The castle seemed to hold its breath.
Varynhold had always been cold, but that morning there was something different in the air — not only the damp wind slipping through ancient stone, nor the rain that kept falling like an endless punishment.
It was tension.
A kind of silence hidden beneath hurried footsteps.
The sort of silence that comes before a blade falls.
Lady Maelyra walked through the corridors as though moving through a heavy dream. Her boots echoed softly against the stone floor, accompanied by the distant sound of muffled voices, doors being shut, orders thrown like arrows into the dark.
She was not alone.
Two guards followed behind, their armor dark and wet, spears steady in their hands. Not for protection.
For surveillance.
Her father trusted not even his own blood when war stood at the gates.
Ahead, a servant led the way, too nervous to lift his eyes.
"Lord Edric awaits you in the throne hall, my lady," he said, as if repeating something rehearsed so he would not forget.
Maelyra did not answer.
She already knew.
When a lord summoned his daughter to the throne, it was not a request.
It was a command.
The doors of the hall were enormous — black wood reinforced with iron, as though the castle expected invasions forever. Two men pushed them open with effort, and the creak echoed like a lament.
The throne hall of Varynhold was less majestic than it was imposing.
There was no excessive luxury.
No gold.
Only stone, crimson banners hanging from the walls, and at the far end, the throne of Lord Edric Varyn — a tall chair of dark wood, adorned with wrought iron shaped like claws.
A throne made to remind all that power was not comfort.
It was threat.
Edric sat unmoving, like a statue carved for war.
Around him, captains and counselors formed a semicircle. Hardened men, faces marked by time and violence. Some carried maps, others held cups they did not drink from.
And near the entrance…
Messengers.
Three of them.
Soaked through, covered in mud, hollow-eyed with the look of men who had ridden for nights without stopping.
Maelyra felt her stomach tighten.
News did not travel so fast without reason.
One of the messengers was still bleeding from the arm, a crude bandage pulled tight.
Edric lifted his gaze.
"Maelyra."
The word fell heavy.
She walked to the center of the hall, feeling dozens of eyes upon her. Not eyes of admiration.
Eyes of judgment.
The cause.
The spark.
The daughter who refused.
"Father," she said, steady.
Edric wasted no time.
"Listen."
He gestured, and the oldest messenger stepped forward. His voice was rough, nearly broken.
"My lord… we come from the forward camp, under the command of Ser Garron Thorne."
Maelyra recognized the name. One of Edric's most loyal captains. A hard man, respected by soldiers.
The messenger continued:
"The Marrick forces are marching faster than we anticipated. They burned two villages along the way… not out of necessity, but to spread fear."
A murmur passed through the hall.
Edric did not react.
"How many?" he asked.
"At least four thousand, my lord. And… southern mercenaries with them. Men without banners."
Mercenaries.
That always made it worse.
Men paid to kill without honor and without loyalty.
Edric leaned slightly upon the throne.
"And Ser Garron?"
The messenger hesitated.
"He holds position. But… he asked us to warn you."
Edric narrowed his eyes.
"What?"
The messenger swallowed.
"The troops are… tense."
The hall grew quieter.
Maelyra understood.
The tension was not only in the field.
It was here as well.
The messenger chose his words as if stepping across thin ice.
"They obey, my lord. They march, sharpen their blades, raise barricades… but…"
"But?" Edric growled.
"They believe they are fighting a useless war."
The phrase fell like a stone upon the chest of the hall.
Some captains looked away.
Others clenched their fists.
Edric remained still for a long moment.
"Useless," he repeated, low.
Maelyra felt cold creep up her spine.
The messenger continued quickly, as if afraid of being executed for speaking too much:
"They try to hide their fear with jokes, with bravado… but at night, many pray. They say they die for the pride of nobles. That there is no glory in this. Only mud."
Maelyra closed her eyes for a moment.
Mud.
Yes.
She had seen the mud.
The messenger lowered his head.
"Ser Garron asked for reinforcements. And he asked… that Your Lordship know: if morale breaks, it will not be Marrick steel that destroys the army.
It will be fear."
Edric rose slowly.
The entire hall seemed to shrink before him.
"Fear is natural," he said, voice hard. "But disobedience is death."
A captain, a gray-haired man named Merek, stepped forward.
"My lord… they do not speak of disobedience. They speak of meaning."
Edric's gaze turned like a blade.
"Meaning?"
Merek took a breath.
"They are peasants, smiths, bastards… not knights sung of in stories. They do not understand why they burn villages and die… over a marriage."
The silence was absolute.
Maelyra felt every eye slowly turn toward her.
She opened her mouth—
Edric spoke first.
"This is not about a marriage."
His voice echoed.
"This is about authority. About order. If a vassal can spit upon the name Varyn without punishment, then tomorrow others will do the same."
He stepped forward from the throne.
"Today it is Marrick. Tomorrow it will be another. And then there will be no dominion. No law. Only chaos."
Maelyra felt her chest tighten.
She knew he believed it.
Knew that, to Edric, yielding was death.
But she also knew…
The men in the mud did not think of authority.
They thought of coming home alive.
She stepped forward.
"And they are right."
The hall froze.
Edric turned slowly.
"What?"
Maelyra held his gaze.
"They are right to feel fear. They are right to call it useless. Because for them… it is."
An indignant murmur.
A captain snarled:
"My lady—"
Maelyra raised her voice, firm.
"They do not fight for honor. They fight because they have no choice. Just as I had no choice in that marriage."
Edric advanced one step, eyes burning.
"You dare—"
"I dare speak the truth!" she cut in, her voice echoing off stone. "Thousands will die. And when they do, no one will sing their names."
Silence.
Edric stood still.
The distant crackle of the hearth sounded far away.
The messenger kept his head bowed, as if wishing to vanish.
Maelyra drew a slow breath.
"If morale is breaking… then it is not only Marrick that approaches.
It is the end."
Edric stared at his daughter as though seeing her for the first time not as a child, but as a threat.
Then he spoke, low and dangerous:
"The end began the day you said no."
Maelyra felt the words like a blade.
Outside, the rain continued.
And in the valley…
Men held swords with trembling hands, pretending at courage.
War was coming.
And it did not care whether it was useless.