What will you do, when all else is lost?

  What will you give, to save those you love?

  Will you surrender who you are, become someone loathed, for them?

  The city of Lismontagne was quiet. Usually crowded and bustling, today its homes and shops stood emptied, its streets stripped of their usual pedestrians and carriage traffic. Nothing stirred except the wind worrying loose shutters, windows flapping in uneven beats, and the low, vicious sounds of stray animals fighting over scraps in alleys.

  From a distance, it could have passed for a peaceful afternoon. Up close, near the palace gates, the illusion cracked.

  Guards were already visible along the outer road, stationed in rigid lines before the ironwork. As one walked closer, more soldiers came into view on the inner side, shields strapped to their left arms, spears braced in their right hands, helm crests motionless despite the wind. Their presence made the air feel tighter.

  Inside the palace, the wide marble halls were crowded.

  A large assembly stood waiting: nobles in layered silks and fur collars, merchants in heavy coats, commoners in patched wool and work-stained boots. People from all walks of life, pressed together beneath vaulted ceilings that usually echoed with music and laughter.

  Today, there was none.

  Soldiers lined the walls, positioned in front of every door and window, armored and armed in the same uniform as those outside. Their steel caught the light in dull flashes, and the faint scrape of a boot or the creak of a gauntlet sounded too loud in the hush.

  The crowd didn’t speak, not once. Some kept their eyes lowered, jaws clenched. Others stared openly, scowling at the vacant throne set upon the dais, two soldiers standing beside it like fixtures meant to remind everyone what power looked like.

  They were waiting.

  Not long after, the blue curtain on the far left side of the dais stirred, and five figures emerged from the door concealed behind it. The room did not move, but the tension changed, like a rope drawn tighter.

  One of the five was an older man, perhaps in his fifties, with short gray hair and steady brown eyes. He wore a robe of fine white silk embroidered with gold accents that caught the torchlight when he stepped. He approached the throne and stopped beside it. Behind him, four soldiers in steel armor with crimson capes took their places, two to each side, perfectly still.

  The man in white folded his hands, bowed, and finally spoke.

  “Esteemed nobles and beloved citizens of Beldomagne, on behalf of His Imperial Majesty, Emperor Severus IV, I thank you for attending this ceremony.”

  He lifted his head. No one answered, and his lips curved—but not into a smile.

  His attention swept across the crowd, left to right, lingering on every face bold enough to meet his eyes. Scowls did not drop. No one offered the comfort of obedience.

  “Are you not going to respond?”

  Silence held as he studied those at the front.

  They glanced at one another, hesitating, measuring the cost of speaking first. At last, one man stepped forward just enough to be seen. His throat bobbed as he swallowed.

  “Senator Galba,” he began, voice unsteady, “on behalf of the Kingdom of Beldomagne, I… William Carnarvon, Grand Duke of Trinovantes… thank His Imperial Majesty, Emperor Severus IV, and you… for inviting us today… on this… magnanimous occasion.”

  The words landed like coins dropped into a grave: offered, necessary, and utterly without warmth.

  Only after William forced out a response did Galba’s mouth finally bend into a smile. “Much better. We should all learn to accept one another, as your bishops always preached, do we not?”

  William gave a weak nod, making himself hold the senator’s gaze. “Yes, Senator… we should.”

  “Excellent.” Galba clapped his hands once. The sharp sound cracked through the hall like a whip. “Now, as part of your assimilation into our great empire, His Imperial Majesty has invited you all here so that I may introduce to you his representative—his mouthpiece—he who will carry out his will, and that of the empire, for your benefit.”

  The crowd remained still. William and the nobles beside him tensed, breath held.

  At last, Galba raised a hand and gestured toward the curtain. “Step forward.”

  A man moved from behind the blue drape. As he emerged, the hall changed. People stared as if their eyes refused what they were seeing, brows knitting, mouths parting. A few gasps slipped loose. Others narrowed their eyes, searching for some explanation that would make it make sense.

