The next morning, a raven arrived from Ashford. It came at dawn. Black wings cut through the mist above the towers, circling once over the battlements before descending into the rookery. The keepers noticed the seal tied to its leg before they touched it.
Kenwool.
No one said the name aloud. They didn't need to. By the time the message reached the royal council chamber, tension had already arrived before it.
The council was seated. Long tables stretched beneath stone pillars. Torches hissed against the walls. Lords murmured in low tones that died the moment the clerk stepped forward.
At the far end, upon the Rock Throne, sat Drexo Dragarian. Still, and rigid.
One hand rested on the arm of the throne..The fingers trembled barely. But enough.
He already knew. Before a word was read, he knew. The clerk bowed. "We received a note from Ashford today," he announced, lifting the parchment, "carrying the seal of Lord Fabio Kenwool."
A current passed through the hall. Small shifts. Glances exchanged. Drexo leaned back slightly. "Go ahead," he commanded. His voice sounded calm.
Only his jaw betrayed him. The clerk broke the seal.
Read.
"Lord Fabio has demanded you send Commander Maria Woodland away and fulfill your vow to his daughter, Lady Friya Kenwool."
A pause.
The next words landed harder. "or risk the alliance completely broken and his army withdrawn from your cause."
Silence fell.
Not the peaceful kind. The kind before storms..Drexo's jaw tightened so sharply it seemed carved from stone.
Then: "I am his king." The words came low. Controlled, but dangerous. "He does not command me.".His gaze hardened. "I command him." His voice rose. "And when I order a campaign, he has the responsibility to join my cause."
No one answered at first. Then Lord Thumbell rose.
Old, and measured. Always careful. He bowed. "Your Grace." He hesitated only a breath. "It is true you are king."
Another pause.
"And we all serve you."
He chose the next words like stepping through blades. "But Lord Fabio is within his right."
A murmur stirred.
Thumbell pressed on. "You vowed purity and marriage to his daughter." His voice lowered. "Before the people."
A beat.
"And before the gods." Drexo's fingers dug into the throne. "I was forced by my father."
The words cracked out sharper than intended."The late king made that pact." Thumbell bowed again. "Even still." His eyes lifted. "An oath is an oath."
He let that settle. Heavy, and unavoidable. "All men must keep their vows."
"Especially a king."
The chamber went still again. Drexo looked down. Only for a moment. Then up. "Maria is pregnant with my child." His voice had changed. Less king, and more man. "And even as a king…" He swallowed. "…and a man who has sworn an oath…" His gaze swept the room. "I have a responsibility toward my unborn child."
Another silence fell.
Then Lord Marcel stood. Broad-shouldered. Practical. A man who preferred solutions over principles.
"Your Grace." He bowed. "I understand the complicated place you stand." His eyes narrowed in thought. "You must be a father…" He lifted one hand slightly. "And at the same time a king."
He paused.
Which made everyone lean in. "This is why I advise diplomacy."
Drexo's gaze sharpened. "What are you suggesting?"
Marcel inhaled. Then spoke carefully. "Offer Friya the throne." Several heads lifted, but he continued.
"Marry her first."
A pause.
"Make her the true queen."
Another pause.
"Then marry Maria as a second wife.".The words stirred whispers immediately. Marcel pressed through them. "That way," He swallowed. "You preserve the alliance."
His voice lowered. "You secure your child's future."
"You give your child your name."
Silence fell again. But it was different now. It was one immersed by thinking.
Drexo leaned back. The anger in him had not gone. But another thought had entered the room.
Slowly he nodded. "I will discuss this with Maria."
A pause.
"Then we proceed." The council bowed. Then, it was dismissed. But unease remained seated long after the men rose.
Drexo returned to his chambers. The doors shut behind him. Maria waited by the window. Sunlight fell over her shoulders. She turned the moment he entered. "There is a new development," he said, removing his outer robes.
Something in his tone made her straighten. "What is it?"
Drexo crossed toward her. Stopped close. Close enough to touch. "A lord proposed."
He hesitated. Then finished it. "That I marry Friya first."
Maria said nothing. He went on. "Give her the throne of queen." His voice grew quieter. "Then you and I can marry."
Silence stretched.
Long, but not empty, yet searching.
Drexo felt it. And suddenly he lowered himself before her: squatting like a man asking judgment.
Not giving it. "I won't do it." He took her hand. "If you do not allow it."
Maria stared at him. Then slowly intertwined her fingers with his. Her thumb moved over his knuckles.
Soft, and unexpected.
"You should do it."
He blinked, as if unsure he heard right. She smiled faintly. "You were sworn to her."
She paused.
"And whatever we did." Her smile turned sad. "would wound any woman."
She leaned down. Kissed him. Brief, and tender. "I do not care about any throne." Her forehead touched his. "I just want the chance."
She whispered it.
"To be with you for the rest of my life."
Something broke in his expression.
Relief, love, and pain. All together.
Drexo smiled. Then it was decided. "I will send envoys to Ashford tomorrow."
He rose, and pulled her into him. They held each other in silence. As if silence itself made vows.
The next day, the throne room gathered again. Drexo sat upon the Rock Throne. Resolve lit on his face.
"I have decided to send envoys to Ashford." His voice rang through the chamber. His gaze found Merca. "I want you to lead it."
Lord Marcel bowed deeply. "I am at your service, Your Grace."
By the next morning they departed. Lord Marcel, and five other lords of Cliffland, alongside a host of soldiers, boarded ships, and left Cliffland's shores under gray skies.
They spent three days on the sea before they arrived at Ashford. No wasted speech. Each man knew diplomacy often bled as quickly as war.
They file out of the ships immediately, and set their faces towards Ashford. Its walls rose dark against the evening.
High, and unwelcoming. But the gates opened.
Lord Fabio Kenwool himself came to greet them. Smiling. Too warmly.
"You are welcome to Ashford, my lords."
They bowed. Hospitality flowed. Wine, and feast.
Meat roasted over flame. Music played. But beneath the feast sat politics like a dagger under silk. No one forgot why they had come.
Morning brought the true audience. The feast hall felt colder in daylight. Lord Marcel stood before Fabio.
Formal, and measured. Then he began. "The king is in a difficult situation."
Fabio's face remained unreadable. But Marcel continued. "He is deeply sorry about his actions."
He paused, and allowed his words to land.
"He wishes to make amends."
Fabio leaned back. "Sorry won't be enough." His voice carried iron. "We have already given him a chance."
Marcel exhaled sharply. Then delivered the offer. "The king is willing to marry Lady Friya first."
Fabio did not move.
"Offer her the throne of queen."
Still no reaction.
"Then proceed to marry Maria."
Now silence sharpened.
Fabio stared. Only stared. Then, he answered without hesitation. "That is not good enough." The words cut clean.
Marcel stiffened.
Fabio leaned forward. Slowly, and deliberately. "We need him to send Maria away."
His eyes hardened.
"My daughter." Each word landed like a hammer. "Will not share."