89th Day of Emberwane, 311th Year of Fading

  The Throne Room was colder without him.

  Not because Wulfgar had warmed it. He had spent his final months shivering beneath furs, sweat freezing at his collar, eyes darting toward shadows only he could see.

  No.

  It was colder because Agatha allowed it to be.

  The hearth at the far end of the hall remained unlit. Frost traced pale veins along the edges of the high windows. The torches burned low, their flames trimmed to disciplined points of orange. Every breath taken within the chamber fogged faintly before fading.

  Agatha sat upon the Raven Throne in black.

  The mourning robes were heavy wool layered with darker silk, the fabric swallowing light rather than reflecting it. A thin silver chain rested at her throat—no bright jewels, no color. The circlet of House Ravenblood lay steady upon her brow, iron and jet polished to a dull sheen.

  Below her, the court stood in rigid rows.

  No one spoke unless summoned.

  A steward finished reading the latest reports from the southern passes—bandits scattered, caravans delayed by heavy snow, taxes arriving thin but steady. His voice wavered only once.

  Agatha lifted a hand.

  He stopped.

  Silence fell so completely that the faint hiss of torch oil sounded loud.

  “See that the roads are cleared,” she said. “If caravans cannot pass, we do not eat.”

  The steward bowed low enough that his forehead nearly touched stone.

  “Yes, Your majesty.”

  She did not correct the title.

  Regent was the word they used in ink. Regent while the King pursued his holy pilgrimage to the northern shrines. Regent while he fasted among the monks and sought favor from gods that had grown distant.

  The story had been crafted carefully.

  On the morning after Wulfgar vanished into the storm, Agatha had stood where she sat now and announced that the King had chosen solitude. That he walked the path of penitence in the far north, beyond even the monasteries, to plead for mercy for Kratus. For the harsh winters. For the failing harvests.

  The court had shifted uneasily.

  But none had contradicted her.

  The alternative—that their king had fled his own halls raving—would have rotted the foundation faster than any fire.

  She had written letters in his name for the first six months. Short ones. Sparse. The ink grown thinner each time until it ceased altogether. Pilgrimage demanded silence, she told them.

  And so silence was what they received.

  A lord from the western marches stepped forward now, cloak edged in white fox fur.

  “Your majesty, rumors persist among the lower wards. Of the fire. Of—”

  Agatha’s gaze met his.

  He stopped speaking.

  The frost at the windowpane behind her caught the light, splintering it across the hall. Her expression did not change.

  “The fire was an accident,” she said. “A careless maid. She and two others paid for their negligence.”

  The lord swallowed.

  “And the King’s absence?” he ventured carefully.

  “Is a sacrifice.”

  Her voice did not rise.

  “He prays so that you do not have to.”

  A murmur passed faintly through the gathered court, then stilled.

  Agatha leaned back against the carved stone of the throne. The cold seeped through the layers of her robe into her spine. She welcomed it.

  Wulfgar had not been sacrificed.

  He had broken.

  In the quiet of her private chambers, she allowed herself that truth without ornament. She had watched the unraveling in increments—the untrimmed beard, the tremor in his scarred hand, the way his gaze lingered too long on flame.

  He had been king in name only by the end.

  Weakness was a contagion.

  She had no intention of catching it.

  The weight of the circlet pressed against her temples. It was heavier than it appeared. Every decision carried consequence—alliances to maintain, grain to ration, soldiers to discipline. The throne did not forgive hesitation.

  She did not hesitate.

  Her gaze drifted, briefly, to the empty space beside the throne where a second, smaller seat had once been placed for Wulfgar during ceremonies.

  It remained empty now.

  She had ordered it left there.

  Absence could be useful.

  Below the dais, Harald stood near the front of the hall with his tutor. Eleven years old now. Taller. Shoulders beginning to square beneath his dark tunic. His black hair fell neatly to his jaw, his blue eyes steady and watchful.

  He did not fidget.

  He listened.

  He would be king one day.

  She would see to that.

  Arthur stood farther back, half-shadowed by a column. Six years old. Smaller than his brother but composed in a way that unsettled even seasoned courtiers. The tips of his dark hair still held that faint red sheen in certain light. Most pretended not to notice.

  He did not smile.

  He did not whisper to the other children of the court.

  He watched the hall the way a hawk might survey an open field.

  Agatha’s fingers tightened slightly against the armrest.

  Harald was legacy.

  Arthur was leverage.

  The kingdom did not yet understand the difference.

  She had not forgotten the nursery.

  She had walked through the charred remains after the flames died, boots crunching over blackened wood, and found Arthur seated in ash as if it were a cushion of feathers. She had dismissed the guards before stepping inside. She had knelt before her son and studied his unmarked skin.

  She had not touched him.

  Not then.

  Now, from the throne, she measured both boys in silence.

  Harald would inherit the crown.

  Arthur would ensure no one dared to take it.

  A minister cleared his throat softly, waiting for permission to speak.

  Agatha lowered her hand from the armrest.

  The hall remained silent until she nodded once.

  Only then did the minister begin.

  The royal chambers were quieter than the throne room.

