Wyvern's Shadow

The Ravenglass Throne, Volume 2

Jon Cronshaw

Published by Wyvern Books, Ltd, 2025.

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

WYVERN'S SHADOW

First edition. April 14, 2025.

Copyright © 2025 Jon Cronshaw.

ISBN: 979-8230588122

Written by Jon Cronshaw.

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

For Valerie Jondahl. 

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“The wyverns remember what we have forgotten. Their songs carry echoes of older truths, of powers bound and bargains made. When they speak of the ‘living link’, they refer not to the bonds we share, but to something deeper—something that flows through veins and ancient stone alike.”

- From ‘Fragments of Lost Knowledge,’ attributed to Queen Anja

1. Irmin

A single alchemical orb hung from the interrogation chamber’s ceiling, casting harsh light across the room. The air hung thick with the stench of stale sweat and the coppery tang of old blood.

Irmin stood opposite the prisoner, with her arms crossed and her face set in a neutral mask.

Across from her, Riven lounged in his iron shackles, a picture of insolent ease despite the chains that bound him to the chair. His dark hair fell in tangles around his face, framing angular features marked by old scars. He met Irmin’s glare with a smirk, as if he found the whole situation more amusing than threatening.

“You know, if you wanted to get me alone, you could’ve just asked nicely. No need for all this drama.”

Irmin’s jaw clenched, a muscle ticking in her cheek. She could feel Berthold’s watchful presence near the chamber door, a silent sentinel ready to intervene at a moment’s notice. His mental presence was a steady pressure at the back of her mind, a reminder of her authority and purpose.

She leaned forward, planting her gauntleted hands on the table between them. “Enough games, Riven. You’re going to tell me everything you know about the smuggling operation. Every detail, every name, every location. And you’re going to do it now.”

Riven’s smirk widened, his eyes glinting in the harsh light. “Oh, I’ll tell you a story, Commander. But I don’t think it’s the one you’re expecting.” He shifted in his chains. “See, you’re looking at this all wrong. You think it’s about the smugglers, about the ravenglass they’re moving. But that’s just the surface. There’s currents running deeper here, currents that could drown us all if we’re not careful.”

Irmin narrowed her eyes. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about power, Commander. The kind of power that topples Kingdoms and rewrites history.” Riven’s voice dropped, losing its mocking edge. “The smugglers are just puppets. There’s people pulling their strings, people with agendas that make your little border skirmishes look like child’s play.”

Irmin’s mind raced. Her father’s assassination. The reports of unrest in the northern territories. The whispers of corruption seeping through the noble houses like a slow poison.

“You’re saying this is bigger than just smuggling, that there’s a conspiracy at work here, something aimed at the very heart of the Kingdom?”

Riven’s smirk returned. “Now you’re getting it. The Kingdom’s made a lot of enemies over the years, Commander. Powerful people who’ve been biding their time, waiting for their moment to strike. And now, with the King gone and the court in chaos, they see their chance.”

Irmin clenched her hand into a fist, the leather of her glove creaking. She wanted to deny his words, to dismiss them as the ravings of a traitor and a criminal. But she couldn’t shake the certainty that he was telling the truth, or at least a version of it.

She took a deep breath, forcing her voice to remain steady. “I need details. Names, locations, proof. If you want me to believe this conspiracy theory of yours, you need to give me something concrete.”

Riven leaned back in his chair, his chains rattling. “Information like that doesn’t come cheap, Commander. If I start naming names, I’m painting a target on my own back. I need assurances that you’ll protect me, that you won’t just toss me to the wolves when this is over.”

Irmin curled her lip in distaste. The idea of making deals with a traitor like Riven went against every instinct she had, every code of honour she’d sworn to uphold. But she couldn’t deny the urgency of the situation, the need to act before this conspiracy could sink its claws any deeper into the Kingdom’s heart.

Through their bond, she felt Berthold’s low growl of warning. “Careful,” his thoughts whispered in her mind. “He’s a snake, Irmin. We can’t trust him.”

“I know,” she thought back. “But we may not have a choice. If he’s telling the truth, if this conspiracy is real, we need to act fast. We need his information.”

Berthold’s reluctance was a palpable thing, a pressure against her thoughts. But after a long moment, she felt him acquiesce, his trust in her outweighing his distrust of Riven.

Irmin turned back to the prisoner, staring hard. “Alright, Riven. You want assurances? Here’s the deal. You give me everything—names, locations, evidence, all of it. You lead me to the heart of this conspiracy, help me cut it out at the root. And in return, I’ll guarantee your safety. I’ll make sure you’re protected, and that you won’t face retribution for your cooperation.”

Riven’s eyes narrowed, his gaze searching her face. “And how do I know you’ll keep your word? How do I know you won’t just toss me back in chains the moment you have what you need?”

Irmin met his stare. “You don’t. But you know my reputation. You know I don’t make promises lightly. If I give you my word, I’ll stand by it, even if it galls me to do so.”

A long, tense moment stretched between them.

