Chapter 2
Teren tilted his head, the faintest glint of irritation in his eyes. “We were at the docks,” he said. “Some suspicious activity was reported. Major Ledor ordered us to sweep the area. Just some light recon only. Nothing hostile.”
Zander and I exchanged a look. Of course Ledor had them elsewhere. Right when everything in Warriath had unraveled.
Teren ran a hand down his dragon’s neck, calming the restless swift as he continued. “We didn’t get much. Just a few cloaked figures loading unmarked crates onto a civilian vessel. It looked suspicious, but before we could investigate, the alarms went off.”
He glanced toward the palace. “We thought there was a security breach here. Figured if something was going down at the Ascension Grounds, we needed to be here more than there.”
Kaelith rumbled low beside me, tail flicking sharply as another gust of wind blew across the training ring.
Before I could ask more, Major Ledor strode out from the shadow of the southern tower, his cloak torn and soot-streaked. His gaze swept over us, then locked onto Teren.
“Report,” he barked.
Teren stood straighter. “Sir. Perimeter sweep at the docks showed two figures moving crates onto a vessel flagged for merchant use. No visible insignia. We returned when the grounds alarm sounded. No signs of pursuit.”
Ledor nodded once, but his jaw was clenched. “I’ll have the guard sweep the port for what you missed. You’re not to return.”
Teren frowned. “Do you want us to go back now?”
“No,” Ledor interrupted. “All riders are grounded until further notice. No patrols. No flights. Until I say otherwise.”
The words hit like a slap. Around us, the dragons let out low, echoing growls, deep enough to vibrate through the stone. Kaelith’s wings twitched, and I felt her magic pulse beneath my skin like a restrained storm.
Ledor didn’t flinch. “Return your dragons to the Dragon Isle. Now.”
Kaelith snarled, her fire crest flickering in visible defiance. Hein bared his teeth beside her, and Narvea let out a spine-rattling hiss.
Still, one by one, the dragons obeyed.
Kaelith turned toward me, her violet eyes glowing with warning. I don’t like this, she whispered into my thoughts.
Neither do I, I answered, jaw tight. But I stepped back.
She beat her wings once, furious wind scattering dust and ash—and then she soared into the sky, disappearing behind the veil of clouds like a threat tucked just out of reach.
And just like that, the skies above Warriath went quiet.
Major Ledor’s voice cut across the tension like a blade. “All guilds to the rings,” he barked, steel in every syllable. “No holds barred combat trials. Pair off by command.”
The murmur that followed wasn’t surprise, it was dread laced with readiness. Everyone knew what that meant: distractions. A show of strength. And a perfect excuse to air simmering grievances in plain sight.
Zander stepped forward, his expression unreadable as Kaler approached and pointed to the Crownwatch formation.
“You’ll spar with your former command,” Kaler said flatly.
Zander didn’t argue. He nodded once, curt and cold, before turning to me. Something else is going on, his voice threaded through my mind. This isn’t just a show. We should be speaking to Cyran.
I know, I thought back, watching the way Crownwatch shifted around him like circling wolves. We may need to go covert.
Tonight, he said. We move at midnight.
Agreed.
My name was called next. “Ashlyn Rebec,” Ledor intoned. “With Naia Brooks.”
Naia met my gaze from across the ring, her sandy-blonde braid swaying as she stepped forward. She gave me a look—Let’s give them a show but not kill each other, yeah?—and I nodded.
We circled once, twice. Then I lunged, blade flashing, and Naia parried with ease, her energy sparking around her fingers like a barely restrained current.
The clang of steel and crackle of redirected force echoed through the training arena.
We twisted, ducked, blocked, sweat gathering but no bruises traded.
A dance, not a duel. Sharp, but not bloody.
We were holding back. Both of us.
But across the ring… the same couldn’t be said for Ferrula and Armeda.
Their fight exploded like a storm.
Narvea roared as she landed near the perimeter.
Ferrula launched forward, her movements pure instinct and lightning.
Armeda met her with twin daggers drawn and the grin of someone thirsting for a release.
