Shattered Kingdom

The Ravenglass Throne, Volume 1

Jon Cronshaw

Published by Wyvern Books, Ltd, 2025.

This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

SHATTERED KINGDOM

First edition. March 12, 2025.

Copyright © 2025 Jon Cronshaw.

ISBN: 979-8230559931

Written by Jon Cronshaw.

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“When the bonds shatter, three paths will emerge from shadow. The warrior’s blade turns friend to foe, the scholar’s truth burns cold as ice, and the diplomat’s words become arrows in flight. But beware—for strength divided falls, while weakness united may yet stand.”

- From ‘Prophecies of the Endless Yellow’ by Oracle Suvach

1. Irmin

Irmin adjusted her grip on Berthold’s reins, the worn leather familiar against her calloused palms.

Below, the Imperial courtyard teemed with nobles in finery, jewels catching the light amid a sea of emerald and jade.

Beneath her, Berthold shifted, his muscles bunching as his scarred wings stretched wide, their black scales edged with red like cooling embers. His eagerness thrummed—a crackle of anticipation that mirrored the quickening beat of her own pulse.

“Steady,” she said, though the warning was more for herself than her mount. The weight of tradition bore down on her, heavier than her ceremonial armour. Fifty years since her father’s birth, and now his naming day celebration would showcase the Ostreich Kingdom’s might to all who watched. Including those who might wish it harm.

A shadow passed overhead, then Sergeant Wulfram’s wyvern drew alongside, its bronze scales catching the sun. “Squadron’s in position, Commander.”

Irmin nodded, studying the formation with a critical eye. Five pairs of riders and mounts hovered in perfect alignment, their shadows painting dark crosses on the courtyard stones. Each rider sat straight-backed, armour gleaming, every detail precise. As it should be. “Begin the display. Standard sequence.”

From her mind, she fed Berthold the pattern—an intricate dance of loops and dives perfected over countless hours of training. His approval rumbled through his chest, a deep vibration she felt in her bones.

The first notes of the Imperial anthem rose from below, carried on the breeze.

Irmin raised her arm, the signal to begin.

The sun caught the etched surface of her vambrace—a gift from her father on the day she’d earned her command.

As one, the squadron dived.

Wind whipped at Irmin’s face as Berthold led the formation into a tight spiral. The crowd’s gasps faded beneath the rush of air and the steady beat of wings as the ground blurred below.

They pulled up sharply, climbing until the air grew thin and cold enough to sting.

At the apex, Berthold tucked his wings and rolled, the rest of the squadron mirroring the movement in perfect synchronisation. The manoeuvre would look like a blooming flower from below.

Through gaps in the formation, Irmin glimpsed the Imperial dais. Her father sat straight-backed on the Ravenglass Throne, every inch the King, even after three decades of rule.

They were approaching the finale—the most dangerous segment of the choreography.

“Squadron, prepare for cross-formation,” she commanded through the bond network that connected all riders and mounts.

The squadron split into two groups, banking hard in opposite directions. They would cross paths at high speed, close enough for their wing tips to nearly touch. Even the slightest miscalculation would spell disaster.

Berthold’s excitement spiked through their connection. This was what they lived for—the razor’s edge between control and chaos.

The formations converged.

“Three...two...one...”

A crack split the air.

For a heartbeat, Irmin thought someone had mistimed the fireworks. But fireworks didn’t make people scream. Fireworks didn’t leave bodies crumpled on the courtyard stones.

More cracks followed—crossbow bolts.

“Protect the civilians!” Irmin shouted through the chaos. The squadron responded instantly, banking to form a protective circle above the panicking masses.

Below, figures in servants’ livery converged on the dais. Steel glinted in their hands. The Imperial guards moved to intercept, but they were outnumbered.

“Berthold!” They dived as one, his roar scattering those in their path. The wind of their descent sent banners snapping.

Mid-descent, Irmin drew her ravenglass sword.

She leaped from Berthold’s back while he was still airborne, using the momentum to drive her sword through the first assassin’s chest. The blade caught on bone, forcing her to abandon it as she rolled to avoid another attacker’s knife.

“Father! Get back!”

But her father stood his ground, drawing his own ceremonial sword. Its black form seemed to drink in the light as he parried a blow, his movements still graceful after all these years.

A flash of movement drew her eye. Another assassin, approaching from her father’s blind side—the blade already drawn back to strike.

“No!”

She sprinted forward, but bodies pressed between them—guards, assassins, panicking nobles.

Every step felt like wading through mud.

Every heartbeat stretched through time.

The assassin’s blade plunged into her father’s side.

Time fractured.

The King’s face showed more surprise than pain.

He looked at Irmin, his lips moving to form words she couldn’t hear over the roaring in her ears.

Then he fell.

Berthold’s roar shook the courtyard. His massive form dropped from above, and he pinned one of the fleeing assassins beneath his claws.

Blood welled around his talons as he pressed down. The wyvern’s thoughts crashed into Irmin’s mind, heavy with the scent of betrayal.

“This wasn’t random,” he growled, his voice like stones grinding together. “The stench of treachery is thick.”

Irmin spun, taking in the scene with new eyes. Most of the nobles had fled, but a few remained, watching the chaos unfold.

She stalked towards the pinned assassin and closed her hand around a fallen dagger.

The weapon bore an intricate sigil she recognised. She knew it from countless court functions and council meetings, and it had no business being in an assassin’s possession.

The mark of House Darius.

Irmin’s fingers tightened around the hilt until her knuckles whitened. This was more than an assassination. More than a simple bid for power.

This was the beginning of a civil war.

Above, her squadron maintained their protective formation, but Wulfram’s wyvern descended. “Commander, we need to get you out of here,” he said. “Now. Before they realise what you’ve found.”

She looked at her father’s body, already being covered by royal guards, and at the dagger in her hand, its sigil damning in the morning light.

“No.” Her voice came out steady, despite the rage burning in her chest. “We’re not going anywhere. This ends now.”

Berthold’s approval blazed like fire. They had trained for war their entire lives. Had prepared for every contingency, every possible threat to the Kingdom.

They’d just never expected to fight it at home.

The assassin beneath Berthold’s claws laughed, blood staining his teeth. “You’ve already lost, Commander. The old order dies today.”

Berthold’s claws tightened. The man’s laughter turned to screams.

“Berthold.” Irmin’s quiet voice cut through the sound. “We need him alive.”

The wyvern growled but eased his grip. “For now.”

Irmin kneeled beside the assassin, holding the sigil-marked dagger so he could see it. “Tell me who gave you this,” she said.

“You know who.” His eyes gleamed with fanatic fervour. “The weak must fall. The Kingdom must be cleansed.”

“The Kingdom must be preserved.” Irmin narrowed her eyes. “And it will be, once traitors like you are dealt with.”

Movement caught her attention. Imperial guards were spreading through the courtyard, securing the area.

“Wulfram!” she called. “Get the squadron into defensive positions. No one leaves the courtyard without being searched.”

Her second-in-command’s wyvern banked sharply, relaying orders to the rest of the formation. They moved with practised efficiency, creating a barrier of wings and teeth above the chaos below.

Irmin stood, her mind racing. She needed to secure the assassin, warn the Imperial guard about Darius’s involvement, find her sisters...

“One thing at a time,” Berthold said, his thoughts steady against the storm of her own. “We can’t fight everyone at once.”

He was right, of course. Strategy had never been her strong suit—she preferred direct action, immediate solutions. But this situation required more than brute force.

She touched the hilt of her father’s sword, still clasped in his lifeless hand. The weight of it, of all it represented, settled onto her shoulders.

Her father was dead.

The King was dead.

And he had not chosen a successor.

“Secure the prisoner,” she ordered the nearest guards. “Take him to the high cells. No one speaks to him without my direct authorisation.”

The guards saluted, dragging the assassin away. Berthold’s wings mantled, casting a shadow over Irmin as she kneeled beside her father’s body.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I should have been faster. Should have seen this coming.”

But recriminations wouldn’t change what had happened. Wouldn’t bring him back. All she could do now was ensure his death meant something.

She stood, her hand still gripping the dagger.

She pulled her sword free from an assassin’s body, wiped its blade, and sheathed it.

Around her, the courtyard continued to churn with activity—guards securing the area, healers tending the wounded, nobles being escorted to safety.

And somewhere in the chaos, traitors walked free.

“Sound general quarters,” she told Wulfram. “I want every rider in the air within the hour. No one enters or leaves Reichsherz without our knowledge.”

War had come to the Kingdom. Not from outside forces, but from within.

Irmin mounted Berthold, feeling his muscles coil beneath her. Together, they rose above the courtyard, above the spreading ripples of chaos that would soon engulf the Kingdom.

The time for ceremonies was over.

2. Adelinde

Dust motes danced in the shafts of coloured light streaming through the library’s stained-glass windows. Adelinde traced her finger along an ancient tablet’s surface, following the grooves of script etched millennia ago. The inscription’s edges had worn smooth with time, making certain characters frustratingly ambiguous.

“‘The living link maintains the balance,’” she muttered, jotting down another possible translation. “Or perhaps ‘sustains’? Either verb would work...”

A shard of ravenglass lay beside her cramped notes, its surface darker than the deepest void. Unlike ordinary gemstones, it absorbed light rather than reflected it. Her research suggested the material’s unique properties stemmed from its resonance with wyvern magic, but the exact mechanism remained elusive.

Scrolls and reference texts surrounded her workstation like paper fortifications. Each bore her careful annotations, cross-references marked with red ink.

Six months of research, and still the fundamental question eluded her.

Why did ravenglass amplify the bond between rider and wyvern?

What made it essential to maintaining the Kingdom’s web of psychic connections?

Faint cheers drifted through the windows from the courtyard below. The naming day celebration was underway. Her sisters would be there, of course. Irmin leading the aerial display, Elana charming the noble houses. Meanwhile, Adelinde remained cloistered with her books and theories.

She pushed the thought aside, refocusing on the tablet. “‘Through the darkness flows the light,’” she translated, frowning at the metaphorical language. Ancient texts never seemed to state anything plainly.

The ravenglass shard pulsed once, so briefly she might have imagined it. She picked it up, studying its perfectly smooth facets. The material’s properties defied conventional alchemical theory—it couldn’t be shaped by tools, only with tremendous heat. Yet somehow, the ancients had crafted it into precise geometric forms.

“Another mystery for the endless list.” She set the shard down. Her fingers brushed against the tablet’s edge, leaving a smear of ink. She reached for a cloth to clean it, but froze at the sound of running footsteps.

The library doors burst open. A courier stumbled in, his face flushed and breathing hard. He whispered something to Master Archivist Sigmund, whose weathered face went pale.

Adelinde’s heart clenched. The master archivist approached her table with measured steps that couldn’t quite hide his trembling.

“Your Highness. There’s been an incident. Your father...the King is dead.”

The tablet slipped from her fingers. It struck the table’s edge and shattered, ancient clay splintering into a dozen pieces.

“No.” The word came out strange and hollow.

“Assassins. During the display. I’m so sorry.”

Adelinde stared at the broken tablet, whose fragments were scattered across her careful notes. Her hands shook as she tried to gather the pieces, to restore order to chaos. But they wouldn’t fit together properly. The edges refused to align.

“My research. I need to finish...”

“My lady.” Sigmund laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Perhaps you should—”

The floor trembled. Books shifted on their shelves, some toppling to the ground with dull thuds. The vibration carried a strange resonance, like a struck crystal goblet.

The ravenglass shard flared with sudden intensity, its void-black surface shot through with veins of sickly purple light. Similar flares rippled through the library’s display cases, where other specimens were stored.

“That came from the royal wyvern chamber,” Sigmund said, steadying himself against a shelf.

Adelinde pressed her hands to her temples. The air felt wrong—discordant, an instrument out of tune. Through the library’s windows, she glimpsed wyverns wheeling in agitated patterns above the city.

Golden scales flashed in the doorway. Gisela ducked her head to enter, her wings folded tight against her serpentine body. The wyvern’s presence filled the space.

“The tremor wasn’t random.” Gisela’s voice carried its usual melodic quality, this time underlaid with urgency. “Something stirs in the foundations, tied to the bonds you study.”

Adelinde gathered her notes with trembling hands. “I don’t understand. The bond web has been stable for centuries. Even accounting for resonance variations, there shouldn’t be—”

“Theory must give way to action.” Gisela’s tail curled around Adelinde’s workspace, gathering scattered papers. “Your knowledge may be our only defence against what comes.”

“What use is knowledge now?” Adelinde gestured at her broken tablet. “Father is dead. The Kingdom needs warriors, not scholars.”

“Knowledge is a weapon,” Gisela said. “One you must wield before others turn it against us.”

The wyvern’s words struck home.

Adelinde picked up the ravenglass shard, studying its angry purple glow. Her research had suggested the possibility of corruption within the material, but she’d dismissed it as theoretical. Now she wasn’t so sure. “The vault. We need to check the primary storage.”

Gisela hummed her approval.

Together, they hurried from the library, leaving the broken tablet behind.

The palace’s lower levels stretched into darkness, lit by alchemical orbs that cast more shadow than light. Guards stood at rigid attention, but their usual stoic expressions had given way to barely concealed fear.

“Something feels wrong down there,” one said as he unlocked the vault door. “Like the air itself has gone sour.”

Adelinde understood as soon as she entered. The vault’s usual background resonance had shifted to a discordant whine, just below the threshold of hearing. Row upon row of ravenglass specimens lined the shelves, each piece catalogued and secured.

She moved methodically through the collection, checking each specimen against her mental inventory. Most appeared normal, their void-black surfaces undisturbed. But here and there, pieces showed hair-thin cracks spanning their crystalline structures.

“Impossible.” She squinted at a particularly large specimen. “Ravenglass can’t crack.”

She reached the vault’s innermost chamber, where raw specimens were stored. The discord grew stronger here, setting her teeth on edge.

A large shard caught her attention near the back of the vault. Unlike the others, its surface rippled with dark energy, purple-black tendrils writhing beneath the void-black surface. Her stomach churned at the sight.

“This one.” Her hand hovered over the specimen, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to touch it. “It’s...wrong.”

Sigmund leaned closer, squinting through his spectacles. “Fascinating. The surface perturbations suggest some kind of internal resonance shift, perhaps triggered by—”

“Don’t.” Adelinde grabbed his wrist as he reached for the shard. “Listen to me, Sigmund. Really listen. This isn’t an academic exercise. Something is happening to the ravenglass network, something that could destabilise every wyvern bond in the Kingdom.”

He blinked at her. “Surely you’re overstating—”

“Am I?” She pointed to the specimen. “When have you ever seen ravenglass behave like this? When has it ever shown signs of degradation, let alone active corruption?”

Whispers tickled the edge of her consciousness—fragments of thoughts that felt alien, twisted. She took an involuntary step back.

“The ancient texts,” Sigmund said, falling into his teaching cadence. “They speak of resonance disruptions during times of great upheaval. Perhaps your father’s death—”

“This isn’t about father!” The words echoed off the vault’s stone walls. She forced herself to lower her voice. “Or rather, it’s not just about him. The assassination, the timing of this corruption...they’re connected. They have to be.”

