The Vance Banner
? Ivy ?
Three days after the western compact is entered into the record, the Vance banner reaches the capital gates.
Two western houses refuse to ride beneath it, and one northern patrol turns back at the compact line. The Vance witness arrives with less unity than the banner suggests.
I spend the morning in the Northern command room with Holt’s reports spread across the long table and three riders waiting for answers.
Eastmere remains closed. The ridge crews found two more cut marker ropes above the pass, and one of the patrol stations had been stripped of its firewood before the convoy ever reached it.
Birch Hollow has no new fever cases, but the western supply wagon is running late because one of its horses went lame outside the lower ford.
A missing rope, a delayed wagon, or a rider who doesn’t arrive can become the beginning of something worse.
I sign the order sending a replacement team to the western road and slide it toward Holt.
“Give Birch Hollow the reserve crates from the east stores,” I say. “They’ve got enough guards with Dane for now. They need medicine more than another sword.”
Holt checks the order. “The east stores will be thin.”
“They’ll be thin for two days. Birch Hollow has sick pups now.”
He nods and folds the paper into the stack.
The next report comes from the capital gate. A guard waits near the door until I look at him.
“The Vance delegation has passed the outer check,” he says. “Four honor guards, one witness, no levy.”
“Any riders behind them?”
“No, Luna.”
“Any request for a private meeting before they enter the court?”
“No.”
“Then bring them through the inner gate under compact protocol. Keep the public square clear, but don’t close the market streets. I won’t have the capital acting like we’re under siege because a lawful witness is coming through the gate.”
“Yes, Luna.”
He bows and leaves. For a moment, the room is quiet except for Holt gathering reports.
“You’ve got the court ready?” I ask.
“Rowan does. Grant’s been arguing that the delegation should stay outside the inner wall until the council reviews their purpose.”
“And Rowan?”
“Hearing none of it.”
“Good.”
Holt looks toward the infirmary wing. “Are you bringing Roman?” The question sits between us.
Roman has spent the last three days healing in inches. He can stand with help, walk a short distance if Nora is watching him, and hold a conversation without closing his eyes halfway through it. He can’t fight, shift, or pretend Eastmere only took a single wound from him.
“He’ll decide that himself,” I say.
“It should.”
I leave the command room and cross the quieter side of the palace toward the infirmary.
Roman’s standing when I enter. Nora has one hand beneath his elbow while the other’s pressed flat against his chest as though irritation might force him back into bed. He’s dressed in formal black, but the coat hangs loose across his shoulders, and the edge of his bandage shows beneath it.
“You’re not going,” Nora says.
“I am.”
“You stood for less than a minute.”
“I’ve stood longer.”
“Not while you look ready to collapse.”
Roman’s eyes find mine. I stop just inside the door. “How long has he been up?”
“Too long,” Nora says.
Roman ignores her. “The delegation’s at the gate.”
“I know.”
He watches me for a moment, waiting for the answer he thinks I’m going to give him.
“You want to be there?” I ask.
“Yes.”
Nora makes a quiet sound beneath her breath, but I move closer to Roman.
“Then come,” I say. “Sit when Nora tells you, and leave when she says you’re done.”
Nora points at him. “One hour. No shifting or fighting.”
“I understand.”
“You rarely do.”
When Nora finally lets go of him, Roman reaches for my hand.
“You don’t need me there,” he says quietly.
“I know.”
“Then why are you taking me?”
“Because I want you beside me.”
His fingers close around mine once, and some of the strain leaves his face.
“Then I’m coming.”
Nora returns with a high-backed chair and two guards to carry it. Roman looks at it as though he’d rather walk into another fight. I look at him. “Sit.” He sits.
The council hall’s full when we arrive. Rowan stands near the open doors with Holt beside him, both of them dressed in dark court blue. Grant waits several paces away with his hands folded behind his back, and Jace stands at his shoulder in formal black.
Jace looks first at Roman’s chair, then at me.
He can look all he wants. Roman’s wounded, but he’s here, and the North hasn’t fallen apart because he was forced to rest. Rowan steps toward us.
“The delegation’s at the inner gate,” he says. “Their entry is in order.”
Grant’s voice cuts in before Rowan can say anything else. “The capital doesn’t need foreign guards walking through its gates while the North is under threat.”
“The compact gives them lawful entry,” Rowan says.
“I signed that compact for trade disputes.”
“You signed it for witness rights.”
Grant’s attention shifts toward me. “And you’re comfortable allowing a foreign lord through our gates while hostile factions are targeting you?”
“The people who set Eastmere were already inside our borders,” I say. “I’m not going to call a lawful witness an enemy because it’s convenient for you.”