Sparks flew, literally, as Ferrula’s power snapped in sync with her strikes, every movement honed to a lethal edge.
Armeda’s speed was nothing short of stunning, weaving between strikes and countering with brutal efficiency.
It was chaos laced with skill.
Blades clashed. One of Armeda’s daggers grazed Ferrula’s shoulder, drawing blood, and Ferrula retaliated with a roundhouse that would’ve snapped a lesser fighter in half.
“Enough!” Jax stepped into the ring, hand raised between them.
Ferrula didn’t pause. She pivoted and slammed the hilt of her weapon into Armeda’s side, and then turned her glare on Jax.
It was ice.
“Do not get between me and an opponent again,” she said, voice like a dagger’s whisper.
Jax raised his hands, stepping back. “Noted.”
But his eyes lingered on her. Worried. Protective.
Ferrula ignored him, adjusting her stance like the hit never landed. Across from her, Armeda spit blood and smiled.
Whatever that was... it wasn’t just sparring.
I caught up to Ferrula just as she was cleaning the blood from her shoulder with the edge of her sleeve. Armeda was smirking in the background like she hadn’t just gone full feral mid-trial.
“What the hell was that?” I asked, jerking my chin toward the sparring ring.
Ferrula didn’t answer. She just gave me a tight shrug, more tension than movement, before stalking toward the water barrels like she might throw one.
Riven stepped in beside me, arms crossed and red hair plastered to her face with sweat. “You missed the backstory,” she muttered, eyes locked on Armeda. “That wasn’t about pride. That was personal.”
I blinked. “Explain.”
“Armeda’s been making advances on Jax. Pretty bold ones, too. He’s turned her down repeatedly, but apparently, she thinks Ferrula’s the reason he won’t look her way.”
My jaw dropped. “Wait. She thinks Ferrula is her competition?”
Riven’s smirk was grim. “Looks like she’s decided to take a more... direct approach.”
“Is Armeda insane?” I hissed. “Does she even understand what a Dirian warrior does to someone who tries to interfere with a bonded couple?”
Riven nodded slowly, eyes still scanning the tension building in the arena.
“She’s from Vrangoth. They’re almost as bloodthirsty as the Dirian clans.
Honor duels, blood debts, grudge trials—if someone spills your drink in the wrong bar, it ends in steel.
But as riders? They can’t challenge each other outside of sanctioned combat.
Killing another rider is a death sentence unless it happens in the ring. ”
I turned to follow Ferrula’s path, watching the way her jaw clenched and her fingers flexed like she was still mid-fight.
“This is going to end badly,” I whispered.
Riven’s response was immediate. “Yeah. It’s just a matter of who bleeds first.”
My gaze slid toward the eastern ring, where Tae was circling a Warborn rider twice his size and half his charm.
Sand kicked up beneath their boots as they moved in sync, blades flashing with precise, measured strikes, until the Warborn brute growled and shoved forward, nearly knocking Tae off balance with a shoulder slam.
“If you use that mind crap on me,” the rider snarled, spitting to the side, “I’ll rip your damn head off.”
Tae stumbled back a step, wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, and grinned like the devil himself. “Aw, and here I thought we were finally getting along. Didn’t realize your ego was more fragile than your footwork.”
The rider lunged. Tae dodged, effortlessly, twirling out of reach with a theatrical flourish that made his opponent growl again.
“Careful,” Tae said lightly, tapping the flat of his blade against the rider’s shoulder as he danced past him. “One more step like that and I might mistake you for a drunken goat.”
There was laughter from the sidelines, but tension too. Warborn didn’t take kindly to being mocked, especially not by a flirty Thrall Squad smartass with influence in his veins and a wicked talent for pushing buttons.
This is going to explode, I thought, just as I caught sight of Zander stepping away from the far ring, his sparring partner crumpled in the sand and breathing heavily.
He brushed his hands off and turned as if to scan the crowd. This is ridiculous. The Major is instigating a fight between guilds.
I agree, I sent through the bond. Let’s slip out to the village now. Everyone’s focused on the matches.
There was a heartbeat of silence before his reply slid into my thoughts, sharp and sure.
