The great hall of Blackmere Keep was soaked in gold, a shimmering opulence that belied the unease simmering within its walls. Hundreds of candles lined the rough-hewn stone, their flames guttering in iron sconces, casting a flickering dance of light across the high-vaulted ceilings where shadows pooled in the crevices of ancient beams. Crimson drapes hung heavy from iron rods, their velvet folds rippling faintly in the draft, absorbing the glow and spilling it back in muted hues. Narrow, arched stained-glass windows pierced the walls, their panes of red and amber fracturing the dying evening sun into rivers of color that streaked the polished floor like spilled blood, the glass edges glinting with a cold, fragile sheen. The air hung thick with the scent of garlic and dripping fat from the feast, mingling with the lingering incense of temple priests from their morning rites—rich, heavy, and cloying, a perfume that clung to the throat and settled in the lungs.
A long oak table stretched nearly the length of the room, its surface scarred with age yet gleaming under the candlelight, laden with roasted game—pheasant and boar glistening with fat—glazed roots caramelized to a deep bronze, sweetmeats dusted with spice, and dark wines from the southern coast shimmering in crystal decanters. Goblets of hammered silver gleamed beside each plate, their surfaces etched with faint filigree, but few had been touched, their contents undisturbed. Despite the feast's lavish sprawl, the mood at the table was tight and somber, the clink of cutlery and the rustle of cloth muted beneath an unspoken weight.
Count Alric Deren sat at the head, his posture commanding even in its ease—like a viper coiled before a strike, his presence radiating a quiet menace. His goblet remained untouched, its wine a still, dark mirror reflecting the firelight. He stared at the far hearth, where logs snapped and hissed, the flames dancing in his cold, slate-gray gaze as if they might whisper the truth he already knew, his angular face carved sharper by the shifting shadows.
To his left, Viscount Halwin Prell tore a quail wing apart with idle precision, the grease glinting on his slender fingers, staining the cuffs of his silk tunic. His brow furrowed in thought, lips thin and bloodless beneath a neatly trimmed beard, his hazel eyes darting occasionally to the others. To Alric's right, Baron Vaust—broad-faced, red-nosed, and prone to excess—sank deeper into his third glass, his meaty fingers wrapped tightly around the stem, knuckles whitening, his florid cheeks flushed with wine and warmth. Across from him sat Baron Elric Maddel, gaunt and thin-lipped, his frame more bone than flesh beneath a drab velvet doublet, picking at his plate with skeletal fingers as if the food might conceal poison, his sunken eyes flickering with unease.
But none of them spoke with comfort, not tonight, the air between them taut as a drawn bowstring.
"We're supposed to smile," Alric said at last, his voice low and dry, cutting through the hall's murmur like a blade through silk, "while the crown hands away sovereign land to a former mercenary with a sword and a banner?"
Vaust grunted, his goblet sloshing faintly. "He did bend the knee. Technically."
"Technically," Alric echoed with disdain, his lip curling as he leaned back in his chair, its carved lion's head snarling atop the high back, the wood creaking under his weight. "And now that he has our recognition, he builds his own government. Crafts laws. Sells tools under his own seal. His trade bypasses three of our roads and one of our ports."
"He's still feeding the war effort," Prell offered, cautious, his voice soft against the fire's crackle. "Timber and ore are coming east from Stonehaven. The Ministry of Logistics—"
"The Ministry is a pack of sheep fattened on the King's cowardice," Alric snapped, cutting him off, his hand slamming the table with a dull thud, the goblets trembling faintly. "They'll eat from any hand that feeds them, even if it comes with a dagger."
A silence passed, thick with the weight of unspoken fears, the candle flames fluttering as if stirred by the tension.
Maddel cleared his throat, a dry rasp that echoed faintly. "The Dominion is still young. Unstable. Without the Kingdom's protection, it wouldn't last a year."
"That's what I thought," Alric said, his tone darkening, "until my spies brought me this."
He snapped his fingers, the sound sharp against the hall's stillness. A servant approached silently, his boots whispering on the stone, bearing a scroll sealed with crimson wax. Alric took it, broke the seal with a deliberate flick of his knife—the blade glinting briefly—and slid the parchment across the table, its edges curling slightly from the journey.
They leaned in, eyes scanning quickly, the rustle of vellum loud in the quiet.
"A constitution?" Prell whispered, incredulous, his fingers brushing the ink-stained lines.
"Courts. Loans. A central authority," Alric said, the words laced with disdain, his voice a low growl. "He builds more than walls. He builds permanence. And none of you seem to grasp what that means."
"A challenge to the nobility," Maddel said, his voice barely audible, trembling like the flame beside him.
"A peasant state," Alric said, smiling without warmth, his teeth glinting faintly. "Rising without bloodlines. Without oaths. Without names. And the King… allows it."
Prell's eyes flicked toward the guards lining the back wall, their helms gleaming in the candlelight, their shadows long and still. "Careful. The court has ears even here."
"Let them listen," Alric said, his voice cold and deliberate, each word a hammer strike. "Let them carry my words to the King's lapdogs. I am loyal—loyal to a crown that protects the realm, not one that barters with upstarts while our sons rot in trenches and our coffers bleed."
The flicker of firelight made his face look older—sharper, the lines deepening around his eyes, his goblet still full, its surface undisturbed.
The others shifted uncomfortably, their chairs creaking faintly. Vaust finally spoke, slower now, his slur softened by focus. "But… he did spare us a civil war. We couldn't spare the troops to deal with the Dominion, not during this campaign."
"And now?" Alric asked, his gaze piercing the haze of incense. "The eastern front has held. The worst of the Eldorian push is over—for now. And while we breathe easy, the Dominion grows. Every day we delay, we legitimize him. Every coin he mints—"
Prell interrupted, his voice steadying, "They use our coin. Varenian silver."
"For now," Alric said darkly, his fingers tightening on the table's edge, nails digging into the wood. "But how long before they strike their own mark? How long before one of our merchants accepts Dominion silver over the King's? A flag is not always stitched from cloth—it is stitched from practice."
"And yet the King supports it," Maddel said, folding the parchment with a trembling hand, the vellum crackling faintly. "He claims it's proof of diplomacy's strength. Of stability."
Alric's eyes narrowed, glinting like steel in the firelight. "The King… is not the only force in the Kingdom."
That hung in the air like smoke, curling through the hall's heavy stillness.
Prell set his goblet down with a soft clink. "You're certain?"
"I've heard it from both camps," Alric said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush. "Duke Harland of the Iron Marches supports the Dominion. He sees it as a buffer against the orcs, a useful forge for feeding the army. A shield. But Duke Branton?"
Vaust leaned forward, his breath sour with wine.
"He sees it for what it is," Alric continued, his tone sharpening. "A rebellion with ink instead of blades. A seed of principle over heritage. And he is not amused."
"Two Dukes," Prell said slowly, his fingers tracing the goblet's rim, "split."
"Not yet," Alric replied, his gaze steady, unyielding. "But soon."
The candle flames fluttered as if a wind had slipped through the room, though the windows stood closed, their glass panes still and dark.
"If the Dukes turn on each other," Maddel murmured, his voice a threadbare whisper, "what happens to us?"
Alric's lips curled, a cold, calculating twist. "Then the real war begins. Not the one on the battlefield. But the one behind it."
He lifted his goblet at last, not to drink, but to gesture, the silver catching the light in a brief, sharp gleam.
"We were born to titles. To lands. To memory. But Maxwell builds from nothing—and what he builds… works."
His hand tightened slightly on the goblet, the metal creaking faintly under his grip.
"And that should terrify us."