Sigmund’s expression softened. “My dear, I understand you’re looking for patterns, for meaning in all this chaos. It’s natural to—”

“Stop.” She pressed her fingers to her temples. “Stop treating me like a grieving child. I am a scholar of the Kingdom, and I am telling you something is fundamentally wrong with our foundation stone.”

Gisela approved of her firmness. The wyvern’s presence steadied her, helped her find the words she needed.

“The ravenglass network doesn’t just amplify the bonds between riders and wyverns. It maintains them. Stabilises them. If it’s becoming corrupted...” She met Sigmund’s eyes. “What do you think happens to those bonds?”

Finally, she saw understanding dawn in her mentor’s face. He turned back to the corrupted shard, his academic detachment giving way to genuine concern. “How long?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Hours? Days? The degradation pattern is unprecedented.” Adelinde pulled her notebook from her satchel. “But we need to document everything. Every crack, every resonance shift. And we need to warn the riders.”

Sigmund nodded slowly. “I’ll have the other archivists begin cataloguing changes across the entire collection.” He hesitated. “But Adelinde...be careful how you present this to your sisters. In times of crisis, people rarely want to hear about problems they can’t solve with steel or charm.”

“They’ll have to listen,” Adelinde said, straightening her shoulders. “Because if we don’t solve this, steel won’t matter at all.”

“The corruption spreads,” Gisela said, her golden scales dimmed in the vault’s darkness. “You’ve theorised about this.”

Adelinde nodded. Her most recent research had suggested ravenglass might be susceptible to corruption if exposed to sufficient psychological trauma. “We have to warn them.” She gathered her notes with shaking hands. “If the ravenglass network is compromised, the entire system of wyvern bonds could collapse.”

“Your sisters will listen,” Gisela said.

But Adelinde wasn’t so certain. They had dismissed her theories before, wrapped up in their own concerns. Why should now be any different?

The corrupted shard pulsed again, its whispers growing fainter but no less malevolent. She forced herself to focus on the technical details, the quantifiable data. Evidence they couldn’t ignore.

If the bonds that held the Kingdom together were breaking, she would not let them shatter completely. Even if that meant finally stepping out of the library’s shadows.

She squared her shoulders and headed for the vault door, Gisela close behind.

The time for pure research had passed.

Now, she needed to prove that knowledge truly could be a weapon.

3. Elana

The council chamber breathed wealth and history. Tapestries depicting the Kingdom’s founding lined walls of polished marble, while alchemical light cast a warm glow across the assembled nobles’ faces.

Elana sat straight-backed in her chair at the chamber’s head, maintaining perfect composure despite the mounting tension before her. As usual, she had arrived early to assure herself the lighting was just so.

The round table, carved from a single massive oak, bore the scars and water rings of countless debates.

Baron Gerlach’s face had reddened to match his ceremonial sash. “The northern borders cannot wait for trade incentives to bear fruit,” he was saying. “We need steel and stone now.” He punctuated each word by jabbing his finger against the ancient oak. “Three raids in the past month alone. Villages burned. Citizens fleeing south.”

Lady Sybilla’s silk sleeves rustled as she gestured. “And bankrupt the treasury in the process?” she said. Her finery spoke of southern wealth—pearls at her throat, rings on every finger. “The border towns need commerce, not fortifications. Give them the means to prosper and they’ll defend themselves.”

Velten’s calm presence steadied Elana’s growing frustration. She had moderated this same argument three times in as many weeks, each noble’s position becoming more entrenched with each repetition.

The real challenge lay not in finding a solution—that had become obvious days ago—but in making both factions believe they had achieved victory.

“Both perspectives have merit,” she said, her voice pitched to carry without seeming to dominate. The trick lay in the subtle modulation—too soft and she would appear weak, too forceful and the nobles would bristle at being lectured. “Baron Gerlach rightly emphasises our security needs, while Lady Sybilla speaks to the heart of sustainable growth.” She paused, letting each noble feel acknowledged. “Perhaps a compromise—”

“Compromise?” Gerlach’s fist struck the table. The water in the crystal goblets trembled. “While Molotok raiders strike with impunity? While our people cry out for protection? This isn’t about politics, Your Highness. This is about survival.”

“They cry out for bread before steel.” Sybilla’s cultured accent dripped with disdain. “What good are walls if the people behind them starve? What army can fight on empty stomachs?”

Around the table, other nobles were shifting allegiances with each point scored. Lord Straus remained carefully neutral, his sharp eyes taking in every detail. Baron Kessler’s sympathies clearly lay with Gerlach—his own lands bordered Molotok territory. And Lady Reza played with her rings, her expression suggesting she’d already decided, but wished to back the winning argument.

“My lords.” Elana didn’t raise her voice, but something in her tone cut through the building chaos. She had learned this trick from her father—the power of quiet authority. “Consider this. We strive for a graduated approach. We begin with targeted fortification of key trading routes, using the increased security to foster merchant caravans. The resulting tariffs fund further defensive works, creating a cycle of growth and protection.”

The tension in the room shifted, a subtle change that rippled through the gathered factions.

Neither side looked satisfied—an outcome that signalled a compromise had been reached.

The logic was undeniable, even if grudging. Each leader straightened, no doubt already calculating how to frame the decision as a victory for their supporters.

Gerlach tugged at his collar. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the chamber’s cool air. “The initial costs—”

“Would be offset by implementing Lady Sybilla’s proposed tax incentives for merchant guilds.” Elana allowed herself a small smile. “Provided they contribute to the defence fund, of course. The exact percentage can be negotiated, but I would suggest starting at fifteen percent of gross profits.”

Sybilla’s eyes narrowed, calculating. “And oversight of these funds? We can’t have military interests dominating economic decisions.”

Elana gestured to the scribes who waited against the wall. “A joint committee. Three representatives from each faction, with quarterly reports to the full council.” She paused before she went on. “The reports will be a matter of public record, ensuring transparency.”

“An elegant solution, Your Highness,” Lord Darius said, his voice smooth. “Though one wonders if such measured approaches can truly address immediate threats.”

“The best defences are built on solid foundations, my lord,” Elana said, meeting his gaze steadily. Something in his tone set off warning bells, but she couldn’t place why. “Rushing to fortify without considering supply lines and economic impact would leave us vulnerable in other ways.”

The tension bled from the room. Elana maintained her serene expression, but inwardly she noted which nobles seemed disappointed by the resolution. Those who thrived on conflict were often the ones to watch most carefully.

Baron Kessler began outlining specific trade routes that would need protection. Lady Reza offered suggestions about tax structure and implementation. The conversation shifted from confrontation to collaboration, though Elana noted the underlying currents of competition remained.

The chamber doors burst open, admitting a royal messenger whose face had gone chalk white. He stumbled to Elana’s chair and bowed. “Your Highness...the King...your father...assassinated during the naming day celebration.”

The world contracted to a pinpoint of pain.

Elana’s fingers clenched on her chair’s armrests, but she maintained a mask of calm.

She could not show weakness. Not here. Not now.

“Commander Irmin is investigating, but—”

The chamber erupted.

“Molotok spies!”

“The trade council must have—”

“Succession must be settled immediately—”

“The military should assume control until—”

Voices overlapped, accusations flew.

Lord Darius stood silent, his expression unreadable. Lady Sybilla pressed a hand to her throat, her facade of sophistication cracking. Baron Gerlach’s face had gone from red to purple, spittle flying as he demanded immediate military action.

Elana rose, the movement precise and controlled. The chamber fell silent, years of diplomatic training crystallising into this moment.

“My lords and ladies.” Her voice emerged steady, though her heart hammered against her ribs. “We have suffered a grievous blow. But we must not let shock and fear drive us to hasty action.” She met each noble’s gaze in turn, establishing connection, demanding attention. “The Kingdom’s strength lies in its unity. We will reconvene in three hours for an emergency council session, where we will address immediate concerns with the gravity they deserve.”

Protests rose, but she silenced them with an upraised hand. “Until then, I ask you to remember your oaths. Remember that we serve something greater than our individual interests. The Kingdom watches how we conduct ourselves in this dark hour.”

The nobles filed out, their whispered conversations a rush of conspiracy and speculation. Already, alliances were forming—Gerlach and Kessler whispering together, Sybilla drawing several southern lords into her orbit. Lord Darius moved between groups, saying little but missing nothing.

Elana maintained her composure until the last had gone. Then she slipped through a side door on to a private balcony, her legs threatening to give way.

Velten waited there, silver scales catching the late morning sun. The wyvern’s presence wrapped around her like a physical embrace, offering strength without words.

“I can’t...” She pressed her forehead against Velten’s warm scales. “Father...”

“Grieve later,” Velten said, his resonant voice gentle but firm. “The Kingdom needs you now.”

She drew a shuddering breath. “The nobles already split into factions. Did you see how quickly they turned to advantage-seeking? Like carrion birds circling a corpse.”

“The Kingdom is a cracked mirror,” Velten said. “Your role is not to restore it to perfection, but to ensure it doesn’t shatter entirely.”

“How?” The word emerged smaller than she intended. “Half of them will demand immediate military control. The other half will insist on maintaining diplomatic protocols. And somewhere in this mess, a killer walks free.”

“Then identify your allies. Lady Sybilla showed wisdom today—she may support a moderate approach. Baron Gerlach’s loyalty to the crown is absolute, even if his methods are rigid.” Velten’s tail curled around her protectively. “Build coalitions while they squabble among themselves.”

“And Lord Darius?”

“Watch him carefully. His neutrality feels...calculated.”

Elana straightened, smoothing her court robes. “The emergency session will be critical. They’ll push for immediate decisions on succession.”

“And you must delay without appearing to delay.” Velten’s blue eyes met hers. “Buy time for Irmin’s investigation.”

“For answers I’m not certain exist.” She turned to go, then paused. “Thank you. For being my anchor in this storm.”

“Always.”

4. Irmin

Blood dripped from the assassin’s split lip, staining the collar of his rough tunic. Irmin flexed her fingers, fighting the urge to strike him again. The interrogation chamber’s stone walls seemed to press closer, heavy with the stink of fear and lies.

“One more time.” Her voice emerged low, controlled. “Who hired you?”

The man spat red. “Told you. House Darius. Lord himself gave us the daggers, said the King had grown soft. Said changes were coming.”

Across the chamber, chained to the opposite wall, the second assassin jerked his head up. “He lies! We never met any nobles. The ravenglass dealer paid us, that’s all.”

Irmin’s armour felt too tight, her skin crawling beneath steel plate stained with her father’s blood.

Six hours of questioning, and still the stories shifted like sand through her fingers.

A scrape of claws on stone drew her attention. Berthold’s massive form filled the archway, his black scales edged with crimson in the torchlight. She felt his concern—for her state of mind and for the increasingly agitated prisoners.

“Your blade is sharp,” he said through their bond. “But your temper will dull it if you’re not careful.”

She ignored him, focusing instead on the first assassin. “These meetings with House Darius. When? Where?”

“His private study,” the man answered. “Three times this past month. Always after sunset.” His eyes darted to his companion. “The sigil on the dagger proves it. Everyone knows House Darius crafts the finest weapons in the Kingdom.”

“Liar!” The second assassin strained against his chains. “The dealer gave us those blades. Said they were part of our payment, along with the ravenglass. You’re just trying to save your own skin.”

Irmin drew the dagger from her belt—the one she’d found at the scene. Its weight felt wrong in her hand, the balance slightly off. But the sigil was unmistakable—the crossed swords and rising sun of House Darius.

“This dealer.” She turned to the second assassin. “Describe him.”

“Tall. Wore a hooded cloak. Spoke with an accent—maybe eastern? Paid us in corrupted ravenglass.” He wet his lips. “Said it was worth triple its weight in gold to the right buyers.”

“Ravenglass can’t be corrupted,” Irmin snapped. “Everyone knows that.”

But even as the words left her mouth, she remembered whispers from the border garrison. Rumours of black-market traders dealing in tainted shards that pulsed with sickly light. She’d dismissed the stories as superstition.

“You’re letting guilt cloud your judgement.” Berthold’s thoughts pressed against hers. “These men are puppets—they’ll tell you anything to save themselves.”

She whirled on him. “They killed my father!”

Through their bond, she felt Berthold’s frustration war with sympathy. But before he could respond, boots rang in the corridor outside.

General Eberhard strode in, his ceremonial armour replaced by practical leather and steel. His gaze swept the chamber, taking in the battered prisoners and Irmin’s white-knuckled grip on the dagger.

“Commander.” His tone carried warning. “A word.”

She followed him into the corridor, breathing deeply to master her temper.

The general’s grizzled face bore new lines of exhaustion. “The council wants this handled quietly,” he said. “Properly.” He held up a hand as she started to protest. “I know you found evidence implicating House Darius. But accusations against a noble house require—”

“Require what?” Heat rose in her chest. “More bodies? More proof that traitors walk our halls while we concern ourselves with protocol?”

“Require certainty.” Eberhard’s eyes hardened. “We cannot afford hasty accusations, not with the court already fracturing. Leave this to the council. That’s an order.”

She drew herself up, shoulders rigid. “With respect, sir, the council’s procedures won’t catch killers. Action will.”

“And what action do you propose? Storming House Darius based on a prisoner’s confession? Starting a civil war because a dagger bore the wrong sigil?” He stepped closer, voice dropping. “Think, Commander. If House Darius truly orchestrated this, why arm their assassins with marked weapons? Why not use common steel?”

She had wondered the same thing, in the quiet moments between interrogations. But the alternative—that someone wanted them to suspect House Darius—opened possibilities too dangerous to contemplate.

“The ravenglass connection needs investigation,” she said instead. “If smugglers are truly trading in corrupted specimens...”

“Then proper channels will handle it.” Eberhard’s tone softened. “I know you want justice. We all do. But rushing to conclusions will only make things worse.”

She remained silent, jaw clenched. Berthold’s approval of the general’s words warred with his shared desire for immediate action.

“Return to your duties,” Eberhard said. “Let the investigation proceed according to protocol. That’s an order, Commander.”

He turned on his heel, boots ringing on stone as he strode away. Irmin stood motionless, the dagger a cold weight in her hand.

“He’s right about one thing,” Berthold said, moving to her side. “This feels too neat. Too convenient.”

She traced the House Darius sigil with her thumb. “Since when do you counsel patience?”

“Since I watched you spiral into guilt-driven rage.” Berthold’s wing brushed her shoulder. “You’re not thinking clearly, and your enemies are counting on that.”

“They killed him, Berthold.” Her voice cracked. “They killed him while we flew pretty patterns in the sky. While we played at being heroes.”

“Then honour his memory by being smarter than they expect. By seeing the whole board, not just the piece they want you to chase.”

She drew a deep breath, then another.

General Eberhard’s orders rang in her ears, but beneath them, threads of conspiracy pulled at her mind.

The dagger’s weight.

The corrupted ravenglass.

The too-perfect trail leading to House Darius.

“We need to check something.” She straightened, purpose replacing rage. “The old storage rooms near the south wall. That’s where the smuggling rumours started.”

Berthold’s approval rumbled. “Lead on.”

