Volthorn strode through the palace grounds. Around him were exquisite gardens—but instead of appreciating their beauty, he eyed them critically. Should the palace ever be assaulted, they would prove a liability: the trees blocked important lines of fire, and the greenery would go up in flames if struck by incendiary missiles. Volthorn would have to order their removal if Saven ever became threatened.

Eight soldiers greeted Volthorn at the palace doors. He had sent orders ahead to double the guard: he was pleased to see they had already complied. The sergeant on duty snapped a salute. "General Skarr, sir!"

Volthorn came to a stop. "Have we met?"

"No, sir!"

"Then how did you know I was General Skarr?"

The sergeant paused, then continued. "By the mark on your face, sir!"

Volthorn's frown deepened. He had long ago gotten used to the fact that his most salient feature was the dark red line scoring his cheek. It had even given him his nomen of Skarr. But sometimes he still had trouble accepting the fact.

"So that's what the army knows me for . . ." Volthorn muttered.

"It's a battle wound, sir," said the sergeant. "A badge of honor."

A badge of honor? Volthorn thought as he strode past them. More like a sign of failure.

The palace halls were thronged with chatting aristocrats, bustling servants, and stressed officers. Volthorn corralled a swifter racing past. "Where can I can find Magistrate Cymer?"

"Banquet hall, I believe, sir," the swifter said, then darted away.

Volthorn wound his way to the specified room, a long, many-pillared hall already set with dozens of tables. There he found the old avir conversing with several companions. All were clad in long white robes, each tied with sashes of gold, blue, or silver. As Volthorn approached, Magistrate Cymer turned.

"General!" the old avir said, bowing. His eyes shone bright blue with pleasant delight.

"Your Mageship," Volthorn said. "A word with you. Please."

"Of course," Cymer said, a frown appearing on his face as his eye color darkened. He bowed to the others and excused himself.

Volthorn stomped into an adjoining hallway, which was empty save for a few passing servants. Cymer followed more slowly, his brow furrowed. "General Skarr, is everything all right?"

"All right?" Volthorn snapped, turning to face him. "All right? Our kingdom is at war, if you haven't noticed!"

Cymer's eyes lost the rest of their blue hue, during dark brown instead. "Trust me, General. I've noticed."

"Then explain to me," Volthorn said, growling each word, "why you released Durrin Rendhart from Irongate Isle!" The mere mention of the name caused Volthorn's blood to boil. "In the past, Cymer, the regents and the military have turned a blind eye to your generous pardons. But this? This is the last straw."

Cymer strode over to a window, looking out over the city. "Sometimes the best way to heal old wounds isn't to lock people up, General."

"I'm not trying to heal old wounds," Volthorn said. He gestured to a pair of guards patrolling past. "I'm trying to keep our kingdom safe! Releasing some petty thieves and vagabonds is one thing. But Rendhart? Rendhart?! He should have been executed seven years ago!"

"Durrin Rendhart was punished according to our law," Cymer said, turning. "He committed murder, and for that he was sentenced to fourteen years in prison. In my capacity as chief magistrate, I reduced his term by half."

Volthorn could barely believe his ears. Had Cymer forgotten what Rendhart was capable of? The turmoil and chaos that man had brought upon their nation in a single day? Maybe it was easier to forget when you didn't have a scar etched across your face. "Rendhart is a threat to our kingdom's security," he said, breathing deeply as he struggled to stay calm. "The military should have been consulted before you released him—and especially before releasing him the morning of Adara's coronation!"

Cymer studied him. "Do you expect him to cause a problem?"

"Yes!" Volthorn nearly punctured a tapestry with his claws. "I've ordered six hundred troops to line every inch of the processional route from here to the river!"

Cymer shook his head, his gaze becoming distant. "I can assure you, General. Durrin will not pose a threat to Her Majesty today. His path will take him far from Saven."

"If so," said Volthorn, "Then I bet a thousand shekels he'll head straight back to Calamar, to resume his service to their murderous cause."

"You don't know he will," Cymer said softly.

"And you don't know he won't!" Volthorn growled.

