The memory lingered, a cold hand gripping his heart every time he settled on the hard stone of the throne. It played out like a cruel tourney, each moment a blow. One minute he stood tall on the King's justice, the second highest seat in the realm. The next, the ground rushed up to meet him, a sickening fall that left him staring sightless at the black water. These were the dreams that stole his breath, a never-ending winter that clung to him even in sleep. Some nights, he woke with a gasp, the echoes of the fall ringing in his ears. Knights would come rushing in, faces grim, but he'd mutter a gruff word, wipe the sweat from his brow with a rough cloth, and send them away. Only to be dragged back under, the icy water claiming him once more.

Galen kept his woes bottled up tight. He'd seen what happened to those who whined and whimpered. The Idols only clamped down harder, shoving you deeper into the muck until you couldn't claw your way back up for air. Sleep offered no solace either. Nightmares coiled around him like vipers, and for the first time, he dreaded closing his eyes. He threw on a tunic, the urge for fresh air gnawing at him. Maybe a walk through the gardens would clear his head. Stepping out of his overly decorated chambers, he spotted another soul with the same thought. Ser Theron, one of the Queen's white swords, shuffled down the hall.

His ‘Kilij’, Oathkeeper, dragged behind him like a weary heart. His golden hair, once a crown of glory, hung lank and unwashed. Galen considered conversing with the knight. Perhaps his company would ease the tightness in his chest. But Galen found no comfort in knights these days. He turned instead, seeking the familiar creak of the long stairs. The servants had a foul name for them, The Groaner. A cruel jest by the Queen, if ever there was one. Endless steps that went on forever, testing the patience of even the most stalwart. Some, like the Queen's nephew Prince Korin, claimed it built character. Galen wasn't so sure about that, but he supposed it kept his legs strong. A small mercy, perhaps, in this gilded cage.

A curt nod was all Lord Galen offered the ten guards, their helms reflecting the cold dawn back at the castle. Yet, the heavy oak doors remained stubbornly shut. Disquiet settled over the scene. These were good men, loyal to the crown, and they wouldn't disobey an order without cause. "Open the gates, Dralik," Galen commanded the nearest guard. A man of few words, his hand instinctively went to the hilt of his sword. A soldier's reflex, honed by years of duty.

"My lord," he began, voice gruff, "we've been instructed by Ser Luthon to deny passage to anyone." Galen met his gaze, a flicker of unease battling the calmness expected of his position.

"What reason did Ser Luthon give?" Dralik shook his head, brow furrowed. "None, my lord. He simply relayed the order." This was peculiar. Luthon, for all his sternness, was a man of order and followed the crown's commands with unwavering loyalty. His knights, too, were renowned for their discipline. What madness had possessed him to defy the very authority he served? A disloyal act, one that could have dire consequences. Yet, the man wouldn't dare act on a whim. Something was afoot, something troubling that clouded Luthon's usually clear judgment.

A curt order echoed through the tense courtyard. "Take me to your captain. Now." Dralik, after a jerky nod towards another knight, barked out an instruction.

"Tormek, escort the Hand to Ser Luthon." Tormek, with a brisk nod, hurried over and led the way. He wasn't visibly nervous, but appearances could be deceiving. They climbed the winding stairs, but instead of continuing upwards, Tormek steered Galen through a doorway onto a servants' level. They proceeded past numerous closed doors, an unexpected route.

"What business does your captain have in these quarters?" Galen inquired, a question hanging in the air unanswered as Tormek remained silent. A growing unease gnawed at Galen. The pieces weren't fitting. When Tormek reached a door and knocked, the ensuing sounds only deepened the mystery. Scuffling noises, then the door creaking open to reveal a very surprised Ser Luthon, clad only in a towel. Galen's eyebrows shot up in disbelief. The scene before him defied explanation.

"Yes? What business do you have with me at this time?" Luthon stammered, directing his question at Tormek. The knight bowed his head, stepping aside to reveal Galen. Luthon's eyes widened in shock. He lurched forward, dropping to his knees.