  The man walked up onto the dais and stopped before the empty throne. He wore fine blue robes. A gold ring rested on his right index finger. His red hair was neatly kept, combed back from his forehead. His blue eyes were unreadable, lowered, avoiding the crowd’s stare, as though unwilling to acknowledge the weight he had just brought into the room.

  “Senator,” a man beside William demanded, voice tight, “what is the meaning of this?”

  “Grand Duke Bertrand,” Galba said smoothly, “did you not read the invitation sent to you?”

  Bertrand looked from Galba back to the man in blue. His lips quivered. His throat worked, but no words came.

  Galba turned toward the crowd, spreading his hands as if presenting a gift. “Nobles and citizens of Beldomagne, I present to you Governor Henri Aurelien, appointed to your new Province of Ambria.” His smile sharpened. “Your kingdom, from this day onward—”

  “—is hereby dissolved.”

  The words fell like an axe.

  Gasps rose louder now. Someone sobbed openly. Others dropped to their knees, hands flying to their heads as if they could hold themselves together by force. The hush shattered into a brittle, helpless noise.

  William stepped forward, fury burning through his shock. “Dissolved? What do you mean, dissolved? And Henri—” His voice caught, disbelief turning the name bitter. “You…”

  “His Imperial Majesty has decreed the dismantling of your kingdom,” Galba answered, unhurried. “Henri is here to ensure it is carried out and, afterward, to oversee its reorganization as a loose collective of independent states.”

  He watched the faces before him sink into hopelessness, and his smile widened as if he were savoring it.

  “Now,” he announced, voice ringing off marble and stone, “kneel before your governor.”

  He lifted his chin, satisfied, and let the silence stretch just long enough to make it cruel.

  “Let us commemorate the beginning of your lives as proud citizens of Rucaldia by pledging your allegiance to His Imperial Majesty through his chosen representative.”

  No one moved, and once again Galba’s smile thinned into dissatisfaction. “I said, kneel and pledge your allegiance to—”

  “Never!” William shouted. “You must be mad if you think we will accept such an arrangement!”

  He rounded on Henri, rage breaking through the shock. “We will never bend our knees to your emperor, nor to this traitor!”

  Bertrand remained silent, his frown unmoving. His stare never left Henri, whose eyes stayed fixed on the floor, feigning deafness to the chaos rising around him.

  More nobles stepped up beside William, their voices joining his in sharp, furious refusal.

  Galba angled his head toward one of the soldiers beside him and gave a quick nod.

  The soldier acknowledged the order and lifted his hand.

  All around the hall, the line of troops shifted as one, shields braced, spearpoints dropping. Steel angled toward the crowd in a sudden, deliberate threat.

  Panic rippled. People recoiled, pressed tighter together, breaths turning ragged. Near the back, someone stifled a sob.

  “Kneel,” Galba said again, calm enough to be monstrous. “Or every citizen with you here today will die, right in front of you.”

  The nobles remain still where they stood, eyes fixed on Galba, silent and defiant.

  He waved a hand.

  At once, the soldiers moved. Each seized a citizen from the crowd, yanking them forward until spearpoints hovered inches from their chests, close enough that a single flinch would mean blood. The hostages stiffened, breath catching in sharp, terrified pulls.

  “One last chance,” Galba said pleasantly. “Your fidelity to your emperor, or your beloved citizens’ lives.”

  He raised his hand, preparing to give the command. Just before it fell, Bertrand stepped forward and dropped to his knees.

  A ripple went through the nobles beside him. Some stared in shock. Others looked away, jaws set so hard their faces trembled. Left with no choice, they followed. One by one, they sank down, slow and humiliating, the movement spreading like rot through a proud line.

  William held out a heartbeat longer than the rest, fury battling terror in his eyes. Then, at last, he relented. His knees hit the stone.

  “We—we…” he stammered, the words scraping out of him.

  “We hereby pledge our allegiance,” Bertrand cut in quickly, voice tight, “to His Imperial Majesty, Emperor Severus IV, and…”

  Galba waited, savoring it. “And?”

