King of Power
(Medieval dark fantasy / grim rise to power – Year of the Black Sun, 1247)
Chapter 4 – Silver Tongues and Shattered Oaths
Sixty days remained.
The Guild of Silversmiths occupied the heart of the Merchant Ring: a fortress of pale marble and iron-bound oak called the Vault of Coin.
Its doors never opened to the poor, its windows never showed light after dusk, and its masters never spoke a name without calculating its worth in silver first.
Master Elias Vorne was the First Warden of the Guild—sixty winters, thin as a quill, eyes the color of old ice.
He had survived three rebellions, two plagues, and one very inconvenient wife by doing one thing better than anyone: choosing the winning side before the battle even began.
Tonight he dined alone in the upper solar of the Vault, a single candelabrum casting long shadows across plates of roasted quail and crystal goblets of summer wine.
A knock came—soft, almost apologetic.
"Enter," Elias called.
The door opened.
A young apprentice stepped inside, hood drawn low.
He carried no tray, no message pouch.
Only a small iron crown, blackened, resting on his open palms.
Elias did not rise.
He simply lifted one brow.
"You are not one of mine, boy."
The apprentice lowered his hood.
Tomi Salazar.
"I am not," Tomi agreed, voice calm. "But I will be."
He set the iron crown on the edge of the table, beside the quail.
Elias studied it like a jeweler studies a flawed gem.
"Bold," he said at last. "And foolish. The Rey's wyrm still flies over the Citadel. His knights still drink in the taverns. His coin still fills these coffers. You have taken one gate. A gate can be retaken."
Tomi pulled out the chair opposite Elias and sat without invitation.
"A gate is not a symbol," he said. "A crown is. Even a crude one. The smallfolk see it and whisper. The deserters see it and remember they have a choice. Your guild sees it and wonders how long until the Rey's coffers run dry without tolls to feed them."
Elias took a slow sip of wine.
"You think I fear empty vaults more than I fear a headsman's axe?"
"I think you fear irrelevance more than either," Tomi replied. "When the Rey falls—and he will fall—the man who stood beside him will be remembered as a servant. The man who stood against him early… will be remembered as a kingmaker."
Silence stretched between them, thin as a drawn bowstring.
Elias set the goblet down.
"What do you offer?"
"Partnership," Tomi said. "Not fealty. When the Citadel opens, the Guild keeps its charters, its monopolies, its secrets. In exchange, you stop minting new wyrm-marks after the next full moon. You begin quietly striking coins with no face on them at all. Blank silver. Waiting."
Elias almost smiled.
"Waiting for what?"
"For the face that the city chooses."
Another long silence.
Then Elias lifted the iron crown between two fingers, turned it in the candlelight.
"It is ugly," he said. "But honest."
He placed it back on the table.
"Sixty days," Elias murmured. "If the Rey still rules on the sixtieth, I will deny this meeting ever happened. I will give testimony that you threatened me, that I sent ravens warning the Citadel. My word will be believed."
Tomi nodded once.
"And if I rule on the sixtieth?"
Elias met his gaze for the first time without calculation—only cold, clear appraisal.
"Then perhaps… this little crown will one day be remembered as the first true one."
He stood.
"Leave by the back stair. My guards have been told to look the other way."
Tomi rose, leaving the iron crown on the table.
As he reached the door, Elias spoke again.
"One more thing, Salazar."
Tomi paused.
"Ser Gorran Veyle rides with the Crimson Wyrm. He is the Rey's right hand, his strongest blade. If you want the knights to waver, Gorran must waver first. And Gorran does not waver."
Tomi looked back.
"Then I will give him a reason to."
The door closed softly behind him.
In the great hall of the Citadel, Lord Aarón Maldonado received the night's reports.
The Iron Gate still flew the black crown.
Ravens from the merchant quarter spoke of… unease.
And now, whispers from the Vault itself: the First Warden had dined late, and a hooded figure had left by the back stair.
Aarón stared into the fire.
He no longer felt the wound in his shoulder.
He felt something colder, deeper.
He turned to the only person left in the hall he still trusted without question: Ser Gorran Veyle.
Tall, broad-shouldered, hair black as raven wings, the knight stood motionless in full plate chased with crimson enamel.
"You have heard the rumors, Gorran."
"I have, my lord."
"Do you believe them?"
Gorran's voice was low, measured.
"I believe the boy is clever. I believe he is dangerous. I do not believe he is invincible."
Aarón nodded slowly.
"Then ride tomorrow at first light. Find him. Bring me his head… or do not return."
Ser Gorran bowed once.
"As you command."
But as he turned to leave, his gauntleted hand brushed the crimson wyrm on his breastplate—and for the briefest instant, the gesture looked almost like a man checking that the sigil was still there.
End of Chapter 4