The great hall of Durnhal had seen too many functions and not enough feasts. Tonight, the high table was set not with the ceremony of state, but with the expedience of hunger and politics. Fires burned at either end, casting flickering amber light on the battered Daskar crest and the old, stained banners that flanked the walls. The scent was equal parts stew, smoke, and fatigue.

  Gale stepped inside, Daimon at his heels. His fingers twitched at his sides, a restless energy barely contained. The room hushed for a moment, then reshuffled as Alven strode to intercept them, arms spread in an easy show of welcome.

  “Master Dekarios,” Alven announced, his voice ringing just enough to ensure every ear turned his way. “We thought the council chamber too cold and too far from the kitchens tonight. Men reason better with bread and salt in their hands, don't you find?”

  A council held over a feast. Fran would have called it improper. Gale nearly did.

  “You honor us,” Alven continued, the sharp smile returning, “by returning so swiftly—and in such… memorable attire.” The cordiality was a thin veneer over the blade of the insult.

  Gale’s return bow was barely there, just a tilt of the head—civil, but nothing more. He removed his coat and draped it over his arm, taking in the room. Every seat was filled, every lord and lady in their place, each with a plate and a complaint. He recognized a couple of faces from ledgers and old council gatherings, but most were strangers.

  A place was made for Gale and Daimon halfway down the table—conveniently in the middle, neither honored nor ignored. Across from him, a heavyset man with a fringe of thinning silver hair and sharp blue eyes was already working his way through the evening’s bread and cheese. He resembled someone, though Gale wasn’t quite sure who. There was something familiar in the line of his jaw, the amused set of his mouth—a resemblance that hovered just out of reach.

  The man didn’t introduce himself. He simply gestured at the seat beside him, then, as Gale sat, offered in a low, carrying tone, “This bread’s only slightly stale, and the cheese is better than it looks. Don’t let Orre bully you into taking the wine—she waters it when Alven isn’t looking.”

  A snort from down the table, and a woman with plaited silver hair shot the heavyset man a look. “If the wine’s thin, Ed, it’s because your men drank the barrels dry before the gates even closed.”

  He shrugged, unbothered. “Well, they insisted on wine—water makes their guts rust, or so they say.”

  Gale offered the older man a glance of recognition, searching for the right memory, but the man’s eyes just twinkled with private amusement. “Eat,” he advised. “Council’s easier with a full stomach, and Alven has a fondness for long speeches.”

  Plates and trenchers made their way along the table. The conversation returned, punctuated by short, pointed remarks about the weather, the state of the roads, and—occasionally—the border skirmish that left half the company limping.

  Alven lifted his cup with a flourish. “To those we've lost,” he said, his voice ringing with performative gravity. “And to those returned to us—may their presence ensure we suffer no more such… lapses.”

  The toast was met with nods, a few murmured “Hear, hear”—and a silence just a beat too long.

  Gale’s fingers drummed once against the table, a sharp, controlled rhythm. His smile at Alven’s toast was a blade’s edge—polite, but with no warmth. The wine in his cup might as well have been water; he barely tasted it, his focus already narrowing on the faces around the table, the unspoken tensions coiled beneath the surface.

  A lull fell as the servants finished setting out the first course. Alven dabbed at his mouth, then set his napkin aside and rose, drawing every eye in the hall—if only so they could measure how much longer the ordeal would last.

  “My lords, my ladies,” he began, voice pitched for the stone and not the soul, “eight days ago, Durnhal bled. It was not the first time, nor—gods willing—will it be the last. But we held, as we always do, at a cost we can ill afford.”

  He gestured at the room—the half-filled benches, the scarred faces, the bandaged hands.

  “The raiders struck knowing our numbers were thin. The men you see here are those who stood their ground. We have no reserves left. The granaries are half-empty, and the winter stores will not last another raid. When the Duchess recovers, she will see a duchy poorer than she left it—and that is the truth.”

  A murmur from down the table, where Lord Oswald Tashe of Marnok—broad-faced, fingers still stained from weeks on the ramparts—grumbled, “Perhaps if the grain shipments from Vartis hadn’t been delayed twice—”

  Lady Ysabel Orre snapped her fan closed, her voice slicing through the noise. “And perhaps if your own men hadn’t let half of it rot on the docks in Lakeholt before the frost.”

  The younger, bandaged Lynton of Falkfield muttered, “It’s the Golden Banner who turned the bandits into an army. The Duchess thought outlawing their contract blades would drive them out—now they’re just in someone else’s pay.”

  A snort from the end: “And whose pay would that be? Vernador? Velarith itself?”

