Varen Drayvar's study occupied the highest level of the North Tower, with wide windows overlooking the dark sea and the cliffs where waves crashed relentlessly. Sunset painted the sky orange and purple, but inside, the luminous stones—set in wrought-iron sconces along the walls—emitted a steady pale blue glow. Ancient magic, residue of Aether crystallized in special minerals mined from Stormvale's deep veins. They didn't flicker like oil lamps. They didn't burn out. They simply shone, eternal and indifferent.
Varen sat behind his oak desk, reviewing production reports from the last quarter. Maps of Stormvale territory—the southern peninsula of the continent, where the Stormy Sea slammed against black stone cliffs—lay spread on a side table. Small wooden figures marked patrol positions, key villages, and strategic points.
Silas Torvan—his fifty-year-old political advisor, gray hair tied in a short tail, old scar crossing his left cheek—stood by the maps, organizing documents bearing official seals.
The door opened without a knock. Master Torin entered, training clothes still dusted from the yard. Former commander, now weapons instructor, the man had calloused hands and broad shoulders that spoke of decades wielding steel.
"Varen. Silas."
"You're late," Silas remarked without looking up.
"Finishing evening drills," Torin replied, approaching.
Varen set down the documents and stood. He walked to the sideboard where three crystal glasses waited beside a bottle of dark wine—southern vintage, from the lowlands near the coast.
He poured three glasses. The three men took theirs, drank in silence. The wine was strong, tasting of oak and earth.
"Right," Varen said, returning to his chair. "Silas, territory reports. Torin, we'll talk training later. Begin."
Silas set his glass on the map table and unfolded the first document. It bore the Drayvar House seal—a lightning bolt piercing a spear—in blue wax.
"Northern border," he began, voice professional and direct. "Confirmed movement from House Greythorn."
House Greythorn—one of the Empire's six Great Houses—controlled the northern mountains. Monopoly on iron, stone fortifications, warriors hardened by cold and constant skirmishes with barbarian tribes beyond their borders. Their motto: Iron fears no fire.
"Iron caravans have increased," Silas continued. "Three in the last two weeks. But also reconnaissance squads. Groups of ten to fifteen men, armed, moving through Eagle Pass and Gray Valley. Doesn't match normal trade patterns."
Varen frowned. "Is Lord Garrick planning something?"
"Not clear. Could be precautionary. Or preparation for… something more. Their trade routes double as military paths. Iron travels in the same wagons that could carry troops."
Torin sipped his wine. "If Greythorn mobilizes seriously, we'd have three days' warning. Four if we're lucky. Their mountain roads are fast."
"That's why I recommend doubling northern border patrols," Silas said, marking two positions on the map with red figures. "Two squads—twenty men each. Observation, not provocation. Discreet."
"Do it," Varen approved. "But no fanfare. I don't want Greythorn reading this as aggression."
"Understood."
Silas switched documents. This one bore a different seal—still Drayvar, but side-branch, indicating secondary family line.
"Now, the internal issue." His tone grew cautious. "Lord Thailon Drayvar."
Thailon Drayvar—Varen's cousin, commander of eastern garrisons, forty years old with barely contained ambition and old resentment for not being chosen as Grand Duke when Varen's father died. Family, yes. Loyal… questionable.
"Thailon has formed five new squads in the last four months," Silas reported. "Each squad: twenty-five men. One hundred twenty-five soldiers total. Armed, trained, under his direct command."
Varen leaned back. "Funding?"
"That's the problem. The coffers he controls shouldn't support that expansion. Counts and minor nobles under his oversight report normal income. So where's the gold coming from?"
"External benefactor?"
"Possible. Or he's tapping family funds from another source without reporting." Silas paused. "He's your cousin. Your blood. But his actions raise… questions."
Torin grunted. "One hundred twenty-five men loyal to him, not you. That's trouble."
"Thailon has always been ambitious," Varen said, tone neutral. "But he's family. Drayvar blood. He wouldn't move against the main house. His honor wouldn't allow it."
"Honor and ambition don't always coexist peacefully," Silas observed.
"Keep him watched. Discreetly. But don't act without real evidence of treason." Varen sipped his wine. "Next."
Silas unfolded another map—this one showing Stormvale's trade routes, sea lanes connecting the main port to other Imperial territories and beyond.