They moved through torch-lit corridors, avoiding the main passages where nobles and servants hurried about their business.

The storage area lay in a quiet corner of the palace grounds, its entrance half-hidden behind stacked crates and abandoned equipment.

Irmin’s boots crunched on gravel as she approached a shadowed alcove.

Something felt wrong—a stillness in the air, a sense of recent disturbance. She drew her sword, its whisper-soft slide from its sheath loud in the evening quiet.

There, beneath a weathered tarp, crates marked with the House Darius sigil. But these markings looked different—cruder, as if copied by an unsteady hand.

She pried open the nearest crate, Berthold’s bulk blocking any view from the main courtyard.

Inside, nestled in straw, lay rows of crystalline shards. Not the pure void-black of normal ravenglass, but something darker.

Purple-tinged energy writhed beneath the surfaces.

“Impossible.”

But the evidence lay before her, as undeniable as her father’s cooling body.

Berthold’s growl carried through their bond. “The Kingdom bleeds from within.”

She lifted one of the shards, its weight wrong in her hand. Like the dagger, but worse—an underlying wrongness that set her teeth on edge.

She felt Berthold recoil from the corruption.

Then the pieces began to align in her mind. House Darius’s recent push for militarisation. The border raids that always seemed to strike where defences were weakest. The whispers of smuggling operations that no one could quite pin down.

“We can’t take this to Eberhard,” she said. “Not yet. Not until we understand what we’re dealing with.”

Berthold’s agreement thrummed between them. “Someone is trying to point us to House Darius,” he said. “Someone wants us distracted while real dangers grow in shadow.”

She replaced the shard and closed the crate, making sure the tarp lay exactly as they’d found it. Then she drew the dagger once more, studying its distinctive sigil in the fading light.

Treachery had seeped into the palace itself, corrupting its foundations like twisted ravenglass.

And she would root it out, no matter the cost.

No matter who stood in her way.

For her father. For the Kingdom. For justice.

5. Adelinde

The corrupted ravenglass shard pulsed on Adelinde’s workbench, dark veins threading through its crystalline structure.

She adjusted her magnifying lens for the third time in as many minutes, careful to avoid direct contact with the specimen.

Even through the protective layer of glass, its wrongness scraped against her mind, like fingernails on slate.

Her laboratory felt smaller than usual, the shelves of arcane implements and ancient texts pressing close in the lamplight. Dried herbs hung from the ceiling beams. Their familiar scents of sage and wormwood mixed with the metallic tang that always accompanied ravenglass work. But this specimen’s emanations carried something else—something sour.

“Corruption penetrates deep into the crystalline matrix,” she muttered, scratching notes with her free hand. The nib caught on a rough spot in the parchment, splattering ink. “Spread pattern suggests deliberate contamination rather than natural degradation. Notable deviation from standard resonance frequencies.”

The thought chilled her.

Ravenglass didn’t degrade naturally—that was its defining characteristic.

The material’s perfect molecular alignment made it ideal for stabilising and amplifying wyvern bonds, for crafting unbreakable weapons.

Every apprentice learned that principle on their first day. She remembered her own studies, six years ago, Master Sigmund’s voice steady as he explained the foundational theories.

“The perfection of ravenglass is what gives it power,” he’d said, holding a flawless specimen to the light. “Its structure cannot be altered by time or tools—only by the heat of molten rock.”

She reached for her reference text—‘Principles of Crystalline Resonance’—and compared her observations to the classical descriptions. The corruption’s pattern matched nothing in the established literature. But something about it tugged at her memory, an echo of research from months ago.

Her notes from that period filled three leather-bound volumes, their margins crammed with questions and cross-references. She’d been tracking anomalies in the bonding network, tiny fluctuations that most dismissed as measurement error.

But the patterns had suggested something deeper, something systematic.

A distant roar shattered her concentration.

The sound reverberated through the laboratory’s stone walls, rattling glassware and sending ripples through her containment solutions.

Not the usual training calls or greeting cries—this held pain, confusion, rage.

Adelinde hurried to her window. In the courtyard below, palace wyverns snapped and snarled at each other, their usual ordered formations dissolving into chaos.

Guards scrambled to separate the creatures. The wyverns’ scales had dulled to sickly hues, their movements jerky and unnatural.

The timing couldn’t be coincidence. Not with her father’s murder, not with the corrupted ravenglass specimens multiplying in the vault, not with the growing reports of unstable bonds.

She returned to her workbench, pulling down another text—this one ancient, its binding cracked and pages brittle. The Old Tongue script took longer to translate, but its descriptions of failed bonding experiments drew uncomfortable parallels to current events.

“‘The balance shatters when resonance fails,’” she translated, frowning at the metaphorical language. “‘Discord spreads like poison through the web of minds.’ They knew this could happen. They’d seen it before.”

Her fingers traced the aged parchment, following lines of text that hadn’t seen light in centuries. The ancient scholars had understood something about ravenglass that modern research had forgotten...or deliberately obscured.

Another roar echoed from the courtyard, followed by the crash of breaking wood.

Adelinde’s hands trembled as she copied the relevant passages into her notes. If someone was deliberately corrupting the ravenglass network, they could destabilise every wyvern bond in the Kingdom. Their entire defensive structure would collapse.

She should tell her sisters. Irmin’s military connections could help track the corruption’s source. Elana’s diplomatic channels might reveal who stood to gain from such sabotage.

But doubt crept in, familiar as an old wound.

They wouldn’t listen. They never did, not to their quiet scholar sister with her books and theories.

A memory surfaced: herself at twelve, trying to explain a theory about improving bond resonance. Irmin rolling her eyes, already turning away. “Some of us have real work to do, little sister.” Elana’s dismissal had been gentler but no less firm. “That’s fascinating, dear, but perhaps focus on your basic studies first.”

Her hands clenched on the ancient text. She’d been right then—her theory had later been proven correct by other scholars. But the pattern had been set. Her sisters saw her as the baby of the family, head always in the clouds or buried in books.

A shadow fell across her workbench. Gisela’s golden form filled the doorway, the wyvern’s wings folded tight as she manoeuvred into the laboratory. Her presence steadied Adelinde’s racing thoughts, their bond humming with shared purpose.

“You’ve found something.” It wasn’t a question.

“The corruption...it’s not random.” Adelinde gestured to her notes, the diagrams and translations spread across parchment. “Someone’s tampering with the ravenglass network. Deliberately destabilising the bonds.”

“Then why do you hesitate to share this knowledge?”

Adelinde’s shoulders hunched. “You know why. They never listen. Not about things they can’t see or fight directly.”

“You see what others cannot.” Gisela’s voice carried gentle reproach. “That is your gift. But a gift unshared is a wasted truth.”

“What if I’m wrong? What if I raise the alarm and it turns out to be nothing?”

“And if you’re right? If your silence allows this corruption to spread unchecked?” Golden eyes fixed on her. “Knowledge is power, Adelinde. But power must be wielded, not hoarded.”

“You’re right.” Adelinde gathered her notes, mind racing. “The vault. There might be more evidence there, something concrete enough that they can’t dismiss it.”

They made their way through the palace’s torch-lit corridors, down to the ravenglass storage vault.

“The specimens,” a guard said, breaking protocol. “They feel wrong, my lady. Like they’re angry.”

The vault’s atmosphere had deteriorated since her last visit. The background resonance that usually filled the space with gentle harmony had twisted into something discordant, setting her senses screaming.

More specimens showed signs of corruption, dark veins spreading like cracks through perfect crystal.

She moved methodically through the vault, documenting each corrupted specimen. The spread followed no obvious pattern—some of the oldest specimens remained pristine while newer acquisitions showed advanced degradation. But something about the distribution nagged at her analytical mind.

“The corruption clusters,” she muttered, marking positions on her rough map of the vault. “Like it’s spreading from specific points of contact.”

Gisela’s tail swept a precise arc as she turned. “Could someone have planted corrupted pieces among the pure ones?”

“That would require intimate knowledge of vault security,” Adelinde said. “Access to the specimen catalogue.” Her mind raced through implications. “And an understanding of ravenglass resonance patterns that rivals that of the ancient masters.”

She moved deeper into the vault, past the main storage areas to sections untouched for generations. Here, the walls bore traces of old power—ward marks and protective sigils carved by long-dead mages. But something else caught her eye: ancient runes, partially obscured by grime and deliberate damage.

“Help me with this.” She pulled a clean cloth from her satchel, carefully wiping away centuries of dust. The runes emerged slowly, their meaning fragmented by tool marks that scored through crucial passages.

“‘The balance shattered...’”—the next words were completely obliterated—“‘...by the will of...’” Another deliberate erasure. “‘When the heart turns dark, the body follows.’”

“This is no accident,” Gisela said. “Someone wanted this knowledge hidden.”

Adelinde’s hands shook as she copied the fragments into her notebook. “These marks are old, but not as old as the original text. Someone came here, perhaps generations ago, and systematically destroyed specific passages.”

Gisela’s concern deepened. Adelinde felt the wyvern’s natural scholarly caution warring with growing alarm. “Why these passages? What knowledge was worth erasing?” Gisela asked.

“The corruption’s not new.” Adelinde’s voice dropped to a whisper. “The ancients knew it could happen. They tried to warn us, but someone...” She traced the tool marks. “Someone didn’t want us to know.”

She turned back to her specimen map, seeing it with new eyes. The corruption’s spread wasn’t random—it followed paths of resonance, exploiting the very networks that strengthened wyvern bonds.

“It’s using our own power against us. The stronger the bond network grows, the faster corruption can spread through it.”

A memory surfaced—Elana explaining political manoeuvring over dinner. “The strongest alliance can become the deadliest weakness, if your enemy knows how to exploit it,” she’d said.

Her father had nodded approval at Elana’s insight. But he’d missed Adelinde’s attempts to discuss her theory, her warnings about anomalies in the bonding network.

Always busy, always focused on immediate threats rather than theoretical ones.

Now he was dead, and theory had become deadly reality.

Gisela nudged her shoulder. “You’re thinking about your sisters again.”

“They should have listened.” The words emerged bitter. “All those times I tried to warn them about weaknesses in the system, about unexplained resonance patterns...”

“Then make them listen now.” Gisela’s voice carried steel beneath its melody. “You have evidence. You have history. Most importantly, you have truth.”

“Truth didn’t help before.”

“Before, you were a child seeking approval. Now you’re a scholar protecting the Kingdom.” The wyvern’s tail encircled her. “The question isn’t whether they’ll listen. It’s whether you’ll speak loudly enough to be heard.”

Adelinde stared at her notes—pages of careful observations, theoretical frameworks, historical correlations. All pointing to a conclusion too terrible to ignore—someone with intimate knowledge of the Kingdom’s foundations was systematically dismantling them.

And they weren’t finished yet.

The corrupted ravenglass in her laboratory pulsed with sickly light, its resonance a discordant note in the Kingdom’s symphony of power. Each compromised specimen represented another crack in their foundations, another weapon turned against them.

“We need to tell them.” The words emerged stronger than she’d expected. “All of it—the corruption, the sabotage, the historical precedents. Whatever they choose to do with the information, they need to know.”

“Your sisters will listen,” Gisela said. “Trust in that, if not in yourself.”

Adelinde gathered her materials. The fractured words on the wall seemed to pulse in the lamplight, their warning clear despite the deliberate damage. Someone was rewriting the Kingdom’s fate, using its own power against it.

She would not let them succeed in silence.

This time, she would make them hear.

6. Elana

Elana stood at the centre of the council chamber, the cacophony of noble voices swelling around her.

The air was thick with the heat of too many bodies, the mingled scents of perfume and sweat cloying in her nostrils.

She kept her spine straight, her face a mask of calm authority, even as the currents of tension and ambition swirled around her.

“The law is clear—the chosen daughter must assume the throne immediately!” Baron Gerlach’s voice boomed from her left as his fist struck the council table with a thud that reverberated through the stone floor.

“In times of crisis, the military council has precedence,” General Eberhard said, his gruff tones sharp with urgency.

Lady Sybilla’s silk sleeves whispered as she gestured. “But succession is dictated by the King.”

Lord Straus laughed. “A regency council until the succession can be properly—”

“The border lords should have primary say in such matters,” Baron Kessler interrupted, his voice tinged with the accent of the northern marshes.

“The southern provinces will not accept military rule,” Lady Sybilla said.

Elana’s fingers tightened around the arms of her chair, the polished wood smooth beneath her palms. She took a slow breath, focusing on the weight of her robes and the press of her coronet against her brow.

“My lords.”

The chamber quieted, shifting bodies and indrawn breaths replacing the clamour of voices. Elana felt the weight of their attention settle on her.

“We cannot rush to fill a void while its edges are still undefined,” she said. “We must first understand the nature of this attack, its perpetrators, and its implications.”

“And while we wait?” Lord Darius’s voice slid into the silence. “While we dither with investigations, our enemies gather strength?”

Elana turned her head towards him, her eyes finding his face after a moment. “Strength built on haste crumbles at the first test,” she said, holding his gaze.

When he gave no response, she took a breath, her shoulders relaxing a fraction as she addressed the wider chamber. “I propose a three-day period of formal mourning, during which the council will gather evidence and prepare recommendations for—”

A sudden commotion at the chamber doors cut her off. The rasp of wood against stone, the quick tread of light feet on the tiles. Elana turned, her brow furrowing as she tried to place the sound, to match it to a face or a name.

“What is this?” Lord Darius asked.

Elana didn’t answer. She was already reaching into the pocket of her robes, her fingers finding the smooth weight of her alchemical orb and the cool metal of her magnifier.

The footsteps came closer, faltering slightly as they approached her chair. A court page, and a young one at that. She could hear the nervous hitch in his breathing, smell the sour tang of his sweat.

“Your Highness. A message. From the gates.”

Elana held out her hand, palm up. A moment later, the crisp edges of a sealed parchment brushed against her skin. She closed her fingers around it, then dismissed the page with a nod.

Bending her head, she shook the alchemical orb. A subtle warmth bloomed against her palm as the orb began to glow.

She held it over the parchment, the heat of its light a gentle pressure on her skin. With her other hand, she raised the magnifier to her eye.

The words swam into focus, shimmering slightly in the orb’s golden light. Elana read them quickly, her lips moving silently as she deciphered the ornate script.

“A Molotok envoy arrives at the palace gates. They demand an immediate audience.”

Indrawn breaths rippled through the chamber.

Elana set the magnifier and orb down before her.

Beneath the council table, her hands clenched into fists, her nails biting into her palms.

Her father’s voice echoed in her mind, a warning delivered in the privacy of his study. “Never underestimate them,” he’d said. “A wolf in silks can still tear you apart.”

She smoothed the parchment with fingers that did not tremble, her diplomatic mask slipping into place once more.

This was no coincidence. The timing was too precise, the demand too bold. Whether Molotok sought to exploit the chaos or deny involvement, their presence now was a calculated move in a game whose rules she was still learning.

“My lords.” She rose to her feet, the heavy silk of her robes whispering against her chair. “We will reconvene at sunset. Until then, I ask for your discretion. The Kingdom’s enemies must not see us divided.”

