The throne room of Deline was a jewel of crystal and marble, built to awe. The silver-veined floor caught the light of tall stained-glass windows, painting the chamber with fractured rainbows. Yet no light seemed to reach King Philip III.
The monarch slouched on his throne as though it were a burden rather than a crown. His crown slipped slightly askew, his eyes half-lidded as courtiers approached one by one with petitions. Behind him, Flagg lingered in his black robes, tall as a shadow cast by flame.
"My lord," began Lord Tharic of the merchant houses, bowing low, "Eryndor caravans have increased tariffs. Our grain rots in storehouses while their wagons pass through unchallenged. If we—"
"Raise ours higher," Philip interrupted dully, not even lifting his gaze from the polished marble beneath his feet.
Tharic froze. "Sire, forgive me, but if we do, the people will—"
Flagg's staff tapped the floor softly. The sound echoed unnaturally long, silencing the chamber. His voice, low and silken, slid through the air:
"The people will endure. They always do. It is not merchants who hold kingdoms together, Lord Tharic. It is power. Do you suggest we allow Eryndor to bleed us while we bow politely?"
The merchant lord faltered, face pale, eyes darting to the other nobles for support. None met his gaze.
"Then it is settled," King Philip said, his voice stronger now, bolstered by Flagg's shadow. "Eryndor will pay double what they demand from us. Our borders will not be cheapened."
Murmurs rippled like a storm beneath the chamber's surface. Lords exchanged nervous glances, some pale with dread, others hiding sparks of resentment.
Isolde sat beside her brother Lucan on the dais. She felt her nails digging into her palms, fury coiled in her chest. Flagg's hand was everywhere. Every decree. Every word from her father's lips.
"Do you hear it?" Lucan muttered, leaning slightly toward her.
"The whispers?" she asked without looking at him.
"The cracks," he corrected. "The nobles are grumbling. Soon they'll do more than whisper. He's driving them apart."
"And Father cannot see it."
Lucan's jaw tightened. "Father refuses to see."
At the far end of the chamber, the voice of Lady Marrow rose, unafraid: "My king, forgive me, but war with Eryndor will bleed us dry. Our fields cannot spare more men. Our coffers are strained from taxes already—"
The sharp crack of Flagg's staff silenced her. His eyes burned with faint unnatural light. "And what is your solution, Lady Marrow? To let our neighbors grow fat on our grain while we starve? To watch them sharpen their swords and wait until they carve their feasts from your children's bones?"
The chamber shuddered at his words. A noblewoman whimpered.
Philip's hand trembled upon the throne. He swallowed, then echoed hollowly: "We cannot wait. Levies will be raised. Arms prepared. Deline will not be caught sleeping."
The hall erupted in protest—nobles raising their voices, lords shouting, ministers pleading. Yet beneath the uproar, Isolde felt the true silence: no one defied Flagg directly.
She turned her head, meeting his gaze across the room. His smile was thin, cruel, and knowing.
Part II – Secrets in the Library
The palace of Deline slept under a silvered sky. Courtyards were hushed, fountains stilled, and the gardens glistened with dew as the moon rode high above. Yet Princess Isolde could not sleep.
The council chamber's echoes still rattled inside her skull—Flagg's words twisting like serpents, her father's voice hollow with obedience. Every decree, every command, bent toward shadow.
Her chamber walls pressed in like a prison. At last, Isolde rose from her bed, pulled her cloak about her shoulders, and slipped barefoot into the darkened corridor.
The palace library lay in the western wing, a labyrinth of marble arches and towering shelves. Few visited at night, and fewer still ventured into its deeper wings—the places where the oldest records lay sealed.
The guards knew better than to stop her. One bowed stiffly as she passed. "Your Highness."
She said nothing, though her heart beat like a drum.
The library doors creaked open, groaning like sleepers disturbed from centuries of slumber. The moment she stepped within, a chill embraced her. The air smelled of parchment, dust, and faint traces of cedar smoke from extinguished lamps.
Moonlight pierced stained glass, painting the floor in colored fragments: crimson, sapphire, emerald. Like shards of some broken truth.
