The rider came at dawn. Not dressed in house colors or ceremony—just chainmail beneath a weather-split cloak and the crowned stag seal burned into a scroll tube he placed directly into the estate steward's hand.
It didn't go through the Queen. It didn't wait for interpretation.
The seal bore Crown Order—meaning the King spoke, and the realm moved.
Thalric stood with Solen in the war gallery when the document arrived. The steward delivered it quietly but did not linger. The scroll was made of thick parchment, edges ash-gray from the forge used to cure them against falsification.
Solen broke the seal with a letter opener.
They read it together:
To All Noble Houses Recognized Under Royal Accord:
Effective immediately, the outer-western border near Branholt has fallen into unsanctioned occupation. Rebel forces under the banner of the Ashgrave Compact have taken control of three former checkpoint towns. Initial resistance has failed. Signs of external armament support confirmed.
Crown Resolution 112-A is now active.
Each loyal house is to name one representative to field command a battalion under Royal Charter within fourteen days. Noncompliance will be noted in permanent record and reflected in future inheritance negotiations.
House Worthing will submit its appointment by dusk on the third day following receipt.
—By Hand and Will of His Majesty, King Helivar V
There were no signatures. None needed.
The seal had already begun to burn itself through the minds of every noble steward from Worthing to the coast.
By midmorning, the estate was on edge.
The Queen summoned her private council. Cedric arrived first, furrowed and flanked by two aides. Albrecht appeared with two thick ledgers beneath his arm. Rowan was last, walking quietly without guards or notice.
Thalric wasn't summoned.
So he volunteered.
He sent his letter just before the midday meal:
To Her Majesty Queen Aldira of House Worthing,
I, Prince Percival Worthing, hereby declare my willingness to command Worthing's field battalion under Crown Directive 112-A. My deployment preparations begin effective immediately, pending confirmation.
This is not for image. This is for record.
I await formal approval or objection.
—T. Worthing
He signed it without flourish.
By dusk, the Queen's office issued its only formal communication of the day:
The Crown's directive shall be honored. Prince Percival will serve as Worthing's representative. Mobilization begins at once. The matter is closed.
The announcement hit the court like a dropped goblet.
Cedric stormed down the grand hall within the hour, barely holding decorum. Rowan intercepted him at the stairwell but said nothing—just placed a hand lightly on his shoulder before letting him pass.
Albrecht issued a quiet memo of "measured support." The Queen made no further comment.
But Thalric wasn't waiting on them.
By the end of the day, he had already begun reviewing tactical reports from the Ashgrave insurrection five years ago. Solen dragged out two maps from the estate vault—old, dust-rimmed, but intact. One marked "Legacy Siege Routes." One labeled in ink barely legible: "Retired Armor Divisions: Branholt Corridor."
"We don't have modern weaponry," Solen said. "The Queen let the training academies fall into ceremonial disuse. Most of the men they'll give you are farmers with swords dulled from parade drills."
"Then we make new doctrine," Thalric said.
He pointed at the Branholt pass.
"This terrain favors sabotage. If we can't outfight them—we out-think them."
She nodded.
"But you'll need officers."
"I'll use half of theirs. Replace the rest when they blink."
"They'll resist."
"They don't have time to."
That night, Thalric walked the estate wall alone. The air was dry, the stars sharp.
Below, soldiers began setting up drill space in the outer court. They moved slowly, unsure. Watching each other to understand what confidence looked like.
He didn't speak to them.
Not yet.
Let them wonder.
Let them guess what kind of man would lead them into the mouth of a rebellion with nothing but a ruined name and an untested hand.
He would show them. On his own time.
But not on his own terms.
Because the King had spoken.
And now Thalric was not a suggestion.
He was a sword.