“Well then, Commander. You’ve got yourself a deal.”

Irmin nodded, signalling to the guards to unlock Riven’s chains.

He stood, rubbing his wrists where the metal had bitten into his skin. “I hope you’re ready for this, Commander.”

“I’m ready for anything. I swore an oath to defend this Kingdom, to uphold its laws and its ideals. If that means facing hard truths, so be it.”

Riven shook his head, a hint of something like pity in his eyes. “We’ll see, Commander. We’ll see.”

They emerged from the interrogation chamber into the harsh light of day, blinking against the sudden brightness.

In the barracks courtyard, Irmin’s squadron awaited, their faces grim, their stances tense.

As she approached, Wulfram stepped forward, his brow furrowed. “Commander, with all due respect, this is madness. We can’t trust this rogue, this traitor. He’ll lead us straight into a trap, mark my words.”

A rumble of agreement passed through the assembled riders.

Irmin held up a hand for silence, her gaze sweeping across them, taking in their doubts and their fears. “I’m not asking you to trust him. I’m asking you to trust me. This conspiracy—whatever it is—it threatens the very heart of our Kingdom. It’s our duty to root it out, to follow the truth wherever it leads, even if that means allying with traitors like Riven.”

She met each of their gazes in turn, holding them, willing them to see the necessity of her actions. “We’ve sworn an oath to defend this Kingdom, to uphold its ideals. That doesn’t change, no matter how dark the path ahead may seem. We will see this through, together, as we always have.”

Wulfram nodded. “As you say, Commander. We’re with you, to whatever end.”

Irmin turned to Riven. “So, where do we start?”

“There’s a warehouse near the Molotok border.” He traced an invisible map in the air. “It’s where they keep their records.”

“Records?”

“Shipping manifests. Payment logs. Names.” His eyes glinted. “The kind of evidence that makes people disappear.”

Irmin studied him, looking for the lie.

“He believes what he’s saying,” Berthold said through their bond. “Whether it’s true is another matter.”

Irmin studied Riven’s expression. “Can you find it again? Guide us there?”

“Of course.” Riven spread his hands. “Though I should warn you—they change the guard rotation regularly. We’ll need to time our approach carefully.”

“We?” Wulfram’s voice dripped with scepticism.

“Yes, ‘we.’” Riven’s smirk returned. “Unless you’d prefer to search the entire northern border on your own?”

Irmin cut off further argument with a sharp gesture. “Squadron, mount up. Full combat load. We leave now.”

Her riders moved to comply, though she noted the tension in their movements, the way they kept Riven in their peripheral vision. Good. She’d trained them well.

She strode towards where Berthold waited, his tack already laid out. As she began the familiar routine of checking straps and buckles, Riven cleared his throat.

“There is one small complication.”

She didn’t look up. “And that is?”

“My mount. Kornel. He’s injured, hiding somewhere in the city. Even if he could fly, he wouldn’t risk approaching the barracks.”

“Then you’ll ride with me.”

“That’s...not ideal.”

“It wasn’t a suggestion.” She cinched Berthold’s saddle tight, checking the double-girth. “You’ll ride behind me, where I can keep an eye on you. Unless you’d prefer to walk to the border?”

Riven’s smirk faltered. “I suppose I don’t have much choice.”

“No.” She swung into the saddle, then fixed him with a hard stare. “You don’t.”

2. Adelinde

The soft glow of alchemical light illuminated Adelinde’s laboratory, bathing the cluttered space in muted white. The hum of the corrupted shards thrummed through the air, an unsettling undercurrent that set Adelinde’s teeth on edge as she bent over her workbench.

Her tools lay spread before her in meticulous order—delicate tongs, magnifying lenses, vials of swirling liquids. She worked with a single-minded focus, her brow furrowed as she examined each shard in turn, noting the patterns of darkness that threaded through the crystalline structures.

Beside her, an open journal lay filled with scribbled observations, the pages rustling softly in the faint breeze from the open window. Adelinde’s gaze flicked between the fragments and her notes, her mind racing as she tried to piece together the puzzle of the ravenglass corruption.

“It doesn’t make sense. The degradation patterns are too consistent, too deliberate. This was done on purpose.”

She reached for another shard, her tweezers hovering over the glass container that held it. The fragment seemed to pulse under the light, the dark veins within it shifting subtly, almost as if in response to her scrutiny.

A soft knock at the door startled her from her thoughts. She looked up, blinking, as her apprentice, Klara, peeked her head into the room.

“I brought you some food. And tea. I thought you might need a break.”

Adelinde waved a hand, already turning back to her work. “Just set it down somewhere. I’m not hungry.”

Klara hesitated, then stepped fully into the room, balancing a tray laden with a steaming pot of tea and a plate of sandwiches. She cleared a space on a cluttered side table and set the tray down, her gaze drifting to the glowing fragments on Adelinde’s bench. “They’re unsettling, aren’t they? The way they seem to move, almost like they’re alive.”