Cymer laid a hand on Volthorn's shoulder. "Peace, Volthorn. Do you think I have forgotten the harm Durrin dealt our kingdom? Releasing him was no light matter. What I did, I did with great cause."

Volthorn searched for any sign of duplicity in the old avir's eyes. He found none. "What was that cause?"

Cymer pursed his lips. "I cannot say. Not yet."

Before Volthorn could protest, a swifter messenger, attired in a pure white vest and golden sash, padded to a halt in front of Cymer. She bowed reverently.

"Ku aveli do vera ti," she said. Volthorn recognized it as a common greeting in an ancient language called the Numinous Tongue. The language was used frequently by members of the Luminant Order, in which he knew Cymer was a prominent leader.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

Cymer bowed in reply. "Ku avara to kima di," he said before reverting to Lurrian. "What tidings do you bear?"

"The glade is ready. It's time we gathered."

Cymer turned back to Volthorn. "We'll have to continue our conversation later, General Skarr. I must prepare for the coronation ceremony."

Volthorn scowled. "If you insist, Magistrate." Inwardly, Volthorn's mind was already at work, planning and preparing. Cymer's words had done little to assuage his fears. Rendhart was still a threat, as volatile as fire. And if Cymer felt he had the authority to release that fire, Volthorn felt justified using his authority to contain it.

As the avir glided away with the swifter, a soldier marched up to Volthorn and saluted. "General Skarr! The High Chancellor requests your presence in the council room."

"Can it wait?" Volthorn said. He itched to be overseeing the hunt for Rendhart, not wasting time in meetings.

"He is the High Chancellor, sir. One of the co-regents."

And one of the ones I'll be meeting with to decide the direction of the war, Volthorn thought grudgingly. "Very well. Let's hope he doesn't talk my ears off."

"We can always hope, sir," the sergeant said. Volthorn caught the hint of a smile behind his salute.

Volthorn took a moment to get his bearings, then picked what he hoped was the right corridor. It had been two years since he'd been to the palace. He tried to avoid coming here—it brought back too many memories. He passed a section where the wood paneling was noticeably newer and the stones under his foot were stained black with fire.

Nearly a fourth of the palace had burned that fateful day. Volthorn remembered stumbling through these corridors, gasping at servants to fetch buckets to put out the flames, wondering if his stinging eyes were wet from smoke or from tears.

After only one wrong turn, he arrived. Much smaller than either the banquet hall or the majestic throne room, the council room was a cozy, circular chamber, well furnished with chairs and pillows. In the center, a recessed floor held a table spread with a large map of the kingdom, currently littered with a variety of drinks and hors d'oeuvres.

Several bored-looking dignitaries occupied the room, all held captive by the locutions of a grey-haired swifter: Chancellor Skagar, the busiest administrator Volthorn had ever seen. As one of the kingdom's co-regents, Skagar had been the driving force behind the kingdom's management for the last seven years, working from well before dawn to well after dusk each day. Volthorn had seen the aging swifter keep four scribes busy simultaneously, dictating four different letters at the same time. Unfortunately, this practice had carried over into his day-to-day conversations—including the current one.

image [https://i.imgur.com/Fbxc2DV.png]

Chancellor Skagar, co-regent of Elandria. Generated by the author via Midjourney.

". . . but regardless, I'm sure today's ceremony will be absolutely stunning. I assume you read the last letter I sent you? The streets will be lined with banners, over a hundred of them. I apologize for the letter's length; I get a little carried away with my instructions sometimes. And the royal barge has stood the tests of time quite well, much better than Lady Luviana feared. In that letter, I failed to commend the eastern provinces for surpassing their recruitment quota. Ah! And here is General Skarr."

"You wanted to speak with me, Chancellor?" Volthorn grunted.

With the pause in the conversation, the aristocrats in the room seized their chance, muttering excuses as they escaped out the door. Good. Volthorn wanted a private conversation, anyway.

"Volthorn Skarr," Skagar said, his tail swishing as he paced. "You must tell me all about your journey."

