Blood dripped from the assassin’s split lip, staining the collar of his rough tunic. Irmin flexed her fingers, fighting the urge to strike him again. The interrogation chamber’s stone walls seemed to press closer, heavy with the stink of fear and lies.

“One more time.” Her voice emerged low, controlled. “Who hired you?”

The man spat red. “Told you. House Darius. Lord himself gave us the daggers, said the King had grown soft. Said changes were coming.”

Across the chamber, chained to the opposite wall, the second assassin jerked his head up. “He lies! We never met any nobles. The ravenglass dealer paid us, that’s all.”

Irmin’s armour felt too tight, her skin crawling beneath steel plate stained with her father’s blood.

Six hours of questioning, and still the stories shifted like sand through her fingers.

A scrape of claws on stone drew her attention. Berthold’s massive form filled the archway, his black scales edged with crimson in the torchlight. Through their bond, she felt his concern—for her state of mind and for the increasingly agitated prisoners.

“Your blade is sharp,” he said through their bond. “But your temper will dull it if you’re not careful.”

She ignored him, focusing instead on the first assassin. “These meetings with House Darius. When? Where?”

“His private study,” the man answered. “Three times this past month. Always after sunset.” His eyes darted to his companion. “The sigil on the dagger proves it. Everyone knows House Darius crafts the finest weapons in the Kingdom.”

“Liar!” The second assassin strained against his chains. “The dealer gave us those blades. Said they were part of our payment, along with the ravenglass. You’re just trying to save your own skin.”

Irmin drew the dagger from her belt—the one she’d found at the scene. Its weight felt wrong in her hand, the balance slightly off. But the sigil was unmistakable—the crossed swords and rising sun of House Darius.

“This dealer.” She turned to the second assassin. “Describe him.”

“Tall. Wore a hooded cloak. Spoke with an accent—maybe eastern? Paid us in corrupted ravenglass.” He wet his lips. “Said it was worth triple its weight in gold to the right buyers.”

“Ravenglass can’t be corrupted,” Irmin snapped. “Everyone knows that.”

But even as the words left her mouth, she remembered whispers from the border garrison. Rumours of black-market traders dealing in tainted shards that pulsed with sickly light. She’d dismissed the stories as superstition.

“You’re letting guilt cloud your judgement.” Berthold’s thoughts pressed against hers. “These men are puppets—they’ll tell you anything to save themselves.”

She whirled on him. “They killed my father!”

Through their bond, she felt Berthold’s frustration war with sympathy. But before he could respond, boots rang in the corridor outside.

General Eberhard strode in, his ceremonial armour replaced by practical leather and steel. His gaze swept the chamber, taking in the battered prisoners and Irmin’s white-knuckled grip on the dagger.

“Commander.” His tone carried warning. “A word.”

She followed him into the corridor, breathing deeply to master her temper.

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

The general’s grizzled face bore new lines of exhaustion. “The council wants this handled quietly,” he said. “Properly.” He held up a hand as she started to protest. “I know you found evidence implicating House Darius. But accusations against a noble house require—”

“Require what?” Heat rose in her chest. “More bodies? More proof that traitors walk our halls while we concern ourselves with protocol?”

“Require certainty.” Eberhard’s eyes hardened. “We cannot afford hasty accusations, not with the court already fracturing. Leave this to the council. That’s an order.”

She drew herself up, shoulders rigid. “With respect, sir, the council’s procedures won’t catch killers. Action will.”

“And what action do you propose? Storming House Darius based on a prisoner’s confession? Starting a civil war because a dagger bore the wrong sigil?” He stepped closer, voice dropping. “Think, Commander. If House Darius truly orchestrated this, why arm their assassins with marked weapons? Why not use common steel?”

She had wondered the same thing, in the quiet moments between interrogations. But the alternative—that someone wanted them to suspect House Darius—opened possibilities too dangerous to contemplate.

“The ravenglass connection needs investigation,” she said instead. “If smugglers are truly trading in corrupted specimens…”

“Then proper channels will handle it.” Eberhard’s tone softened. “I know you want justice. We all do. But rushing to conclusions will only make things worse.”

She remained silent, jaw clenched. Berthold’s approval of the general’s words warred with his shared desire for immediate action.

“Return to your duties,” Eberhard said. “Let the investigation proceed according to protocol. That’s an order, Commander.”

He turned on his heel, boots ringing on stone as he strode away. Irmin stood motionless, the dagger a cold weight in her hand.

“He’s right about one thing,” Berthold said, moving to her side. “This feels too neat. Too convenient.”

She traced the House Darius sigil with her thumb. “Since when do you counsel patience?”

“Since I watched you spiral into guilt-driven rage.” Berthold’s wing brushed her shoulder. “You’re not thinking clearly, and your enemies are counting on that.”

“They killed him, Berthold.” Her voice cracked. “They killed him while we flew pretty patterns in the sky. While we played at being heroes.”

“Then honour his memory by being smarter than they expect. By seeing the whole board, not just the piece they want you to chase.”

She drew a deep breath, then another.

General Eberhard’s orders rang in her ears, but beneath them, threads of conspiracy pulled at her mind.

The dagger’s weight.

The corrupted ravenglass.

The too-perfect trail leading to House Darius.

“We need to check something.” She straightened, purpose replacing rage. “The old storage rooms near the south wall. That’s where the smuggling rumours started.”

Berthold’s approval rumbled through their bond. “Lead on.”

They moved through torch-lit corridors, avoiding the main passages where nobles and servants hurried about their business.

The storage area lay in a quiet corner of the palace grounds, its entrance half-hidden behind stacked crates and abandoned equipment.

Irmin’s boots crunched on gravel as she approached a shadowed alcove.

Something felt wrong—a stillness in the air, a sense of recent disturbance. She drew her sword, its whisper-soft slide from its sheath loud in the evening quiet.

There, beneath a weathered tarp, crates marked with the House Darius sigil. But these markings looked different—cruder, as if copied by an unsteady hand.

She pried open the nearest crate, Berthold’s bulk blocking any view from the main courtyard.

Inside, nestled in straw, lay rows of crystalline shards. Not the pure void-black of normal ravenglass, but something darker.

Purple-tinged energy writhed beneath the surfaces.

“Impossible.”

But the evidence lay before her, as undeniable as her father’s cooling body.

Berthold’s growl carried through their bond. “The Kingdom bleeds from within.”

She lifted one of the shards, its weight wrong in her hand. Like the dagger, but worse—an underlying wrongness that set her teeth on edge.

She felt Berthold recoil from the corruption.

Then the pieces began to align in her mind. House Darius’s recent push for militarisation. The border raids that always seemed to strike where defences were weakest. The whispers of smuggling operations that no one could quite pin down.

“We can’t take this to Eberhard,” she said. “Not yet. Not until we understand what we’re dealing with.”

Berthold’s agreement thrummed between them. “Someone is trying to point us to House Darius,” he said. “Someone wants us distracted while real dangers grow in shadow.”

She replaced the shard and closed the crate, making sure the tarp lay exactly as they’d found it. Then she drew the dagger once more, studying its distinctive sigil in the fading light.

Treachery had seeped into the palace itself, corrupting its foundations like twisted ravenglass.

And she would root it out, no matter the cost.

No matter who stood in her way.

For her father. For the Kingdom. For justice.