  Gale let the accusations pass, watching faces, the shifting tide of blame. Only Ed chewed quietly, eyes moving from Alven to Tashe to Orre, as if tallying up debts.

  Alven raised a hand. “Enough. The problem is not the past, but the winter to come. I will not order my men across the border in pursuit of ghosts. I will not have Durnhal accused of starting a war with Vernador because of a few mercenaries in borrowed colors.”

  He turned, pinning Gale with a look heavy with expectation—and challenge. “If the capital wishes to send aid, we welcome it. If the Society of Arcane Sciences can conjure up fresh men and full storehouses, we welcome them more.”

  A brittle silence.

  “The burdens are evident,” Gale replied, his tone cool, bypassing Alven’s plea for sympathy entirely. “But sentiment won’t seal a breach in the wall. If the Golden Banner’s survivors are regrouping across the border, what is to prevent them from striking again, or from making alliances among Vernador’s factions?”

  Lady Orre bristled, but it was Ed who broke in first, without looking up from his cheese. “Nothing. That’s the point. They’re mercenaries—they’ll fight for the highest bidder, or the deepest grudge.”

  Gale glanced at him, surprised, but Ed just shrugged. “You want guarantees, Dekarios? Lock your doors and pray for an easy winter. Otherwise, you’re fighting shadows.”

  Alven’s smile was thin. “Wise words, my lord. We fight what we can see. The rest we endure.”

  Gale let the silence stretch, then pressed: “And what about the defenses? The breach in the wall was exploited with uncanny precision. Is it repaired? Or is the town still exposed?”

  Tashe muttered something about stone and coin. Lynton stared at his bandaged hand.

  For the first time Alven hesitated. “Repairs are underway. But stone is dear, and men are scarcer. If Vartis wishes to send masons—”

  Gale’s reply was precise, almost gentle, but the blade was there. “The east has been a sinkhole for coin and supplies for years, Lord Daskar. Since spring, things have barely improved—despite the arrests of Vos, Vannor, and Avessa. The money went missing long before the bandits reached your walls.”

  A brittle silence followed. Several barons found sudden fascination with their cups; Lord Tashe muttered, “Easy to count missing coin from a safe distance.” Lady Orre flicked her fan, lips pressed in a thin line.

  Alven’s jaw tightened, but he forced a nod. “We’re paying for their theft still, every day. I don’t expect charity—only aid that reaches the right hands, this time.”

  Gale let that hang a beat longer, then added, “We shall see what can be arranged.”

  Until then, Daimon had kept his eyes on his plate, lips barely moving as he murmured silent wards. He hadn’t touched the bread.

  Ed, having watched long enough, grunted. “Eat something, boy. You look paler than the first snow.”

  Daimon jumped. “I—I’m not hungry, my lord.”

  Ed’s brows rose. His gaze flicked to Gale, then back to Daimon, amused. “Is that a Kentari accent I hear? Thought I recognized that red hair for trouble.”

  Daimon shrank in his seat. “Yes, my lord. I—”

  Ed cut him off with a snort. “So what’s a healthy Kentari lad doing wasting away in this frozen marsh, instead of dying happy between the tits of a Crescent girl?”

  The tips of Daimon’s ears went crimson. He picked at the edge of his napkin, his ears still burning.

  Gale, without missing a beat: “That’s on me, I’m afraid. Daimon’s a dear friend—brave enough to follow me here, foolish enough to endure my company. A more pleasant fate was, alas, denied him.”

  Ed barked a laugh. “At his age, I’d have pined for softer beds myself. Still—eat, lad. Fainting in front of a pretty girl’s a memory you never outlive. Ask my Maire—she never let me forget it. Not even when she was halfway to the other side.”

  He returned to his bread with a grin, leaving Daimon wide-eyed, mortified, and—finally—taking a bite.

  At the head of the table, Alven let his cup swirl with studied gravitas. “Gentlemen, it is the curse of this land to be always defending what is ours. As my father used to say, a true baron must keep his hearth burning and his blade sharper still—lest the wild snows swallow both in a single night. Durnhal has stood for five centuries on vigilance and sacrifice. The rest is but the changing face of hardship.”

  “If you think the council’s long now,” muttered Ed, passing the bread to Gale, “wait until Alven starts quoting his grandfather. My poor daughter used to say the only thing longer than a Daskar speech was the winter ice on Lakeholt.”

  “We are but stewards of history,” Alven continued from his seat. “Each of us holding the line for the next generation. It is our duty, and our burden, to face these storms with dignity, unity, and… resourcefulness. The future will judge us not by the scars we bear, but by the walls we rebuild.”

  “Any wall but the one the raiders breached, Alven!” Ed pointedly remarked, loud enough for his words to reach the burgrave's ear.