"My apologies, my lord," he stammered. "I... I was unaware of your arrival." Galen observed him with a cold detachment, his voice laced with ice as he addressed the kneeling knight.

"Your men barred the entrance. Explain yourselves" Luthon coughed awkwardly.

A sour taste crept onto Lord Galen's tongue as Ser Luthon bowed, pronouncements of apologies dripping from his lips. "Assassins within the city walls," the man had claimed, news gleaned from "soldiers within Aerakos's Haven warned me of such" Yet the tremor in Luthon's voice spoke louder than words, a discordant note amidst the practiced courtesy. Galen clenched his jaw, the weight of the helm a dull ache against his brow. He'd known men to shirk their duty in the face of danger, to seek solace in wine and song rather than the chill bite of the night watch. But to bring such news, however flimsy, only to delay in its delivery… it smacked of self-importance, a desire to play the hero without the action.

"Late, was it?" Galen rumbled, the fire crackling in the hearth casting flickering shadows on the walls. He kept his voice level, the cold fury simmering beneath. A knight knew his duty, knew the chain of command. Disrupting the chain, especially with whispers of assassins, was a game for fools. Luthon shifted his weight, a sheen of sweat appearing on his forehead despite the cool air of the chamber.

"Aye, my lord," he stammered. "I wouldn't want to disturb your rest with such… unsettling news." Galen fought the urge to roll his eyes. Rest? With a city on edge and whispers of treachery? A true knight wouldn't dream of such indulgence. He sighed, the sound heavy in the tense silence.

"Ser Luthon," he began, his voice laced with steel, "there are consequences for delayed reports, for…" he hesitated, searching for the right word, "for embellishment." Across the room, Tormek, his loyal captain of the guard, stiffened. A flicker of something, perhaps anticipation, passed through his dark eyes. Galen met his gaze for a brief moment, a silent command passing between them. But Luthon, instead of cowering, did something unexpected. A smile, sly and unsettling, tugged at the corner of his lips. His gaze darted to Tormek, then back to Galen.

"Apologies, my lord," he said, his voice tinged with something akin to amusement, "but my loyalty lies with Ser Luthon. Taking him into custody… well, that wouldn't be possible at this… moment." Galen's hand tightened around the hilt of his sword. The man's defiance, the veiled threat in his words, sent a surge of anger through him. This was no mere lapse in judgement, this was… something else entirely. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled, a cold warning that sent a shiver down his spine.

“So you deny my command?” Demanded Galen carefully. The knight didn’t do anything to confirm what he had said. Galen rubbed his forehead. “I understand. Then I apologize for what I will do to you and your soldiers but with the power that resides within me now.” He met both of the knights in the eyes. “I hereby withdraw your knighthood until further notice.” With that Galen turned and walked away. Not a murmur, not a whisper followed him as he went. Only four eyes drilling into his back.

Galen wondered what had happened to Luthon, the man who had joined the knights at such a young age with honorable intentions was now… Perhaps this was the consequence of the peaceful times. It was as the Council Elder Elindra had said to him one time three years ago. Their anniversary for the Queen's coronation. A time for celebrating the peace that had ensued in her rule.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

“The old stones whisper of a turning of the wheel," the elder intoned, her voice dry as old parchment. "Ages of winter sharpen the claws of men, forging them into hardened steel. Yet when the sun returns and the snows recede, those same men grow soft, lulled by ease. They forget the bite of the cold, the gnaw of hunger, and a new generation, untested, must rise to face the next inevitable winter." This was what played out now perhaps. Soldiers were hardly in need of anymore, most spending their times playing cards and drinking instead of working.

A sliver of colored light, like a wound in the stone, sliced across Galen's face as he descended the steps. He flinched, raising a hand to shield his eyes. The dawn had come on quicker than he'd expected, or perhaps he'd lingered too long in his chambers, lost in thought. He couldn't quite recall. It was a disquietude that gnawed at him these days, a hollowness that sleep couldn't fill. He reached the level of the Queen's chambers and found the usual morning bustle in full swing.