Let’s go.
Zander fell into step beside me, his cloak drawn up just enough to shield his face, though I doubted anyone watching the rings would care.
The trial grounds pulsed with aggression and steel, attention locked on sparring pairs and petty rivalries flaring into bloodsport.
No one noticed us slip through the throng of riders. No one wanted to.
Gerane stood near the gate as if he had been waiting for this exact moment. His eyes met mine, sharp and unreadable, and he gave a subtle flick of his fingers. Move now.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. I nodded once and pressed forward, Zander ghosting behind me like a shadow.
My father had to know by now.
Lady Belana’s death would’ve been announced before the second horn sounded, and if Cyran Rebec didn’t already have his defenses raised, he was slipping.
The village just outside Warriath’s western wall was quiet, the kind of quiet that made my skin crawl. No guards. No foot traffic. Just shuttered windows and the smell of damp stone and smoke curling from low chimneys.
Zander kept close, his hand brushing the dagger strapped beneath his cloak. I didn’t say anything. We both knew better than to talk out here.
The Rusty Tankard looked abandoned, its front door slightly ajar, as if it hadn’t seen a customer in days. We stepped inside, the familiar scent of burnt cloves and old wine hitting me instantly. No barkeep. No patrons.
Just silence.
We moved through the back hall, bypassing the dust-covered tables, and I brushed the heavy tapestry aside. The one no drunk ever dared touch.
Behind it, the wall gave way to a narrow stairwell.
I took the lead, boots barely making a sound on the stone steps spiraling down into the dark. Torchlight flickered below, painting the brick walls gold and crimson.
When we reached the base, the door to Cyran’s office was already ajar.
He was pacing.
His silhouette cut hard shadows against the back wall, but the moment I stepped into the room, he stopped—eyes locking with mine like a man preparing for trial.
“I did not order that assassination,” he said flatly. Not a greeting. Not a defense. A statement of fact.
And that was when I knew—he wasn’t sure if I believed him.
Cyran’s eyes were blazing now, his usual mask of court politeness torn clean away. “This is a damn frame job,” he snapped, pacing behind his desk like a caged predator. “Sloppy. Loud. Public. We don’t kill like that.”
His fist slammed against the edge of the table, hard enough that the inkpot wobbled and spilled a trail of black across a half-unrolled map. “And yet the crown wants my head on a pike because it’s convenient.”
Zander stayed by the door, watchful, silent. I stepped closer, my pulse steady now. “I believe you.”
Cyran stilled. His gaze cut to me. “Good,” he said. “Because if you didn’t, I’d have to waste time convincing you instead of hunting the bastard who did this.”
“We’ll find the real killer,” I said. “And we’ll bring proof. Not just to Theron, but to every damn guild who thinks you put the blade in Lady Belana’s back.”
Cyran’s lip curled. “The Assassin’s Guild always takes responsibility for its kills. Always. It’s what keeps the balance.” He leaned forward, eyes hard. “This was not one of ours.”
I nodded. “I know. I was trained in the Order. I’ve seen your contracts. There’s always a mark. Always a seal. This? This was staged to look like chaos.”
“Exactly,” Cyran muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. “And it was meant to point right at me. They didn’t just want Belana dead—they wanted the Order dismantled and me removed from play.”
And let’s be honest, I thought grimly. Framing my father wasn’t exactly a reach. He’d done worse with less reason.
But this wasn’t his crime.
I could feel it in my bones.
“We’ll dig,” Zander said finally, his voice low and resolute. “And we’ll clear this.”
Cyran’s gaze lingered on me for a moment longer. Then, with a bitter breath, he turned away and waved us off. “Then go before someone sees you down here and I have another lie to spin.”
We left the tavern by the side alley, slipping into shadow just as the clouds began to roll in—thick and heavy with rain.
The Order hadn’t done it.
But someone wanted us to believe they had.
And whoever it was… was about to learn just how dangerous it was to make my father look like the villain. Because this time, he wasn’t.
* * *
Click HERE to find out what happens next in the Fourth Guild series by reading A Court of Swords and Silver.