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  Gale waited for a sharp reply from Alven, who pretended not to hear—choosing instead to empty his cup in a single, silent gulp.

  Across the table, the conversation had returned to the mercenaries. Lord Tashe dabbed at his mouth and leaned forward, his broad shoulders crowding the table.

  “If we’re weighing burdens, perhaps we should weigh all of them. The Golden Banner may be gone, but the men who filled their coffers are still in these hills. The ban pushed them into the shadows—made them desperate. When steel goes unsold, it doesn’t vanish. It sharpens.”

  A few of the barons nodded, some in resignation, others in agreement. Lady Orre flicked her fan, voice careful: “No one doubts Her Grace meant well. But the day she signed that order, my bailiff said half the mercenaries in Lakeholt were packing for Vernador. I told him they’d be back soon enough—just with new banners on their sleeves.”

  From further down, Lynton of Falkfield muttered, “My people have always kept dogs for the sheep. Never liked it, but it worked. Shoot the dogs, you’ll still have wolves.”

  The comment drew a brittle laugh from Tashe, who fixed Gale with a steady gaze. “And the Duchess—brave as she is—gave the wolves their opening, didn’t she?”

  For a moment, the only sound was the pop of fat in the fire. Eyes flickered toward Gale, weighing his reaction.

  Gale set his cup down, the gesture measured. “Her Grace signed the ban because too many of those dogs bit the hand that fed them. If we’d let them stay, who would they have turned on next, once your purses emptied? Mercy is not the enemy. Neither is discipline.”

  Orre raised a painted brow. “Discipline? Hard to impose when you’ve sent your only leashes running.”

  Ed snorted. “Spoken like someone who’s never tried to leash a fighting dog.”

  Gale’s smile was tight. “Spoken like someone who’s seen what happens when the dogs run the yard.”

  The barons murmured, some wary, some quietly amused. For a moment, the old feuds simmered in the steam above their stew.

  Alven interjected smoothly, his gaze moving from Gale to the rest of the company. “The ban was the law. We enforce it, as we must. But the east is not Vartis. Here, loyalty is bought in silver and tested in blood. No decree will change that overnight.”

  The tone was final—but the air at the table had shifted. Gale caught Ed’s sidelong look—a flash of private respect, or warning, he wasn’t sure.

  The next course arrived, heavy with the smell of roast onions and meat.

  “Finally,” Ed muttered, spearing a generous portion of roast from the nearest platter. “Here, lad,” he added, sliding the dish toward Daimon, “get some meat in you before Tashe devours it all. As he always does.”

  “I can hear you!” Lord Tashe barked from down the table, his cheeks reddening.

  “And so can half the east whenever your gout flares up,” Ed shot back without missing a beat. He turned again to Daimon, the corners of his eyes crinkling with mischief. “Go on, lad. You’ll need your strength once you’re back in Kentar—especially if that pretty girl you left behind has any sense.”

  Daimon’s ears, which had settled on a light pink, flamed crimson once again. He forked a large piece of meat, nearly swallowed it whole, and immediately had to gulp down half a cup of water, choking and sputtering until he could breathe again.

  “Well done, lad!” Ed barked a laugh, pounding the table with the flat of his hand. “That’s the spirit!”

  When Daimon’s breath finally settled, Gale found his gaze drifting to the man beside him, curiosity winning over restraint. “Forgive me, my lord,” he said, studying Ed’s face, “but ever since we entered this hall, I’ve had the sense you remind me of someone, though I can’t quite place it.”

  Ed waved off the apology with a dry smile. “No need for pardon—I never bothered to introduce myself. As for the resemblance… well, twenty—no, let’s be honest, thirty years ago, you’d have said me and the man you’re thinking of looked like two peas in a pod. But time and good eating ruined me, while my cousin had the discipline to keep himself lean to the end.”

  He lifted his cup in a small salute. “Edric Thorne, Baron of Lakeholt. Cousin to Lord Callen Thorne—trusted advisor to His Grace Duke Alric Elarion. For all the good his loyalty did him.” He paused, eyes glinting with something wry, almost private. “Callen always did have a talent for finding himself at the center of things that weren’t meant to be spoken of in council halls—or anywhere else.”

  There was a flicker at the corner of Ed’s mouth, a smile that didn’t quite hide the ache behind it. “Taken by the plague, ten years ago,” he finished softly.

  Gale’s breath caught. A memory flickered—Vartis, the east wing, a portrait hung near Alric’s: blue eyes, that same wry twist to the mouth, a look of defiance that had lingered through generations.

  The table was beginning to drift, voices lowering as the platters emptied and the wine wore off restraint.