Servants scurried about, their movements sharp and practiced. They dipped their heads and mumbled respectful greetings as they spotted him, a ritual that felt oddly hollow this morning. Disrespect was a rare thing for him, but the memory of Luthon's veiled insolence still lingered, a bitter aftertaste. He paused before the Queen's door, its dark oak surface intricately carved with scenes of legend, each a testament to forgotten masters. Two figures stood guard, the Queen's personal guard. Ser Vorthar, a man who'd seen service under the Queen's father and his own, gave a curt nod. Galen never quite trusted those who outlived their charges. The man's gray hair was pulled back tight, a bushy mustache hiding any hint of expression beneath. Beside him stood Randor, younger, barely into his twenties, his dark hair a mess of sleep. A smile flickered across Randor's face when he saw Galen.

"Lord Hand," Randor greeted, his voice relaxed. "What brings you here at this ungodly hour?" Galen swallowed, the disquietude tightening in his gut.

"News," he said finally. "Urgent news for the Queen." Randor and Vorthar both looked at each other, seeming to be worried.

Vorthar's hand tightened on his hilt. "Good news, I hope, my lord? What troubles you?" Galen shook his head, a knot of unease twisting in his gut.

"Keep a sharp eye," he warned the guards. This news was for the Queen's ears only, but a cold dread gnawed at him. Luthon hadn't been discreet, and whispers traveled faster than ravens in a castle. He could only pray the man had kept his mouth shut.

"Only the Queen," he muttered, his voice hard. Randor's grip mirrored Vorthar's, his youthful face grim.

"Understood, my lord. But Her Majesty slumbers still. Perhaps, if it can wait..." Galen cut him off with a shake of his head. Time was a fickle beast, and this news wouldn't wait.

"Wake her," he commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument. Vorthar bowed curtly and approached the ornately carved oak door. Three knocks echoed in the pre-dawn quiet, followed by a disgruntled bellow from within.

"What in seven hells is the meaning of this racket?" the Queen roared. A hint of a smirk played on Randor's lips. Her Majesty wasn't known for her patience at this hour. Vorthar called back through the door.

"Lord Hand Galen seeks an audience, Your Grace. He claims it urgent." Silence followed, punctuated by the rustle of movement. Finally, the Queen's voice, though less volatile, boomed out,

"Send him in, then. And close the door properly, Vorthar, there's a chill in this air."

The door creaked open a sliver, revealing the Queen. Her hair was a mess of silver strands, escaping the confines of a hastily donned robe. A chill wind from the window tugged at it, mirroring the unease in Galen's gut. She offered a wan smile.

"Come in, Galen. No need for ceremony this early." He dipped his head respectfully and entered the chamber. The Queen straightened, trying to project an air of regality. Yet, the disarray of her attire and the worry etched on her face betrayed her. "Forgive my state, Galen," she said, her voice rough with sleep. "As you can see, I haven't yet…" She trailed off with a sigh. Galen rose to his full height, forgoing the formality of kneeling.

"Your Grace," he began, running a hand through his beard. "There's troubling news, and I fear it may not be entirely reliable, but…" The Queen's eyes narrowed, concern flickering within them.

"Speak plainly, friend. What troubles the castle?" He took a deep breath.

"I had planned a night walk in the gardens, but Lunthor's knights barred my way. When I questioned them, they claimed it was his order to have the gardens guarded."

A frown etched itself onto the Queen's face. "Lunthor? What business does he have guarding the gardens?" "Did they offer any explanation?" the Queen demanded, her voice laced with suspicion. Galen shook his head.

"No, Your Grace. Instead, one of their knights escorted me to Lunthor. He was found... in an unusual location." He hesitated, then blurted out, "The servants' quarters, Your Grace. My apologies for the bluntness." The Queen waved a dismissive hand.

"Speak plainly, Galen. What troubles you?"

"Lunthor claimed to have received word of assassins in Aerakos's Haven," Galen continued. "He offered no explanation for withholding such news." The Queen's face hardened, her jaw clenching. She rose and began to pace the room, her steps echoing in the pre-dawn quiet.