"The iron mines in the Gray Hills," he said. "Reports indicate one of our secondary foundries—run by Lord Tommen, a minor noble under Count Harrow's oversight—has been shipping unusual quantities of processed iron to the port."
"How much?"
"Tons. More than approved Imperial contracts." Silas traced a line on the map. "And here's the interesting part: some of that iron is being loaded onto ships not bound for Imperial ports."
Varen straightened. "Where?"
"Lysenthar."
The name landed like a stone in water. Lysenthar—the continent across the Infinite Sea. Rival empire, ruled by Empress Sylvara Krenn, last bearer of Ascended lineage outside Aetheron. Diplomatic relations: tense. Official trade: minimal and heavily regulated.
"Unauthorized trade with Lysenthar," Varen murmured. "That's… complicated."
"Very complicated," Silas confirmed. "If Emperor Titus learns a House is trading with Lysenthar without Imperial sanction, he could call it treason. Or at least disloyalty."
"Who authorized it? Lord Tommen?"
"Tommen claims he has orders. But not from me. Not from you. When I press, he gets evasive." Silas crossed his arms. "Someone within House Drayvar gave him authorization. Someone with enough weight for Tommen to obey without question."
"Thailon?"
"Possible. But unconfirmed. Tommen won't name his source." Silas paused. "I recommend deep investigation. But it'll take time. And it's… delicate. Accusing family nobility without solid proof creates fractures."
Varen drummed fingers on the desk. "Keep investigating. Pressure Tommen but don't break him yet. We need to know who's behind it before acting."
"Understood."
Silas took the next document. "The port. After Merchant Ferris's death, the power vacuum in grain trade has been… interesting."
Merchant Ferris—the corrupt trader Kael had eliminated weeks ago at the Rusty Anchor. His smuggling and fraud network had been dismantled, but the void he left was golden opportunity for others.
"Three new merchants tried to fill the gap," Silas explained. "Two are clean as far as we can tell. The third—a man named Roldán—sells grain at suspiciously low prices. Seventy percent of the market."
"Source?"
"Unknown. Claims contacts in House Lunvar."
House Lunvar—the Great House of the west, lords of maritime trade and legendary privateers. Their territory: Nareth's major port, where continental trade converged.
"But when we checked, Lunvar has no record of sales to Roldán in those quantities."
"Then he's lying," Torin said.
"Or someone inside Lunvar is selling off the books. Which is their problem, not ours." Silas marked a position on the port map.
"But here's what worries me: Roldán has protection. Someone gave him the prime market slot. Someone with authority to bypass normal assignment rules."
"Who?"
"We don't know. Port office records were… conveniently lost." Silas smiled without humor. "Someone in Stormvale administration—possibly family Drayvar or a minor noble under our control—gave Roldán that slot. And is covering tracks."
Varen exhaled slowly. "Three problems. Thailon with unauthorized squads. Tommen shipping iron to Lysenthar. Roldán with mysterious protection. All pointing to internal corruption."
"Or your family is larger and less controllable than you'd like to admit," Silas said frankly.
"Great Houses always have branches seeking their own advantage," Varen replied. "It's the nature of power. The key is maintaining enough control over the main branches."
"And when the main branches start moving against you?"
"Then we prune them." Varen set down his empty glass. "Keep investigating all three cases. High priority. Weekly reports directly to me. Involve no other nobles until we have clarity."
"Understood." Silas gathered documents, organizing them into a leather folder. "Ah, one minor detail. I heard there was an interesting duel in the training yard yesterday."
Varen didn't look up. "Interesting?"
"One of your sons against another, they tell me. Rylan and… Kael, I think." Silas smiled faintly. "Not something you see every day. Thought you'd want to know."
"Kids fighting with wooden sticks," Varen muttered, flipping another report. "Not my immediate concern."
Torin, who had stayed silent, made a sound. "It was no Aether. That was the wager. Pure technique."
"Who won?" Silas asked, more out of curiosity than anything.
"Kael," Torin answered. "Though 'winning' is a generous term."
Silas raised an eyebrow. "The younger beat the heir. That's… notable."
"Kid duel," Varen repeated, uninterested. "Rylan is superior. One bad day doesn't change that."