  Bertrand swallowed. His throat worked; each word seemed to have to be dragged up by force. “Our utmost… acceptance,” he continued, “of Governor Henri Aurelien… as His chosen representative.”

  Behind him, the citizens knelt and bowed, echoing the nobles’ pledge in shaken voices. Some sobbed as they spoke. Some sounded numb. The hall filled with the ugly chorus of obedience forced at spearpoint.

  Galba’s smile returned. “Release them.”

  The soldiers loosened their grips and shoved the hostages back into the crowd. A few people stumbled. One woman immediately grabbed a man dropped by one of the soldiers.

  Galba clapped his hands, slowly, far too long. The soldiers beside him followed, their gauntlets striking together with a cold, metallic rhythm. And Henri, still silent, stood through it all, eyes lowered, refusing to see the tragedy he had been used to complete.

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  “Welcome, new citizens,” Galba declared, voice ringing off marble and stone, “to our fine and great empire of Rucaldia! Let us celebrate this day with one final announcement.”

  His eyes drifted down to Bertrand, and his grin widened. “In honor of your new governor, let us rename this magnificent city of Lismontagne, and all of Aldana, which shall henceforth, from this day—”

  “—be known as Aurelith.”

  Nearly four centuries later…

  Outside Aurelith’s royal palace, steel clashed, the sound ringing across the snow-covered yard. Snow on the rooftops shivered loose with each faint vibration, sliding in soft sheets that broke apart as they fell. The air stung the lungs, and every breath came out in pale plumes.

  Even in the dead of winter, Edmund refused to rest.

  Today, he sparred with his own bodyguard, Damien. One of the kingdom’s strongest and most skilled knights, Damien was more than a challenge for a young prince—especially one who had begun to outgrow the boy he used to be.

  “Impressive, Your Highness,” Damien remarked as their blades met again with a hard crack. “Your swings have grown faster, yet also heavier. I can see how those monsters kept falling to your blade.”

  “I can only thank my instructors, Sir Damien.” Edmund shifted his stance as the cold bit through his gloves.

  Damien smiled, and they exchanged another flurry of blows. Though they were only using wooden swords, they fought as though every strike could be fatal. The knight brought down a two-handed cut. Edmund caught it, arms jolting from the impact, then shoved the blade off-line and swung sideways toward Damien’s ribs. The latter intercepted it, swatted the prince’s sword aside, and brought his own down again.

  Edmund sidestepped, boots grinding snow into slick slush, then darted in and aimed to disarm him. Damien blocked the attempt, twisted his grip at just the right moment, and, with a sharp turn of the wrist, wrenched the practice sword free. Edmund’s weapon flew from his hands and skidded across the packed snow.

  “Not bad, Prince Edmund.”

  Edmund went to retrieve his sparring sword, grinning despite the cold. “I still can’t beat you in a sword fight.”

  “Yes, well,” Damien said dryly, “unless you charge at me with a lightning-coated sword… or decide to throw a lightning bolt instead.”

  Edmund’s eyes dropped to the wooden blade as he bent to pick it up. He wrapped his hand around the hilt, feeling the rough, familiar grain beneath his glove. “I’ve been thinking,” he said, “about how to make better use of that power.”

  “Firing large bursts of lightning takes a lot of energy,” he went on. “I can feel my whole body burning with every blast. If I can’t take an enemy down before I’m burned out, the battle’s lost.”

  “A smart concern, Your Highness. That kind of power should be used sparingly, and in conjunction with your skill. Have you consulted our combat mages?”

  “No.” Edmund shook his head. “I actually haven’t. I kept setting the idea aside… and then I forgot.”

  “I suggest you go see them. Hear their opinion.”

  “Let’s start with Master Turenne,” Edmund decided.

  “He should be in his study,” Damien said, then added, almost amused, “unless he’s training Serena again.”

  Serena, Edmund thought.