  Lady Orre leaned in, her words sly enough to carry: “Last year, it was Lady Vernelle—and not even a season had yet passed since the burial! And now, her...” Her fan snapped shut. “Of course, Lord Daskar's tastes in company have always been... unpredictable. Or should I say, ambitious?”

  “Well, that balcony scene,” said Lord Tashe, grumbling into his cup. “Now, that was a performance for the ages!”

  “The slap heard 'round the hall!” Young Lord Lynton cut in, voice a little too loud. “One of my men was in the courtyad, said he nearly toppled over the railings.”

  Edric, not looking up, said: “You'd know about the sound, Lynton. Your own father never heard the end of it after your misadventures in that stable in Velarith. Some rumours last longer than bruises, eh?”

  A soft laughter rippled through the table, while Lord Lynton eyes fixated on his bandaged hand.

  Then, more quietly, Edric added: “Anyway, let the dead keep their peace. Especially if they're related to someone you've known for fifty years, Orre.” His gaze flicked to Alven, to the empty chair next to him, then to Lady Orre. “For all his faults, he's still my son-in-law. Even if Elaine is not here anymore. And if I had been there that night, I would have been the one instilling some sense into that drunken head of his—one slap after another. Instead—”

  “May I ask what are you talking about?” Gale promptly asked.

  The table fell silent. Forks paused in mid-air; eyes dropped to half-empty plates.

  Then Lynton, cheeks flushed with wine and shame, piped up. “Everyone’s talking about it, sir. The night of the feast, before the bells—Lord Daskar tried to corner the Duchess on the balcony. Half the hall saw it, or heard about it. She slapped him so hard they say he stumbled—then the bells rang, and the attack began.”

  The words dropped like stones in a well. Conversation sputtered, then died. Forks hovered, then lowered. Someone coughed—too loud, too thin—and the shadows seemed to lengthen across the long, battered table.

  Gale did not move. He stared at his plate, eyes cold and unblinking, a stillness that felt both measured and infinite.

  He heard the laughter echoing behind closed doors, the slap ringing over stone, Fran’s voice—steady, proud—refusing to yield. The image formed, vivid and immediate: Fran, cornered on a balcony, refusing the advances of a man who should have defended her; the room below, full of witnesses pretending not to see; the wound, not only of a blade, but of betrayal.

  Heat pulsed under his skin, spreading from jaw to fists, tightening until he thought the glass might shatter in his grip.

  He drew in a slow, steady breath, careful to keep his face smooth—just another guest, listening. No one must see.

  She should have told me. The thought hissed through his mind, brittle and useless. She should not have needed to.

  Beside him, Edric’s gaze flicked over, sharp and assessing. The older man’s mouth twitched, as if to speak, then closed again.

  Gale let the moment stretch, refusing to look up, refusing to let any of them glimpse what lay behind his eyes. Not now. Not yet.

  Across the table, the company found urgent interest in their cups, in the rough texture of bread, in the lies that kept them safe.

  The rest of the dinner passed in a confused blur. Conversation drifted and died, punctuated only by the scrape of chairs, the clatter of platters, the low, embarrassed coughs of men who suddenly found the cracks in the table more fascinating than any political intrigue.

  Gale tasted nothing; the words around him washed over in meaningless fragments, every sense narrowed to the weight of what he’d heard.

  When the last plate had been cleared and the servants began their silent sweep of crumbs, Gale pushed back his chair. Across the room, Alven stood, bracing himself against the table as if he’d only just remembered the burden of his own body.

  Gale’s voice was low, polite—deceptively so. “A word, Lord Daskar. If you please.”

  Alven bliked, his cheeks flushed from too much wine. “We already discussed the state of our defenses, Master Dekarios.” He slurred, attempting his usual smirk.

  “Oh, but this is not about your defenses, Daskar, or the lack of it,” Gale replied. “The matter I want to discuss is borders. Personal borders.”

  Alven’s smirk faltered. The hall was empty, the torches burning low and close, shadows pooling against the ancient stone. Only Edric Thorne lingered at the far end, quietly nursing the dregs of his cup, eyes watchful and alert.

  “If this is about your lady’s—Her Grace’s—safety, I’ve already assured—”

  Gale cut him off with a raised hand, every syllable ironclad. “This is about the night of the attack. And the moments before it, on the balcony. You were not her shield, Daskar. You were her assailant.”

  A silence, sharp and immediate. Alven drew himself up, trying for dignity, but the wine had stripped his edges. “Careful, Dekarios. You tread close to slander.”

