Epilogue
The ancient stone steps in the stairway beneath the throne room sagged in the middle, polished to a dull shine by generations of boots, soft slippers, and the scuff of urgent messengers.
In the gloom, a line of wall sconces guttered, each flame barely keeping pace with the damp.
When King Edmund Everglen made his descent, the echo of his cane was a herald’s trumpet—a crisp, deliberate tap with every footfall, amplified by the way he placed it on the edge of each tread, letting the sound reverberate before continuing.
At the bottom, two guards stood at attention, gold-trimmed sashes tight over breastplates that caught the candlelight.
The senior guard offered a shallow bow and opened the heavy door.
It swung open on silent hinges—greased weekly, as per the king’s standing order—and released a cool gust tinged with candle smoke, ink, and the particular staleness that meant the room was rarely aired but often inhabited.
Inside, the war chamber brooded. The table, an oak slab long enough to seat a dozen men on each side, dominated the space.
Maps were spread across its surface, some marked in black, others in red.
Above, iron candelabras hung from the barrel-vaulted ceiling, dripping a slow rain of wax onto already-scored wood.
On the walls, faded banners and old coats of arms watched over the proceedings with the indifference of the dead.
Tonight, five councilors awaited him. Lord Rowan Ashford, as always, stood nearest the head of the table, hands folded and expression schooled to a polite vacancy.
Next to him, Lady Celeste Marlowe traced a pattern on the tabletop with one gloved finger, her eyes on her work, lips compressed to a faint line.
Duke Roland slouched, feigning nonchalance, but on the armrest his knuckles turned white.
Elena Fairchild sat upright, feet together, her youth a pale contrast to the rest. At the far end, Lord Gideon Windmere pressed his fingertips together, a pose he had made famous in the capital: the patient spider in the center of the web.
A single scribe, a slight woman with ink-stained nails and a perpetually stooped posture, occupied the small desk at the chamber’s edge. She did not look up as the king entered. Her pen moved steadily, the faint scratching blending with the wax crackle and the muffled hush of the tapestries.
Edmund came to the table and stopped, surveying the council with the placid detachment of a naturalist observing a new species. He set the cane’s tip on the flagstone and gripped the lion’s-head pommel in both hands. For a moment, he let the silence fill the room.
“My lords and ladies,” he said. His voice was unhurried, dry as old paper, but with an edge that dared interruption. “Is there anything urgent to precede the agenda?”
A beat. No one spoke.
“Lord Ashford, then.” The king gestured to the empty seat at his right. Rowan inclined his head, took the offered place, and smoothed his robes with a careful flick of the wrist.
“Your Majesty,” Rowan began, and for all his perfect grooming, sweat had started to gather at his hairline. “We have news about the rebels. The situation has… evolved.”
Edmund did not blink. “Go on.”
Rowan took a steadying breath, eyes flickering over the assembled council. “The last reports claimed the rebel host had disintegrated. In truth, it appears they consolidated under a new command. A leader with the Gift.”
A ripple moved through the council. Lady Celeste’s hand froze mid-gesture. Elena’s shoulders tensed; the scribe’s pen hesitated, then resumed. Only Windmere remained unchanged, a thin smile creeping at the corners of his mouth.
“Gifted?” the king repeated, his voice soft as a blade slipping from its sheath.
“Yes, Your Majesty.” Rowan cleared his throat. He paused. The King looked at him impatiently.
“Yes?”
“Our sources tell us—in unison—that it seems to be the Princess Alina.”
A deadly hush fell over the room. All writing, scratching, fidgeting stopped. All eyes were on the king.
“She is not only with the rebels. They have rallied to her.”
The news did not shatter the room so much as smother it. The councilors’ faces turned pale and then paler, color draining from cheeks and lips. Duke Roland opened his mouth, shut it, then found the courage to speak: “We have confirmation?”
Rowan nodded, once. “Several sources. We have intercepted coded messages; some refer to her by title, others by name. None dispute her claim.”
“Does she have control of the Gift?” asked Lady Celeste, her voice so level it nearly passed for calm.
Rowan’s gaze dropped. “All accounts say she does. She has… improved since the last sighting.”
Edmund let out a single, sharp laugh, then stilled himself. “She always did exceed expectations, when it suited her.” He released the cane’s handle and eased himself into his seat, the carved chair creaking under his weight. He steepled his fingers, silver rings flashing.
The scribe took up her writing again, pausing only to dip her pen in the inkwell.
“Proceed,” the king said. He sounded like a predator just before pouncing.
