The map of the eastern marches refused to stay flat.
No matter how often Kael smoothed the parchment, its edges curled, as if the land itself resisted being pinned down. Rivers twisted where they should have run straight. Borders blurred into one another in deliberate strokes of ink. This was not a cartographer's mistake.
It was a warning.
Seris leaned over the table, finger tracing a jagged boundary marked in red. "House Caldrin," she said. "They've controlled these passes for three generations. Technically independent. Practically untouchable."
"Because of soldiers?" Kael asked.
"Because of contracts," she replied. "They don't fight wars. They fund them."
Kael absorbed that. Steel could be broken. Gold behaved differently.
Aurelian stood apart, watching the exchange as if it were a ritual rather than strategy. "Power that cannot be challenged directly often believes itself eternal," she said. "It grows careless."
Seris shot her a look. "You speak as if you've seen them fall."
"I've seen many things fall," Aurelian replied mildly.
Kael straightened. "Then we don't march. Not yet."
Seris blinked. "You're not going to take the passes?"
"I'm going to walk into them," Kael said. "Alone."
That earned silence.
"You'll be assassinated," Seris said flatly.
"Possibly," Kael agreed. "But not secretly."
Two days later, Kael rode east with no banner and no escort, dressed as a minor lord with nothing to lose. The road climbed quickly, winding through stone-cut paths where a handful of men could hold an army at bay. Watchtowers dotted the ridges—occupied, alert.
They let him pass.
House Caldrin's seat was not a fortress, but an estate—wide terraces, open arches, servants moving without fear. Power so secure it no longer bothered with walls.
Kael was announced. He was received.
Lord Veyran Caldrin was older than Kael had expected, his hair silver, his posture relaxed in the way of men who had never been contradicted by consequence. Wine was poured. Smiles were exchanged.
"You're earlier than anticipated," Veyran said. "Most conquerors announce themselves with fire."
"I find fire limits conversation," Kael replied.
Veyran chuckled. "And yet here you are, threatening the flow of trade that feeds half the region."
"I haven't touched your trade," Kael said. "I've touched corruption."
"An idealist, then," Veyran said pleasantly. "Those rarely last."
Kael met his gaze. The warmth inside him stirred—not in answer to desire or challenge, but to clarity. He saw it then: the web of influence, the quiet suffering outsourced to distance, the blood washed clean by ledgers.
"I'm not here to take your lands," Kael said. "I'm here to draw a line."
Veyran's smile thinned. "Lines can be erased."
"Some can," Kael agreed. "Others teach people where not to step."
For the first time, the air shifted. Not threatening—honest.
"You'll lose profit," Kael continued. "Not all of it. Just the kind that requires suffering you never see. In return, you keep your house, your name, your relevance."
"And if I refuse?"
Kael stood. "Then I leave. And every city I pass through learns exactly how House Caldrin profits from chaos."
Silence stretched.
Veyran studied him with new eyes. "You don't conquer like a tyrant."
"No," Kael said. "I conquer like someone who plans to live with the result."
At dusk, Kael rode back west.
He felt no surge of power, no intoxicating rush. Instead, something settled—solid, immovable. A boundary within himself.
When Virell's lights appeared on the horizon, Kael realized what had changed.
For the first time since the gift had awakened, he was not becoming stronger by taking something.
He was becoming stronger by deciding what he would never take at all.