Adelinde grunted, not looking up from her examination. “They’re not alive. But they’re not behaving like normal ravenglass either. Something’s corrupted them, changed their fundamental structure.”

Klara moved closer, peering at the shards. “May I?” She reached for one of the containers.

Adelinde’s hand shot out, gripping Klara’s wrist. “Don’t touch them,” she snapped. “We don’t know how the corruption spreads. It could be contagious.”

Klara pulled back, eyes wide. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think—”

“No, you didn’t.” Adelinde sighed, releasing her grip. “Just...be careful. This isn’t a game.”

An awkward silence fell between them.

Klara fidgeted, her gaze darting around the room as if searching for something to say. “I’m sorry about your father. He was a great man. It must be difficult to...to move forward.”

“I don’t want to talk about my father.”

“Of course, I understand. I just thought—”

“You thought wrong.” Adelinde’s voice was sharp, brittle. “My father is dead. Talking about him won’t change that. The only thing that matters now is figuring out what’s happening with the ravenglass.”

Klara bit her lip, looking chastened. “I heard the council is going to choose a new heir soon. Do you think they’ll decide quickly? Everyone’s talking about who should take the throne.”

Adelinde slammed her tweezers down on the workbench, making Klara jump. “I don’t care about the council. I don’t care about the succession or the politics or any of it. All I care about is solving whatever this is before it’s too late.” She whipped around to face Klara. “Don’t you see? This corruption, it’s not just about the ravenglass. It’s about the very foundation of our Kingdom. The wyverns, the bonds, all of it is at risk. And if we don’t find a way to stop it...” She shook her head. “Everyone’s so focused on the throne, on the power. But what good is power if the Kingdom crumbles beneath us?”

Klara was silent for a long moment, her eyes wide. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

Adelinde sighed, some of the tension draining from her shoulders. “No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you. It’s just...there’s so much at stake, and I feel like I’m the only one who sees it.”

Klara laid a tentative hand on Adelinde’s arm. “You’re not alone. I’m here. And I want to help, in whatever way I can.”

Adelinde nodded, turning back to her workbench. “Alright then. Let’s get to work.”

Together, they bent over the shards, Klara sorting through the scattered notes and observations while Adelinde continued her careful analysis. The atmosphere in the laboratory shifted, the earlier tension giving way to a sense of shared purpose.

“Look at this.” Klara held up a fragment in its glass container. “The patterns of corruption, they’re not random. They almost look...engineered.”

Adelinde frowned, leaning in for a closer look. “You’re right. The veins are too precise to be natural. It’s as if someone designed them.”

“But who would have the knowledge to do something like that? To deliberately alter ravenglass on a fundamental level?”

Adelinde’s mind raced, possibilities unspooling in rapid succession. “The Guardians. They’re the only ones with the expertise, the access to raw ravenglass. If anyone could find a way to corrupt it, to use it as a weapon...”

She paused. The implications were staggering, almost too terrible to contemplate. The Guardians were there to bring balance to the world, to stand above Kingdoms and borders. They were the world’s most trusted protectors, the keepers of its deepest secrets. If they had turned against the Kingdom...

Klara’s eyes widened, her face pale. “But why would they do something like that? What could they possibly gain?”

“Power. Control. Think about it—the ravenglass network is the backbone of our entire Kingdom. It’s what allows the wyverns to bond with their riders, what gives us our strength. If someone could find a way to manipulate that network, to turn it against us...”

She shook her head, the pieces falling into place.

Golden scales flashed at the shadows as Gisela entered. “You’re making dangerous assumptions.”

Adelinde turned towards her wyvern. “Am I? Look at the evidence. Who else has this level of knowledge about ravenglass? Who else could access enough raw material to implement corruption on this scale?”

“The Guardians have maintained balance for centuries. This situation speaks of chaos, of destabilisation. It goes against everything they represent.”

Adelinde began pacing, her mind racing ahead of her words. “Unless that’s exactly the point. Think about it—what if they saw Father’s Kingdom as too ordered, too controlled? Thirty years of absolute stability, of increasing centralisation of power. What if they decided that was its own kind of imbalance?”

Klara blinked rapidly. “You think they’re causing chaos to restore balance?”

“It fits the pattern.” Adelinde grabbed her notes, spreading them across the workbench. “The corruption isn’t just random degradation—it’s systematic, spreading outward from key nodes in the network. Almost like...” She paused, the implications hitting her. “Almost like they’re trying to loosen the Kingdom’s grip on the wyvern bonds themselves.”

“You might be right,” Gisela said, her tail sweeping a careful arc. “But remember what happened the last time someone openly accused the Guardians of interference. The Burning of Kaldemar wasn’t just about destroyed cities, it was about shattered trust that took generations to rebuild.”

Adelinde’s hands clenched on her notes. The Burning was a stark warning in their history books—a cautionary tale about the dangers of challenging those who maintained the world’s delicate balance.

“So what would you have me do? Ignore the evidence? Pretend I don’t see the pattern?”