"It was boring," Volthorn said. "As I hoped." He found himself a glass to pour some wine. "How is the princess?"

"She'll do all right," Skagar said. "Though I shouldn't have left so much of her tutelage to Lady Luviana's care. Adara's etiquette is impeccable and her diplomatic skills extensive, but I fear she falls short in legal knowledge and economic theory."

Well that wasn't exactly a helpful answer.

"No, I meant how is she." Volthorn had barely seen the princess over the last seven years. When he thought of her, he still pictured the eager, excited girl that had often walked at her father's side—when she wasn't running ahead, anyway, which would have annoyed the royal bodyguard more if it hadn't been so endearing.

The swifter frowned. "I'm worried about her, Volthorn. I can smell her anxiety whenever she enters the room. Our kingdom at war, armies marching across our lands—a child shouldn't have to deal with such problems."

"A child?" Volthorn said. "She's turning eighteen today. I had fought in three campaigns by the time I was her age."

"She's an avir," Skagar said. "You're a korrik. It's different."

"And you're a swifter," Volthorn said. "You probably had raised a brood by the time you were eighteen."

"Two," Skagar sniffed.

"Which just supports my point," Volthorn said. "She has had seven years to prepare. If she's anything like her father, she'll do just fine." He took a gulp of wine. When he resumed, he dropped his voice to barely more than a whisper. "On that note, Chancellor—has she found out the truth?"

Skagar froze, one paw raised in mid-stride. "About . . . his death?"

Volthorn glanced at the door to make sure it was closed before nodding.

Skagar shook his head. "She doesn't suspect anything, as far as I can tell. The few who know the truth have done an excellent job of keeping to the narrative we all decided upon."

"Good," said Volthorn.

"Why do you bring it up?" the swifter said. "I smell fear about you. Worry."

Rendhart. The name echoed in Volthorn's mind.

He shook his head. "I'm just nervous for today. As a precaution, I've doubled the processional guard."

"Yes, I heard you had taken that liberty." Skagar said. He stopped directly in front of Volthorn. "Last time I checked, I don't believe the city garrison was under your jurisdiction."

"Do you care?" Volthorn said, sinking down into a chair. "Commander Gerren is dead. We both know the only two viable replacements you have are me and General Orrin. And, as I have heard you yourself complain several times on General Orrin's overcautiousness, and seeing you have not bothered to summon him to the capital, I figure that you have already made your choice."

The chancellor scowled. "Well . . . perhaps. But even so, a command is a command, General. Don't overstep your authority."

"With all due respect, Chancellor," Volthorn said, leaning forward, "proper protocol is low on my list of priorities right now."

They met each other's eyes. Technically, Volthorn should have looked away after a second—high nobility outranked military officers—but instead he met the swifter's gaze for a pregnant moment.

"Rendhart is free," Volthorn announced.

The hair rose all along the swifter's neck. "He escaped?"

"No. Somebody decided it was a good idea to pardon him. This morning."

Skagar pivoted to resume his pacing, moving quicker this time. "Stars above, Cymer," he muttered. "Why?"

"Cymer wouldn't specify. He said he had good reasons."

"Where is Rendhart now?"

"Somewhere in the city. I have guards watching for him at every gate."

"We must call off the coronation, postpone it until he is found," Skagar said instantly, then shook his head. "No, no, we can't do that. Adara will ask questions. Everyone will. Could we cancel just the procession? Hold the ceremony in the palace? No, Adara would insist on tradition."

"Can someone be her double?" Volthorn suggested. "Just for the procession?"

Skagar shook his head. "We have none prepared. No one who could pass as her, not with hair as dark as hers. No, we have to proceed as planned. You've already doubled the processional guard. We don't even know if Rendhart will try something. It's been seven years. He was released just this morning—his powers will still be at a trickle. And if we take any extreme precaution, Adara will ask too many questions."

"Then we proceed with the ceremony?"

"We proceed."

"Then I will don my gear and personally escort the Princess," Volthorn said, standing. Right beside the monarch. Captain of the guard. The final line of defense.

Like last time.

He only hoped the outcome would be different this time.