His expression closes. Roman’s fingers brush the chair arm beside mine. He doesn’t speak, but I know he heard every word.
Rowan turns toward the court guard. “Open the inner doors.”
The guard bows and signals to the pair waiting at the far end of the hall.
A horn sounds from the gate square, low and formal, and the council moves into the open court.
Rain washed the stone clean overnight. The air’s cold beneath a pale sky, and every guard along the walls is watching the inner arch.
The public square beyond the gates remains open, but merchants, stable hands, and workers have gathered at its edge.
They know enough to recognize a foreign banner when they see one.
The Vance delegation enters at a measured pace.
Four guards ride behind a single man on a dark gray horse, and above them a dark-blue banner moves in the wind. A silver wolf stands beneath a broken crown.
I saw that mark only once before, pressed into the wax on Rowan’s packet. It looks different now that it’s high above the courtyard and moving toward us.
The guards wear blue at their collars, but their swords remain sheathed. Their hands stay away from their weapons as they cross the court, and they ride like people who know everyone here’s waiting for a reason to call them a threat.
The man at their front dismounts before anyone reaches him.
He’s taller than I expected and broad through the shoulders despite the silver at his temples. His coat is plain dark wool trimmed in blue, not the kind of thing Grant would wear to make certain everyone knew he was important. An old scar pulls at one corner of his mouth.
One of the guards dismounts behind him and removes a sealed case from the saddle. He carries it forward with both hands, then stops a careful distance from Rowan.
“Witness credentials for the western compact,” the guard says.
Rowan takes the case and breaks the blue wax.
Grant watches him closely. “You’re admitting them before the council has examined the documents?”
“The compact doesn’t require the crown’s permission for a lawful witness to enter,” Rowan says. “You know that.”
The guard’s gaze flicks toward Grant, but the man beneath the Vance banner doesn’t look at him. His eyes move across the courtyard, settling first on Rowan, then Grant, and finally Roman.
They pause on the pale scar along Roman’s jaw, and something passes over the man’s face before he hides it.
“War Alpha,” he says.
Roman gives him a short nod.
“You recognize him?” Grant asks.
The man’s attention stays on Roman. “I recognize what your court leaves behind.”
The words settle across the courtyard.
Grant’s face hardens. “You’re here as a witness, not to make accusations before the record opens.”
“I’m aware of why I came.”
His voice stays low and even, but the guards along the wall seem to hear every word. Then he looks at me.
His attention moves over my hair, my face, and the way I’m standing beside Roman’s chair. He isn’t looking at a title, and he isn’t looking at an enemy.
He looks like he recognizes something he can’t bear to recognize.
Roman shifts beside me, not trying to rise but ready anyway.
The man takes one step forward.
“Your name?” he asks.
Rowan’s expression tightens. “Lord Vance, protocol.”
The man doesn’t look away from me.
“Ivy Brooks Maddox,” I say.
His breath catches. His gaze catches on my hair again before dropping to Roman’s hand around mine. The color leaves his face.
“No.”
I straighten. “You know my name?”
His hand closes around the leather strap at his side as though he needs something solid to hold.
Then he says a name I’ve never heard before.
“Willow.”
The word lands hard enough that I almost miss Roman’s hand tightening around mine.
I look at the stranger beneath the Vance banner. “Who’s Willow?”
His control breaks completely.
He looks at me again, then at Rowan, as though one of them should stop this before he has to say it.
“You don’t know her name,” he says.
“I asked who she is.”
Grant steps forward at once. “This is why foreign witnesses should be handled through the council before being given access to the Luna.”
“Enough,” Rowan says.
Grant stops, but only because everyone in the courtyard is watching.
The stranger’s gaze comes back to me.
“What were you told about your mother?” he asks.
The question catches me wrong.
“Nothing,” I say. “I was told she died.”
His face changes.
“Willow died,” he says quietly. “But she wasn’t nothing.”
My throat closes.
“Willow was your mother.”
For a moment, nobody moves. I stare at him. “You’re wrong.”
“I wish I were.”
He bows his head once, and when he looks at me again, grief is written plainly across his face.
“My name is Aurelian Vance. I entered under the western compact to give evidence against King Grant Maddox. I came prepared to speak about raids, erased records, and bloodlines the crown tried to bury.”
Grant’s face hardens. Aurelian doesn’t look at him again.
“I believed Willow died carrying our child,” he says. “I believed you both were gone.”
I can’t seem to pull air into my lungs.
Aurelian looks at me as though he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he blinks.
“I came to testify against the king,” he says. “I didn’t know I’d find my daughter alive.”