“No.” Gisela’s voice softened. “But gather more proof. Be certain. And consider that there might be other explanations we haven’t yet seen. The world is rarely as simple as we wish it to be.”

She turned to the shelves that lined the laboratory walls, her gaze scanning the neat rows of containers and specimens.

Adelinde ran a finger along the edge of a shelf, then held it up to the light.

“Dust, disturbed, in patterns that don’t match my own work.” She turned to Klara, her expression grave. “Someone’s been tampering with my samples. With the ravenglass.”

“But who would have access? Surely the laboratory is secure?”

Adelinde’s jaw tightened. “It’s supposed to be. But if the Guardians are involved...”

How had she not seen it sooner? The signs had been there, if she’d only bothered to look.

“We need to tell someone,” Klara said. “Your sisters, the council. They need to know what you’ve found.”

Adelinde hesitated, doubt creeping in. “Until I have something solid, they’ll think it’s just another one of my theories, my obsessions. They’ve never taken my work seriously.”

Klara gripped her arm. “This isn’t just about your research anymore, Adelinde. This is about the fate of the Kingdom. About the survival of everything we hold dear.”

Adelinde stared at her. “You’re right. We need to find proof. We have to make them see.”

She turned back to her workbench, gathering her notes and samples with quick, purposeful movements.

As they worked, Adelinde channelled her focus, tracing patterns and connections with a speed born of desperation. The corrupted ravenglass, the wyvern attacks, the political chaos in the wake of her father’s death...

“It’s all connected. The assassination, the unrest, the tampering with the ravenglass. It’s not just sabotage, it’s preparation.”

Klara looked up from her work. “Preparation? For what?”

“For war.”

3. Elana

Elana strode through the council chamber’s towering doors, her footsteps echoing in the tense silence, her guide-cane leading the way. The nobles were already gathered, seated in a semicircle of gilded chairs that gleamed in the muted light.

At the centre of the room, perched on a raised dais, sat Witz, his emerald-tinted scales shimmering as he surveyed the assembled council with unblinking black eyes.

Elana met his gaze for a moment, a silent acknowledgement passing between them.

She took her seat at the head of the circle, Velten settling behind her.

“The council is called to order.” Witz’s voice rang out. “We have much to discuss.”

The chamber erupted in a cacophony of voices as nobles shouted over one another.

Baron Gerlach surged to his feet, his fist pounding the air.

“We must choose a successor immediately! The Kingdom cannot stand without a leader!”

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the crowd.

Elana remained silent, scanning the room, taking in each face, each gesture, as her vision would allow. At the far end of the semicircle, Lord Darius sat with his hands folded in his lap. He seemed untouched by the chaos, a still point in the storm.

“Silence!” Witz’s voice cracked like a whip, and the nobles fell quiet. “The matter of succession is not so simple.” He leaned forward, his claws flexing against the arms of his chair. “The late King’s daughters will prove their worth in the coming months. Only then will a decision be made.”

The chamber exploded once more, nobles leaping to their feet.

“Unacceptable!” Baron Gerlach shouted. “We need stability, not more uncertainty!”

“The King’s blood is not enough?” another noble demanded. “What more proof do we need?”

Elana held back a sigh, her mind racing.

Witz’s announcement had caught them all off guard.

What was the wyvern playing at?

Why delay the succession when the Kingdom was already teetering on the brink?

“Watch them, Elana,” Velten’s voice whispered in her mind, a thread of calm amid the noise. “See who speaks loudest, and who stays silent.”

She nodded, her focus sharpening.

Baron Gerlach was red-faced, his outrage seeming to border on the performative. He was too eager, too insistent.

What did he stand to gain from an immediate choice?

Her attention shifted to Lord Darius, still seated, still calm.

Darius was never one to let others take the lead.

So why was he holding back now?

“My lords.” Witz’s voice cut through the din once more, and a reluctant silence fell. “There are more pressing matters at hand.”

He gestured to the floor, and a nervous-looking scribe stepped forward, clutching a sheaf of papers.

“Reports from across the Kingdom,” Witz said. “Wyverns turning on their riders. Attacking without provocation. Fleeing their posts.”

A murmur of unease rippled through the chamber.

Elana knew these reports, had heard Adelinde’s talk of corrupted ravenglass. But to hear it spoken aloud, in this room full of grasping nobles, made it all too real.

“These disturbances are no coincidence,” Witz said. “The very bonds that hold our Kingdom together are fraying. We must address this threat before all else.”

The council erupted into argument once more, nobles shouting over each other in a bid to be heard.

Some called for immediate military action against Molotok, insisting that the wyvern attacks were a sign of foreign aggression.

Others demanded that the Guardians be held accountable, their whispers hinting at dark conspiracies.

Through it all, Elana remained silent, willing her face to be the picture of serenity. Inside, her thoughts churned. She knew more than any of them, held pieces of the puzzle that could shed light on the crisis. But to reveal what she knew now, without proof or plan, would be madness.

“Steady,” Velten murmured in her mind. “Let them show their hands before you reveal yours.”

