The imperial court of Veynar gleamed beneath chandeliers of crystal, the hall vast enough to house a legion in parade.
Polished marble stretched from end to end, its veins glittering like rivers of silver.
On the dais at the far side sat Emperor Veynar IV, Sovereign of the Falcon Throne.
His robes were woven deep red, the crown resting like fire upon his brow.
His gaze, cold and sharp as an eagle's, swept the chamber as courtiers and guards held their breath.
When General Rynold Dareth entered, silence deepened.
The old warhound's boots echoed loud against the floor, his cloak heavy on his shoulders. He knelt, head bowed, yet the room felt no less full of his presence.
"Rise, Iron Fang," the Emperor said, his voice carrying with the ease of command.
Rynold stood, eyes fixed on the throne.
The years had not dulled his discipline, but grief clung at the edges of his posture.
"You have heard," the Emperor continued. It was not a question.
"I have, Your Majesty," Rynold replied.
His voice was steady, though it cost him to keep it so.
The Emperor's expression was unreadable marble. "Your protégé, Caelen, stands branded a traitor. He slew his own comrades, disobeyed the will of the Empire, and fled with a girl of unknown origin. Already, rumors spread like plague. Some whisper madness, others claim sorcery, but all point to treason. Do you deny it?"
Rynold's throat worked. "I do not. I deny only that his heart was ever false to you. Something happened out there—something I was not there to stop. For that, the blame is mine."
The court murmured at such words.
A general of Rynold's stature taking guilt upon himself? The Emperor lifted a hand, and the chamber fell silent again.
"You disappoint me, old friend," the Emperor said at last, voice low, dangerous. "I had thought the boy molded in your image—unyielding, loyal unto death. Yet here he flees, blade red with his brothers' blood. Mercy for him is weakness. And weakness festers."
The words cut, though Rynold's face betrayed little. He bowed his head, the weight of his shame palpable.
The Emperor leaned forward. "But this betrayal is not to be answered with hasty wrath. Too much is shrouded. Why did he turn? What binds him to this girl? I would have truth, not rumor." His gaze swept the hall. "Therefore I send one who will not fail."
From the ranks of the court, a figure stepped forward.
A woman clad in black-and-silver plate, her long braid swinging as she moved.
She was tall, sharp-eyed, with a bearing as cold as steel left in snow. A scar traced her cheek, not disfiguring but declaring experience.
"General Serenya Valcross," the Emperor intoned, "you will take command of the hunt. Find Caelen. Bring him back alive. He will stand before this throne and answer for his crimes."
The woman dropped to one knee, fist to breastplate. "By your will, Majesty. The Falcon commands, and I obey."
"Good." The Emperor's voice echoed. "Alive, Serenya. No matter what excuses he spews, no matter who shields him, you will drag him back breathing. Do you understand?"
"I do," she said. Her eyes flicked, just once, toward Rynold—a brief acknowledgment, or challenge, it was hard to tell.
The Emperor then turned, colder still. "And the other children, the ones he sheltered… they are to be seized and confined. Treachery festers in strange soil. Until I know their measure, they will remain in the palace dungeons. Better caged than sown as seeds of rebellion."
Gasps rippled through the court, but no one dared protest. To defy the Emperor was folly.
Rynold's jaw tightened, yet he did not move.
His silence was louder than protest, his restraint carved from years of obedience. But in his heart, something coiled—a quiet, unyielding pain at watching the last remnants of Caelen's hope crushed beneath decree.
"Go now," the Emperor declared, rising to his feet, his cloak spilling crimson down the steps. "The Empire has no room for doubt. We will know truth, even if we must drag it from the boy's throat."
Serenya rose, saluted, and turned sharply, her armored steps ringing like war drums as she departed to ready her hunt.
Rynold lingered a moment longer, head bowed in a show of loyalty, though inside, his heart cracked like old stone under strain.
When he left the court, it was with shoulders heavy, his shadow stretching long beneath the stained-glass light of the hall.
The Falcon Throne had spoken.
And in its shadow, mercy was no longer a luxury—it was treason.
'Why Caelen, Why?'
******
The corridors of the Imperial Palace were quieter than the court, their tapestries absorbing the echoes of armored boots. General Rynold walked with deliberate calm, though the weight of the Emperor's words lingered like chains.
He had nearly reached the courtyard when he heard a light step behind him—quick, assured, almost jaunty.
"Well, well," came a lilting voice, "the Iron Fang himself, skulking away without so much as a growl. I expected at least a roar, old wolf."
Rynold paused, exhaling slowly before turning.
Serenya Valcross leaned against a column, arms crossed, a half-smile tugging her lips.
Her black-and-silver armor caught the torchlight in sly gleams, and her braid swung like a pendulum as she tilted her head.
"General Valcross," Rynold said evenly. "Shouldn't you be preparing your hunt?"
"Oh, I am." Her smile widened. "But I couldn't resist saying hello. After all, we'll both be chasing the same ghost, won't we?"
Rynold's eyes narrowed. "Caelen is not a ghost."
"No," she said, pushing off the column and circling him with the ease of a predator. "He's your little cub, isn't he? The one you raised, polished, paraded as the Empire's pride. And now?" She gave a low whistle. "Now he's mine. My quarry. The Emperor himself said so."
"You treat this as sport," Rynold muttered.
"Of course." Her eyes glittered with amusement. "Why shouldn't I? A boy knight branded a traitor, fleeing across the land with a strange girl at his side? It's a tale fit for bards. And me—oh, I get to be the villain in his song. Delicious."
Rynold's jaw tightened. "He is not the villain."
"Depends who holds the pen," Serenya said, voice dropping softer, though no less sharp. She leaned closer, her tone suddenly playful, almost conspiratorial. "Tell me, old Fang… do you want me to catch him? Or are you secretly hoping he slips through my fingers?"
Rynold said nothing, his silence a wall.
She chuckled, stepping back. "Ah, I see. You'll never admit it. But don't worry—I like a good chase. The boy's strong, I hear. Trained well. That means I get to test myself. Break him in, see what he's really made of." Her smile curved wickedly. "Alive, of course. Our Falcon was very clear on that point."
Rynold's voice finally rumbled, low and hard. "Do not underestimate him."
Serenya's grin widened, catlike. "Old wolf, if I didn't underestimate people, I'd never be surprised. And surprises make life worth living."
For a heartbeat, their gazes locked—his, heavy with unspoken regret; hers, bright with dangerous mirth. Then she saluted lazily, a mockery of military crispness.
"Until next time, General. Keep tending your flowers. I'll tend to your wayward cub."
With that, she spun on her heel, whistling as she strode down the corridor, the sound echoing like the tune of a hunter already savoring the hunt.
Rynold stood alone in the quiet once more, staring at the floor. His fists clenched at his sides, nails biting into his palms.
He could not protect Caelen now—not with chains of loyalty binding him.
But in the silent recess of his heart, he prayed the boy would somehow prove the Empire wrong.