The keep felt too quiet.
The doors slammed shut behind them, echoing through the marble halls like the aftermath of cannon fire. Soldiers flanked the procession, boots heavy with grief. They carried Highlady Ysara's body with reverence, cloaked in blood-stained silk, her hands folded over her chest. Every footstep sounded like guilt.
They laid her gently in the Hall of Lanterns, the very place where she had once held court, brokered peace, and dreamed of a future more just. Now she lay still beneath the stained glass of Edramon's ascension.
No one spoke.
Kell stood above her, armor streaked with ash and blood. He removed his gloves slowly, methodically, as if each motion gave him the strength to remain standing.
He knelt beside her, bowing his head.
"You were the best of us," he said quietly, voice raw. "Strong, wise, unyielding. You saw the game and still chose truth. I was proud to serve you. I would've done it to my last breath. I just..."
He trailed off. His hand trembled as he brushed a lock of hair from her face.
"Gods," he whispered. "I wish it had been me."
Torik stood a few paces behind, arms folded tight across his chest. "Did she have an heir?"
Kell looked up slowly, as if the word itself brought pain. "No. No children. As far as I know... she's the last of her line."
Dama stepped forward, face still pale. She turned to the elderly attendant waiting in silence by the doors. His formal robes bore the crest of House Ysara, faded but pressed. He looked as though grief had turned him to paper.
"Her will?" Dama asked.
The old man bowed. "Yes, Commander. I will retrieve it."
He shuffled off, leaving a trail of silence behind him.
It took longer than expected.
When he returned, he held a small, lacquered box with a silver lock. He placed it beside the body.
"The key is with her," he said. "She wore it always. Around her neck."
Kell reached gently beneath the folds of Ysara's collar and withdrew a thin chain with a narrow iron key. It clicked into the lock with a quiet finality.
The lid creaked open.
Inside was a single parchment, folded carefully. Ithren took it and began to read.
Her voice held steady, though her eyes shimmered.
"To those who remain," she read. "If you are reading this, I am no longer among you. I write with no delusions. The road ahead will be bloodied. The Bound will not surrender its grip easily. I have spoken truths the world is not ready to hear."
The room held its breath.
"I do not expect to survive this conflict. But if my death brings clarity, if it opens the eyes of other noble houses, then it was not in vain. If they see that not even the highborn are safe from the Bound's zealotry, perhaps they will act."
Torik shifted. The words were too prophetic.
Ithren continued. "As I leave no children, I name Captain Kell as my heir. Seeing as he has no surname, I offer him mine and proclaim him Kell of House Ysara."
There was a collective inhale. Even Whistle straightened.
Kell blinked. "What?"
Ithren read on.
"I have known many men who played at honor. Kell never did. He simply lived it. He rose from the slums of Valebast, clawed his way from gutter to barracks, from soldier to general, and finally to my most trusted captain. He has stood in courtrooms, battlefields, and chambers of debate. He wields both sword and word with equal skill."
Kell took a half step back, as if struck.
"If this kingdom has a future that is just," Ithren read, "a future worth bleeding for, then it is with him leading it."
Silence reigned.
Dama broke it first. She walked forward, placed a hand on Kell's shoulder.
"Congratulations, my lord," she said softly. "You will do good."
Ithren nodded. "We'll stand by you."
Whistle gave a lopsided grin. "Guess we should start calling you Your Grumpiness. Or does Lowlord Kell have a better ring to it?"
Kell didn't laugh. He just stared at the will, hands shaking.
"I don't... I never wanted this."
"Doesn't matter," Torik said from the back of the room. His voice, usually laced with sarcasm or distance, was uncommonly steady. "She chose you."
The others turned.
Torik shrugged. "I hated the highborn. All of them. But you're different. You worked for this. Bled for it. You're the only one I've seen put others first and mean it."
That stunned silence returned. But this time, it was filled with respect.
Kell tried to speak. No words came.
Then one of the soldiers stepped forward. Sword drawn.
He raised it in salute. "To Lord Kell."
Others hesitated, exchanging glances.
Another sword came up. Then another.
"To Lord Kell!"
Then someone said it.
"To King Kell."
The title hung in the air, electric.
A moment of silence.
Then a chorus:
"King Kell! King Kell!"
Kell looked around the hall, the faces of those who had fought beside him, bled beside him. And now... followed him.
He knelt one last time beside Ysara.
"I will not fail you," he whispered. "I swear it."
He stood.
A captain no longer.
A lord not by blood, but by pursuit.
A kingdom open for the taking, if he was ready for it.