She took a slow breath, forcing her shoulders to relax. Velten was right. She couldn’t afford to tip her hand, not when the stakes were so high. She had to be patient, had to watch, and wait for the right moment.

The council argued for hours, their voices growing hoarse and their tempers fraying. Witz sat at the centre of it all, his expression unreadable, his eyes never leaving the squabbling nobles.

As the light began to fade, Witz raised a claw for silence. “Enough! We cannot afford to fight amongst ourselves. Not now.” He turned his gaze to Elana, and for a moment, she felt the weight of the Kingdom’s fate settle on her shoulders. “Lady Elana, you have been silent thus far. What say you on these matters?”

Elana rose to her feet, feeling every eye in the room fix on her. “I say we must act with caution. These disturbances are a symptom of a deeper illness, one that will not be cured by rash action or hasty words.” She let her gaze sweep the room, taking in each face, each expression. “We must investigate the cause of these wyvern attacks, and we must do so with discretion. Pointing fingers and making accusations will only divide us further.”

“And what of Molotok?” Baron Gerlach asked. “You would have us sit idle while our enemies gather strength?”

Elana shook her head. “I would have us be certain of our target before we loose our arrows. If Molotok is truly behind these attacks, we will respond with the full might of the Kingdom. But we must be sure, lest we start a war we cannot win.”

Witz nodded. “Well said, Lady Elana. The council will heed your advice.” He turned back to the assembled nobles, his voice hardening. “Focus your efforts on investigating these disturbances. Question your riders, examine your wyverns. Leave no stone unturned. And above all, keep your suspicions close. We cannot afford to show weakness, not now.”

The council murmured its assent.

As the nobles began to leave, talking in low, urgent voices, Elana turned and found herself looking into the eyes of Lord Darius.

He smiled thinly. “Well played, Lady Elana. You have a deft touch, for one so young.”

Elana inclined her head, keeping her expression neutral. “I only seek to serve the Kingdom, Lord Darius. As do we all.”

Darius chuckled, a low, throaty sound. “Indeed. But some of us serve in different ways, hmm?” He leaned in closer, his breath hot against her ear. “Be careful, Lady Elana. The game is moving, and the shadows are deep. One misstep and you may find yourself lost in the dark.” With that, he bowed his head and strode away, his cloak swirling behind him.

Elana watched him go. Darius knew something, that much was clear. But what, and how much?

Velten nudged her shoulder, his presence a solid comfort. “The shadows are stirring. Keep your fire low or you’ll draw them too soon.”

Elana nodded. She glanced back at the empty council chamber, Darius’s lingering smile etched into her mind. The game was moving, indeed. And she had to be one step ahead.

She picked up her cane and strode from the chamber, Velten falling into step beside her. The wyvern’s scales glimmered in the fading light.

“We have work to do.”

Velten’s agreement hummed through their shared thoughts.

Elana glided through the palace corridors as Velten’s claws clicked softly against marble floors, her cane sweeping against the stone. Darius’s words echoed in her mind, each step bringing new implications, new possibilities, new threats.

A commotion in the courtyard drew her to a window. Below, two guards struggled with a patrol wyvern. The creature snapped at its rider.

Nothing remained of the bond they must have shared, only mindless aggression.

She glanced at Velten, her throat tightening, their bond humming strong and clear between them.

But for how long?

What if the corruption reached him too?

The thought of those eyes turning feral, of their connection shattering...

“It won’t happen to us.” Velten pressed his warm flank against her side. “Our bond goes deeper than ravenglass.”

“You can’t know that.” She laid a hand on his scales, drawing comfort from their familiar texture. “If the corruption spreads—”

“It won’t. It can’t.”

But as they continued towards her study, she couldn’t shake the image of the wyvern’s mad thrashing, or the sound of its rider’s desperate calls.

How many more bonds would break before they found answers?

How many more minds would shatter?

Her private study beckoned, its heavy door a promise of momentary sanctuary. She needed to think, to plan. To find a way forward before the corruption took everything she held dear.

But her study felt too small for her churning thoughts. She paced between her desk and the window, each turn marking another piece of the puzzle that refused to fit.

“It makes no sense. Why would House Darius mark their own assassins? It’s too obvious, too clean.”

“Perhaps that’s exactly why,” Velten said.

“A double-bluff?” She paused, considering. “Make it so obvious that we’d dismiss it as a frame job?” But even as she spoke the words, they felt wrong. “No. Even as a double-bluff, it still draws attention. Still makes people look closer at House Darius. And Darius is too careful for that.”

She resumed pacing, her silk robes whispering against the carpets. “And then there’s his behaviour in council. Too calm, too controlled. He wanted me to see that control.” Her fingers drummed against her thigh. “But why? What game is he really playing?”

“Perhaps that’s the wrong question. Perhaps we should ask who else benefits from our suspicion of House Darius.”

Elana stopped. “Baron Gerlach.” The pieces shifted in her mind, showing new patterns. “He was awfully quick to demand immediate succession. Awfully eager to push for decisive action.”

