It was night now. Caden wasn’t sure of the exact time but the sun was gone, and the moon was struggling to appear behind thickening clouds in the dark. He sat alone in the throne room of the chateau, a wide and open area about half the size of the main hall. It stood back from the rest of the building, allowing for tall, arched windows on each of the longer walls, positioned high above the heads of court nobles.

Though there were other seats he could have taken, Caden was leaning back on Armand’s throne, his elbow propped up on the varnished wooden arm and his head resting against the cushioned blue at his back. The throne was beautiful, and comfortable, and Armand would never sit in it again. By all intents and purposes it was now one of Caden’s thrones, and though Armand was held under the impression that he would keep his throne when the treaties were finalized, Caden had no intention of ever letting him step foot in the throne room alive.

Caden sighed silently, waiting for the Lords Wulfsurd and Gray to arrive. They should have been there by now, and it was likely each was being overly cautious, but neither would dare to ignore his summons and he had sent his kingsguard to ensure it. This business of theirs risked his own, and it had to be put to an end that night. Now that the Philosopher King had arrived, he could afford no signs of weakness, or disunity, and he had to move quickly to finish his country’s ordeal with Lavell. The most powerful men in any society desired more of it, and their very nature lent to plots and danger. Chaverne was a breeding ground for both, and he felt each passing day lessened his chances of victory.

Finally, the door opened and without announcement the two lords stepped in, with a faceless guard closing it behind them. They said nothing at first and walked down the long blue carpet towards Caden, who was raised above them on the throne by three steps. Caden could feel the tension between them, the uncomfortable and burning sensation they must have felt being besides one another. Behind them, and besides them, their multiple shadows flickered in the light of a hundred candles that dimly illuminated the room, and Caden wasn’t sure if he saw scorn in their faces, or devils dancing in the shadows of their features.

“Sire,” they both greeted him, at the exact same time. Caden couldn’t help but smile at this, especially as the two realized what had happened.

“Lord Gray, Lord Wulfsurd,” Caden greeted them back. He sat up straight on the throne, and from his belt he drew a long, shining dagger. He tossed it casually, and it clattered to the ground before the two men.

The two men immediately looked confused. “Caden?” Wulfsurd asked.

“Do you know why you’re here?” Caden asked them, ignoring Wulfsurd’s question.

The two men nodded, and despite being older and more experienced than him by decades, they suddenly appeared like children to him.

“Lord Wulfsurd, you believe that Lord Gray tried to have you poisoned,” Caden began to explain. “You believe that he wished to use the uncertainty in the wake of my father’s death to steal your ancestral land from your family, which once belonged to his own family.”

“I do, sire,” Wulfsurd replied. “I think Gray has no respect for your power and seeks to use the uncertainty caused by your father’s death and the circumstances of your own recovery to undermine your authority. I believe he took the opportunity presented to him because the first and most obvious suspect would be King Armand.”

Gray released an exasperated sigh. “This is nonsense, sire. When have I ever been disloyal to you, or to your father? Why would I risk the future of our nation with civil war on the eve of our victory? Why would I seek Lord Wulfsurd’s land enough to poison him when I stand to gain land from our conquest?”

Wulfsurd scoffed. “Lord Gray, you have been repeatedly asking to meet with me and discuss my land since King Valen’s death, and I have repeatedly told you to wait until our business in Lavell is finished. And do not try to deny it, for Sir Anselm knows of these requests and will back my word.”

“Is this true, Lord Gray? You have sought to discuss Wulfsurd’s lands with him?” Caden asked, peering at the man, who now seemed to hide behind his chin-length grey hair.

“I wished to solve this matter peacefully, through the sarkanian courts, and through diplomacy. I hoped that Lord Wulfsurd and I could trade our lands; his county in the midlands, for the lands I stand to gain in Lavell. Wulfsurd would stand to gain a large territory on the border between Lavell and Sarkana, in return for the county he holds now.” Lord Gray seemed to speak honestly, and Caden could hear it in the tone of his voice. Yet even so, something bothered him that he could not place his finger on.