For a moment, the chamber was silent. Then the scrape of chairs and the rustle of clothing filled the air as the nobles began to file out.

Elana remained standing, her head high and her shoulders straight, as they passed her one by one.

Fragments of hushed conversation reached her ears, snatched phrases that hinted at the storm brewing beneath the surface.

“This reeks of Molotok’s meddling,” Lord Darius said.

“The southern lords will use this to stall any succession,” Lord Straus added.

“If the military seizes control, we’ll be no better than...” This from Lady Sybilla, whose words faded as she moved out of earshot.

Elana waited until the last footsteps faded and the great doors thudded shut. Then, and only then, did she allow her shoulders to slump, her head to bow just a fraction.

The chamber was empty now.

She took a deep breath and walked to the side door, trailing her hand along the edge of the council table.

Velten waited for her in the antechamber. “What have they sent us?”

“An envoy. Demanding an immediate audience.”

“Bold.”

“And dangerous.” Elana's fingers tightened around the parchment. “If they think we’re fractured, they’ll press for concessions. If we refuse to meet, it’ll look like weakness.”

Velten was silent for a moment, the only sound the soft rasp of his claws against the stone floor. “So you meet them. With steel, not silk.”

“With both,” Elana corrected, subtly smiling. “Strength, tempered by diplomacy.”

“You have the right of it, Elana.”

“I will meet this envoy within the hour. Let’s see what they have to say.”

The Kingdom might be cracked, but she would not let it shatter.

7. Irmin

The interrogation chamber’s torches had burned low, casting wavering shadows across empty chains. Irmin stood in the doorway, her mind refusing to process what her eyes reported.

The assassins were gone.

She strode to the nearest set of manacles, her fingers tracing the rust-dark stains. The iron retained no warmth—they’d been empty for hours.

“Commander.” A guard appeared in the doorway, snapping to attention. “The general requests your presence in his office.”

“When were the prisoners moved?”

“I don’t know, Commander. I only just started my shift.”

Irmin brushed past him, boots ringing on stone as she took the stairs two at a time. Berthold’s concern pressed against her mind, but she pushed it away. She couldn’t afford his moderating influence right now. Couldn’t risk dulling the edge of her anger.

General Eberhard’s office occupied a corner of the military wing, its windows offering clear views of both the main courtyard and the wyvern training grounds. He stood at a window when she entered, hands clasped behind his back. The evening light caught the silver in his hair, making him look older than she remembered.

“The prisoners are dead.” He spoke without turning, his voice carrying the same steady authority it had held since her training days. “Executed on Temple Hill.”

“On whose authority?”

“Mine.”

“They were our only leads. Our only chance to unravel this conspiracy before—”

“Before what?” Now he did turn, fixing her with the stern gaze that had cowed a hundred young officers. “Before you could extract more contradictory confessions? More convenient evidence pointing exactly where someone wants us to look?”

“They knew things. Details about the ravenglass trade, about House Darius—”

“They knew what they were told to know.” He moved to his desk, retrieving a sealed document. “Their execution was necessary. Clean. Legal.”

“Legal? Was it legal to deny me access to my own prisoners? To eliminate leads in an active investigation?”

“Your investigation ended when I gave you a direct order to stand down. An order you chose to ignore, based on the reports I’ve received.”

She should have known he’d have eyes on her. Should have been more careful checking the storage rooms. But it was too late for caution now.

“I found evidence—”

“You found what they wanted you to find.” He slapped the document down. “Think, Irmin. Really think. House Darius has stood loyal for eight generations. They craft our finest weapons, maintain our ravenglass stockpiles. Why would they risk everything on such a clumsy assassination?”

“They were set up to take the fall.”

Something flickered in Eberhard’s eyes. “Go on.”

She forced herself to slow down, to lay out her thoughts with military precision. “The dagger was too obvious. And the ravenglass...” She swallowed. “Someone’s corrupting it. Deliberately. Using House Darius’s marks to cover their tracks.”

“Corrupting ravenglass is impossible.”

“Impossible doesn’t mean what it used to.” She met his gaze. “You’ve seen the warning signs. Unstable bonds, aggressive behaviour in normally docile wyverns. Something’s wrong with the network that maintains our power, and someone’s using House Darius as a convenient scapegoat while the real threat grows.”

Eberhard was silent for a long moment, studying her with an intensity that made her want to fidget like a raw recruit. Finally, he sighed. “You sound like your father.”

“He would have pursued the truth, no matter where it led.”

“He would have considered all the angles before charging into action.” His rebuke was gentle but firm. “Your instincts are good, Irmin. But instinct without strategy is just another word for recklessness.”

“And caution without action is just another word for cowardice,” she answered.

The words hung between them, impossible to take back.

Eberhard’s face hardened. “Choose your next words carefully, Commander.”

She drew herself up, shoulders square. “With respect, sir, I don’t have time for careful words. While we stand here debating protocol, enemies move in shadow. The corrupted ravenglass I found? It’s spreading. And someone is using our own security measures to distribute it.”

“You have proof of this?”

“I have evidence. More than enough to justify—”

“Evidence you gathered in direct violation of orders.” He raised a hand as she started to protest. “I’m not blind, Irmin. I see the same shadows you do. But moving against them requires precision. Patience. One wrong step and we risk civil war.”

“And what do we risk by doing nothing?”

Eberhard moved to a cabinet, retrieving a bottle and two glasses. He poured a measure of amber liquid, offering one to Irmin. “Tell me about your mission.”

She blinked. “Sir?”

“Don’t play coy. You have that look—the one that says you’re about to do something dramatic and probably illegal.” He smiled. “I’ve known you since you were knee-high to a wyvern, remember? I can read your intentions like a battle map.”

She didn’t take the proffered drink. “Better if you don’t know the details.”

“Plausible deniability?” His smile faded. “Or don’t you trust me anymore?”

The question cut deeper than she expected. This man had trained her, mentored her, helped shape her into the officer she’d become. But now?

“Trust is a luxury we can’t afford right now.” She moved to the door. “Not until we know how deep this rot goes.”

“Irmin.” His voice stopped her, her hand hovering over the latch. “Whatever you’re planning...be careful. You’re not just a commander anymore...you could be our next Queen.”

“I understand. I understand that someone killed my father. That they’re trying to tear apart everything he built. And that they won’t stop until we stop them.”

“And if stopping them requires sacrifices you’re not prepared to make?”

“Then I’ll make them, anyway.” She straightened. “Because that’s what he would have done.”

She left before he could respond, her boots echoing on stone as she strode through torch-lit corridors. Berthold’s presence filled her mind, offering wordless support.

“I know,” she told him through their bond. “It’s probably a trap.”

“Almost certainly. But that won’t stop you.”

“Can’t stop. Won’t stop.” She emerged into the courtyard, where evening shadows painted everything in shades of grey. “Not until we find the truth.”

8. Adelinde

Midnight oil burned low in Adelinde’s lamp, casting weak light across scattered papers and ravenglass specimens.

She squinted through her magnifying lens, ignoring the ache behind her eyes as she traced another pattern of corruption through a shard.

“The spread follows the same resonance paths,” she muttered, adding another notation to her already cramped diagrams. “But the rate of progression varies between specimens. Why? What’s the variable I’m missing?”

Reference texts lay open around her workstation, their pages marked with countless strips of parchment. She’d been cross-referencing ancient accounts for hours, searching for any mention of similar corruption patterns. Her neck protested as she straightened, but she ignored the discomfort.

The quiet scratch of her quill filled the laboratory, punctuated by the occasional clink of specimens being sorted and catalogued. The familiar sounds usually soothed her, but tonight they felt hollow, insufficient to fill the void that had opened in her chest.

A soft knock interrupted her concentration. Master Sigmund stood in the doorway.

“My lady? It’s well past midnight.”

“I’m aware of the time.” She didn’t look up from her work. “The corruption’s spread rate increases during nighttime hours. I need to document the progression.”

He moved closer, studying the chaos of her workstation. “When did you last eat? Or sleep?”

“I had...” She frowned, trying to remember. “There was tea. Earlier.”

“Yesterday’s tea doesn’t count as sustenance.” Sigmund picked up one of her diagrams, examining the intricate patterns she’d sketched. “This can wait until morning.”

“It can’t.” She snatched the paper back, adding it to a pile of similar observations. “The corruption’s accelerating. Look—” She held up a specimen in its protective container. “See how the veins pulse? They’re stronger now than they were six hours ago. If I don’t track the progression, we’ll miss crucial data points.”

“Adelinde.” He spoke her name softly, the way he had when she was a young apprentice struggling with difficult translations. “You’ve received terrible news. No one expects you to—”

“To what? To continue my work? To solve the mystery that might be destroying our Kingdom’s foundations?” She gestured at her specimens. “The corruption doesn’t stop spreading just because my father is dead.”

The words came out harder than she intended.

“Your sisters—”

“Have their own concerns.” She turned back to her notes. “Irmin has her investigation. Elana has her political manoeuvring. I have this.”

“And what do you have for yourself?” He settled onto a stool beside her workbench. “Where is your space to grieve?”

“I don’t have time for grief.” The words emerged clipped, precise. “The corruption is spreading through our ravenglass reserves at an exponential rate. The bond network shows increasing instability. If we don’t understand the mechanism soon—”

“The mechanism will still be there tomorrow.” He laid a gentle hand on her arm. “Tell me what you’ve found so far. Help me understand why this can’t wait.”

She recognised the technique—he’d used it countless times during her training, getting her to step back and explain her thought process. Part of her bristled at being handled like an overwrought student.

“The corruption follows existing resonance pathways. It’s not random degradation—it’s using our own bond network to spread. Like a disease travelling through a bloodstream.”

“Interesting.” He picked up one of her reference texts. “And these ancient accounts you’ve been studying?”

“They hint at similar events in the past. But the relevant passages are damaged, deliberately obscured.” Frustration crept into her voice. “Someone tried to erase this knowledge. They knew this could happen, and they chose to hide the warning signs.”

“So the answers exist, but finding them requires careful study. Cross-referencing. Time to think.” He smiled. “The sort of work that benefits from a clear mind and rested body.”

“I am thinking clearly.” But even as she spoke, her vision blurred slightly. She blinked hard, refocusing on her notes.

“Are you?” Gisela’s voice came from the doorway, where the golden wyvern had been quietly observing. “Your thoughts grow sluggish. Your observations, less precise.”

“Not you too.” Adelinde glared at her companion. “I thought you understood the urgency.”

“I understand that exhaustion leads to errors.” The wyvern moved closer, her presence filling the cramped laboratory. “Errors we cannot afford.”

“Listen to your bond partner,” Sigmund said. “The answers you seek will come more easily when you’ve rested. When you’ve given yourself space to process all that’s happened.”

“I don’t want space.” The admission surprised her with its rawness. “I don’t want to process. I want to work. To solve this before...” She swallowed hard. “Before anyone else dies.”

“Oh, my dear.” Sigmund’s voice carried compassion. “Your father’s death wasn’t your fault. You couldn’t have prevented it, even if you’d solved this mystery months ago.”

“You don’t know that.” She stared at her specimens, their corrupted surfaces seeming to pulse in the dim light. “If I’d pushed harder, made them listen about the anomalies I was tracking—”

“Then events might have played out exactly the same way.” He began gathering her papers. “The path to understanding isn’t always straight or swift. Sometimes we must step away to see the whole pattern.”

“The whole pattern is right here.” She gestured at her work. “I just need more time. More focus. If I sleep now, I’ll lose momentum.”

“If you don’t sleep now, you’ll lose accuracy,” Gisela said. “Already your calculations show signs of fatigue. Three errors in the last hour alone.”

Adelinde startled. “What errors?”

“The resonance frequency calculations on page seven.” The wyvern’s tail indicated a specific sheet. “You transposed two digits. And your specimen categorisation is becoming inconsistent.”

She snatched up the indicated pages, scanning her work. Her heart sank as she spotted the mistakes—obvious ones that she should have caught.

“Your work matters,” Sigmund said. “But it matters enough to do properly. With full attention and clear focus.”

Adelinde slumped, the weight of exhaustion finally pressing down. “A few hours. But I need to check the specimens again before dawn. The nighttime progression—”

“Will be carefully monitored by Klara.” Sigmund began dimming the alchemical lamps. “I’ll have her record any significant changes.”

“But—”

“No buts.” Gisela’s wing brushed her shoulder. “Sleep now. Solve mysteries later.”

Adelinde sighed, recognising the futility of arguing with both her mentor and her wyvern. She allowed Sigmund to help her organise her notes, marking specific pages for morning reference.

“The answers will still be here tomorrow,” he said, steering her towards the door. “And you’ll be better equipped to find them.”

She paused in the doorway, looking back at her workstation. The corrupted specimens seemed to pulse in the darkness, their whispers just below the threshold of hearing.

Waiting. Growing. Spreading.

But Gisela was right—she couldn’t afford errors. Not with stakes this high.

“A few hours. Just until dawn.”

9. Elana

Power resided in details. Her father had taught Elana that lesson early, drumming it into her during countless hours observing court proceedings. Though her less-than-perfect eyesight surely meant some of the visual cues were lost, she could tell much from the cadence of voice, the careful pause that transformed a simple phrase into a threat.

The Molotok envoy would arrive any moment, and nothing about this visit felt right.

Not its timing, not its urgency, and certainly not its implications.

She traced her fingers along the marble table’s edge, its surface etched with the Kingdom’s map. Mines marked by tiny stars, and military outposts by crossed swords. Defensive positions indicated by subtle hash marks.

The chamber itself spoke of power—carefully chosen elements designed to remind visitors of their place in the grand scheme. Tapestries depicting wyvern riders in battle lined the walls, their threads subtly woven with traces of emeralds that glimmered in the light cast by alchemical chandeliers. The ceiling bore frescos of the Kingdom’s founding.

Her father had always said the room itself was a weapon, if wielded properly.

The memory of his voice sent a fresh wave of grief through her, but she pushed it down. There would be time for mourning later. Now, she needed every scrap of training he’d given her.

“Your Highness.” The guard’s voice carried the slightest tremor. “The Molotok envoy.”

He entered like silk sliding over steel. His boots made no sound on the marble floor.

“Ambassador Javik.” She inclined her head the depth protocol required—no more, no less. “Your arrival is...unexpected.”

“These are unexpected times.” His clipped accent wrapped around the words. “Molotok grieves with the Kingdom. Your father’s death strikes at the heart of stability in our region.”

Her diplomatic mask held, though heat flared in her chest. How dare he invoke her father’s name? How dare he waltz in here while her father’s blood was barely dry? “Your concern honours us. Though perhaps a formal message would have sufficed?”

“Ah, but messages are so impersonal.” Javik’s eyes flickered to the marble map. “And there are matters that benefit from...direct discussion.”

She gestured to the chairs flanking the table, and let him think he’d chosen his seat, while ensuring he sat with his back to the room’s main tapestry—the best position for her to see his face under the alchemical light.

“Molotok has always valued clear communication,” she said, settling into her own chair. The height difference was deliberate. With her seat slightly elevated, she forced him to look up during conversation. Another of her father’s careful arrangements. “Perhaps you might communicate your purpose here with equal clarity?”