  Gale’s eyes did not waver. “You should be grateful I do not call it something far uglier. You disgraced your house and mine, and left her exposed—alone—when the danger struck. Do you even understand the cost of your vanity? Or shall I spell it out for you, as I would for a stubborn child?”

  The torchlight flickered between them. Alven’s hand clenched on the table. He tried to laugh it off, a brittle sound. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. She misunderstood—the wine, the tension… it was a moment’s lapse in judgment. We were toasting our shared memories!”

  Gale’s voice dropped, soft as velvet, deadly as a blade. “If I hear another word about celebration, or misunderstanding, or rumors in your hall, I will remind you exactly what a true accusation sounds like—publicly, and in writing.” A flash of steel entered his eyes. “You are alive tonight because Her Grace chose compassion over pride. You will show her the same. Am I understood?”

  For a heartbeat, Alven just stared at him, color draining from his face. But then pride—or pain—forced its way up. He bristled, jaw tight. “You want to judge me? Where were you that night, Dekarios? Where was all your magic and certainty, when the bells rang and blood ran down the stones? You weren’t there. None of your threats change that.”

  He took a stumbling step forward, voice rising, rough with guilt and humiliation. “You speak of lines and borders? You crossed yours the moment you thought yourself her savior. I may have failed her—but at least I stood at her side. Where were you?”

  Gale’s mouth twisted. “Say that again, and you’ll regret it.”

  The air crackled. Alven’s hand balled to a fist, fury and shame vying for dominance. “Try me.”

  That was when Edric Thorne’s chair scraped sharply against the flagstones. He stood, slow but impossible to ignore, voice carrying across the chamber like a command.

  “Enough, the both of you.” He fixed them both with a stare that could grind granite to dust. “I’ve seen more men die of pride than of any sword in Vernador. The hall’s had enough blood for one winter. If you want to measure guilt, do it somewhere the dead can’t hear you.”

  He looked from Gale to Alven, eyes flinty. “The Duchess needs both of you alive and thinking straight. Durnhal can’t survive another scandal, least of all over a woman who’d have the sense to flay you both if she saw you acting like boys with sticks.”

  The moment shattered. Alven slumped, breathing hard; the fight drained from him all at once, leaving only weariness. Gale straightened, rage cooling to a bitter ache, then finally turned away, leaving the burgrave and the battered hall to its silence and shadow.

  Behind him, he caught Edric’s low, steady voice: a quiet word meant only for Alven. Gale didn’t hear the words themselves, but the weight of them—neither comfort nor rebuke, but something older and heavier—hung in the air long after the door closed behind him.

  “I thought you were going to kill him,” Daimon whispered as Gale joined him by the door, gaze dropping to the faint sparks of magic flickering at the older mage’s hand.

  Gale exhaled slowly, forcing his fingers open until the light died. “So did I,” he said at last. For a moment, he just stood there, the storm in his chest barely caged. Then he managed a crooked, bitter smile. “But truth be told, I think what he’s already gotten has bruised his pride enough—a whole keep knows not only that a woman refused him, but did it with a slap that rang like an insult. That sort of lesson lasts longer than any wound I could leave.”

  Daimon gave a half-smile, still pale but a little steadier. “Remind me never to get on her bad side.”

  “Sound advice,” Gale said, letting the last of the sparks fade from his palm. “Though in your case, she’d probably just lecture you until you felt like apologizing to the whole duchy.”

  When they reached the corridor, Gale spoke again. “Well, I think it is about time we go back to Kentar. You really look paler than death, Dai, and I already took too much advantage of your kindness. Just let me te say goodbye—”

  “You should stay with her,” Daimon said quietly. “She needs you more than I do right now. I’ll manage.”

  “You’re sure? You look like you could use a week of sleep, a full meal, and a vacation somewhere that isn’t on fire.”

  Daimon huffed out a shaky laugh. “If Master Ludmilla asks, tell her it was my fault. Or that I opened the portal because I wanted to taste real cold, for once.”

  Gale’s smile softened, grateful and tired. “Get some rest, Daimon. We’ll leave at dawn. But I’ll take the blame—Ludmilla can shout at me all she wants. I’ve earned it.”

  Daimon nodded, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Just don’t make me explain the coat to her.”

  Gale rolled his eyes, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction. “I’ll see to Fran. If anything changes—if you feel worse—send for me. Promise?”

  Daimon nodded again, already sinking onto a bench by the wall, hands folded in his lap like a schoolboy sent out of class.

  Gale squeezed his shoulder as he passed. “Thank you, Dai. Now go get some sleep.”

  He lingered for a moment, just long enough for Daimon to look up—then turned toward the guest wing, the corridor stretching before him, one more boundary to cross, one more vigil to keep.