens felt a measure of reassurance.

  He knew exactly who he would bring.