“Of course. We are...concerned about stability. The Kingdom’s strength has long been a cornerstone of regional peace.” He spread his hands, rings glinting. “Recent events, rumours of unrest among the noble houses, and arriving to hear news of your father’s assassination—they raise questions about the future.”

“The Kingdom’s strength runs deeper than any single person.” The words tasted like ash in Elana’s mouth, but she kept her tone measured. “Even in grief, we remain unified.”

“Admirable sentiment,” Javik said and leaned forward. “Though we hear whispers of division within your court”—his pause carried weight—“such uncertainty can be dangerous.”

The trap lay coiled in his words. Answer too firmly and she’d reveal their internal debates. Hesitate too long and she’d confirm his intel. “The Kingdom’s internal affairs remain precisely that. Internal.”

She remembered her father’s lessons about Molotok diplomacy. They preferred to imply rather than state, to suggest rather than threaten. Every word carried layers of meaning, each gesture calculated to provoke response.

“Of course, of course.” He waved a hand, the motion deliberately casual. “Though as your closest neighbour, Molotok naturally takes interest in matters that might affect regional commerce. The northern mines, for instance, we’ve noticed increased activity there recently.”

Ice slid down Elana’s spine. The northern mines operated under strict secrecy. If Molotok knew about activity there...

“Trade routes require constant maintenance,” she said. “Particularly with winter approaching.”

“Indeed.” Javik’s smile widened fractionally. “Though some say it’s not maintenance that draws attention north. There are whispers of smuggling, of ravenglass moving through...unauthorised channels.”

“Rumours often reveal more about those who spread them than those they concern, Ambassador.”

“Perhaps.” He straightened his sleeve. “Still, Molotok would be remiss not to offer support during these troubled times. Our proximity to your northern territories puts us in a unique position to...assist with security concerns.”

The threat hung in the air.

Molotok knew something about the smuggling operations. More than that—they wanted her to know they knew.

“The Kingdom appreciates Molotok’s neighbourly concern.” She kept her voice cool. Every word had to be precise—Javik would analyse this conversation from every angle. “Though we find our current security arrangements quite adequate.”

“For now.” He rose. “But circumstances change quickly, don’t they? One day a father lives, the next...” He spread his hands. “Well. Know that Molotok stands ready to help preserve stability, should the need arise.”

The casual mention of her father’s death felt like a slap. She maintained her composure. This was deliberate—an attempt to provoke an emotional response, to make her reveal weakness.

She stood too, maintaining the proper distance. “We will remember your offer.”

His bow held perfect courtesy, yet somehow managed to suggest mockery. “Until we meet again, Your Highness. Do give my regards to your sisters.” He paused at the door. “Particularly Commander Irmin. I understand she’s quite...busy these days.”

How much did Molotok know about the assassination investigation? About the evidence her sister had uncovered?

When the door closed behind Javik, Elana allowed her hands to clench. Every instinct screamed that this visit was more than opportunistic diplomacy. Molotok had chosen this moment deliberately, probing for weaknesses while their defences remained uncertain.

She picked up her guide-cane and found her way onto the balcony, where Velten waited.

As her eyes slowly adjusted to the change in light, the wyvern’s silver scales shimmered, his presence steady. “He knows too much. About the mines, the nobles, the smuggling...even Irmin’s investigation.”

“They will test your armour for weaknesses.” Velten’s voice rumbled. “And they will not strike unless they are certain it will shatter.”

“The timing’s wrong. An envoy doesn’t arrive unannounced unless...” She pressed her fingers to her temples, mind racing through possibilities. “Unless they knew the assassination was coming. Unless they’re part of whatever’s happening.”

“Or unless they wish us to think they are.” Velten’s tail lashed the air. “Remember your father’s lessons about Molotok diplomacy. They prefer to appear stronger than they are, to seem complicit in events they merely observe.”

She leaned against his warm scales, drawing strength from their connection. “Either way, they’re circling. Waiting for us to show vulnerability.”

“Then give them none.” Velten’s certainty steadied her. “Gather your allies. Secure your position. Let them waste resources searching for weaknesses that don’t exist.”

Memories surfaced—her father teaching her about the delicate balance of power between nations. How Molotok had always played the long game, preferring to let others strike first while they gathered intelligence and waited for the perfect moment.

“What if this is their moment? Father’s death, division in the court, problems with the bond web...it’s the perfect storm of vulnerability.”

“Then we weather it. As we have weathered other storms.”

A commotion in the corridor drew her attention. A palace servant hurried forward, bearing a sealed envelope on a silver tray.

She set the envelope down and took out her orb and magnifier.

No insignia marked the parchment, no sign of its origin.

She broke the seal, unfolding the message within. The handwriting was deliberately nondescript:

‘The nobles are restless. House Darius moves against the throne. Be wary of false alliances.’

Her mind raced, connecting threads. House Darius’s recent push for military control. The dagger Irmin had found. Javik’s pointed comments about division within the court. And now this anonymous warning, arriving immediately after the Molotok envoy’s departure.

“Someone wants us looking in all directions at once. Split between external threats and internal betrayal.”

“Which makes this the moment to look closer,” Velten said. “To see which hands guide these seemingly separate strings.”

She moved to the balcony’s edge, staring into the gathering dusk. The Kingdom stretched vast before her. So much to protect. So many ways for it all to shatter.

The letter crumpled in her grip.

Javik’s visit, the anonymous warning, her father’s assassination—separate stones creating ripples that intersected and amplified. But ripples could be traced to their source, if one knew how to read the patterns.

Her father’s voice echoed in memory. “Power isn’t just about strength, Elana. It’s about perception. Make them see what you want them to see, while you watch what they try to hide.”

She had been trained for this. Raised to see the currents of power that moved beneath surface events. Now that training would be tested against enemies who struck from shadows, who turned diplomacy itself into a weapon.

The storm was coming—perhaps had already arrived. And if she faltered, the Kingdom would fall with her.

Velten’s wings mantled around her, silver scales catching the last light of day. She felt his unwavering support, his absolute faith in her ability to navigate treacherous waters.

“We begin with House Darius,” she said. “But quietly. Let Irmin handle the obvious investigation while we pull at other threads.”

“And Molotok?”

“We let them think they’ve rattled us. Let them waste resources watching for reactions to their implied threats.” A grim smile touched her lips. “Meanwhile, we find out what they’re really after.”

10. Irmin

Mist crept through Reichsherz’s northern district like ghostly fingers, turning warehouses into looming shadows. Irmin signalled to her squad, watching as Sergeant Wulfram led them into side streets, leaving her with four of her most experienced guards.

“Stay in pairs,” she said. “Check every doorway, every alley. If you find anything, signal with bird calls. No torches.”

The industrial quarter stank of coal smoke and rotting fish, perfect cover for activities best kept hidden.

Her boots made no sound on the damp cobblestones as she pressed against weathered brick, tracking her teams’ positions by the subtle shift of shadows.

She sensed Berthold’s presence on the rooftop above, his own senses extending her reach. No movement caught his eye, but something felt wrong. The air hummed with tension, like the moment before a storm breaks.

Guard pairs checked doorways methodically, hands on sword hilts. The effectiveness of their search pattern came from years of night patrols, though usually in better parts of the city.

Here, among the abandoned warehouses and crumbling factories, every shadow could hide a smuggler’s cache or an assassin’s blade.

She traced fresh claw marks on the wall beside her. Too small for cargo wyverns, too precise for wild ones.

Rogue riders, then.

Her lip curled. Traitors to everything the Kingdom stood for, everything her father had built.

Her father. The thought sent fresh pain through her chest, but she pushed it down.

Focus on the mission. Follow the leads. Find the truth.

The tip had come from one of her more reliable informants—unusual activity in this area, movement at odd hours. Crates being moved under cover of darkness, marked with noble house sigils that didn’t match their handlers.

“Movement.” Berthold’s thought touched her mind. “Northwest roof. Fast and low.”

She pressed deeper into shadow, her hand finding her sword hilt.

Wing beats whispered overhead, barely audible above the distant sounds of the city.

A dark shape dropped from above and landed with unnatural grace.

The rider’s boots made no sound on the cobblestones, his wyvern’s scales reflecting a shadowy green in the dim light.

“Commander Irmin.” The rider’s voice held amusement, maybe mockery. “I wondered when you’d find your way here.”

“Who are you? What are you doing here?”

“My lady. Surely you have heard the name Riven being bandied about among your soldiers.”

She knew him by reputation—Riven, the ghost rider. Tales painted him as everything from common smuggler to revolutionary hero. The truth, she suspected, lay somewhere darker.

“Quite bold, showing your face to the commander of the Imperial Guard.”

“Bold?” He stepped forward, moonlight catching the scars that marked his face. “Or confident? Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference.”

His wyvern—Kornel, if the stories were right—mantled its wings. Above, Berthold’s growl vibrated through the bond.

“You’re closer to the truth than you realise,” Riven said. “Though perhaps not the truth you’re seeking.”

Her patience, already thin, snapped. “Enough games. You know something about the assassination. About the ravenglass smuggling.”

“I know many things.” His hand dropped to his sword, casual but ready. “The question is, are you prepared to hear them?”

Ravenglass whispered against leather as both drew. The mist seemed to thicken, turning the world into shadow and suggestion.

“Your father’s death was just the beginning,” Riven said. “The noble houses aren’t the only ones playing this game.”

She struck first, her blade arcing through the fog.

He parried with irritating ease, stepping back into darkness.

“The Kingdom suffocates us all.” His voice remained calm as they traded blows. “Controls the wyverns, controls their riders. Did you never question why?”

“I question why traitors always talk so much.” She pressed her attack, driving him back.

Above, their wyverns circled, mirror images of the dance below.

Riven moved like smoke, deflecting rather than blocking.

But Irmin had trained against faster opponents, learned to read the subtle tells that betrayed intention.

She feinted left, then drove her pommel into his sword arm as he moved to parry.

The blade clattered to the stones.

Before he could recover, she swept his legs and pinned him, sword at his throat. “Talk. And make it worth hearing.”

He laughed, the sound oddly genuine. “Well fought, Commander. I had to be sure you were worth telling.”

“Worth telling what?”

“That the smuggling operation you’re chasing—it’s a shadow play.” His eyes held something like pity. “The Kingdom’s foundations are cracking, and not just from outside forces.”

Berthold rumbled a warning to her mind. “He’s playing for time. But there’s truth mixed with his deception.”

Irmin pressed the blade harder. “Names. Now.”

“Kill me if you must.” Blood welled around her sword tip. “But you’ll be destroying your best chance at understanding what’s really happening.”

“Dead men tell no lies.”

“Killing him would be easier,” Berthold said straight through her rage. “But answers don’t come from corpses.”

She fought down the urge to end it, to eliminate one more threat to the Kingdom. But she remembered what her father had once said: “A commander’s first duty is to truth, then justice.”

“Bind him,” Irmin ordered the guards, who had maintained their distance during the fight. “Thoroughly.”

As the guards complied, Riven’s eyes never left her face. “Your court is rotting from within, Commander. And when it falls, the wyverns will fall with it.”

A scent caught her attention—acrid, chemical. She turned towards a nearby warehouse, noticing strange scorch marks around its entrance.

Inside, fragments of wooden crates lay scattered. One bore the unmistakable sigil of House Darius, its edges charred as if by intense heat.

Riven’s wyvern growled low from the street.

“Interesting timing,” Riven said from his bound position. “Finding those crates just when you need evidence against House Darius.”

She spun to face him. “What do you know about House Darius?”

“I know they’re an obvious target. Almost too obvious.” He shifted, chains clinking. “Tell me, Commander, have you considered why a house known for its precision would leave such clear traces?”

The question echoed her own doubts. “If you have something to say, say it plainly.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” His grin held no warmth. “Besides, some truths have to be earned. You’re not ready for what I know.”

Berthold landed beside her, his bulk blocking the warehouse entrance. She felt his assessment of Riven—calculating, dangerous, but not lying. Not entirely.

“The ravenglass smuggling,” she said. “Who’s behind it?”

“Who isn’t?” Riven leaned back against the wall, oddly relaxed despite his chains. “Noble houses, foreign powers, rogue Guardians...everyone wants a piece. But they’re all missing the bigger picture.”

“Which is?”

“The corruption spreads both ways.” His voice dropped lower. “You’ve seen it in the ravenglass, haven’t you? The way it fights against itself? That’s just the beginning.”

Cold slid down her spine. How did he know about the corrupted specimens? That detail hadn’t left the palace.

“Your sister’s research—the quiet one—she’s closer than any of you to understanding. But even she doesn’t see the whole pattern.”

“Leave my sisters out of this.” The words emerged as a growl.

“Family.” He spat the word. “Another chain the Kingdom uses to bind us. Tell me, Commander, what happens to your precious duty when it conflicts with blood?”

Berthold’s tail lashed. “He’s baiting you.” The wyvern spoke through their bond. “Looking for reactions, testing limits.”

Irmin forced her breathing to steady. “You’re going to tell me everything you know about the smuggling operation. Names, locations, contacts.”

“Or what? You’ll kill me?” Riven shrugged against his bonds. “Death doesn’t frighten those who’ve seen behind the Kingdom’s mask. Ask yourself, why do so many wyvern riders turn rogue? What drives them to abandon everything they’ve sworn to protect?”

“Greed. Weakness. Betrayal.”

“Is that what they taught you in the academy?” His voice held genuine curiosity now. “That simple story about good and evil, loyalty and treachery? No room for the truth about how the Kingdom really maintains its power?”

She started to respond, but movement caught her eye. Kornel had been slowly shifting position, muscles bunching beneath dark scales.

“Don’t!”

The rogue wyvern spat a stream of acid at the guards nearest Riven. They leaped back, crying out as droplets ate through armour. In the chaos, Riven rolled, bringing his bound hands beneath his feet to the front.

Berthold launched himself at Kornel, but the smaller wyvern was already airborne, wings cutting through mist. The warehouse exploded into motion—guards shouting, steel ringing—as Riven somehow produced a hidden blade.

She met his attack with a snarl. Even bound, he moved with lethal grace.

Their blades clashed in the darkness, each seeking an opening.

“Your father died because he couldn’t see the truth!” Riven shouted over the clash of blades. “Don’t make his mistake!”

She struck harder, faster, driving him back towards the warehouse wall. But even as her blade found its mark, scoring his arm, she realised his true goal.

Riven’s wyvern dived from above, talons extended. Not for her—for his rider.

Kornel pulled up, taking Riven with him.

“Commander, let him go.” Sergeant Wulfram’s voice carried across the courtyard. “In this weather, at night—the risk isn’t worth it.”

But Irmin was already moving. Her boots found purchase on stacked crates, muscle memory from countless drills taking over. She launched herself upward as Berthold swept past.

Her hands found the familiar grip points on his harness, and she swung into position as they climbed.

“Track their heat trail.”

Berthold’s powerful wings drove them skyward, cold air stinging Irmin’s face.

The full moon painted the city in silver and shadow. Reichsherz spread below them, a maze of twisted streets and towering spires.

Kornel’s smaller form darted between towers, his green scales almost black in the darkness.