“And his lands border Darius’s territories.”

“If Darius fell from grace...” Territory, influence, power—all would be up for grabs. “I need to speak with him. Privately. Feel out where his true loyalties lie.” She moved to her desk, pulling out a sheet of fine parchment. “And perhaps...” A slight smile touched her lips. “Perhaps we can turn his ambition to our advantage. If he thinks supporting me in the succession would give him an edge over Darius...”

“A dangerous game. Gerlach is not known for his subtlety.”

“No. But he is known for his opportunism.” She rang the small silver bell on her desk, summoning a servant. “And right now, that might be exactly what we need.”

The servant appeared, bowing low. “Your Highness?”

“Please inform Baron Gerlach that I wish to speak with him privately. Tell him...” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “Tell him I have some concerns about House Darius that I’d like to discuss.”

As the servant hurried away, Elana settled behind her desk, arranging herself with careful precision.

The game was indeed moving, as Darius had said. But perhaps it was time to move some pieces of her own.

4. Irmin

Mist clung to Irmin’s skin as she crept through the abandoned outskirts of the northern border. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the occasional crunch of gravel beneath her boots and the soft whisper of Riven’s breath behind her.

She paused at the edge of a crumbling warehouse, her hand resting on the hilt of her sword. Overhead, Berthold circled, his dark form blending with the night sky.

She turned to her squadron. “We’ll cover more ground if we split up. Pairs, stick to the shadows. If you find anything, send up a signal through the wyverns. Do not engage unless absolutely necessary.”

The riders nodded, their faces grim in the faint lantern light. They moved out, melting into the darkness.

Irmin turned to Riven, her jaw tight. “You’re with me. But if you even think about trying anything, I’ll gut you myself.”

Riven held up his hands, a mocking smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Commander. I’m here to help, remember?”

Irmin snorted, turning away. She didn’t trust Riven, but she couldn’t deny his knowledge of the smugglers’ operations. If he could lead her to the heart of this conspiracy, she’d put up with his presence. For now.

They moved between the abandoned buildings, their footsteps muffled by the thick mist.

Irmin kept her senses sharp, her eyes scanning the shadows for any sign of movement.

Beside her, Riven moved with surprising stealth. “There.” He pointed to a set of tracks in the mud. “Fresh. They lead to that warehouse.”

Irmin followed his gaze and nodded. The warehouse loomed out of the mist, its walls pitted and scarred by years of neglect. But there was something else, a faint flicker of light from within, barely visible through the grime-encrusted windows.

She signalled to Berthold, feeling his acknowledgement through their bond. The wyvern dropped lower, his wings barely making a sound as he glided over the rooftops.

They approached the warehouse, keeping to the shadows.

The side door was locked—a heavy iron mechanism that looked recently maintained, unlike the rest of the building.

Before Irmin could suggest an alternative entry, Riven’s hands flew over the lock, tools appearing from hidden pockets. The soft click of metal on metal seemed deafening in the silence.

“What are you—?”

The lock gave way with a soft snap.

Riven grinned over his shoulder. “You didn’t think I spent all those years as a rogue rider without picking up a few useful skills, did you?”

“Next time, wait for orders.”

His grin widened. “Of course, Commander. Though you have to admit, my way was quicker than breaking down the door.”

Irmin shot him a glare, but Riven only shrugged, smirking. She pushed past him, her sword drawn, every sense on high alert.

The warehouse was cavernous, the air thick with the scent of dust and decay. But there was something else, too, a faint hum that set Irmin’s teeth on edge.

She moved deeper into the shadows, her eyes adjusting to the gloom.

Crates stood stacked high against the walls, each one marked with a faint sigil—House Darius.

Beside her, Riven let out a low whistle. “Well, well. Looks like the aristocracy’s been busy.”

Irmin ignored him, moving closer to the crates. With a quick slash of her sword, she pried one open, the wood splintering beneath her blade.

Inside, nestled in a bed of straw, lay a pile of ravenglass shards. But not the pure, black crystal she was used to. This ravenglass was shot through with veins of purple, pulsing faintly in the dim light.

“Corrupted. And there’s so much of it.”

Riven nodded. “Enough to supply an army. Or to poison every wyvern in the Kingdom.”

Irmin’s mind raced. The wyvern attacks, the unrest in the court, her father’s assassination...it was all connected. And at the centre of it all, this twisted, tainted ravenglass.

She opened her mouth to speak, but a sudden sound from the shadows cut her off.

A footstep, a rasp of metal on stone.

Irmin whirled, her sword coming up just in time to parry a vicious slash aimed at her throat. The smuggler’s blade scraped along her own with a shriek, sparks flying in the gloom.

More figures emerged from the darkness, their faces hidden beneath crude masks. They charged forward with a roar, their weapons glinting in the faint light.

Irmin met them head-on, her sword a blur of midnight in the shadows.

She ducked and spun, and with precise, deadly movements, her blade found gaps in their defences.