Rowan licked his lips. “The rebels hold a system of caves in the woods north of the city, with fortifications at each entry. The population of Gifted is larger than we thought. They have weathered a power struggle—Maven Thornheart is no longer in command, nor alive, if reports are accurate. Princess Alina rules in his stead, with the rebel prince Kael at her side.”
A silence, deeper than the first.
Lord Windmere was the one to break it. “You are telling us,” he said, every syllable oiled and precise, “that the legitimate heir to the throne has survived, mastered the forbidden Gift, and is now consorting with the most dangerous outlaw in the Realm?”
Rowan’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “Yes, my lord. That is what I am telling you.”
The king leaned back, knuckles whitening on his cane.
He inhaled deeply and let the breath out slowly.
His eyes scanned the council: Lady Celeste’s terror barely masked by manners; Duke Roland’s bluster failed by the quaver in his jaw; Elena Fairchild’s breathless dread, so new to power that she had not yet learned to conceal fear.
Windmere, always the observer, watched them all.
“Well,” Edmund said, “I suppose we should be grateful for the Gift’s clarity. The time for ambiguity has passed.”
He surveyed his advisors. “Ashford, do you have recommendations?”
Rowan straightened. “If I may, Your Majesty: we suggest a three-pronged approach. The main force will assault the Caves directly; a second contingent will cut off retreat through the western passes. The third, comprised of our best Gift-trackers, will target Alina specifically. They must neutralize her.”
The king’s gaze sharpened. “Neutralize?”
Rowan nodded. “She is to be brought in alive, if possible. But the risk—”
“Is considerable,” finished Edmund. “So be it.” He fixed Duke Roland with a look. “Can you have the trackers in place by the month’s end?”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” the Duke boomed.
“Muster the regulars and ensure there are no supply delays,” the king ordered. “Use Windmere’s merchants if you must. Oversee the city’s defense. If the Gifted make it to the capital, we cannot afford an uprising.”
“Of course, Your Majesty!”
He turned to Lord Windmere. “You will coordinate with the merchants to raise funds for the campaign. Quietly. I do not want news of the princess’s survival in the city until we control the narrative.”
Windmere bowed his head, lips curling ever so slightly.
“Lady Marlowe, you will free funds for this campaign as needed, I don’t care how you do it.” Lady Marlowe bowed neatly, already calculating numbers in her head.
“Lady Fairchild, you will assist the other Council Members in whatever they need. Make it possible, make it happen. You all will do whatever necessary to bring this to a success.” He looked from face to face, leaving the “or else” part hanging unsaid in the air.
The king looked to the scribe. “Did you get all that?”
She nodded, never meeting his eyes.
“Good.” Edmund let his hands drop, resting them lightly atop the table. “We convene at dawn. Go. And find out who betrayed the last courier. I want the leak cauterized.”
Just as the councilors rose, the hush in the corridor outside the war chamber was shattered by the crash of hurried footsteps and the metallic snarl of boots on stone.
The guards straightened, every one with a hand to their sword, as a shadow flickered beneath the crack of the heavy chamber door.
They stopped in their tracks, eyes glued to the door.
A heartbeat later, it slammed open so hard it rattled the maps on the walls.
A messenger burst into the chamber, breathless and wild-eyed, the plumage of his livery plastered to a pale, sweat-shined brow.
He dropped to his knees with such force the echo boomed up the length of the table.
One trembling hand extended a sealed letter toward the king, but his eyes—blue and bloodshot—remained fixed on the floor.
Two guards were on him in an instant, blades drawn, points inches from the messenger’s neck. Edmund did not move from his seat at the table’s head. He raised a single finger, and the guards froze. The message hovered in the air, quivering.
“Bring it,” Edmund said.
A guard retrieved the letter and delivered it to the king with a flourish that bordered on theatrical, then returned to position, sword never sheathed. Edmund turned the letter in his hands, examining the broken wax and the unfamiliar sigil impressed there—a leaping fox, stylized and aggressive.
He cracked the seal and read. The council watched his face for clues, but the king’s expression was a study in restraint. Only at the last line did something change: the left corner of his mouth twitched, curving upward in a smile that was more a baring of teeth than a gesture of pleasure.
He folded the letter, slid it into his breast pocket, and addressed the room.
“Gentlemen,” he said, ignoring the female presence, “our mission has just become so much more fun. Let's rethink our plans.”
Rowan, nearest, cleared his throat. “The sender, Your Majesty?”
Edmund let the question linger a moment, enjoying the anticipation. “Someone I have had my eyes on for a long time.”
“Who, your Majesty?
“Finn Redbrook.”