Despite everything, Riven rode skilfully, pressed low against his mount’s neck to minimise wind resistance.

“Not getting away that easily.” Irmin leaned into Berthold’s neck as they gave chase, the wind tearing at her cloak.

This was what they trained for—the pursuit, the hunt, the victory.

The rogue pair led them on a wild course through the city’s heights. Kornel was faster, more agile, but Berthold had raw power and hard-earned experience.

Each time Riven tried to lose them in a sharp turn or sudden dive, Berthold anticipated, cutting the angle or dropping to match them.

They wove between spires, scattering sleeping birds in their wake, and skimmed so close to rooftops that Irmin could have reached out to touch the tiles.

Riven’s knowledge of the city’s architecture became clear as he guided them through increasingly narrow gaps and treacherous turns.

“You can’t outfly us forever!” Irmin shouted as they closed the gap.

Each beat of Berthold’s wings carried them closer to their quarry.

Riven glanced back, moonlight catching his grin. Then he guided Kornel into an impossible vertical climb, straight up the sheer face of the Great Temple. The green wyvern’s claws scraped stone as they rose, using the wall itself for extra purchase.

Berthold followed, his wings straining.

Just as they neared the top, Kornel tucked his wings and flipped backwards, diving past them in a move that should have been suicidal.

But Irmin had read the tension in Kornel’s shoulders, anticipated the desperate move. As the wyverns passed in the air, Irmin pushed off from Berthold’s back, catching Riven around the waist. They tumbled through empty air, grappling for control as the city spun beneath them.

“You’re insane!” Riven shouted as they plummeted. Even with his hands restricted, he fought with skill, trying to break her grip.

“You’re under arrest,” she growled back, managing to lock his arm behind him despite their freefall. The ground rushed up to meet them, and the wind roared in her ears.

She felt Berthold’s exasperation as he dived after them.

Kornel wheeled back, trying to get beneath his rider, but Berthold slammed into him from above. The impact sent both wyverns tumbling through the air. Kornel’s cry of pain cut through the night as one of his wings bent at an awkward angle.

Just when impact seemed certain, massive claws closed around Irmin and Riven.

Berthold pulled up hard, his wings straining as he arrested their fall.

They hit the cobblestones hard but controlled, rolling to disperse the momentum.

Kornel crashed nearby, his injured wing dragging. The green wyvern struggled to rise as guards rushed in from all directions, weapons drawn.

“Stand down.” Irmin kept Riven pinned with a knee in his back. “It’s over.”

Kornel spat another stream of acid, forcing the guards back. Then he launched himself skyward, in spite of his injury. His take-off was unsteady, his wing clearly causing him pain, but he managed to vanish into the night before Berthold could pursue.

“Let him go,” Irmin said as her wyvern tensed to give chase. She could feel his predatory instincts urging him to hunt down the injured prey. “We have what we need.” She hauled Riven to his feet, noting with satisfaction that his mocking smile had finally faded. Blood ran from a cut above his eye, and his breathing was ragged. “Get him to the cells. I’ll speak with him later.”

“That was reckless,” Berthold said. “Even for you.”

“It worked, didn’t it?” She checked him over for injuries from the mid-air collision, but found only minor scrapes. “Besides, I knew you’d catch us.”

The wyvern huffed, but she felt his agreement.

Sometimes the direct approach was best.

11. Adelinde

Alchemical lanterns cast wavering shadows across the vault’s ravenglass chamber, their light seeming to bend around the void-black crystals lining the walls. Adelinde kneeled before the partially erased inscription, her fingers tracing grooves worn smooth by centuries of weathering and deliberate damage.

Her tools lay spread before her: thin paper for taking rubbings, various grades of charcoal, fine brushes, and pots of dark powder she could blow across the stone to reveal hidden marks.

“‘The heart of the bond must remain pure,’” she muttered, blowing a layer of powder across a particularly degraded section. The fine black dust settled into microscopic grooves, revealing ghost-like traces of carved text. “‘When the centre fails...’” The next words were completely obliterated, gouged out by whatever tool had been used to censor the warning.

Time pressed against her. The call of duty, of ceremony, could not be put off much longer.

Each new technique risked damaging the fragile marks further. Too much powder could fill the grooves permanently, too vigorous a rubbing might wear away what little remained.

But she couldn’t stop, not when she was so close to understanding.

Adelinde applied a faint dusting of powder across the worn stone. Years of practice had taught her how different materials weathered—sandstone wore differently than granite, marble held tool marks that limestone would lose. She’d spent countless hours studying how ancient craftsmen had carved their messages, learning to read not just the words but the techniques behind them.

“‘Unstable when severed...the mechanism requires constant’”—she frowned, adjusting her lamp angle to catch the shadows better—“‘...constant harmony between rider and mount.’”

A mechanism. All her research into ravenglass had suggested it was a natural amplifier of wyvern bonds, but this implied something more deliberate. Something engineered.

She shifted position, her knees aching from the stone floor. The corrupted ravenglass specimens in their cases caught the lamplight, their purple glow a constant reminder of what was at stake.

The next section of text proved more intact, protected by an overhanging lip of stone. She pressed her paper against it carefully, dabbing with her charcoal to create a rubbing. “‘The catalyst flows through channels unseen, binding heart to heart, mind to mind. But corruption spreads like wildfire through these same paths, turning strength to weakness, loyalty to madness.’”

Her hand trembled as she copied the words into her notebook. The implications were staggering. The Kingdom’s entire system of wyvern bonds relied not just on natural resonance, but on some kind of artificial mechanism—one that could be corrupted.

“This explains everything. The wyverns’ aggression, the unstable bonds...someone’s been tampering with the mechanism itself.”

But how long had this been happening?

And who would have the knowledge to attempt such delicate sabotage?

Time was running out. Each touch of her tools risked wearing away more of the ancient carving. She had to choose: preserve the text for future study or extract as much information as possible now, knowing her work might destroy it forever.

Knowledge over preservation. She pressed her paper against the stone, knowing each rubbing would take more of the surface with it.

“‘The mechanism draws power from the royal line,’” she translated, dabbing as gently as she could. “‘Their blood carries the original resonance, strengthening all bonds within the Kingdom’s reach. But this strength becomes vulnerability when...’” The stone crumbled beneath her touch, ancient text falling away to dust.

Still, the fragment revealed enough. The royal bloodline—her bloodline—somehow anchored the entire system.

Was that why her father had been targeted?

Not just for political power, but to destabilise the very foundations of wyvern bonds?

She gathered her materials and retreated to her private study, mind racing.

The room’s familiar chaos of books and scrolls offered little comfort now. She spread her notes across her desk, creating a web of connections between historical events and recent disturbances.

Reports of minor incidents stretched back years: wyverns showing unexpected aggression, bonds fluctuating during critical moments, riders complaining of interference.

Each incident had been dismissed as isolated, explained away by weather or fatigue or simple bad luck.

But viewed together, they formed a pattern.

A deliberate, systematic weakening of the Kingdom’s infrastructure.

“Someone’s been playing a very long game.” She marked timeline points on a fresh sheet of parchment. “The assassination wasn’t the beginning—it was the culmination.”

She pulled down more records. Maintenance logs for the ravenglass vault, schedules of Guardian inspections, reports of bond disturbances. Gaps appeared in the documentation, subtle enough to go unnoticed individually, but damning when viewed as a whole.

A shadow fell across her desk. Gisela had entered through the study’s high window.

“You’re troubled. More than usual.”

“This goes deeper than we thought.” Adelinde gestured to her scattered notes. “The corruption, the assassination, the whole system of wyvern bonds—it’s all connected. Someone’s been working for years to undermine everything we thought we knew about ravenglass.”

“And now that you know?”

The question hung in the air. Adelinde’s hands clenched on her desk. “Knowledge isn’t enough, is it? Not this time.”

“You can unravel the mysteries of the past, but if you do nothing, they will unravel the future.”

“My sisters—”

“Need to know. All of it. The mechanism, the corruption, the conspiracy.” Gisela’s tail swept a careful arc, gathering scattered papers. “Unity is the Kingdom’s greatest strength. Division is what our enemies want.”

“But will they listen?” The old fear crept in—of being dismissed, of being the baby sister with her head in books while real threats loomed.

“They must. And you must make them.” Gisela’s thoughts pressed against hers, warm with certainty. “You are not that scared child anymore, Adelinde. You are a scholar of the Kingdom, and you have uncovered a truth that could save or doom us all.”

Adelinde stood, pacing the cramped space between bookshelves. “The mechanism explains so much. Why ravenglass is essential to maintaining bonds. Why corruption spreads so quickly through the network. Why the royal bloodline...” She stopped. “Why Father had to die.”

“The first strike in a larger plan?” Gisela asked.

Adelinde shook her head. “The final strike. They’ve been weakening us for years, waiting for the perfect moment.” She pulled out another scroll, a record of Guardian appointments dating back two decades. “Look at these names. Every few years, a new ‘specialist’ assigned to inspect the ravenglass vault. Each one present just long enough to make subtle changes, then reassigned before anyone could notice the pattern.”

Gisela’s wings rustled. “The Guardians themselves?”

“Some of them, at least. They’re the only ones with enough knowledge of ravenglass to attempt something like this,” Adelinde said, tracing a timeline with her finger. “The corruption started small—probably experimental at first. Then it spread, following the natural resonance patterns of the bond network.”

“Like poison in the bloodstream.”

“Exactly.” Adelinde gathered key documents, organising them for presentation. “We need to show this to Irmin and Elana. The military implications alone...”

A pulse of purple light drew her attention. She rushed to her work table, where a small specimen of corrupted ravenglass lay contained in a glass box. The shard writhed with interior light, its surface rippling like liquid despite its crystalline structure.

“The resonance is increasing,” Gisela said.

Movement in the courtyard below caught Adelinde’s eye. Palace wyverns paced their enclosures, their scales dulled to sickly hues. Even Gisela’s golden shine seemed diminished.

Adelinde turned back to her notes, fingers trembling as she gathered the most critical evidence. Her years of careful research, her quiet observations and dismissed theories, they had led her to this moment. To a truth too terrible to face alone.

A final fragment of text caught her eye, nearly lost among her papers. She had almost missed it earlier.

“‘When the bonds break, the Kingdom falls.’”

The words burned into her mind as the corrupted ravenglass pulsed in the shadows. Someone had set the Kingdom’s foundations to crumble—and the collapse had already begun.

“Gather your courage,” Gisela said. “The time for study is over. Now we act.”

The corrupted ravenglass flared again, casting purple shadows across her shelves.

She would not let the Kingdom fall. Not while she held the key to understanding its greatest vulnerability.

And its greatest strength.

12. Elana

The chapel’s silence pressed against Elana. She sat near the altar, her fingers tracing the hem of her mourning gown, its white fabric a stark contrast against the dark stone floor.

The candlelight played tricks on her vision, making the stained-glass windows seem to shift and move in the darkness. She retrieved the alchemical orb from her pocket, its soft glow helping her eyes adjust to the wavering shadows.

Even with the aid, the chapel’s familiar features felt strange tonight, as if her father’s death had altered the very substance of the stone walls that had witnessed generations of royal prayers and contemplation.

How many times had she sat here beside him, learning the intricate dance of politics and power?

His voice echoed in her memory. “The strongest weapon in a ruler’s arsenal is patience, Elana,” he’d said. “Watch, listen, and wait for the moment when action will yield the greatest effect.”

Then the sound of footsteps came from the chapel’s entrance. Baron Gerlach paused in the doorway.

He chose a spot several feet away, close enough for quiet conversation but far enough to acknowledge her need for space.

“Your Highness.” His voice carried none of its usual bombast. “Words feel inadequate in times like these.”

She inclined her head, accepting the condolence without fully engaging.

“I remember when your father mediated the timber dispute between my house and the southern merchants. Everyone expected him to side with the larger trading houses, but he took the time to visit our forests personally. He understood that true leadership requires seeing beyond the obvious path.”

Elana smiled. “He believed in walking the ground he governed. Theory without experience, he used to say, is like trying to swim by reading about water.”

Gerlach chuckled softly. “His wisdom often came wrapped in such metaphors.” He paused, studying the play of candlelight on the altar. “I was terrified before my first council presentation. My hands shook so badly I could barely hold my notes. Your father noticed, drew me aside, and spent ten minutes telling me about his own first council meeting. How he’d accidentally knocked over a water pitcher and almost ruined three different trade agreements.”

Despite herself, Elana chuckled. “He did the same for me. Before my first public address, I was certain I would stumble over every word. He found me hiding in the library and said, ‘My dear, they’re not there to judge your perfection. They’re there to see your humanity.’”

“Yes, he had a gift for that.” Gerlach shifted slightly. “For seeing past titles to the person beneath.” He paused. “A gift you share, if I may say so.”

The compliment carried weight, but Elana noted the careful way he’d spoken.

“The noble houses grow restless. Change makes people hungry for advantage,” she said.

“Indeed. Though some of us remember that strength and stability serves all interests. You have allies, Your Highness. Those who see your father’s wisdom in your actions.”

And there it was—the subtle offer of support, wrapped in grief and memory.

“The Kingdom faces challenges that require unity,” Elana said. “The question is whether personal ambition will overwhelm common sense.”

“You speak of House Darius?”

“I speak of all who might see opportunity in uncertainty.” She turned slightly, studying Gerlach’s profile as best she could in the dim light. “The time for choosing sides approaches faster than many realise.”

He nodded. “Then know that House Gerlach stands ready to support strong, stable leadership.”

Gerlach’s support could prove crucial in the days ahead, especially with Molotok watching their borders with hungry eyes.

“Your loyalty honours his memory. And reminds us that the Kingdom’s strength lies in unity, not division,” Elana said.

He stood. “You are your father’s daughter, Your Highness. Perhaps more than you realise.” His hand rested on her shoulder.

Then he was gone, his footsteps fading into the chapel’s shadows.

Elana remained seated, her mind dissecting every nuance of the conversation.

Gerlach’s timing felt too perfect, his words too carefully chosen.

Was this truly an offer of alliance, or the opening move in a longer game?

The candles had burned lower, their light growing more uncertain. Like everything else in the Kingdom nowadays.

Velten’s concern brushed against her mind. The wyvern could sense her uncertainty even from his perch atop the chapel.

Elana turned at the sound of approaching footsteps, different from Gerlach’s military stride.

“Your Grace.” Elana inclined her head as the High Priestess approached, the elder woman’s blue and white robes rustling.

“My child.” She settled beside Elana. “Your father was beloved by the gods.”

“Was he?” Elana’s voice cracked. “He died without justice, without...”

“And therein lies the trouble.” The High Priestess’s fingers traced sacred symbols in the air. “The Nameless Four cannot welcome a soul to the fields of light while death’s scales remain unbalanced.”

Elana turned toward her, her face a blur in the dim light. “What do you mean?”

“Your father’s spirit cannot find rest until his killer faces judgement. The ancient laws demand balance—a life for a life, justice for injustice.” The High Priestess’s eyes reflected candlelight. “Until then, he waits.”

“In the void?” Elana whispered.

