The morning sun filtered in through the tall stained-glass windows of Galesreach's throne room, casting colored prisms on the marble floor.
Lord Sylas Skyborne sat regally upon his carved throne of pale oak and steel, his expression unreadable as he scanned the parchment in his hand.
The polished silver circlet on his head gleamed under the morning light, much like his platinum-blonde hair that fell in loose waves around his face....disheveled and elegant all at once.
He looked beautiful, yes...but tired.
The steward at his side handed him another scroll. "A land dispute in Westmere, my lord," he murmured. "Between the elder widow Lira and the tenant farmer Fennel Ryse. They've both requested your judgment."
Sylas sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Very well. Send them in."
Two figures were led into the chamber by guards. An older woman in threadbare robes and a wiry man with sun-tanned skin and calloused hands.
"My lord," Lira began, bowing low. "I've lived on that land for over fifty years. My husband, may the winds carry his soul, tilled it with his blood. But this man...this man...claims it as his own."
"It's mine by grant of service," Fennel snapped. "Given by your steward for my work in the stormfields last year. I've a signed writ to prove it."
"And did you not notice the house already built on it? Or the woman who lives there?" Sylas asked sharply, lifting a brow.
"I thought it abandoned, my lord. The house was falling apart. No one told me otherwise."
Sylas leaned back, his fingers tapping the armrest.
"The land may have been granted, but the rightful occupant was still alive and dwelling on it. That is negligence on both your part and the steward who issued the grant."
He paused, folding the parchment slowly. "The land remains with the widow. Fennel Ryse, you are to be compensated with land elsewhere....fairer and wider, if possible...but not that which is already claimed."
The steward nodded and made note of the verdict. Fennel looked like he wanted to protest, but the firm look in Sylas's eyes told him it was pointless. Both bowed and were escorted out.
"Next," he called, voice edged in silver.
A hunched farmer stepped forward, wringing his cap in trembling hands. "M-my lord. My neighbor, Jorin, let his goats stray onto my land. They trampled my winter roots and...."
"Lies!" A portly man in a stained tunic barked from behind him. "His fence was half-collapsed. The goats went where they pleased."
Sylas sighed, pressing two fingers to his temple.
"How many goats?" he asked without enthusiasm.
"Six," the farmer replied.
"And the damage?"
"Three bushels' worth of roots, my lord. Maybe more."
Sylas flicked his eyes toward the steward.
"Have the goats brought to the castle kitchens. They'll serve as compensation. Let the roots be replaced from the grain stores."
Gasps and murmurs rippled through the gathered petitioners.
"Next."
An old woman stepped forward this time, holding a small, pale girl by the hand. Her voice cracked with emotion.
"My lord, my son died in your army last winter. He had no coin left, no land, and no name worth mentioning. This child....his daughter....has no one."
Sylas studied the child for a long moment. Her eyes were wide, her shoes too thin for the stone beneath her.
"Give her a place in the scullery," he said. "Feed her, clothe her. Teach her to read."
The woman broke into quiet sobs.
"That is all for today," Sylas announced suddenly, rising to his feet. The steward looked startled but bowed.
Sylas rubbed his eyes, exhaustion creeping into his bones. He had been sitting there since dawn, sorting through disputes, grievances, and reports. His people needed him, but gods, it was tedious.
The grand doors of the throne room creaked open again, and in strode Prime Minister Aureon Caerwyn....his most trusted advisor and friend, dressed in his signature robes of navy and bronze.
Tall and refined, Aureon moved with the measured grace of a man who had once been a swordmaster before he traded steel for scrolls.
"At last," Sylas murmured. He stepped down from the throne platform, gesturing lazily with two fingers. "Clear the hall.Dismiss the rest of today's petitions," he told the steward. "I have other matters to attend to."
The petitioners filed out in hushed reverence. Once the courtiers had cleared the room, Sylas raised his hand and beckoned Aureon forward with a subtle flick of his fingers.
"I received a message from Caelmont yesterday," he began, voice low and tired. "A council has been summoned. All ruling lords are to be present."
Aureon's brows lifted. "A council? Why? What's happened?"
Sylas stopped before the wide window overlooking the city. "It seems the Lord of Winter no longer wishes to honor his promise to Emberhold. He refuses to marry Lady Aurelia."
"So the rumors are true, then," Aureon said grimly. "About the curse. That he would defy Emberhold's claim of marriage.
"Yes. And Azarion, of course, demands the promise be upheld. Or he will go to war."
The Prime Minister snorted. "Knowing the Lord of Emberhold, I expected nothing else. The man is fire given form.....stubborn, violent, proud."
Aureon shook his head. "I never held much affection for the Lord of Emberhold, but this? Forcing a marriage under threat of bloodshed?"
Sylas's jaw tightened. "Neris believes his refusal is justified. That he should not be bound by a cursed promise. And so, he's petitioned Caelmont to settle the matter."
"And if the council fails?" Aureon asked, his voice low, but edged with foreboding. "If they cannot make Azarion see reason?"
Sylas looked down at his hands, then back out toward the tall window behind his throne. "Then it's war," he said softly. "Unavoidable."
A long silence stretched between them.
"When do you leave for Caelmont?" Aureon finally asked. "And who rides with you?"
" Next month, In less than two weeks," Sylas replied, standing from the throne. He walked to the window, clasping his hands behind his back. "Five from the court will accompany me....witnesses, as is custom."
He turned his head just slightly. "Your daughter included."
If Aureon was surprised, he didn't show it. His expression remained calm, thoughtful.
"She has a keen mind," Sylas continued. "And a sharp tongue when needed. I believe she'll serve the delegation well."
"I'll begin the preparations," Aureon said after a moment. "And I'll hold Galesreach in your stead until you return."
Sylas inclined his head slightly in gratitude. "There'll be soldiers too. I want eyes on every stretch of the road."
"Of course," Aureon replied, already calculating logistics in his head.
There was a pause.
"May I ask," he said slowly, "who you intend to judge in favor of?"
Sylas smiled. Not kindly, not cruelly....but with a strange glint in his eyes. A cold smile, unreadable and calculating.
"That," he murmured, "depends entirely on what truths Caelmont uncovers."