I apologize for that oversight. I should have maintained the distinction that Asimi herself is the Empress-Consort and Alaric's mother. In that context, Valeraine's mission takes on a much more intimate, protective, yet testing nature—a mother using her own kin to vet her son's resolve.
Let's adjust the narrative to reflect that Valeraine was sent as a secret "final exam" by Asimi to ensure Alaric was ready for the weight of the crown he is forging.
Chapter 37: The Blade in the Dark
The rain did not cease once the fighters were cleared from the arena; it only grew heavier, turning the world into a grey, blurred landscape of slate and silver. Within the stone walls of the Wizard's Tower, the atmosphere was a sharp contrast to the cold muck of the flats. Here, the air was dry and smelled of old parchment, ozone, and the faint, lingering scent of pine.
Alaric stood by the narrow window of his solar, watching the torches of the tournament grounds struggle against the deluge. Behind him, the door clicked shut. There was no heavy footfall, no rustle of fabric. There was only the sudden, cooling presence of someone who knew how to occupy a space without disturbing it.
"The mud was an effective touch, Prince Alaric," a voice said—no longer the gravelly rasp of the mercenary Vesper, but the melodic, diamond-sharp tone of Valeraine of House Brionac. "It lent a certain... tragic authenticity to the proceedings."
Alaric turned. Valeraine had scrubbed the grime from her skin, though a faint bruise still bloomed along her jaw where Kaelen had struck her. She had traded her ruined tunic for a simple, high-collared robe of charcoal wool. Without the hood and the dirt, her silver hair seemed to catch every stray flicker of candlelight, marking her clearly as a Deva of high lineage.
"The mud was not for show, Valeraine," Alaric said, his voice level. He moved to the table, where a map of the surrounding territories was pinned down by smooth river stones. "But your performance was. You yielded a match you could have won. Why?"
Valeraine stepped into the light, her expression unreadable. "Because a Knight-Commander needs to be a symbol the common folk can love. They cannot love an Imperial plant sent to watch them. They can, however, love a dancer from the islands who bleeds for their entertainment." She tilted her head. "Besides, a Commander must be seen. A Sergeant... a Sergeant can be the blade that never leaves the shadow."
Alaric watched her closely, his eyes narrowing. "You mentioned my mother. The Empress-Consort. She is the one who put you up to this?"
"Asimi is a Brionac by blood before she was an Empress by title," Valeraine replied, her voice softening with a touch of familial pride. "She did not send me to undermine you, Alaric. She sent me to ensure you weren't building a house of cards. She wanted to know if you could handle a 'Vesper'—a wildcard, a spy, a mercenary with a hidden agenda. If I had broken your order from within, you weren't ready for what the capital will throw at you."
"And your conclusion?"
"My conclusion is that you have a stomach for the hard choices," she said, a small, genuine smile touching her lips. "But your mother's protection only goes so far. The Ecthellion bloodline is a shark tank, and even she knows that if Starfall is to survive, it needs more than just her favor. It needs teeth."
"I have teeth," Alaric said. "I have fifty knights-to-be and a commander who almost killed himself to win."
"Then use them," Valeraine said, her tone shifting into the cold cadence of a military briefing. "Because while we play at tournaments, the 'Ebon Hand' has moved into your backyard. Disgraced nobles and smugglers who see your 'Order' as a threat to their illicit routes. They didn't just come to watch the finals. They came to ensure the Prince of Starfall didn't survive the night."
Alaric's posture sharpened. He thought of the tension in the stands, the coordination of the groups he had spotted before the final clash. "The saboteurs."
"They have three teams," Valeraine explained, leaning over the map. She pointed to the western palisade, the riverbank, and finally, the tower's own lower levels. "The most dangerous group is already within the servants' quarters. They plan to strike tonight, while the camp is celebratory and the rain muffles the sound of steel. They intend to kill the new Commander in his bed and leave your tower a tomb."
Alaric looked at her, his mind already calculating the response. He had the strength, but he needed the silence.
"You are my Knight-Sergeant now," Alaric said, his voice dropping into a tone of command. "You said you were the blade in the shadow. Prove it."
Valeraine bowed, a slow, graceful inclination of her head. "Your orders, My Prince?"
"Take ten of the Knights Gallant. Intercept the team in the servants' quarters. I want no shouting, no alarms. Use the silence of the storm." Alaric's eyes went to the window. "I will handle the western palisade myself. We cannot let them reach the knighting ceremony tomorrow. I want the people to see a beginning, not a massacre."
"And the third team by the river?" Valeraine asked.
"If they see the other two fail, they will run," Alaric said. "Let them. A few survivors spreading word of how Starfall handles its enemies will do more for our reputation than a row of heads on pikes."
Valeraine reached into her robe and drew the Imperial parrying dagger, the silver rose on the hilt gleaming. "It will be done. By the time the sun rises, the tower will be clean."
"Wait," Alaric called out as she reached the door.
She paused, looking back over her shoulder.
"Does my mother know you're telling me all this?" he asked.
Valeraine smirked. "She told me that if you were smart enough to corner me, I was to give you my full report. She's quite proud of you, Alaric. Try not to get stabbed tonight; it would ruin the upholstery."
She vanished into the darkness of the hallway as silently as a breath. Alaric turned back to the window, his hand resting on the hilt of his own blade. The tournament was over, and the games of the court had begun, but tonight, the only thing that mattered was the cold, wet work of survival.
He stepped out of the solar, the shadows of the tower lengthening behind him as he headed toward the western wall.