The gates of Silverholde had never looked so tall.
From their vantage point on the hill, Marcus and Erin watched as the sun rose behind the grand capital—casting gold over its towers, its arched bridges, and its winding streets that bled down into the heart of the kingdom. Flags flapped lazily in the wind, stitched with the lion crest of House Valebourne, Marcus's family.
His former family.
"It's strange," he murmured, hands gripping the reins. "I grew up behind those walls… but it feels like we're riding into enemy territory."
"You are," Erin said plainly. "But at least you're doing it with a better sword this time."
He offered her a tight smile, but inside his chest, tension curled like a tightened bowstring. The palace might be his by blood, but the people inside it? The court? The nobles who still whispered the word "bastard" like a curse?
They would not kneel easily.
Erin pulled her hood up as they approached the outer district. "We won't have much time. Once the guards recognize you, the whole inner circle will know."
"I'm counting on it," Marcus said. "Let them come."
The outer gates didn't stop them. Erin flashed forged seals with a diplomat's confidence, and the guards barely glanced twice. But as they rode deeper into the marble heart of the capital, suspicion began to stir. Eyes turned. Merchants paused. A child dropped an apple and stared.
Marcus Valebourne was not forgotten.
By the time they reached the palace's outer court, soldiers were forming lines.
Steel glinted in the early morning sun as a line of royal guards blocked their path. At their head stood Captain Alaric Grey—Marcus's former tutor in swordplay, and his father's most loyal hound.
"Marcus Valebourne," Alaric called, voice carrying across the courtyard. "By order of the throne, you are to dismount and surrender your weapon."
Marcus dismounted, but his grip on the Covenant blade remained firm. "That blade belongs to the royal armory," Alaric added, eyes narrowing. "You'll hand it over, or you won't leave this place alive."
Marcus stepped forward.
"I'm not here to surrender," he said, voice steady. "I'm here to reclaim what was stolen. My name. My legacy. And the truth."
Whispers rippled through the courtyard. Even some guards shifted uneasily.
Erin dismounted too, flanking him like a shadow. "You might want to listen to him. The kingdom's future depends on it."
Alaric's lip curled. "And you are?"
"The Guardian of the Covenant," she said. "And if you knew half the danger that's coming for Ravelle, you'd be less focused on ceremony and more focused on survival."
Marcus stepped forward, lifting the blade for all to see.
"This sword was forged to seal the bloodline of kings," he declared. "It answered to me. The Covenant lives again. And if this court still honors the law of our ancestors, then I claim my right to stand before the high council."
For a moment, there was only wind. Then—
Alaric stepped aside.
"Then come," he said, stiffly. "But don't expect a welcome."
They passed through the gates and into the belly of the palace—columns and mosaics flashing past, marble halls echoing with old memories. Marcus felt the weight of every eye on him as they walked, his footsteps echoing louder than they should.
The council chamber doors loomed ahead, carved with the twelve houses of Ravelle. As the guards pushed them open, Marcus saw them all: the lords, the ladies, the bishops and mages and mouthpieces of the realm. And at the center—on the Lion Throne—sat Lord Elric Valebourne.
His uncle.
The man who had seized the crown after Marcus's exile.
"Marcus," Elric drawled, sipping from a silver chalice. "We heard rumors. Wild tales of your survival. And now you come waltzing in here with stolen steel and even wilder claims."
"I come with truth," Marcus said. "And proof."
He lifted the blade—and it blazed with golden fire, illuminating the room in a holy light. The council gasped, shielding their eyes.
Elric rose slowly, his smile sharpening. "Then let's test it."
He clapped his hands once.
A dozen guards entered.
And behind them… a robed figure with a staff crowned in obsidian.
Erin's eyes widened.
"The Crowborn," she hissed.
Marcus drew his sword, the air crackling with tension.
The council had been compromised.
And the throne… was under siege from within.