“Did you not just say you did not seek my land when you had so much to gain in Lavell?” Wulfsurd asked him.

“I said not so much that I would poison you, and risk civil war; as minor as it would be.”

“Minor? You see, sire? Even his assurances are layered with insults. Lord Gray’s line has always seen my family’s land as belonging to their own, and my family mere servants to his. Gray is stealthy and opportunistic and loathe to fight honourably! He sees in our present weakness opportunity, and just like Armand he will scurry to take advantage of it!” Wulfsurd hissed, his volume rising and his voice increasingly more frustrated.

“Our present weakness?” Caden asked Wulfsurd, his voice sharp like the dagger he had thrown. “You mean my weakness, don’t you?

“No, Caden, I mea-“

“Stop speaking, Harik. I know what you mean. Is this how you see our situation, Gray? Do you see me too weak to fulfil my father’s ambition, and to keep our country strong?”

“It is a time of uncertainty. Your father was exceptionally strong of mind, body and spirit. My apologies, sire, but you have yet to prove yourself his match,” Gray answered, his honest words stinging Caden like wasps. “But I would not throw away his legacy or abandon you. Valen was a great king, and a good friend to all of us, and I would not see his legacy fall apart. But I will also not stand by and allow Lord Wulfsurd to accuse me of treachery or insult my honour.”

“And I will not simply wait for this man to speak honeyed words while sharpening the knife behind his back,” replied Wulfsurd.

A momentary paused ensued in the conversation, and Caden scrutinized the two lords. “Do the two of you want to kill me?” He suddenly asked.

“Sire?” Asked Wulfsurd, confused.

“I said: do the two of you want to kill me? To see me here, lifeless?”

“O-of course not, sire,” said Gray. “What could possible make you thi-“

“THEN STOP THIS RIDICULOUS BICKERING!” Caden shouted, leaning forwards suddenly as his voice filled the room to the far end. “Stop threatening to tear apart the loyalties that hold us together! Stop making this palace a prison and tearing cracks in our foundations that our enemies are more than willing to exploit! Or take that dagger off the floor and kill me now, and then each other, and hand Armand back his damned victory. Or kill him too, and give the Philosopher King all the opportunity he needs to march an army into these lands that you cannot even imagine.”

Everyone fell silent then, and Wulfsurd and Gray glanced sideways at each other as though not knowing what to expect next. Eventually Wulfsurd bent down, picked up the dagger and climbed the steps to Caden’s throne. He lowered himself again into a partial kneel, then took Caden’s hand and wrapped the young man’s fingers around the hilt of the blade.

Caden looked at Wulfsurd in silence, and sheathed the blade as Wulfsurd stepped back down from the throne’s platform. “I need your help,” Caden told them. “Not your problems. Men loyal to Armand flock to the shadows, and plot to rise and re-take Chaverne. All it takes is the right amount of sarkanian infighting, and a dark enough night to cut the throats of our guards and release their own, for the city and this chateau to become bloodbaths.”

“I understand,” said Lord Gray. “I did not try to poison Lord Wulfsurd, but I will refrain from politicking until a more appropriate time.

“And I will withhold my accusations until there is concrete proof,” Harik assured.

“Good,” said Caden, sitting straight again. “My father’s entire plan rests upon the edge of a sword, just as he always wished. He wanted to take this gamble, to imprison ourselves here within Chaverne with Armand and the enemy. If we maintain our balance long enough, then we capture this entire country. If we falter, then we fall and are slaughtered here like pigs. And now that the Philosopher King is here… That balance will be tested more than ever.”

-

The air outside was surprisingly chilly for a summer’s evening, which could grow unbearably hot in Lavell. There was a slight breeze too, and Arthur Ashfield felt it blow the curls of his hair as he stood on the chateau’s outer walls and looked down at the city below him. Specks of illumination, still fires or slowly moving torches, could be seen in the dark, and Arthur had been counting them silently in his head. 39… 40… 41…

“Arthur!” A gruff voice called from the courtyard below. That was Anselm’s voice, and Arthur turned and looked down into the courtyard to see him holding up two bottles of Lavellan wine. “Drink!” He shouted up.