"And why did he not inform us of this threat?" she demanded, a dangerous glint in her eyes.

"He claimed the lateness of the hour," Galen replied. "When I ordered his knight to detain him, the man refused. For their disobedience,

I stripped them both of their knighthoods for the time being." The Queen nodded curtly.

"A wise decision, Galen. Lunthor's actions were troubling. Normally, he is a man of duty." A frown creased Galen's brow. He shared the Queen's unease.

"What are your orders, Your Grace?" She paused, considering her options. A humorless laugh escaped her lips.

"It seems a return to a more vigilant guard is necessary. We cannot afford such lapses in security. Additionally, Lunthor and his knights are to be detained until this matter is investigated further." The Queen stopped pacing, her hand reaching up to smooth her hair, which had come loose in her agitation.

"And what of these assassins, Your Grace?" Galen pressed carefully. The Queen's brow furrowed.

"We need to lock down Aerakos's Haven fast. Get guards in the city, questioning anyone who might know anything about these supposed assassins. Anyone suspicious, anyone out of place - bring them in for a closer look." A flicker of doubt crossed her face.

"Honestly, I hate these snap decisions. Always the worry of going overboard." Galen met her gaze with unwavering loyalty.

"Your calls have always been good ones, Your Grace. Trust your gut. I have a feeling this will be another smart move." The Queen offered him a grateful smile.

"Here's hoping, my friend. Only time will tell." Time, a relentless march, held the answers they craved. Galen's mind drifted back to the Queen's rise to power. A young girl of five, she'd been thrust into a tough spot after her father, King Aros the Vain, kicked the bucket. How King Aros died was a mystery. A young man, barely in his thirties, when it happened. No one missed him much.

King Aros's reign had been a disaster for the kingdom, piling on debt and letting corruption run wild. The King lined his pockets while his people suffered, his goons shaking them down for every coin they had. It was a deep regret for Galen. He hadn't known what the King was up to, since Aros only confided in his brother, Prince Ered. When the young princess inherited the throne, many questioned if she was up to the job. Some wanted the Queen Dowager to take charge, while others, including himself, had been hesitant to step up. He hadn't felt fit, haunted by past mistakes.

Galen backed the young Queen. In the end, the council grumbled but agreed. It was during their first meeting that they glimpsed the steel beneath her innocent facade. Despite her tender age, she spent hours buried in books, scribbling furiously in margins. Her questions, often strange and probing, initially fueled doubts about her fitness to rule. But slowly, it dawned on them – she wasn't odd, she was sharp. Her first act as Queen was a bold one – a complete overhaul of the council, with the sole exception of Galen himself. When he pressed her on this curious decision, she offered only a giggle and a cryptic,

"You'll understand someday." Galen, a hardened man, was taken aback by the girl's audacity. Yet, he watched as she replaced the council with men of honor and integrity. Time proved her right. These were the men and women who guided the kingdom through some of its darkest hours. The people adored their Queen. She was their beacon, their pride, their most cherished leader. As Galen knelt to take his leave and carry out his assigned duties, a commotion erupted. A man burst through the doors, his face contorted in urgency.

The door burst open with a bang, revealing Vorandus, the Queen's captain of the guard. His face was a mask of terror. "Your Grace!" he roared, collapsing to his knees. Galen surged to his feet, grabbing Vorandus by the shoulders and hauling him upright.

"Gods be good, man! What's happened?" Vorandus shook his head, his voice a strangled whisper.

"Intruders." Galen's gaze snapped to Queen Zorvaia. Her face had drained of color.

"What kind of intruders?" he demanded, his voice tight. "Anyone injured?" Vorandus rose, towering over Galen. His eyes were hollow.

"The Prince," he choked out. "Dead. Murdered in his chambers." The news slammed into Galen like a physical blow. The room seemed to shrink, the air thick with dread. Queen Zorvaia swayed, her hand flying to her mouth.