Isolde's steps were soft as whispers as she moved deeper, her fingers grazing spines of books older than Deline's throne. She passed shelves of philosophy, scrolls of law, treatises on war—and yet none of these called to her.
It was the western alcove, hidden behind a half-fallen tapestry, that drew her. A door of blackened oak, bound in iron. She had seen it once as a child but never dared enter. Tonight, her breath trembled in her throat as her hand brushed the latch.
The iron burned cold against her skin. The door groaned, resisting, then swung open with a shudder.
Inside, the air was thicker, the silence deeper. Rows of shelves stretched like pillars in a temple. Here, no oil lamps burned. The only light came from narrow slits of moonlight high in the walls. Dust motes drifted like tiny stars.
Her hand shook as she pulled a volume free. The leather cover crumbled beneath her touch. Its title was etched faintly in silver: Annals of the Founding.
She carried it to a stone table, brushing aside cobwebs, and opened it.
The script was curling, ancient, half-faded. Yet she read.
---
The Founding of Deline
"The Eye was not made by mortal hands. It was found in the mountain's heart, where no sun had ever reached. The first king, Edran, brought it forth and set it in the palace to guard the realm. It sees beyond veil and shadow. But its gift is no gift freely given. For each truth revealed, a price demanded. For each vision granted, a chain laid upon the seer's soul."
Isolde's throat tightened. She traced the words again, as though her touch could alter them.
---
The Warning
Another passage glimmered faintly under the fading ink.
"Beware the one who calls the Eye his servant. The Eye bows to no master. It watches. It waits. It devours."
The candle she had lit flickered violently, though there was no breeze. The shadows around her thickened. For a heartbeat, she thought she saw movement at the edge of her vision—like feathers brushing against the shelves.
She closed the book, breathing fast.
---
Her eyes darted to another shelf. A thinner volume caught her attention: The Magisters of Old. Within, she found fragments of names—sorcerers who had once stood at kings' sides. Men who promised power, but left kingdoms broken.
One name leapt at her.
Mordain Flagg.
Her stomach turned.
The entry was short, half-scorched, as if someone had tried to erase it:
"A magister who fed upon shadow. Banished by decree of the Council of Five, his arts condemned. None may speak his name within Deline's walls. Should he return, he brings the Eye's doom."
Isolde's breath caught. The letters blurred before her eyes. Flagg. Their Flagg. Her father's shadow.
---
A sound.
A whisper of cloth brushing stone.
She froze, closing the book, ears straining. The library was silent—too silent. Her candle guttered low, threatening to die.
"Who's there?" Her voice was a brittle thing.
No answer. Only the hollow weight of silence pressing upon her chest.
Slowly, she gathered the books, pressing them tight to her chest. She must show Lucan. He would know what to do. They needed to—
The candle went out.
Darkness swallowed her whole.
And in that darkness, a voice—silken, deep, curling around her like smoke:
"Curiosity is a dangerous hunger, princess."
Isolde's heart lurched. She turned, clutching the books like a shield. But when she lit her candle again with trembling hands, there was nothing. No figure. No voice. Only silence and the hollow shelves.
But the warning clung to her bones.
Part III – The Nobles' Whispers
Lucan had never cared for the council chamber. The room, though beautiful, suffocated him with ceremony and deceit. To him, the painted glass, the silver-veined marble, the carved thrones—all of it was a mask hiding decay.
Tonight, the stench of that decay clung to him still. The echo of Flagg's voice followed him long after he'd left the throne room.
He walked the torchlit corridors swiftly, cloak billowing. His destination: the Hall of Falcons, a smaller council chamber where noblemen and women often gathered privately after the king's decrees.
When he entered, conversation hushed.
Half a dozen nobles stood within, their faces pale with anger or red with fear. Lady Marrow, bold as ever, leaned over the table, fists clenched. Beside her, Lord Tharic twisted a golden ring nervously on his finger.
"Prince Lucan," Lady Marrow greeted, straightening. "You came."
"I heard enough in the council to know why you summoned me," Lucan said. His voice was even, but his hand itched for the sword at his hip.