  No ministers. No lords shifting in their furs. Only the low hiss of wind pressing at the shutters and the faint scratch of coal settling in the hearth.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  Harald paused at the threshold.

  Arthur stood before the tall mirror near the window. The glass had been imported years ago from the southern kingdoms, polished to a near-perfect sheen. It reflected the chamber in sharp detail—the dark tapestries, the narrow bed, the faint frost creeping at the corners of the pane.

  And the boy.

  Arthur’s fingers were lifted to his hair.

  He touched only the ends.

  The red had not faded with time. If anything, it had deepened. The tips of his jet-black hair glowed faintly in the firelight, not bright enough to cast light, but bright enough to draw the eye. Against the pale skin of his hand, the color looked deliberate. Marked.

  Arthur twisted a strand between his fingers, watching how the red caught the flame’s reflection.

  Harald stepped fully into the room and shut the door behind him.

  Arthur did not turn immediately.

  “You’ll pull it out,” Harald said.

  Arthur’s hand stilled.

  “It doesn’t hurt,” he replied.

  His voice had lost the soft lilt of childhood. It carried something steadier now. Measured.

  Harald crossed the room and stopped beside him. In the mirror, they stood shoulder to shoulder—same black hair, same blue eyes. Only the red betrayed them.

  Harald reached out and caught Arthur’s wrist gently, lowering his hand from his hair.

  “Leave it,” he said.

  Arthur’s gaze remained fixed on the reflection.

  “Do you think it will spread?”

  The question came without tremor.

  Harald frowned. “Spread?”

  “The red.”

  He hesitated.

  “I don’t know.”

  Arthur studied his own eyes in the mirror, leaning slightly closer as if expecting to see some flicker behind them.

  “The servants stop talking when I walk in,” Arthur said.

  Harald’s jaw tightened.

  “They stop talking when I walk in too.”

  “That’s different.”

  Harald shifted his weight. “How?”

  Arthur turned his head then, looking at him directly instead of through glass.

  “They look at you like you’re going to be king,” he said. “They look at me like I might burn the floor.”

  Harald stepped between Arthur and the mirror without thinking.

  His body blocked the reflection.

  “Don’t listen to servants.”

  Arthur’s gaze dropped to the space where the mirror had been visible moments ago. His hands hung loosely at his sides.

  “Did I make Father leave?”

  The words landed hard in the quiet room.

  Harald felt something twist in his chest. He kept his face steady.

  “No.”

  Arthur did not blink.

  “They say he went north to pray.”

  “He did.”

  “For me?”

  Harald exhaled slowly through his nose.

  Father had run.

  He had dropped his sword. His crown. He had not looked back.

  Harald had stood in the courtyard that morning and watched the snow swallow him whole.

  He swallowed now.

  “Father was sick,” he said.

  Arthur’s brow furrowed slightly.

  “Sick?”

  “In the head.”

  The words felt strange, heavy.

  “He saw things that weren’t there. He heard things.” Harald’s mouth tightened. “It wasn’t you.”

  Arthur’s gaze did not soften.

  “He burned his hand.”

  Harald’s stomach clenched.

  “That was an accident.”

  Arthur tilted his head, studying him in a way that made Harald feel older than eleven.

  “You’re lying,” Arthur said.

  Harald’s hands curled into fists at his sides.

  “I am not.”

  Arthur’s eyes held his for a long moment.

  Then they dropped.

  Harald stepped forward and knelt so that their faces were level. The hearth cracked softly behind them. Heat brushed against his back.

  He placed his hands on Arthur’s shoulders.

  The warmth seeped through his palms at once, steady and contained. He did not pull away.

  “Listen to me,” Harald said.

  Arthur’s gaze lifted again.

  “No matter what Mother says. No matter what the court whispers. You are not bad.”

  Arthur’s expression did not change, but his breathing slowed slightly.

  “You didn’t make Father leave,” Harald continued. “He left because he couldn’t stand what he saw in himself.”

  The words came more easily now, even if he did not fully understand them.

  “You are my brother.”

  His fingers tightened against Arthur’s shoulders.

  “And I will stand between you and the world.”

  Arthur blinked once.

  “You can’t stand between me and everything,” he said quietly.

  Harald leaned closer.

  “I can try.”

  The air between them felt thick. Not suffocating. Dense.

  Arthur searched his face as if weighing the promise for cracks.

  Finally, he gave a small nod.

  Harald released him and rose to his feet. He stepped aside slightly, allowing the mirror to come back into view.

  They stood there together again.

  In the reflection, Harald appeared taller, broader at the shoulders. The circlet he wore during court sessions had left a faint impression across his brow. His posture was already shifting toward something rigid. In the mirror’s cool surface, he looked like a boy practicing how to become a king.

  Arthur stood beside him, smaller, quieter. The red at the tips of his hair glowed faintly in the firelight. His blue eyes did not flicker.

  The two figures stared back from the glass.

  Outside, the wind scraped along the walls of the palace.

  Inside, the hearth breathed steadily behind them.