“No, child. Not in the void, nor in the fields of light.” The High Priestess shook her head. “He exists nowhere, everywhere—a soul in between states, denied both oblivion and peace until balance is restored.”

“How do we help him? What must be done?”

“Justice must be served. The assassin’s blood must answer for your father’s.” The High Priestess drew a small pouch from her robes. “The Four demand completion of the circle. As it is above, so must it be below.”

She opened the pouch, releasing the sharp scent of sacred herbs—sage, rosemary, wyvern’s breath. “Let us pray together, child. Let us show the Four that we seek to restore what was broken.”

Together they stood before the altar. The High Priestess scattered the herbs across the burning coals, their smoke rising.

“As above, so below.” The High Priestess held up a ravenglass sword. “What is done must be undone. What was taken must be repaid.”

The smoke curled around them as they prayed, carrying their words upward to whatever powers might be listening. Elana felt the weight of tradition, of divine law pressing down. Her father could not rest until she fulfilled her duty, both as daughter and as heir.

When the herbs had burned away to ash, the High Priestess placed the sword back down on the altar. “Remember, child, the gods care nothing for mortal politics. They care only for balance. Find the killer—not the one who wielded the blade, but the one who set his death in motion. Restore what was broken. Only then can your father truly pass into the fields of light.”

“I will try, Your Grace.”

“You must do more than try. You must succeed.”

“I will.”

The last wisps of smoke faded into darkness. Another weight added to Elana’s burden, another duty that could not be ignored.

Balance must be restored. As above, so below.

13. Irmin

The palace corridors stretched before Irmin. White ribbons draped the golden sconces, their flames seeming to burn lower beneath the weight of mourning.

Guards stood at rigid attention at every intersection, their armour gleaming, their eyes distant. They saluted as she passed.

Everything felt wrong—too quiet, too still.

She had barely managed to remove her riding gloves, still stiff with the night’s chill, when a messenger appeared.

“Commander. General Eberhard requests your immediate presence.”

Of course he did. She nodded, tucking the gloves into her belt. The leather was worn at the knuckles—she’d need new ones soon. The thought felt absurdly normal amid all this carefully orchestrated grief.

The general’s office door stood open, spilling lamplight across the threshold. General Eberhard stood at the great oak table, his shadow stretching long across maps and scattered correspondence. He didn’t look up as she entered.

“Explain to me why I’ve spent the morning fielding complaints from three different noble houses about unauthorised searches of their properties.”

“Sir, I—”

“No.” He looked up. “You will listen. The Kingdom balances on a knife’s edge. Every noble house watches for signs of weakness, every foreign power tests our resolve, and you—” He jabbed a finger at a particular document. “You decided this was the perfect time to antagonise our strongest allies.”

“Well, that might not be so easy. I need to speak to Lord Darius.”

“No. That won’t be possible.”

Irmin’s mouth dropped open. “Won’t be possible?”

“This is a delicate game.”

“You think this is a game? I need to speak to Darius. He’s wrapped in this—”

“Perhaps you should take a page from your sister Elana’s book. Show some diplomacy.”

Irmin scoffed. “With respect, sir, while we waste time on political niceties, my father’s killers walk free. The evidence—”

“The evidence suggests nothing except your inability to see past your own grief.” He shook his head. “I understand your pain, Irmin. But your father’s funeral approaches, and with it, representatives from every major house and foreign power. We cannot afford to appear divided.”

Irmin clenched her jaw. “And what if division already exists? What if the killer walks among those representatives?”

“Then we handle it through proper channels.” He gathered several papers, arranging them with precise movements. “We’ve received concerning reports. Suggestions of involvement from unexpected quarters. But until we can verify—”

“What reports?” She stepped forward. “If you have intelligence about the assassination—”

“The military must present a unified front. Certain elements within the court already question whether emotion compromises your judgement.”

“Is that so?” She could lose her command if she pushed too hard, too fast. And without that authority, without access to military intelligence...

“The funeral will be a symbolic moment for us all. A chance to show strength through unity. I need your word that you’ll maintain protocol. No unauthorised investigations, no confrontations with noble houses.”

She wanted to argue, to remind him of all the times her instincts had proven right. But his expression left no room for debate. “You have my word, sir.”

“Good. Dismissed.”

She turned on her heel, keeping her steps measured until she cleared the doorway. Only then did she allow her nails to bite into her palms.

In her quarters, she spread her gathered evidence across her desk. The dagger caught the lamplight, its sigil raising more questions than it answered.

She felt Berthold’s concern press against her mind.

“They’re hiding something,” she told him. “Eberhard, the noble houses, all of them. Playing their political games while the real threat grows stronger.”

“Then we hunt carefully. Watch. Wait. Strike only when we’re certain.”

She pulled a fresh sheet of parchment from her desk, beginning to list names—servants, guards, stable hands. People who saw everything. The kind of witnesses the nobles wouldn’t think to silence—because they never thought of them at all.

Her father had taught her that lesson when he’d said, “The best intelligence comes from those with no stake in the game.” She had forgotten that in her rush for justice, letting anger make her moves too obvious.

Time to change tactics. Let them think they’d leashed her.

Someone would talk. Someone always did.

And when they did, she would be ready.

Irmin pushed back from her desk, the chair’s legs scraping against the stone. The evidence before her blurred as exhaustion and grief pressed at the edges of her mind. She needed perspective and needed her sisters.

The thought struck her with unexpected force. When was the last time they’d really talked? Not the careful dance of court formalities or quick updates between duties, but actually spoken as sisters?

Irmin strapped her sword back on, its familiar weight offering little comfort.

The corridors seemed longer tonight, the shadows deeper between the mourning ribbons that draped every torch bracket.

Elana’s quarters lay in the diplomatic wing, where even the architecture conveyed careful negotiation—graceful arches and elegant stonework designed to impress foreign dignitaries. Irmin’s boots seemed too loud on the polished floor as she approached her sister’s door.

She raised her hand to knock, then hesitated.

What would she say?

Her hand dropped.

“You should know,” Berthold said through their bond. “She would want to see you.”

But Irmin was already turning away, her steps carrying her towards the scholar’s wing where Adelinde spent her days surrounded by books and ancient artefacts.

The air grew cooler as she descended, tinged with the metallic scent that always surrounded ravenglass research. Light spilled from beneath Adelinde’s laboratory door.

Her youngest sister probably hadn’t slept since their father’s death, throwing herself into research the way Irmin threw herself into training.

Again, she reached for the door.

Again, her hand fell away.

What could she offer Adelinde? Empty comfort? False promises that everything would be alright?

“They’re your sisters,” Berthold said. “Your family.”

“And what good is family now?” The thought came bitter and sharp. “Father is dead. Someone killed him while I flew pretty patterns in the sky, while Elana played politics, while Adelinde buried herself in books.”

She stalked through torch-lit corridors, barely noticing where her feet carried her until she stood before the palace chapel. Candlelight flickered through stained glass, painting the courtyard in fragments of colour.

Her hand touched the door, then withdrew as if burned. She couldn’t face it—the quiet, the weight of tradition.

“Irmin.” Berthold’s voice carried gentle reproach. “You can’t run forever.”

“Watch me.”

She spun away from the chapel, her pace quickening until she was nearly running. Her feet knew the way, carrying her to the training yards where she’d spent countless hours drilling with sword and spear and mace.

The practice dummies stood silent in their rows, stuffed with straw and wrapped in leather. She grabbed a mace from the weapon rack, its weight familiar in her hand.

Without bothering to remove her formal armour, she swung.

The first impact shuddered up her arm. The second came harder, faster. Soon she lost count, letting the rhythm of violence wash away thought.

Sweat ran down her face despite the night’s chill.

Her shoulders burned, muscles protesting at the abuse. She welcomed the pain, let it ground her in the simple reality of body and weapon and target.

“He’s dead.” The words emerged between strikes.

“He’s dead and I couldn’t save him.”

The mace’s head shattered the dummy’s shoulder.

“I was right there.”

Another blow sprayed straw across the packed earth.

“Right there!”

The dummy’s head went flying, landing with a dull thud in the dirt.

Still she swung, reducing its torso to splinters and scattered straw.

When nothing remained but the central post, she switched to another target.

And another.

Her world narrowed to impact and destruction, to the need to hit something, break something, make something else feel the pain that threatened to tear her apart.

“This solves nothing,” Berthold said.

“I don’t want to solve anything!” Irmin punctuated each word with a blow. “I want to hurt something! I want to make something bleed!”

“And will that bring him back?”

The mace slipped from her grasp, clattering against stone. She stood amid the destruction she’d wrought, chest heaving, arms trembling with exhaustion.

“I don’t need your wisdom.” Her voice cracked. “I don’t need kind words. I need...” She drew a shuddering breath. “I need to know who had him killed. I need to know why. I need to make them pay.”

“And you think you must do this alone?” Berthold’s presence wrapped around her mind. “Your sisters suffer too, each in their own way. Elana masks grief with duty, Adelinde with research. But they hurt as you hurt.”

“They didn’t see it happen. Didn’t watch him fall. Didn’t feel his blood on their hands while they tried to...”

She couldn’t finish. The memory rose sharp and terrible—her father’s face as the blade struck, the surprise in his eyes, the words she couldn’t hear over the roaring in her ears.

“I failed him. I was supposed to protect him. To keep him safe. And I failed.”

“You are not alone in this burden. The Kingdom needs all its daughters now. United, not divided by grief.”

She looked down at her hands, scraped raw from the mace’s grip. Somewhere in the night, a bell tolled, marking another hour closer to the funeral, to the moment when they would commit their father’s body to the ground.

“I can’t face them.” The words emerged small, vulnerable. “Not yet. Not until I have answers. Not until I can give them something more than shared pain.”

“Then we use the funeral to hunt. We watch. We gather evidence. But remember, you have allies in this fight. When you’re ready to see it.”

Irmin retrieved the fallen mace, returning it to its rack with a sigh. Her arms ached, her breath still came too quick, but the blind rage had burned itself out, leaving clarity in its wake.

Someone had killed her father. Someone had tried to break the Kingdom’s foundation. And they would pay for both crimes.

14. Adelinde

Gisela’s concern touched Adelinde’s mind as she worked the soft cloth in slow circles across the wyvern’s scales. The herbal oil left golden surfaces gleaming in the lantern light, each stroke revealing new depths.

The familiar motion settled her racing thoughts, if only briefly. Around them, the royal stables breathed their eternal rhythm—the rustle of hay, the soft huffs of sleeping wyverns, the occasional clink of chain against wood.

She dipped the cloth in more oil, breathing in the calming scent of lavender and wormwood. The mixture was her own creation, developed through months of careful experimentation—each ingredient chosen not just for its physical properties but for its subtle effects on the bond resonance between rider and mount. The lavender promoted calm, while wormwood strengthened mental clarity.

But tonight, even these familiar comforts felt hollow. Each stroke of the cloth seemed to echo with questions unanswered, theories untested, possibilities unexplored.

“I should have seen it coming.” Her strokes became slightly harder, though Gisela’s scales were already immaculate. “The corruption spreading through the ravenglass network...what if that’s why he—?” She swallowed hard, the words sticking in her throat. “Why he didn’t sense the danger in time.”

Gisela’s tail swished against the straw-covered floor, creating soft susurrations in the quiet stable. Each movement stirred the air, carrying the complex mixture of scents that made up stable life—fresh hay, mineral oil used on leather tack, the distinctive musk of wyverns, and underneath it all, the metallic tang of ravenglass that permeated every corner of palace life.

“The signs were there.” Adelinde moved to a new section of scales. Her fingers found the familiar patterns, each scale a perfect geometric shape, and each row aligned with mathematical precision. “Subtle changes in resonance patterns, micro-fluctuations in the bond web’s stability. Three months ago, I noticed a change in the network’s baseline harmony. Sigmund said it was within normal parameters, but I knew.” She let out a sigh. “If I’d just connected the pieces sooner, figured out what the corruption was doing to the network”—her voice cracked—“he might still be alive. If I’d pushed harder about my theories, made them understand the implications of degrading resonance patterns...”

Gisela’s wings snapped open, the sharp movement startling Adelinde back a step. “You chase shadows through a maze of your own making,” Gisela said, her voice gentler than her posture suggested. “Grief makes patterns where none exist, builds bridges across gaps too wide to cross. You seek logic in chaos, causation in coincidence.”

“No.” Adelinde gripped the cloth tighter, its herb-soaked fibres dripping onto the stable floor. “There has to be a connection. The corruption’s timing, the assassination, the way the bond network’s been destabilising—it’s all linked.”

“When did you last sleep?” Gisela’s tail curved around.

“I’ve slept.”

“Really sleep, not simply doze over your research. When did you last eat something besides bread snatched between experiments?”

“I’ll rest when I understand.” But even as she said it, exhaustion pulled at her limbs. “I can’t stop now. Not when I’m so close to seeing the whole pattern. The corruption’s spread follows specific pathways through the bond network. If I can just map the progression, understand the mechanism—”

“Patterns blur when viewed too closely.” Gisela lowered her head and her warm breath stirred Adelinde’s hair. “Your father valued wisdom above all else. Would he want you driving yourself to collapse in search of answers that may not exist?”

Adelinde resumed her grooming, hands shaking slightly as she worked the cloth over scales that needed no further attention. Each stroke felt mechanical now, the familiar rhythm turned hollow by grief and exhaustion. “He would want me to use my knowledge. To protect the Kingdom he died defending. Every day that we delay understanding its mechanism puts more bonds at risk.”

“And how will you protect anything if you cannot think clearly?” Gisela’s concern deepened into something almost physical—a warm pressure against Adelinde’s mind. “The answers you seek may require fresh eyes, not endless hours of strain. When was the last time you looked at the stars instead of your books? When did you last walk in the gardens without carrying three volumes of ancient texts?”

Adelinde’s movements slowed, the rhythm of grooming becoming less frantic. She could feel the truth in Gisela’s words, even as part of her rejected them. Every time she closed her eyes, fragments of text and diagrams danced behind her eyelids. Corrupted ravenglass specimens pulsing with sickly light, ancient warnings half-erased by time and deliberate damage, resonance patterns that seemed to mock her with their complexity.

“Just a few more hours. There’s a passage about resonance degradation that might explain why the corruption spreads faster at night. If I could just correlate the timing with the bond network’s natural harmonic cycles—”

“Your father’s funeral is tomorrow. The eyes of the Kingdom will be upon you. The texts will wait. The specimens will wait. But your mind needs rest to serve you properly. You know this. You’ve written papers on the importance of mental clarity in bond resonance studies.”

Adelinde sighed and set down the cloth. Her fingers ached from hours of writing, her eyes burned from squinting at faded script. Every muscle seemed to carry its own exhaustion, accumulated through days of hunching over workbenches and ancient tomes.

“You sound like Master Sigmund.”

“Perhaps because we both care more for your wellbeing than your research.” Gisela’s wing curved around her, creating a space of warmth and quiet. “We will solve this mystery together, but not at the cost of your health. The Kingdom needs your mind sharp, not dulled by exhaustion.”

Gisela’s presence had always been Adelinde’s anchor, keeping her grounded when theories and calculations threatened to sweep her away.