"Then you know your father is steering us toward ruin," Marrow snapped. "Or rather—his pet magister is."
"Careful," warned Lord Harren, a heavy man with a wheezing breath. "Walls have ears. Even here."
Lucan's eyes hardened. "Say what you mean. We all know who rules in that chamber."
The lords exchanged glances. It was dangerous, speaking such truths aloud. Yet the silence broke at last.
"It is Flagg," Tharic said bitterly. "Every word the king speaks is shaped by his tongue. He twists law, coin, council—all for ends I cannot fathom."
"And now he drives us to war with Eryndor," Lady Marrow added, her voice sharp as a blade. "We are not ready. Our coffers bleed. Our men are weary. If Flagg has his way, we'll march straight into ruin."
Lucan's jaw tightened. He had thought the same countless times, though he never dared speak it before. Hearing others confirm it filled him with both dread and grim relief.
"What would you have me do?" he asked at last. "My father listens to no voice but his own—and his own is bound to Flagg's whisper."
The nobles leaned in. Shadows wavered across their faces in the torchlight.
"Then break the whisper," Lady Marrow said.
Lucan frowned. "You suggest—?"
"Remove him," she hissed. "The magister is a parasite. A shadow gnawing at our throne. Cut him away, and perhaps the king may yet rule with his own mind."
Silence followed. The fire crackled. Somewhere outside, the wind howled.
Lucan looked from face to face. He saw desperation in their eyes, but also fear—fear not of war, nor even of the king. Fear of Flagg.
"I will not speak treason," Lucan said coldly. "Not against my father, nor against his adviser."
But even as he spoke, the words tasted like ash on his tongue.
Lady Marrow's eyes flashed. "Sometimes silence is treason, Prince."
continued)
---
Part IV – The Magister and the Eye
The palace slept. Guards patrolled their rounds, torches flickering in the breeze. Ministers dreamed uneasy dreams, nobles muttered in their feathered beds. The king snored in his chamber, blissfully blind.
But in the deepest halls of the castle—where stone grew damp, where torches dared not burn—Flagg moved like a shadow given flesh.
The hidden passage twisted downward into the earth. Few knew it existed, fewer still had seen its end. For there, carved into black stone and sealed by wards older than Deline itself, lay the chamber of the Eye.
The great orb hovered in the center, larger than a man's head, suspended between carved talons of stone. It pulsed faintly with golden light, its iris swirling with silver mist. The walls shimmered with its glow, throwing twisted shadows that writhed like living things.
Flagg approached, staff in hand. The wards, ancient and furious, would have consumed any intruder in flame and agony. But he whispered words that slipped between the runes, unraveling their hunger.
The chamber opened itself to him like a wound.
He set his staff aside, lowering his hood. His eyes glimmered faintly—pools of black fire rimmed in sickly light. For the first time all day, his lips curved into something resembling reverence.
"Watcher," he whispered, voice low and dangerous, "I come again."
The Eye stirred. Its iris contracted, and the silver mists within swirled violently. A low hum filled the chamber, vibrating through the stone, crawling into the marrow of his bones.
Flagg spread his arms wide. Shadows slithered from his sleeves like serpents, weaving around him, wrapping him in coils of darkness. His voice rose in chant, syllables older than the tongue of men.
The Eye flared. Images rippled across its surface: banners clashing in battle, rivers running red, the throne of Deline empty, a crown tumbling into fire.
Flagg's smile deepened.
"Yes," he hissed. "Bring it. Break them. Let Deline bleed, and in its ashes, I shall build anew."
The Eye pulsed again, brighter. For a heartbeat, Flagg faltered. He saw something he had not summoned—something the Eye itself demanded he witness.
A girl cloaked in silver light, her hand outstretched. Her eyes blazed with defiance. Behind her, a young man with steel in his stance. Together, they stood against shadow.
Isolde. Lucan.
Flagg's teeth bared in a snarl. His shadows writhed violently, the chamber trembling around him. "No," he spat. "They are children. They are nothing. Show me the truth, not lies!"