  Despite his attempts, she was still relentless with her training. Sometimes she wouldn’t leave their house for an entire day, sometimes two, moving only when she had to, sore from head to toe. Edmund exhaled, out of ideas, for now, on how to turn her around.

  Damien escorted him to Turenne’s study. As expected of a Master Mage, the room was crowded with scrolls and old tomes, staves leaning in corners, crystals set on shelves and stands—some clear as ice, others clouded or veined with faint color, catching the winter light like trapped embers. The air carried the dry scent of paper and ink and old candle smoke.

  The master happened to be there, much to their relief.

  After the usual exchange of respects, Edmund wasted no time explaining what he needed. Turenne studied him closely, asked about the power, how it manifested, what it felt like in the body, then about his swordwork, his breathing, his footing, the way he tried to weave lightning into movement.

  “I hear your concern,” Turenne said at last. “Your method of fighting does strain the body quickly. You see, in our case as combat mages, we focus our energy solely on magic, whether conjuring a barrier or hurling a fireball.”

  “You, on the other hand, fight with both weapon and magic at the same time.”

  “Isn’t it the same when we coat our weapons in ether, Master Turenne?” Damien asked. “Or when archers use rune bows to conjure arrows using energy?”

  “Not quite, Sir Damien. In the first case, you’re not using magic itself to fight. You’re using ether to enhance, to sharpen, strengthen, or quicken the blade. The same with our archers. Their focus is to conjure an arrow, then release it. Nothing more.”

  His attention returned to Edmund, steady and assessing.

  “His Highness’s concern, as I understand it, is how to fight seamlessly with both sword and his newfound power—how to wield either, or both at once, without exhausting himself so quickly.”

  “What do you suggest, Master Turenne?”

  Turenne exhaled softly, as though he was weighing how to say it without discouraging him. “I am not the right man to teach you that,” he admitted. “That is why I teach Serena how to shape ether into whatever weapon she wishes to use, and have Sir Felix teach her how to fight with it. And even then, strictly speaking, she is still using magic as the core of her combat.”

  For a moment, they sat with that, turning the problem over in their minds. Then Turenne spoke again, as if a piece had clicked into place. “You should see Sir Humphrey.”

  “Sir… Humphrey?” Edmund echoed. “Tristan’s…?”

  “Yes. Sir Humphrey Cavendish. The Knight of the Forge, back in Trinovantes. If anyone can answer your concerns, it is him.”

  Damien’s brow furrowed. “How so?”

  “The knights of the reestablished Order of Logres in Trinovantes,” Turenne explained, “especially those who bear titles like Sir Humphrey, are masters at using magic in conjunction with steel—melding ether-work with weapon skill in close combat. That is what made them formidable on the battlefield…”

  He paused, a faint tightness touching the corner of his mouth.

  “…and why, regrettably, we lost nearly every war we fought against them.”

  Edmund turned to his knight for advice, and Damien agreed. If he truly meant to hone his skill further, then Humphrey was their best choice.

  Before they left for the Cavendish estate, Edmund hesitated and asked one more question.

  “Master Turenne… how is Serena? I mean, is she pushing herself too hard?”

  Turenne’s expression softened a fraction, though the severity in his eyes remained. “Much like you, she is trying to work around her limitationd. Her condition prevents her from using raw magic in combat for long durations. So we have no choice but to teach her to mold weapons with limited energy—to stretch what she has and prolong her capacity to fight.”

  He paused, then spoke more plainly. “Is she pushing too hard? Perhaps. But more than power, she has drive. Will. Enough to try to force herself past the line where she should stop.”

  Edmund’s eyes fell to the floor.

  “She kept speaking,” Turenne continued, quieter now, “of having to do it so she can protect you.” His gaze held Edmund’s, steady and knowing. “And it shouldn’t surprise you if she feels a strong attachment to you, Your Highness. After all, it was you who taught her to read, write, and speak. You gave her a place in this world.”

  He let that sit a moment.

