CHAPTER SIXTEEN #2
Kellan did not want to go to the queen with his thoughts.
The last thing she needed were half baked theories he could not back up with evidence.
He needed allies—steel he could trust, untainted by gold or grudge.
He made for the Shield Guard's sanctum, a vaulted chamber beneath the eastern tower, its walls hung with ancestral blades and shields etched with oaths.
Here, he knew that loyalty was forged in fire, not bought in coin.
He rapped the iron-bound door thrice— the signal: Steadfast endures—and it swung open to reveal Sergeant Lirra, his second, a lithe warrior from the Western Isles with braids like coiled serpents and eyes sharp as her dagger.
Behind her stood Corporal Talin, a broad-shouldered Highlander with a laugh like gravel and a mace that had crushed skulls, and Ensign Mira, a raven-haired scout whose arrows never missed, her quiet demeanor hiding a mind like a trap.
They rose from their posts, faces hardening at Kellan's expression. The sanctum's central table bore a half-eaten meal—cold meats, dark bread—but they pushed it aside as he entered, the door sealing with a resonant thud.
Kellan unrolled a map of the Ring across the scarred oak—borders inked red, noble estates marked with black thorns.
He recounted the night's interrogations: the mismatched details, the rehearsed cadence, the vanished Proudlock.
"Garr says east, Skarn west. Twine claims thigh first, Vira side.
Even allowing for the chaos of battle, there are too many holes, while around them it is suspiciously solid. "
Lirra's braids swayed as she leaned in, tracing a finger along the northern wastes.
"Rehearsed, aye. Like players in a mummer's farce.
And the timing..." She tapped the Council's seal on a crumpled missive, pilfered from a courier.
"Proclaimed the hour Proudlock's raven landed.
Aldrich's hand in every fold—granaries 'opened,' but my kin in the fields say wagons rolled north days before, laden with arms, not grain. "
Talin grunted, his mace thumping the table like punctuation. "Bastards. Seen it before—in the Blood days. Lords feignin' aid while sharpenin' knives for backs. Empire gold, or just old grudges? Thorgrin lifted too many lowborn; they chafe at it."
Mira, silent till now, slid a dagger from her boot, twirling it absently. "Grudges or not, the soldiers' eyes... shifty. Skarn's hand shook when he spoke the King's name. Fear? Or guilt?"
Kellan met their gazes, the weight of command settling like familiar armor.
These three-Lirra’s cunning, Thorne's brute faith, Mira's shadow-step—were his spine, the unyielding core of the Guard.
No whispers of disloyalty clung to them; their oaths were blood-sworn, tested in the canyon's fires.
"Guilt, I wager. The tale's a scaffold, built on lies. If Thorgrin is truly dead, then I stake my reputation on the fact that it was by human hand, one who perhaps is sleeping beneath these very floors, than by the claw of some demon.”
“You think he lives?” Lirra asked, her eyes wide.
Kellan stared at the map for several seconds before answering.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Wounded, perhaps, fled into the wastes.
But someone wants him buried in rumor, the throne cracked open.
The Council? A fox in the henhouse, cloaked as shepherd.
Aldrich eyes the dais; Elowen weaves her webs.
We watch, we guard—but no alarms till proof bites. "
Lirra nodded, her eyes gleaming like oiled steel. "Defenses, then. The queen's solar—double the posts, eyes on every shadow. Prince Guwayne... there are nobles in the halls at all hours, eyes on the prince like hawks on a lamb."
"We shield them both. But discreetly. Neither side must be aware of what we are doing.
Lirra, discreet ears in the taverns, markets.
Sniff for treasonous coin, loose tongues.
Talin, reinforce the walls: Silver loyalists only, no 'volunteers' from noble houses.
Mira, shadow the prince—unseen, but close.
If he bolts north as he has proclaimed he will. .. tail him."
Talin cracked his knuckles, a grin splitting his weathered face. "Aye, Cap'n. And if Aldrich's dogs bare teeth?"