  The council chamber was smaller than the throne room and warmer by necessity. A single hearth burned at its center, flames kept practical rather than theatrical. Frost traced the outside of the narrow windows, but inside, ink did not freeze in its wells.

  Agatha sat at the head of the long oak table.

  Maps lay spread before her, weighed down at the corners by iron seals. Lines marked trade routes, mountain passes, contested borders. Pins with black heads clustered along the southern edge of Kratus where Rivalon pressed close.

  Her advisors filled the seats along either side—lords wrapped in fur, a general with scarred knuckles, a silver-haired minister who smelled faintly of ink and dust.

  “The harvest will not stretch another poor year,” the minister said, tapping a narrow finger against a ledger. “The southern caravans must remain open.”

  “They will,” Agatha replied.

  “Rivalon controls the lower passes,” the general added. “Their tariffs grow bolder.”

  Agatha’s gaze did not leave the map.

  Rivalon.

  Green valleys. Milder winters. Stone castles built on hills rather than carved from mountains. Their banners bore the sigil of House Van Gheel—gold thread on deep crimson.

  “The Van Gheel family grows stronger,” the silver-haired minister said carefully. “Their coffers are deep. Their armies disciplined.”

  “And ambitious,” another lord muttered.

  Agatha lifted her eyes.

  Silence returned.

  “There is talk,” the minister continued, clearing his throat, “of a daughter. Agnes Van Gheel.”

  Arthur’s age.

  The word hovered unspoken.

  “A match would secure the passes,” the general said. “Tie their interest to ours.”

  Agatha leaned back in her chair. The wood creaked softly beneath her weight. The fire reflected in her blue eyes without softening them.

  Harald would inherit the crown.

  Arthur would stand beside him.

  Or before him.

  The court still watched Arthur with that cautious, sideways look. The red in his hair had not faded. The servants spoke more quietly when he entered a room.

  Let them.

  “A betrothal binds more tightly than treaties,” the minister pressed. “If Arthur were promised to Agnes Van Gheel, Rivalon’s loyalty would not rest on parchment alone.”

  Agatha reached for the document already prepared at the edge of the table. The ink was fresh. The seal of Kratus waited in warm wax beside it.

  She did not ask for more counsel.

  “Secure the contract,” she said.

  The room stilled.

  “The boy will marry her when he comes of age.”

  No hesitation.

  No visible calculation.

  She dipped the quill into ink and signed her name in a steady hand.

  Agatha Ravenblood.

  The scratch of the nib against parchment was the only sound.

  She pressed the iron seal into the wax. It sank cleanly, leaving the mark of House Ravenblood embedded deep.

  Arthur’s future shifted with the weight of her hand.

  “Send word to Rivalon,” she said. “Before winter closes the passes again.”

  The minister bowed.

  “It will be done.”

  Agatha rose from her chair. The others stood immediately.

  The fire snapped once in the hearth.

  Beyond the walls, cold tightened its hold on Kratus.

  Far to the south, where snow fell only once in a decade and melted before noon, the streets of Tenerrol in the Kingdom of Xuton bustled beneath a pale sun.

  The air smelled of spice and livestock. Merchants shouted over one another from colorful stalls. Children darted between carts stacked with oranges and bolts of dyed cloth. The stone beneath their feet was warm.

  A man stood on a crate near the edge of the market square.

  His beard hung in tangled clumps, streaked with gray and filth. His hair, once black, clung in greasy strands to a skull too sharply defined. His robe—if it could still be called that—had torn at the hem and stiffened with old stains.

  His lips were cracked.

  When he spoke, spittle caught in the corners of his mouth.

  “They think it is contained!” he shouted, voice breaking on the second word. “They think stone will hold it!”

  A few passersby glanced up, then away.

  “The Burning Child!” he cried, pointing north with a trembling finger. “You cannot cage the sun!”

  A woman tugged her son closer and hurried past.

  “Mad old fool,” a merchant muttered, rearranging his wares.

  The man’s eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with red. They darted from face to face, searching.

  “He walks in skin!” he yelled. “He wears our blood!”

  No one stopped.

  A boy threw a pebble. It struck the crate and bounced harmlessly off.

  “Go home, grandfather,” someone laughed.

  The man’s chest heaved. He coughed, doubling over briefly before straightening again.

  “The end of days!” he rasped. “Fire beneath the earth! You will see!”

  Coins clinked into a nearby beggar’s bowl.

  None fell at his feet.

  He locked eyes with a stranger at the edge of the square—a traveler by the look of his boots, dusted from a long road. For a moment, the noise of the market dulled.

  The man’s voice dropped.

  “The fire is coming,” he whispered.

  The stranger frowned, then turned away.

  The man remained on his crate long after the crowd had shifted, his finger still pointing north toward a kingdom buried in snow.

  No one recognized the name he muttered to himself between hoarse breaths.

  Wulfgar.

  Millennia of Night, click on the first link for the main story, if you want to start chronologically then is a short prequel to start with. Go check it out to see what this 1,000-year war is building toward.

  The Doomed Six. It will be the bigger in length, and I will be dropping one new chapter every Monday to Friday for the next two weeks. Also do let me know if you caught, which event this story is going to cover.

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