  “Her bond to you is deep. That much is clear, and if I may say so, Your Highness… I sense the same drive in you.”

  Edmund smiled, just faintly, then thanked the master for his time and took his leave.

  He and Damien departed the palace grounds with four additional soldiers, his usual escort. The Cavendish home wasn’t far, and before they even reached it, they could hear the sharp ring of metal. Steady clinks that carried through the winter air.

  The front of the house was a workshop. Humphrey’s forge. The smell reached them next. Coal smoke and hot iron, dampened now and then by bursts of steam.

  Edmund knocked, and a man opened the door wearing a soot-covered apron, his forearms darkened with ash as if the forge had stained him. Heat spilled out behind him in a low, breathing wave. “Prince Edmund! A pleasure to see you today.”

  “Same to you, Sir—”

  “Please,” Humphrey cut in with a grin, “Mister will do, Your Highness.”

  Edmund returned it, amused despite himself. “A pleasure to see you too, Mister Humphrey.”

  Humphrey ushered them inside, and the scent of coal grew stronger, thick, dry, and unmistakable. The workshop walls were lined with weapons. Rows of spears along one side, shields stacked neatly on another, and above them, swords displayed in orderly ranks. In one corner sat a pile of iron bars; in another, sacks of coal stacked like black stones.

  At the center of it all stood the heart of the place: an anvil, the forge mouth glowing faintly, and a quenching tub that smelled of wet metal.

  Humphrey led them into the living room, a quieter, drier space removed from the forge’s heat. “How may I be of service today, Highness?”

  As he had with Turenne, Edmund explained his concern—how quickly the lightning drained him, how dangerous it would be if a battle lasted longer than his body could endure. He added that Master Turenne believed Humphrey might have the answer. Damien stayed close.

  Humphrey listened intently. When Edmund finished, the knight didn’t speak right away. His attention drifted somewhere distant, not from reluctance, but from memory.

  “That power of yours…” Humphrey murmured. “I heard you first acquired it during—during the…” He faltered, jaw tightening. “The… incident.”

  “My battle with the demon,” Edmund supplied, sensing the hesitation. “Varhathor.”

  Humphrey’s throat bobbed. “While it was possessing… my son’s body,” he said quietly. “I—I don’t know how we’re even still allowed to remain here. All those men… the lives he—”

  “It wasn’t Tristan’s fault,” Edmund cut in firmly. “The demon that possessed him—”

  “I was told by one of your surviving soldiers,” Humphrey interrupted, voice strained but controlled, “that Tristan willingly approached the Draemhyr’s remains after you killed it. He was himself, fully in his right mind. He found something—an object—and when he let it flow into him…”

  Humphrey’s hand curled against his knee, knuckles whitening. “That was when the demon took hold.”

  “He still has nightmares,” Humphrey went on, quieter now. His eyes lowered, the words rough with shame and helplessness. “To this day… I can hear him some nights, begging someone, something, to leave him alone. Refusing to take its hand, trembling in cold sweat.”

  Humphrey swallowed.

  “He wakes with his eyes wide, staring at nothing. And even when he’s awake… he looks around like he’s afraid whatever haunts him might walk through the walls.”

  “I’m sorry,” Edmund said. “I didn’t know…”

  “Perhaps… Miss Idun can help," he added. "She’s skilled at healing the mind as well. I can ask her to come here.”

  Humphrey shook his head. “I don’t know… if we can accept such—”

  “It may feel wrong for you to accept help after what happened,” Edmund said gently, but with a firmness that left no room to retreat. “But for Tristan’s sake, set honor and pride aside. He needs help. That’s all there is to it.”

  Humphrey stared at him for a long moment, as if measuring the boy against the weight of a crown.

  “How wise of you, Highness,” he murmured at last. “That practical approach of yours… it’s commendable.”

  His mouth twisted, not quite into a smile.

  “Grand Duke Einon would have us hanged if such an incident had occurred in Trinovantes.”

