The morrow before the battle of the Great Houses, King Haul Blackmoor convened a meeting with the advisors of Ashvire to speak of the coming war. The king walked the length of the corridor toward the council chamber, his boots echoing with every measured step. The sound rebounded off the stone walls of the castle, each footfall announcing his approach.

  When he entered the meeting room, he found six figures seated around a great square table of polished marble. At its center lay an intricate carving of a naked woman and man reaching together for fruit upon a grapevine. The advisors spoke quietly among themselves, unaware of the king’s presence.

  Haul cleared his throat.

  “Thank you for coming.”

  The advisors froze. Chairs scraped as they rose in unison and bowed low. Jeramiah Zholk, Master of Knowledge, spoke first, his voice clear and steady.

  “Pray forgive us, my lord. We should have been more heedful of your presence.”

  Haul smiled faintly. “I take no offense. Please—sit, all of you.”

  With a motion of his right hand, he bade them take their seats. He himself sat and folded his hands together before him.

  “Before we begin, I would formally thank you all for aiding us in the war to come.”

  At the far end of the table sat an old man, slouched in his chair, thin hair clinging stubbornly to his scalp. When he spoke, his voice was raspy with age.

  “My lord, if I may.”

  Haul gestured for him to continue.

  “They will answer us with numbers, my lord. We must answer them with shadow. Let one hundred and fifty men be loosed upon each kingdom under night’s veil. The enemy will break, and the cost to Your Grace and House Velastra will be far less than in open war.”

  The old man’s face remained unmoving, as though carved from stone, his eyes cold as winter iron.

  Haul raised his left forefinger to his lips, studying the man, then leaned forward.“What is your name?”

  The old man stood slowly, placed his right hand over his heart, and bowed.

  “My name is Edward Yoren, Master of War, Your Grace.”

  Haul smiled. “Thank you, Edward. Your plan has merit. Yet would the enemy not expect such a move? Would they not know we lack the numbers for open war?”

  Edward returned to his seat, resting his hands upon the table.“That is possible, my lord. But to face three houses in open battle would be near impossible to win cleanly.”

  Jeramiah interjected, stroking his beard.“As grand as this idea is, Master Edward, the houses may be in close contact. Should one strike fail, the others would be alerted.”

  Haul listened in silence as the arguments unfolded.

  Then a scrawny man seated in the back left corner rose. He had white hair and soft, almost gentle features.

  “My lord, I am Eamon Whitfield, General of the Soldiers of Ashvire. If I may, I have a plan that would ensure victory for both Your Grace and House Velastra.”

  Haul raised a hand. “Please, speak.”

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  Eamon smiled. “My proposal is similar to Master Edward’s, with a slight alteration. We know they must march toward Enora. I suggest we depart under cover of night, wait until morning, and then strike their kingdoms at dawn—assuring our victory.”

  Haul leaned back in his chair. “General Eamon, I fail to see how this assures victory.”

  Edward spoke sharply. “I agree, my lord. Waiting until morning ensures our loss. Night favors us.”

  Jeramiah sat in quiet contemplation, weighing probabilities. Even with his calculations, no clear path to assured victory presented itself.

  Across from Eamon sat a heavyset man with a soft, placid face. He turned toward the king, his voice smooth as lavender.

  “My lord, there is a way to know their battle plans.”

  Haul straightened in his chair, interest piqued.

  The man smiled. “My name is Theodore Whitson. Your Grace, I have ears across the Seven Islands—from Korval to Ashire, and eastward to Dormont. I know the hidden secrets of every house. You need only ask.”

  Haul chuckled. “Then I ask that you gather whatever information is necessary to win this war.”

  Theodore bowed his head, a grin stretching from ear to ear. “It shall be done, Your Grace.”

  Haul surveyed the table. “Is there anyone else who wishes to speak?”

  Silence answered him.

  “Then we place this meeting on hold until more information is gathered.”

  The noblemen rose and bowed. Haul returned the gesture before turning away, his long fur-lined cloak dragging and swaying across the floor as he departed. He walked the halls of Enora, ascending until he reached his chambers.

  Alone, King Haul found himself lost in thought.

  “Annabell… if you were here, you would know what to do. These nobles—I feel lesser than them. I do not come from royal blood, but from that of a commoner. What do I know of war, of kingship?” He exhaled slowly. “Yet this is my dream, forged in blood. I will be the best king this world has ever known. I will keep that promise, Annabell. When I die, I want you to greet me with a smile and open arms.”

  So consumed was he that he walked straight into a door. The impact echoed loudly.

  The door opened, revealing a woman. Haul froze, stunned by the sight before him. She had long blond hair threaded with hints of red, a graceful form, and eyes the color of emeralds.

  “My lord?” she asked, confused. “Can I help you?”

  Haul said nothing, staring.

  “My lord,” she said gently, “you look pale.”

  He blinked, snapping back to himself. “What—oh. Yes. I’m fine. I was deep in thought about the coming war. My apologies.”

  She smiled politely. “Then I shall return to my duties.”

  Haul nodded. “Of course.”

  She closed the door. Haul lingered a moment before continuing on to his chambers. Inside, he poured himself a glass of sweet wine and sank into his chair, staring at the papers and decrees awaiting his seal.

  He sipped. That woman… who is she?

  He rose and stepped onto the balcony, leaning against the stone as the sun warmed his face. The wind brushed past him gently. For a moment, the world was still—and he wished to remember it before war consumed everything.

  The next day, a knock sounded at his door.

  “Come in,” Haul said, setting his wine aside.

  A man clad in black furs entered. Haul frowned. “What do you need?”

  The man did not answer. He advanced.

  Suspicion stirred. “Who sent you?”

  The man smiled. “The world sent me.”

  Haul frowned deeper. “The world? What madness is this?”

  The man revealed two daggers shaped like viper fangs, their blades shimmering with shifting colors. He struck—but missed. Haul was unarmed.

  “You would fight an unarmed man?” Haul spat.

  The assassin said nothing.

  He attacked again, a double strike—high and low. Haul dodged, seized his wine vase, and smashed it into the man’s face. The assassin staggered, then recovered swiftly, kicking Haul hard in the gut.

  Haul crashed back as the man drove him into the wall. One dagger plunged into Haul’s lung, twisted, then ripped free.

  Air fled his chest. Each breath shortened his life.

  So this is how it ends, Haul thought. Slain by an assassin.

  “What did you mean,” he gasped, “by the world?”

  The man knelt, meeting Haul’s fading gaze. “There are forces beyond the houses that despise what you are. Your uncle knew this. That is why paranoia consumed him at the end.”

  The assassin rose, sheathing his blades. “I will leave you to suffocate.”

  He departed.

  Haul watched blood pool on the floor as his breaths grew shallow. Darkness crept in with every blink—until at last, the world went black.