The Eye did not answer. It only pulsed, slow and inexorable, like the beat of some great heart.
Flagg's fury cracked, replaced by something rarer—something almost like fear. His breath hissed through his teeth. For all his mastery, for all his chains of power, the Eye remained untamed.
At last, he drew his shadows back, coiling them like snakes into his sleeves. He turned from the orb, his cloak swirling.
But as he left the chamber, its glow followed him, searing his back with light.
The Eye sees all.
And it had seen him.
Part V – The First Signs of War
At dawn, the sky over Deline bled red. Clouds rolled in from the east like bruises spreading across the heavens. The capital woke to the sound of horns on the walls, guards hurrying through the streets, ministers rushing to the palace gates.
Word had come from the border.
Lucan was summoned to the war chamber before he had even broken his fast. His boots struck stone as he entered, tension clinging to him like armor. The chamber was crowded: generals, captains, courtiers. His father sat at the head of the long table, crown crooked, eyes heavy with weariness.
And at his side, Flagg stood tall, staff glowing faintly, his expression unreadable.
"What news?" Philip demanded, though his voice cracked on the words.
A scout, mud still clinging to his boots, bowed low. "Your Majesty, Eryndor's riders crossed the Hollow Fields three nights past. They burn villages along the border. Our men held them at the Ford, but they are massing. Thousands. Too many for us to turn back without aid."
Gasps shuddered through the chamber. Lords blanched, captains cursed.
Lucan's fists clenched at his sides.
"Thousands?" the king muttered. "They would not risk so bold a move unless…" His gaze slid toward Flagg.
The magister's smile was thin. "Unless they smell weakness. Which is why we must strike first. Not cower. Not plead." His voice slithered through the room, wrapping around each listener like a chain. "We march upon them. Crush them before they cross deeper."
"Madness," growled General Brannor, scarred and gray-bearded. "To march into their territory with untested levies? We'll be slaughtered."
Flagg's eyes burned faintly. "Better slaughtered in battle than strangled in our beds."
Murmurs rippled. Fear warred with pride in the chamber.
Lucan's voice cut through the din. "And what of our people?" All heads turned. His jaw was set, his eyes burning. "Villages already burn. If we march blindly into Eryndor's trap, who defends the homes left behind?"
Silence followed. The nobles shifted uneasily.
For once, even King Philip faltered. His eyes darted between his son and his adviser, confusion creasing his brow. "We… we must…"
Flagg's staff tapped the floor. The sound rang sharp, commanding. "We must act. Hesitation is death."
Lucan stepped forward, slamming his palm upon the table. "Hesitation is caution. War is not a game of dice to be thrown on a whim. You would risk all Deline to feed your hunger for blood!"
A collective gasp swept the chamber. Never had the prince spoken so boldly.
Flagg's eyes narrowed, shadows flickering at the edges of the room. For a moment, Lucan felt the air thicken, pressing against his lungs, daring him to falter. But he did not bow.
At last, Flagg's lips curled in a cold smile. "Perhaps the boy wishes to play king."
The chamber held its breath. King Philip's face reddened, confusion twisting to anger—not at Flagg, but at his son. "Enough!" he roared. His voice cracked, his hand trembling as he pointed. "You forget yourself, Lucan."
The prince's heart ached, but he bowed stiffly. "Forgive me, Father."
He turned, cloak snapping as he strode from the chamber. He did not see Flagg's smile deepen in his wake.
---
That night, Isolde found him on the ramparts. The wind whipped her hair into her face, her cloak snapping in the cold. Lucan stood rigid, staring at the horizon where storm clouds gathered over Eryndor.
"They will march," he said quietly.
"I know," Isolde whispered. She held the forbidden books tight to her chest. Her voice trembled. "And it will not be Eryndor alone that breaks us. It will be him."
Lucan turned, eyes meeting hers. In that moment, something unspoken passed between them—fear, defiance, and a dawning certainty.
They could no longer trust the crown.
They could no longer trust the council.
And they could no longer trust their father.
Only each other.
And the Eye watched.
Always.