Chapter 9: The Chessboard Within the Castle
Inside his private study, Duke Morcant Vaelmont swirled a glass of deep red wine, its color as dark as clotted blood. A vintage from the Ironpeak Hills, known for its harsh and bitter taste, much like the land from which it grew. This room was an anomaly within the dying Vaelmont Castle. There was no dust here. Its dark wood furniture was polished to a perfect sheen, reflecting the warm light from a hearth that burned with a calm, steady rhythm. On his neat desk, beside military maps, lay an elegant dagger and a stack of reports on the kingdom's grain reserves, each page marked with precise, handwritten notes. This was Morcant's world: orderly, calculated, and entirely under his control.
Before him stood three figures who represented the pillars of his power.
Harold Whitney, an arrogant young nobleman, seemed restless. He repeatedly straightened the sleeve of his expensive silk robe, as if trying to brush off the discomfort of the room's heavy air. He was the embodiment of raw, impatient ambition.
Beside him, Lady Lenore Duskthorn stood silent and graceful. Her emerald-green eyes stared into the fire, her expression as calm as a lake's surface before a storm. She was Morcant's spymaster, a patient, venomous snake waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
And in the darkest corner, almost merging with the shadows, stood Wayne Dahmer. His most loyal lieutenant. He did not move, did not speak, his presence felt more like a concept than a man. A sheathed blade, waiting to be drawn.
"It was just luck, My Lord Duke," Harold said, finally breaking the suffocating silence. His voice was a little too loud, too forced. "The Prince's order to burn the bridge was the desperate act of a coward. It was a coincidence that some mad swordsman was there to help Hanssen's troops."
Morcant sipped his wine, letting the bitter taste coat his tongue. He allowed the silence to creep back in, letting Harold sweat under his unspoken gaze.
"Luck, Harold?" Morcant's voice finally came, low and calm, yet it cut through the air like a cold dagger. "Luck does not explain why our well-equipped mercenary force failed to secure one old wooden bridge against an underfunded platoon of the Royal Guard. Luck does not explain a maneuver that effectively crippled their logistics without sacrificing a single precious Vaelmont soldier."
He set his glass down on the table with a soft but firm click.
"No. That was not luck. That was brutal efficiency."
Harold looked like he wanted to argue. "Then let's just attack! We know the Royal Guard is weak. Send the Iron Maw to storm their barracks tonight, finish this before—"
"And turn the entire council against us overnight?" Morcant cut in, his tone not rising, but its sharpness silenced Harold. "Turn suspicion into open war in the capital? That is the strategy of a thug, not a Duke. Your thinking is too narrow, Harold. You only see the piece in front of you."
Morcant rose and walked to the window, gazing down at the dark castle gardens below. "That was a style I do not recognize."
Lady Lenore finally spoke, her voice as smooth as silk but carrying a venomous edge. "Luck doesn't explain the intelligence, My Lord Duke. Someone had to know about that bridge, and about Captain Bardales' logistical weakness. Someone with knowledge we did not anticipate."
Morcant nodded slowly. "Precisely, Lenore. That is the heart of the matter."
He thought of his brother, the late King Alaric. Alaric's strategies were like a lion's roar—grand, bold, and igniting the spirits of all. He won battles with charisma and brilliant frontal assaults, leaving Morcant behind to manage the tedious details of logistics. Alaric got all the glory.
But this command... this was different. This was not the lion's roar. This was the bite of a snake in the dead of night. Silent, unexpected, and aimed directly at the lifeline. This was not Alaric's style. And it certainly wasn't the style of the nephew he knew—a lamb who trembled every time he looked at him.
"We have underestimated him," Morcant said, returning to his chair. "Either he has been hiding his intelligence behind a perfect mask of stupidity all this time, or..." He paused, his eyes staring intently into the shadows. "...he has a new, very, very capable advisor."
"A ghost on the Northern Bridge," Lenore whispered, her eyes glinting. "Our informants among the surviving soldiers described him as a shadow that moved faster than the wind. No one saw his face. A new variable not in our records."
"A new variable," Morcant repeated, more to himself. "A variable that was not in our calculations."
"Then what is our next move, My Lord Duke?" asked Wayne Dahmer from the corner. They were his first words of the evening. His voice was flat, emotionless. He offered no analysis or opinion. He simply requested an order.
Morcant smiled thinly, a smile that did not reach his eyes. "If a mouse suddenly shows its fangs, you don't immediately destroy its nest. You test it. You see how sharp those fangs are, and you find out who gave them to him."
He looked around at his inner circle. Lenore nodded in understanding, while Harold looked frustrated by the indirect approach.
"Our plan to pressure Vaelmont from the outside has failed," Morcant continued. "In fact, it has backfired. Lenore's reports from her contacts on the council are clear: the bridge incident, as embarrassing as it was for us, has started to unite those foolish factions behind him. Althario and Viremont, for the first time, are speaking in the same tone. They see this as a sign of strength."
He leaned forward, his hands clasped on the desk.
"We have tried to shake his kingdom from the outside. Now, we will shake the prince from within."
His eyes now fell on Wayne Dahmer, and the temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees.
"Wayne. I want you to send a 'message'. I want the Prince to feel that not even the corridors of this castle are as safe as he thinks. A shadow in the night. A glint of steel, barely seen. Make him afraid of his own shadow. Make him doubt every guard he sees."
Morcant paused for a moment, letting his order sink in.
"Break his mind before we break his neck. I want to see how he reacts under personal pressure, not political pressure. I want to see if his ghost advisor can protect him inside his own chambers. But remember," he added, his voice now dropping to a lethal whisper, "he is not to be seriously harmed. Not yet. I just want to make him scream."
Harold Whitney looked slightly confused by the psychological approach, but he was smart enough to remain silent. Lady Lenore, on the other hand, smiled faintly, a smile of appreciation from one predator to another.
Wayne Dahmer merely bowed his head slightly, a gesture barely visible in the shadows.
"As you will, My Lord Duke."
Without another word, he turned and melted back into the darkness of the corridor outside, gone to carry out his master's command.
Duke Morcant turned back to the fire, swirling the last of the wine in his glass. The chessboard had been reset. A new, mysterious piece had entered the game. And Morcant was very eager to see how that piece would move when its king was under direct threat.