Beside her, Riven fought with a wild grace as his smaller blade darted in and out like a serpent’s tongue. He laughed as he fought, the sound harsh and mocking in the close confines of the warehouse.

But there were too many of them, the smugglers pouring out of the shadows.

They pushed Irmin back, and her arms ached with the strain of fending off blow after blow.

And then Berthold was there, bursting through the roof in a shower of splintered wood and twisted metal.

The wyvern roared, his jaws snapping, his claws tearing through the smugglers.

The rest of Irmin’s squadron poured in after him, with blades blurring in the sudden light.

The tide of battle turned, and the smugglers fell back before the onslaught.

Irmin pressed forward, her sword singing in her hands. She could feel Berthold’s presence, as his mind merged with her own in the heat of battle.

“Watch your flank.” Berthold’s tail lashed out to send a smuggler flying. “And tell your pet snake to stay out of my way.”

Irmin glanced towards Riven, whose ravenglass dagger blurred into a whirlwind of black as he fought. Though the rogue rider’s face was streaked with sweat and blood, he was holding his own.

“He’s not my pet,” she snapped, parrying a blow aimed at Riven’s unprotected back. “But we need him alive. For now.”

Berthold snorted, his claws raking across a smuggler’s chest. “Fine. But if he gets himself killed, it’s not on my head.”

The battle raged on, the air thick with the stench of blood and fear. Irmin lost herself in the rhythm of it, focusing solely on the next blow, the next parry, the next kill.

Blood mingled with the dust and grime of the warehouse floor, and the last of the smugglers fell.

Irmin stood panting, her sword dripping red. She turned to Riven and frowned.

The rogue rider kneeled beside a fallen smuggler, his face pale and drawn. He reached out with a shaking hand, pulling aside the man’s cloak to reveal a glinting insignia. “That’s no smuggler. That’s a Guardian.”

As Irmin stood beside Riven, she took in the basilisk emblem, and the intricate tools and weapons strapped to the man’s belt. “This isn’t just a smuggling operation. It’s an attack on the very foundations of the Kingdom.”

Riven nodded, his brow furrowing. “The nobles, the Guardians...they’re all in on it. What in the void is going on?”

Irmin glanced around, her thoughts tumbling. She had to get this information back to her sisters, had to warn them of the danger that lurked within their own ranks.

But who could she trust?

If the Guardians were compromised, if the noble houses were involved...

She shook her head, pushing the thought aside. She would deal with that later. For now, she had to focus on the task at hand.

“Berthold, secure the area.” She sheathed her sword. “We’ll take what evidence we can, then burn the rest. We can’t risk this ravenglass falling into the wrong hands.”

The wyvern nodded, his eyes gleaming in the shadows. “And the bodies?”

Irmin’s gaze fell on the fallen Guardian, her stomach twisting. “Leave them. Let their masters see what becomes of traitors.” She turned to Riven, her eyes hard. “You’re coming with me. If you want your freedom, you’ll help me unravel this conspiracy, down to the last thread.”

Riven met her gaze. “As my lady commands.” He gave a mocking bow.

Irmin snorted, turning away. She had no illusions about Riven’s loyalty, or lack thereof. But for now, he was a tool she could use. A weapon in a war she was only just beginning to understand.

“Pack up every piece of corrupted ravenglass,” Irmin ordered her squad. “Seal the containers with wax. Double-wrap them in leather. I don’t want anyone touching these shards directly.”

Through their bond, Berthold’s unease rippled. “The ravenglass feels wrong. Like a storm about to break.”

“Commander!” Sergeant Wulfram’s shout cut through the warehouse. “This one’s still breathing!”

Irmin spun. The Guardian lay where they’d left him, blood pooling beneath his body. But now his chest rose and fell in shallow gasps.

“Wow, he’s still alive,” Riven said. “And I thought you were supposed to be a master with the sword.”

Irmin ignored him and turned to Wulfram. “We need him stable enough to transport. Get that ravenglass secured. All of it. We’re moving out within the hour. And send word to my sisters.”

5. Adelinde

The royal wyvern chamber’s vaulted ceiling stretched up into the shadows. Adelinde stepped into the gloom, her footsteps echoing off the damp stone walls. Beside her, Klara clutched a sheaf of notes to her chest, her eyes wide and wary.

“I don’t like this,” Klara said. “It feels wrong.”

Adelinde nodded, the hairs on the back of her neck prickling. The chamber was usually a place of quiet solemnity, the wyverns resting in their alcoves. But now, the air was thick with tension, the great beasts shifting restlessly in their nests, their scales rasping against the stone.

“Easy.” Adelinde approached one of the nearest wyverns—a massive creature, its scales a deep, burnished gold that seemed to glow faintly in the dim light. But as she drew closer, she saw that the gold was tarnished, shot through with purple veins.

The wyvern lifted its head, its eyes fixing on her with an intensity that made her breath catch in her throat. There was something wild in that gaze, something feral and uncontrolled. It let out a low, rumbling growl, the sound vibrating through her bones.

