Of Crowns and Coffins

  My dearest Owen,

  If you are reading this, know that I have not forgotten you. Understand that I never will—in this life or the next. I know I ran off seeking dreams of glory. I thought it would make us better. I thought you would be proud of me, and perhaps your father would accept us. But reality calls. The front line is a lonely place, and my thoughts drift to your memory with increasing frequency. The horn is sounding. I must go. Thank you for loving me. I hope we will see each other again soon.

  — Danith Millson, footman, Third Rank. Fell in the Battle for the Green Hill, 239 I.C.

  Standing by the door of the dimly lit room, Melchan Ozewrath watched as the late queen of Vaugn, Ingrid Storr, was placed within a heavy stone coffin by her sole surviving heir, Njal. Though Njal had ruled Vaugn for some time now, the emperor’s heart went out to his nephew as he prepared to return to his kingdom—his mother’s body in tow.

  With his father, Robert Storr, lost to the Dark Wars and his mother now murdered by outlandish assassins, Njal was alone in a way that only rulers understood. Melchan knew too well the weight of the crown, the silence it imposed, the expectations it never ceased to demand.

  Had he not found Trina—Robert’s younger sister and Melchan’s greatest confidante—the aged monarch wondered whether he might have gone mad himself.

  The four acolytes, robed in white, gently slid the coffin lid into place and silently withdrew. The room felt colder in their absence.

  Njal turned.

  Melchan studied his nephew’s face, not simply with the eyes of an uncle, but as a judge of kings. He searched for the telltale signs of rage. It would be there, and rightly so—but the emperor needed more than fury. He needed stability in Kennochia, the capital of Vaugn.

  As Njal approached, Melchan’s gaze drifted to the scarlet lines etched across his face. Three jagged gouges ran from brow to lip—marks carved by the assassin’s talons when the young king tried to defend his mother.

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  Njal had fought bravely, even if he had been overmatched. The beast had torn out his right eye, and yet in its arrogance, it had died for ignoring him. When the assassin turned to finish the queen, Njal drove his ceremonial sword through its spine.

  But it had not been fast enough to save her.

  Even the Maker’s most faithful could not repair what was already gone. They had closed the wound and spared the boy’s life—but no magic could restore the eye... or the woman that died he’d tried to protect.

  Melchan reached forward and took Njal by the shoulders. He said nothing.

  But what he found in the young man’s expression reassured him.

  The rage was there—as expected—but so too was strength. Determination. Not the reckless fire of youth, but something deeper. Grief-hardened. Purposeful.

  Melchan gave a solemn nod, then turned and walked from the chamber. The Obsidian Order fell into formation around him.

  Njal would be ready. Not now, perhaps. But in time.

  He would become every bit the ruler his parents had been.

  And when the time came, Melchan would stoke that rage. Not cruelly, but carefully. Calculated and precise.

  He hated that he must think this way. But if the throne had taught him anything, it was that manipulation was not malice—it was necessity.

  As he passed through the vast nave of the Church of the Maker, Melchan motioned for his guards to halt. He paused, surveying the wounded.

  The sanctuary had become a temporary infirmary.

  Priests moved between beds, anointing wounds and chanting over the dying. The air smelled of incense and blood. Here and there, cries of pain echoed against the marble arches.

  The emperor’s eyes darkened.

  He had ruled longer than most. Endured more conflict than any Ozewrath since Jerrid Bornsworth himself. And though Melchan bore no illusions about the peace of empires, he found himself wondering—hoping—whether some quiet solution might still be possible.

  Somewhere. Somehow.

  Then he moved on.

  The Obsidian Order escorted their ruler back to his waiting carriage.

  He stepped inside the gilded cabin—fortified, enchanted, luxurious despite its armor—and gave a slight nod to the five individuals already seated within.

  They said nothing.

  No idle words passed between them as the carriage rolled down the pearlescent skyway bridge. Each passenger sat in silence, wrapped in their own dark thoughts as they approached the upcoming divination.