Chapter 1

Something was hunting Thomas Mycroft.

If it had been up to Thomas, there would’ve been a purge of most of the nobles. That was the normal thing to do after taking over a new territory: you put people you trusted in power. But King Edward had his own problems with traitorous lords in Henning who needed to be replaced first.

He was able to remove some; Lady Maria had helped him identify those in open revolt, using her magic to detect hostile intent at the swearing of loyalty.

Thomas knew that Virden hadn’t been tamed and that some lords and others would work against him, but for now, he was forced to play politics.

He paused at the mouth of the Great Hall, letting the air strike him full in the face, and his breath fogged. Somewhere above, high windows leaked winter into the room in thin, needling drafts. Half the torches still slept, their brackets dark mouths along the walls; the light that remained left long, dark pools where men could stand and be forgotten.

The hall listened; it always had. A whisper near the third pillar would climb the vaulting and fall neatly onto the dais, right where the scribes liked to sit.

He crossed the threshold and set his boots on the flagstones with the deliberate weight of a man claiming ground. His woods training rode his shoulders: he marked exits, spotted shadows, and counted bodies. He did the gallery first, noting who had quills, who had knives, and who would swear they had neither.

“Move the chairs,” he said to the steward.

The man startled as if the words had struck him. Thomas pointed at the heavy oak seats on the dais.

“Bring the princess’s chair close, on my right.”

“And Lady Maria, my prince?” The steward’s voice caught on the title.

“Behind me, to the left.” Thomas didn’t raise his voice; he didn’t have to. “Close enough that I can hear her breathe.”

The steward bowed too quickly and hurried to obey.

A pack; that was what it was, however politely the court would dress it. Catherine at his right hand told every watcher in the hall that Virden’s rule didn’t fracture under pressure. Maria, behind him, meant there was a second set of eyes on the currents nobody admitted existed, registering the small shifts in tone, the shadow of intent.

He tugged his cuffs down, more to occupy his hands than from any need, and turned to the captain of the Guard.

Captain Baine stood stout as a post at the foot of the dais, his jaw set, and his shoulders squared. He was an old-regime man, useful and loyal. That was, unless the price changed.

“The Merchant Guild comes armed,” Thomas said. “Keep their escorts outside the inner dais line. If a blade crosses the stag mosaic, you step forward, but no steel unless they draw.”

Captain Baine gave a single nod.

“Understood, my prince.”

Thomas took the high-backed chair; its wood was polished smooth. He set his palms on the table and closed his eyes for a heartbeat, reaching for steadiness.

Around him was stone, mortar, and a keep full of people pretending to be calm.

Instead of calm, nausea rolled in. This court session was ink and precedent and a hundred mouths ready to feed on a misplaced word.

The air shifted before the first footfall sounded.

Princess Catherine came from the side shadows. Black with a silver wolf’s head, which replaced the former kingdom’s golden eagle crest, the wool of her gown drank the weak light and gave nothing back. She wore the court dress to intimidate. Her face was composed, but tension pinched the corners of her mouth, the only warning a man would get before she took someone apart.

She sat without waiting to be invited.

“Do I look like a decorative object,” she asked, “or a ruler?”

“A ruler,” Thomas said, “one who’s about to disembowel the first man who forgets his manners.”

Something like satisfaction flickered in her eyes.

“Good.”

Lady Maria, Thomas’s mother and advisor, arrived as quietly as prayer smoke, her azure robes whispering against the stone. She took her place behind Thomas, her hands folded into her sleeves.

“The wolves are circling,” she murmured near his ear. “Keep your answers short; they feed on explanations.”

The far doors groaned as oak complained against iron, the sound rolling through the hall and returning from the vaulted ceiling.

Master Darius Hollen entered: he didn’t walk; he stalked, with three scribes in his wake, and two private guards in guild livery flanking him. The guards wore hand-and-a-half swords at their hips, legal—of course it was legal, but that didn’t make it anything but a message.

Before Master Hollen reached the stag mosaic, his scribes fanned out and unrolled parchment. Quills dipped, and ink shone wet. They were not here to witness a pact; they were here to fix a narrative.

Master Hollen stopped two inches short of the mosaic line. His bow was sharp and bloodless, showing respect for the title, but none for the man.

“Prince Thomas, Princess Catherine.” His baritone had been trained to sound reasonable, but Thomas heard the greed beneath it like a second voice. “We come on urgent business.”

“The morning court is open,” Thomas said. He kept his tone level—level was harder to misquote. “State your urgency, Master Hollen.”

A scribe lifted a ledger page, thick with red ink, as if displaying a wound. Master Hollen didn’t look at it; he knew the effect.

“Three ships were turned away yesterday,” he said, “and two more were held at anchor this morning. Your port inspectors claim ‘manifest irregularities.’ Grain sits, damp gets in, and the city bleeds coin.” He spread his hands in practiced helplessness. “This is ineptitude bordering on malice.”

“Inspectors verify cargo,” Thomas said. “Virden has a history of smuggling.”

“Virden has a history of survival,” Master Hollen corrected, and took a single inch toward the stag. Not across; just close enough to make men watch his feet instead of his mouth. His fingers rose to the heavy gold chain at his neck, twisting a link slowly, as if strangling something small. “These delays choke trade. The Merchant Guild cannot guarantee the tax revenue the King expects if ships can’t dock.”