Kellan's hand rested on his broadsword's hilt. "Then we remind them: the Shield Guard breaks for no lord but the crown. Steadfast endures."
They clasped forearms, the oath unspoken but ironclad, then dispersed into the pre-dawn gloom—Lirra to the undercity veins, Talin to the armory's forges, Mira melting into the rafters like mist. Kellan lingered, staring at the map's northern fringes, where the wastes blurred into legend.
Hold, my King, he thought, a prayer to winds that carried druid whispers.
We'll unearth the truth or bury the liars.
By midmorning, the palace stirred under a pallid sun that had burned through the early morning mist. Gwendolyn held court in the solar, decrees on patrols, rations, raven dispatches to outposts.
Guwayne stood at her side, tall and unbowed, his eyes scanning the room like a hawk's.
Together, they showed a united front, a monarch overseeing her kingdom, calming potentially stormy waters.
Kellan had posted guards at every arc, silent, unobtrusive but visible nonetheless.
A show that this was the queen's domain, no one else's.
In private conversations between mother and son, he had overheard Guwayne talk about his dreams of Thorgrin rising.
Good. Fire would forge the boy; Kellan would fan those flames, not quench them.
But proof demanded pursuit. As the sun climbed, Kellan slipped from the solar, descending once more to the barracks.
The door stood ajar, unguarded—his sentries, two fresh-faced recruits, slumped against the wall, heads lolling in unnatural slumber.
Wine on their breaths, laced with something sour.
Kellan's blood iced. He burst through, sword half-drawn, the chamber unfolding in front of him.
Empty cots, rumpled and cold. Blankets tossed aside, packs vanished, the air stale as an abandoned tomb.
No blood, no struggle—just echoes of a hasty flight.
The oil lamps guttered low, wax pooled like tears on the floor.
Kellan knelt by Garr's cot, fingers brushing the mattress: dust undisturbed, no warmth suggesting a recent departure.
"Gods' blood," he growled, rising to shake the sentries awake. They stirred groggily, eyes unfocused, mumbling of a "kind visitor" with a flagon of spiced mead. "A gift," one slurred, "for brave lads."
Kellan eyed a half drained jug by the door and rounded on the guards. “I’ll deal with you on my return!” he roared.
Kellan stormed the corridors, barking orders: "Seal the gates!
No man leaves without my mark!" Horns blared from the battlements, guards swarming the yards like hornets from a kicked nest. But the city was a sieve—taverns, stables, shadowed alleys where coin bought silence and swift horses.
By noon, reports trickled in: a band of ragged riders glimpsed at the eastern ford at dawn, cloaks drawn tight, heading for the riverlands.
Skarn's sneer matched the description; Garr's bulk unmistakable in the saddle.
Proudlock? No sign, but a stablemaster swore to a hooded figure matching his scars, vanishing into Elowen's convoy of "supply wagons" bound south.
Fury coiled in Kellan's gut, hot as forge-fire. He returned to the sanctum at a run, finding Lirra and Mira already gathered, Talin lumbering in behind with a bloodied rag— a loose-lipped courier's nose, broken for lies.
"They're gone," Kellan spat, slamming the door. "Slipped the net hours ago. Council's hand me-down for the guards, horses waiting. They're fleeing to escape the noose of my questions. And to bury the tale deeper."
Lirra's face darkened, her dagger flashing as she paced. "To the estates, then. Aldrich's hall, or Holt's vaults. We ride?"
"Not yet." Kellan's mind raced. "Proof first, or we’ll be viewed as the traitors. Mira—your shadows to the river. Track 'em if the gods smile. Lirra, ears in the Council—every whisper, every seal. Talin, double the queen's watch; prince, too. No lone walks, no unvetted cups."
Mira nodded, leaving alongside Talin, mace over his shoulder, but Lirra lingered, her gaze piercing. "But if it's true, Cap'n? If the King's blood is on that cloak?"
Kellan touched the hilt of his sword, the metal warm under his palm. "Then we avenge him. But I stake my oath on this: Thorgrin's no ghost yet. And if he is... the shadows that slew him will choke on their silver."