Awkward silence. Silas glanced at Torin, who shrugged.
"But…" Silas began cautiously. "One of them will be heir. The House's future. Doesn't it concern you that—?"
"Rylan will be heir," Varen cut in, tone final. "That duel changes nothing. Next topic."
Silas and Torin exchanged a brief look. Message received: topic closed.
Silas stored his documents.
"Nothing else for now. I'll prepare dispatches for northern patrols and investigation orders."
"Good. You may go."
Silas gave a short bow and left the study, door closing behind him.
Varen and Torin remained. The luminous stones' blue glow cast soft shadows on the walls. The sea's roar was constant, rhythmic, indifferent to men's troubles.
"Bandits," Torin said directly.
Varen looked up. "Pardon?"
"In the Blade Mountains. Border region between our territory and the eastern wilds." Torin approached the map, pointing to a mountainous area far from Stormvale—five days' ride. "Band of twenty to thirty. Hit minor caravans. Three in the last month. Losses: gold, goods, two dead."
The Blade Mountains—rough territory, mostly uninhabited except for isolated mining villages and trade posts. Natural border between the Empire's civilized lands and the wild expanses where nomadic tribes and bandits operated freely.
"And you want to do what, exactly?" Varen asked.
"Take Rylan. Cleanup expedition. Fifteen veterans under my command." Torin crossed his arms. "Real combat. Not yard duels. Enemies who kill for real."
Varen considered. "Rylan leaves for the Imperial Academy in four months."
"Exactly. That's why he needs this now." Torin leaned against the map table. "The Academy will have heirs from all six Great Houses. Some will have seen battle. Some will have killed. Rylan needs to match that or he'll arrive at a disadvantage."
The Imperial Academy—in Vaeloria, the capital. Elite institution where the continent's best warriors, strategists, and nobles trained together. Connections forged there lasted decades. Alliances, enmities, rivalries—all began at the Academy.
"How long?" Varen asked.
"Five days to reach the mountains. One week to locate and eliminate the threat. Five days back. Twenty days total. Maybe twenty-five if weather complicates."
"Risk?"
"Moderate. Disorganized bandits, not an army. With fifteen veterans, risk to Rylan is minimal." Torin paused.
"But enough for real pressure. Decisions with consequences. Blood that doesn't wipe off with a cloth."
Varen drummed fingers, thinking. Rylan was strong, well-trained. But Torin was right—the Academy would be different. Brutal competition, not just physical but political. Heirs from rival Houses, all seeking edge.
"Do it," Varen decided.
"But I want reports every three days. Messenger pigeon. If anything goes wrong—"
"My responsibility," Torin interrupted. "I accept it."
"When do you leave?"
"One week. Need to prepare provisions, check gear, brief the veterans." Torin straightened. "I'll bring him back better than he left. Or not at all."
"I'd prefer the first option."
"So would I."
Torin downed his wine in one gulp and set the glass on the table. "Anything else?"
"No. Prepare your expedition."
Torin nodded and walked to the door. Before leaving, he paused.
"The duel wasn't just kids with sticks," he said without turning.
"Kael found weakness in Rylan. Exploited it. That takes intelligence. Or dangerous instinct."
"And?"
"And nothing. Just… thought you should know." Torin opened the door. "Good night."
He left. The door closed.
Varen remained alone in his study.
The maps stayed spread. Wooden figures marked threats, problems, pending decisions. Greythorn moving. Thailon arming. Iron flowing to Lysenthar. Corruption in the port.
And his sons.
Rylan, the heir. Strong but with cracks. Kael, the cunning. Dangerous in ways Varen didn't fully understand yet. Lyssara, the hungry. Sareth, the forgotten.
Four sons. Four different paths.
Problem for another day, he thought.
He extinguished the luminous stones one by one—a simple mechanism, cutting Aether flow with copper valves. The room sank into darkness, lit only by fading sunset filtering through the windows.
Varen looked at the sea. Waves continued their eternal assault on the cliffs.
Tomorrow there would be more reports. More problems. More decisions.
But tonight, the work was done.
He left the study, closing the door behind him.
The stone hallways were cold and silent.
And Stormvale, with all its secrets and shadows, kept existing under the dying light of day.
As it always had.
As it always would.