She leaned against her warm scales, breathing in the mingled scents of herbs and wyvern musk. The stable’s shadows seemed softer now, less filled with accusation. Her research could wait until her mind was clearer and her hands steadier.

The answers would come. They always did, if one knew how to look.

As they left the stable together, Adelinde caught a glimpse of stars.

For the first time in days, she allowed herself to really see them, to appreciate their eternal dance across the night sky.

Perhaps Gisela was right. Sometimes the clearest view came only after stepping back from the puzzle.

15. Elana

The white linen robes felt like chains against Elana’s skin. She stood at the foot of the grand staircase, cane in hand, each breath measured despite the grief. Dawn’s pale light filtered through the palace windows, casting long shadows across marble floors, forcing her to turn away from the glare.

Her father was dead.

Murdered.

Assassinated.

She forced the thought away, maintaining the mask of composure that had become second nature. The household staff lined the walls in silence, their own grief palpable in the still morning air. Some had served her father for decades.

Footsteps echoed from above. Elana looked up to see her sisters descending, both dressed in matching white.

Irmin’s steps were heavy, her shoulders rigid.

Adelinde’s eyes were downcast.

They joined her at the bottom of the stairs, and for a moment, none of them spoke.

What could words offer in the face of such loss?

Instead, they exchanged silent nods.

Through the great doors, her father’s body lay on the gilded bier.

White shroud, white flowers, white morning light—everything pure and clean, as if trying to wash away the violence of his death.

Palace guards stood at attention, their ceremonial armour gleaming.

And there, perched atop the bier like a silent sentinel, waited Witz. The King’s wyvern’s black scales shimmered with hints of emerald. He had not spoken since her father’s death.

Elana slipped on her shaded eye glasses. “It’s time.”

Her sisters nodded, falling into step beside her as they moved towards the doors. Elana’s cane glided out before her, sweeping for steps and dips she would otherwise miss.

The procession began in silence. Their own wyverns—Velten, Berthold, and Gisela—followed at a distance.

Servants scattered white petals before them, the flowers crushed beneath their feet releasing a sweet fragrance that mingled with the morning chill.

Elana’s eyes slowly adjusted, revealing faces she knew well—courtiers, soldiers, servants, all kneeling as the bier passed. She acknowledged each group with a slight bow of her head, exactly as protocol demanded.

Let them see strength in their grief.

Let them know the Kingdom endured.

Beside her, Irmin breathed in long, controlled breaths.

Adelinde’s steps faltered occasionally, her confidence seemingly lost in the face of such public mourning.

Velten’s steadying presence helped Elana maintain her composure. But even his strength couldn’t completely shield her from the crushing weight of responsibility that grew with each step.

The palace gates opened before them, revealing the streets of Reichsherz packed with citizens. The city’s usual bustle had given way to reverent silence, broken only by occasional wails of grief. More white petals rained down from windows and balconies, creating a path of mourning through the cobbled streets.

“Look at them,” Adelinde whispered. “They loved him so much.”

Irmin sniffed. “They feared him. As they should have. As they should fear us.”

“They respected him,” Elana said, pitching her voice for her sisters’ ears alone. “There’s a difference. One we’d do well to remember.”

The walk through the city tested Elana’s mobility, her guide-cane snagging every dozen or so steps.

Every face in the crowd seemed to ask silent questions.

Who would lead them now?

How would they maintain stability?

What would become of the Kingdom?

Questions she didn’t have answers to. Not yet.

The procession wound through the docks, where even the roughest sailors stood silent, caps clutched to their chests. The usual smell of fish and tar gave way to the sweet scent of mourning flowers. Ships in the harbour had lowered their flags to half-mast, their colourful pennants replaced with white strips that snapped in the morning breeze.

As they began the ascent to Temple Hill, Elana felt the weight of the city’s gaze pressing down. From this height, Reichsherz spread out below them—the sprawling docks, the merchant quarters, the noble estates, all the way to the distant walls. Her father’s legacy in stone and wood and lives. Their legacy now, though none of them had been chosen as heir.

The thought sent a fresh wave of grief through her, but she channelled it into straight shoulders and measured steps. Their wyverns’ shadows swept over the crowd.

They crested Temple Hill’s peak, and Elana’s steps faltered.

The assassins’ heads were mounted on iron spikes, their features twisted and black with tar.

A necessary display—justice made visible.

Their bodies would be given to the sea, their souls forever damned for their treachery.

Irmin’s satisfaction rippled through the air like heat. She had caught them, after all. Had brought the Kingdom this small measure of vengeance.

But Adelinde turned away, no doubt too weak for such sights.

Elana forced herself to look. To remember.

These men had destroyed more than just their father—they had shattered the Kingdom’s peace, had torn bonds that might never fully heal. Their punishment was merely the beginning.

If she was chosen for succession, she would have to make such decisions over life and death.

Velten’s thoughts brushed against hers. “Justice serves its purpose. But do not let it consume you,” he advised.

Elana nodded, though her eyes lingered on the tarred faces. The Kingdom demanded its price in blood.

But there would be more blood before this was done.

The procession continued past the grim display, white petals dancing in the wind.

Above the bier, Witz maintained his vigil, his black eyes missing nothing.

At the temple steps, the High Priestess waited, her blue and white robes stirring in the wind. The staff she held bore the Kingdom’s symbol—a wyvern with spread wings, crafted from pure ravenglass. The temple bell began to toll, each deep note reverberating through Elana’s chest.

One toll for each year of her father’s reign.

As she entered, she removed her shaded lenses, relying entirely on her cane for guidance as her eyes adjusted. “Keep walking,” she murmured as Adelinde faltered beside her. “Just keep walking.”

The nobles had gathered on either side of the temple entrance, their faces carefully composed. But Elana caught the whispered exchanges between historical allies. Even here, even now, the game of power continued.

Lord Darius stood among them, his expression a perfect mask of grief. The sight of him made her stomach turn. How dare he stand there, pretending to mourn the man his house had murdered?

Velten cautioned patience. “Not here. Not now.”

The High Priestess raised her staff as they approached. “The King returns to the earth.” Her voice carried across the still air. “His spirit soars with the great wyverns of old.”

The sisters kneeled as one, their own wyverns lowering their heads. The movement had been practised since childhood, but today it carried the weight of real loss.

“Though the King departs, his legacy endures. The flame of the Kingdom shall not falter.”

Witz stepped down from the bier to perch on the temple’s altar. As the King’s speaker, his role here was crucial, though he had not uttered a word since their father’s death.

Elana felt her careful control cracking. Beside her, Irmin’s shoulders shook. Adelinde made no sound, but her tears dripped onto the stone floor.

They were not just the King’s daughters in this moment.

They were three sisters who had lost their father to violence and treachery.

Three young women who had to somehow find the strength to carry on, to lead, to protect what he had built.

The High Priestess’s voice softened. “We commit his body to rest, but his spirit remains with us. In the bonds between rider and wyvern, in the strength of the Kingdom, in the hearts of his people.” She extinguished the ceremonial flame with a gentle breath. “And in the daughters who carry his blood.”

The nobles began to disperse, their whispered conversations carrying hints of agenda and ambition. But the sisters remained kneeling, unable or unwilling to break this last moment of unity.

Finally, Elana stood and turned to her sisters. “Come. We need to escort him home.”

The return journey through the city felt longer, heavier. The crowds had thinned, leaving only scattered groups of mourners who watched in respectful silence. Their wyverns walked closer now, offering what comfort they could through their bonds.

The memorial gardens waited, secluded and peaceful.

Here, generations of Kings and Queens rested beneath white stone slabs, each grave marked by a perpetual flame. Their father’s place had been prepared—a simple lantern burning with steady light.

Witz landed beside it, his claws clicking against stone. His gaze swept over the three sisters, measuring, judging. In that moment, Elana felt the weight of history pressing down. Everything their father had built, everything he had dreamed for the Kingdom, it all rested on them now.

But as she met her sisters’ eyes, she saw the cracks in their unity.

Elana stood trapped between her sisters, trying to hold together a Kingdom that seemed determined to shatter.

She folded her hands tightly, the weight of Witz’s gaze as heavy as the grief in her chest. The flame in the lantern flickered, a fragile light against the encroaching shadows.

Their father was gone. And with him, perhaps, the last ties that truly bound them together.

The High Priestess’s hymn wound through the memorial garden, each note carrying the weight of centuries. Elana stood between her sisters before their father’s grave, the simple stone lantern casting dancing shadows across their white mourning robes. She had expected the ceremony to bring closure. Instead, each moment twisted the knife of responsibility deeper.

The council’s demands echoed in her mind. They needed an heir. The Kingdom needed stability. Yet, here they stood, three sisters divided by their own convictions, while their father’s ashes settled into eternal rest.

Elana felt Velten’s steady presence behind her. Her wyvern’s silver scales caught the lantern light, his watchful stance mirrored by Berthold and Gisela on either side. But it was Witz who commanded attention—their father’s black wyvern perched atop the memorial lantern.

The High Priestess’s voice faded as she extinguished a bundle of sacred incense, marking the ceremony’s end. Silence settled over the garden, broken only by the soft whisper of wind through flowering trees.

Then Witz raised his head, black eyes reflecting the eternal flame. “The King has returned to the earth.” He spoke in his usual sing-song lilt. “The Kingdom remains. But without leadership, it will crumble. A decision must be made.”

Her sisters tensed on either side. Even their wyverns lowered their heads in deference to Witz’s authority. This was the moment. Surely he would name one of them as heir and end the uncertainty that threatened to tear them apart.

Witz’s gaze swept over them, measuring, judging. “The council demands clarity. The people demand stability. But not one of you is ready.”

Elana forced herself to maintain composure.

How could she not be ready?

She had spent her life preparing for leadership, learning every nuance of diplomatic protocol, every trick of negotiation.

“With respect,” she said, keeping her voice steady, “the Kingdom cannot wait for readiness. We face immediate threats.” She stepped forward, meeting Witz’s gaze. “Molotok’s envoy arrived within hours of the assassination, bearing veiled threats about our northern territories. The council fractures into factions daily. And we’ve received warnings of a potential coup among the noble houses.”

“Threats?” Irmin’s sharp tone cut through the garden’s peace. “You worry about threats while traitors walk free?” She let out a bitter laugh. “I’ve uncovered a smuggling operation that reaches into the highest ranks of society. House Darius’s sigil marked the assassins’ weapons. And there are rogue riders working with foreign powers to—”

“Both of you are missing the larger picture.” Adelinde’s voice trembled but held firm. “The ravenglass network shows signs of deliberate corruption. The wyvern bonds themselves are becoming unstable. If we don’t address—”

“Enough.” Witz looked between them. “As I said, not one of you is ready.”

Heat rose in Elana’s cheeks. To be chastised like children, here before their father’s grave. He had been advisor to Kings and Queens since the Kingdom’s formation, but this was too much.

“You each see a fragment of the whole.” Witz’s tail curled around the lantern’s base. “The diplomat sees the fractures in our alliances. The warrior hunts for enemies in shadows. The scholar unravels mysteries too long ignored.” His eyes gleamed. “But the Kingdom’s survival depends on more than any single perspective.” He spread his wings. “You must prove yourselves, not as individuals seeking a throne, but as stewards of the Kingdom’s future.”

Irmin glared at him. “And how are we to do that when we can’t even agree on what threatens us most?”

“By understanding that your paths—though divergent—serve the same purpose.” Witz’s gaze fixed on Elana. “You, diplomat, resent your sisters’ absence from court. See their pursuits as distractions from real governance.”

Elana stiffened. Had her frustration been so obvious?

“But their strengths are not distractions—they are shields for what you build. The warrior’s blade guards against treachery while you forge alliances. The scholar’s wisdom strengthens the foundations beneath your careful negotiations.”

He turned to Irmin. “And you, warrior, dismiss your sisters’ concerns as weakness. Yet what victory can last without diplomacy to secure it? What strength endures without knowledge to guide it?”

Finally, his attention settled on Adelinde. “While you, scholar, hide behind books and theories, believing truth alone will save us. But truth without action is as useless as a sword without an arm to wield it.”

Silence fell over the garden. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.

“So what would you have us do?” Elana asked. “Split our focus when the Kingdom needs unified leadership?”

“I would have you see that unity does not mean uniformity.” Witz’s voice softened slightly. “Each of you must pursue your path—but not in isolation. Share what you learn. Support each other’s strengths. Remember that you are shields for one another, not competitors for a prize.”

Velten’s thoughts brushed against Elana’s mind. “He speaks wisdom. You know this.”

“The council will not wait forever,” Elana said to her father’s wyvern. “They demand an heir.”

“The council will wait as long as I deem necessary.” Witz’s tone brooked no argument. “You have until the spring equinox to prove yourselves. Not to me, not to the council, but to the Kingdom itself.”

They were almost upon the winter solstice. Elana’s mind raced through implications, calculations, possibilities. They had three months.

“And if we fail?” Adelinde’s voice was barely a whisper.

“Then the Kingdom fails with you. Already our enemies gather. Already corruption spreads through our foundations. Already daggers wait in the dark.”

Elana looked at her sisters. Irmin’s rigid posture betrayed exhaustion beneath her warrior’s pride. Adelinde’s hands trembled, her fingers stained with ink.

They were all trying so hard to be what the Kingdom needed, each in their own way.

But Witz was right. They had been working against each other rather than together.

“Three months,” she said. “To save the Kingdom or watch it fall.”

Irmin nodded. “I have leads to follow. Conspirators to track.”

“The corruption spreads faster each day,” Adelinde said. “I need to understand its source.”

“And I must keep the council from tearing itself apart while you work.” Elana squared her shoulders. “But perhaps...perhaps we could meet. Share what we learn. Support each other’s efforts.”

Her sisters nodded, though tension still hung between them. They turned to leave, their wyverns falling in behind them.

But at the garden’s edge, Elana glanced back at her father’s grave. She could just make out Witz perched on the lantern, black eyes reflecting the eternal flame.

For a moment, their gazes met.

He had not named an heir—because, perhaps, he already knew who it would be. Or perhaps because the Kingdom needed something more than that which traditional succession could provide.

Elana turned away, but the weight of his gaze lingered, the weight of his words.

They had three months to prove themselves worthy of their father’s legacy.

Three months to save everything they held dear.

Or watch it burn.

––––––––

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Acknowledgements

Thank you to everyone who made this work possible. Especially to my family and friends who’ve supported me in countless ways.

I’ve got a great team of people helping me get my books to the highest standard I can, so thank you to my street team, you guys rock!

I also want to thank the members of Why Aren’t You Writing, Indie Fantasy Addicts, and the Sci-fi Roundtable. Sometimes writing books can be a lonely business, so having that kind of support means a great deal.

Special thanks for all my Patreon supporters, especially GhostCat, Denise Hawley, Rebecca Lang, and Valerie Jondahl.

This book was edited by Claire from cherryedits.com

Covers by Christian made the cover. I think it’s awesome!

About the Author

Jon Cronshaw writes fantasy and speculative fiction brimming with adventure, escapism, and an exploration of life's big questions.

He lives with his wife and son in Morecambe, England.

Read more at Jon Cronshaw’s site.