Arthur laughed at him, and leaned onto the rampart bannister. “Soon, perhaps!” He shouted down. “But now that I’m in the kingsguard, I don’t plan on drinking that entire bottle!”

“Bah!” Anselm growled. “More for me then. Lord Caden won’t mind us getting a bit drunk now and then. Dulls the pain we’ll feel when we’re stopping arrows for him!”

“Or you could just move him out of the way!” Arthur replied.

Anselm shrugged then. “I’m going inside then! It’s cold tonight!” The old knight said, turning and walking towards one of the barrack buildings and disappearing inside.

Arthur turned back to look at the city again, though he saw how one of the guards further down the wall seemed quite amused by the conversation he had just had. Arthur shook his head, trying to play the interaction off as stupid, and went back to counting torches. Strange, he could have sworn there had been more a few seconds earlier.

But by Arfeyr! Him, Arthur Ashfield, a member of the kingsguard! He could still barely believe it and likely wouldn’t until he got his black armour, but it had been a dream of his since he had been a boy. To be recognized as a knight of such skill, discipline and virtue… He grinned at himself, giddish. Life was beginning to look quite good.

Suddenly he realized he was grinning like a fool and stopped, embarrassed. He turned around to look at the guard down the wall, to see if he had been seen, but found that the guard wasn’t there. Unusual… He had crept off incredibly silently, and he could still see the light from the man’s torch, though there were no signs of his shadow.

Curious, Arthur turned and began to walk along the wall with his forearm resting against the hilt of his sword, and passed under the brick archway that was part of a short watchtower. He went through it, then peeked around the brick on the other end to see the torch lying there on the ground, part of it hanging over the wall’s inner edge. Then it fell.

Arthur suddenly felt a chill creep up his spine, like cold-blooded eyes were watching him from the shadows. He slowly and carefully drew his sword, then stepped through the archway on the other end of the tower to suddenly find something swinging towards his face. Instinctively he ducked and rolled, hearing the blade swoosh through the air behind him as he forced his feet into the ground, turned his body, then launched upwards with his blade out ready.

Suddenly there was a muffled cry, and Arthur realized that his sword had gone straight through the body of a man in dark clothes who held a short sword above his shoulder. The man crumpled down, blood beginning to spill onto the wall from the wound, and his weight forced Arthur down with him until he pushed the body backwards with his boot. Arthur’s sword came free and the dark-clothed man fell onto his back, groaning and squirming beneath a cloth mask until he had no energy to spare. A few seconds later, Arthur saw the man’s last breath leave him as he lay there in his own blood.

“Guards!” Arthur cried, except no sound left him. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, but so did shock and fear, and to his horror he found his voice wouldn’t work. He span with his sword again to check nothing was behind him but there was – a second man, similarly shrouded in black clothing, whose short blade connected with his sword and pushed it away. Arthur brought his sword back in again, and the figure jumped back out of reach, and Arthur once again tried to shout. Nothing.

The figure thrust his short blade forward and Arthur managed to parry it away, but as he did so he saw more of the rogues climbing over the battlements. Arthur was beginning to panic; both stuck on the wall and outnumbered, and he swung fiercely to try and get the assassin in front of him to move out of the way. The attack was deflected, as was a second, and then suddenly a hard kick hit Arthur in his right side, sendhing him tumbling into and through the wooden bannister to his left. It broke, and Arthur fell off the wall and down into the courtyard.

There was crashing, and splinters, and then nothing for a moment. Then Arthur opened his eyes again, his body filled with pain, and he realized he was lying on his back. Above him the wood and straw roof of the stables had a hole, and as he shifted his leg he felt himself lying on a bed of straw. Around him horses were bolting and squealing in surprise, and Arthur felt his hand gripping his sword. He groaned and pushed himself to his feet, then with faulty balance he stumbled out into the fresh courtyard air.

“Guards!” He yelled, his voice working now, and carrying out through the chateau like a roar. “We’re under attack!”