  After a long moment of thought, Humphrey finally nodded. “I accept your offer, Your Highness, to help my son. I will welcome Miss Idun into my home.”

  “I’m glad you accepted,” Edmund said, and he meant it.

  “I also accept your request,” Humphrey continued, “for me to train you. I will share what I know.”

  “Thank you, Sir Humphrey.”

  “And thank you as well, Your Highness.”

  After a few more exchanges, Edmund rose to leave, only for Humphrey to speak again.

  “Before you go, I must tell you… Grand Duke Einon possesses that same ability.”

  Edmund stopped and turned fully toward him. “He does?”

  Humphrey nodded. “Lightning, used as an extension of his weapon, his reach. He is a deadly combatant. Hence his title, the Fulgurant Blade.”

  “I sparred with him in our youth,” Humphrey added. “Perhaps I can offer you my insights on its strengths and weaknesses.”

  Edmund hesitated. “Sir Humphrey… you’ve known him a long time, haven’t you?”

  “Since we were young.”

  “Do you think there’s a chance he’ll come here?” Edmund asked, remembering the talk in Danuville. The theories, the fear, what Trinovantes might do next after taking eastern Ruscholt.

  “By come, you mean invade?” Humphrey asked.

  Edmund nodded.

  The knight answered without hesitation. “None.”

  “None?” Edmund blinked.

  “He may seem like a blind and ruthless conqueror, but he has had his goals ever since I knew him. To reunite Trinovantes. Nothing more, nothing less.” He shook his head once. “The idea of going beyond that, of conquering or joining Aurelith and the other Ambrian states to create some greater nation like Beldomagne, was something he detested.”

  Humphrey’s voice hardened with certainty. “He always believed Trinovantes could only endure on its own, without meddling from outside states, using the fall of the late kingdom as proof of his claim.”

  Edmund looked down for a moment as he weighed it, then raised his eyes again.

  “I see. Thank you, Sir Humphrey, for your time.”

  Humphrey bowed and let the prince take his leave.

  Edmund and his escort walked on, putting distance between themselves and the Cavendish home. The winter air felt sharper out here, the forge’s warmth already fading from memory. Only when they were well away did Edmund speak. “What do you think, Damien? Will Einon truly stop if he succeeds in absorbing Ruscholt’s eastern territories?”

  “I cannot say for certain, Highness,” Damien replied. “Even if Sir Humphrey has known him, it is also true that people sometimes hide their true intentions, even from those close to them.” He glanced ahead, thoughtful. “And even if we take Humphrey’s words at face value, it has been years since they last spoke. Einon may very well have changed in the time since Sir Humphrey left Trinovantes.”

  Edmund knew Damien was right. He had been taught, time and again, how easily nobles and even fellow royals could hide their true faces.

  He looked around at the citizens going quietly about their lives, bundled in wool and fur, moving with the unhurried rhythm of people who still believed tomorrow would look much like today. They seemed content. Safe. Unaware of how thin that safety could be.

  His gaze lifted to the sky, to the clouds gathering and knitting together into a heavier gray.

  Edmund knew, as much as his knight did, even if neither of them said it aloud, that Einon might have reasons beyond conquest to come for Aurelith.

  Henri, the prince’s ancestor, had committed atrocities across Ambria as governor, including the division of Trinovantes itself—the very wound Einon’s campaign had been built upon. And Edmund’s blood carried Henri’s name. The Aureliens still lived in comfort, surrounded by wealth Henri had stolen or been granted by Rucaldia. It would not surprise Edmund if Einon wanted them to lose everything, just as Beldomagne’s ruling houses had under Henri.

  Before his thoughts could spiral further, a snowflake landed on his cheek. Then another. Snow began to fall, sparse at first, then steadier, the flakes turning the air into drifting white specks.

  Damien glanced up at the thickening clouds. “Let us resume our walk, Highness.”

  Edmund nodded, wiping the melting wet from his skin with the back of his glove. “Right. Let’s go before the snow makes the roads difficult.”