Behind her, Sigmund shifted his weight, the lantern in his hand casting jittery shadows across the walls. “Lady Adelinde. Perhaps we should...”

But Adelinde was already moving, her hand outstretched. “Shh.” She locked eyes with the wyvern. “It’s alright. I’m here to help.”

The wyvern’s growl wavered. Adelinde edged closer, her chest tight with the thunder of her heartbeat. The heat of its breath washed over her, carrying the sharp tang of rot. Its scales glistened, the faint dampness catching the light as its massive head dipped slightly. She kept her movements steady, her pulse screaming at the closeness of the beast.

Her hand moved slowly, trembling as her fingers grazed the wyvern’s snout. The scales burned under her touch, their heat unnatural, radiating a feverish intensity.

Her chest tightened.

This wasn’t mere agitation.

The wyvern juddered, its breath shallow and laboured, its eyes clouded with something deeper than unease.

Something was wrong—wrong in a way that ran through its core, a sickness she could almost feel pulsing beneath its skin.

“Klara. Take a note of its temperature and the discoloration of its scales. I need a full description.”

The apprentice nodded and scratched her quill against parchment.

Adelinde ran her hands along the wyvern’s neck, feeling for any sign of injury or illness.

As she worked, the chamber seemed to come alive around her. The other wyverns stirred in their alcoves, their agitation growing with each passing moment.

Low growls echoed off the walls.

“They’re all like this,” Sigmund said. “Every last one of them. It’s like they’re—”

“Infected,” Adelinde said. “The corruption in the ravenglass, it’s spreading. Affecting the wyverns on a fundamental level.”

Klara looked up from her notes. “But how? I thought the ravenglass was isolated, contained.”

“So did I. But if it can affect the wyverns like this, even from a distance...then the implications are far more dire than we realised.”

She stepped back from the wyvern, her hand falling to her side.

Through eyes glittering with a feverish intensity, the creature watched her. Its breath came in ragged gasps.

“If we can understand how the corruption is spreading, maybe we can find a way to stop it.”

Klara nodded, clutching her notes to her chest.

Sigmund hefted his lantern, a determined look on his face.

But before they could take another step, a sudden hush fell over the chamber.

The wyverns’ growls died away, their bodies freezing as their eyes locked on a point behind Adelinde.

She turned, her heart hammering in her chest.

Witz landed before her, spreading his wings and bowing his head. “Lady Adelinde, I see you’ve taken an interest in our...troubled friends.”

Adelinde swallowed hard. “I...yes, I believe there may be a connection between the wyverns’ behaviour and the corruption in the ravenglass.”

Witz tilted his head, his eyes glittering. “A bold theory. And a dangerous one. Are you certain you wish to pursue this path?”

Adelinde hesitated, doubt creeping into her mind.

“I...I only wish to understand. To find the truth.”

“The truth. And what will you do with that truth once you have it? Will you wield it like a sword, cutting through the very foundations of our Kingdom? Or will you bury it deep, hoping it will never see the light of day?”

Adelinde’s breath caught in her throat. She had never heard Witz speak like this before, had never seen him so intense. It was as if he was weighing her very soul, measuring her worth against some invisible scale.

But before she could find her voice, before she could formulate a response, Gisela stepped forward. The golden wyvern moved to stand beside Adelinde. Her scales shimmered in the lantern light as her eyes fixed on Witz with a fierce, protective intensity.

“The truth is not a weapon to be wielded or hidden away,” she said. “It is a light, a guide. It shows us the path we must walk, even if that path is fraught with danger and uncertainty.”

Witz’s black teeth glinted in the shadows. “Ah, Gisela. Ever the idealist. But tell me, what good is a light if it blinds us to the shadows that lurk just beyond its reach?”

Gisela’s eyes narrowed, her tail lashing behind her. “Better to be blinded by the light than to stumble in the dark. Adelinde seeks the truth because she knows that it is the only way to save our Kingdom and heal the wounds that fester beneath the surface.”

Witz chuckled. “Perhaps. But be careful what you wish for, little scholar. The truth is a heavy burden to bear, and not all are strong enough to shoulder its weight.”

With that, he turned, his tail sweeping behind him as he moved deeper into the chamber.

Adelinde watched him go, question after question forming in her mind.

What did Witz know?

What secrets was he hiding behind those fathomless eyes?

And why did he seem so intent on dissuading her from her quest?

She shook her head, pushing the doubts aside. She had come too far to turn back now, had invested too much in her search for the truth.

“Come on.” She turned to Klara and Sigmund. “We have work to do.”

Together, they moved deeper into the chamber, their footsteps echoing off the damp stone walls. The wyverns watched them go, their eyes glittering with a strange, unsettling intensity.

As they walked, Adelinde’s mind raced with possibilities, with theories and hypotheses. She had always been drawn to the mysteries of the ravenglass, and had always longed to unravel its secrets. But now, faced with the reality of what those secrets might mean...

She shook her head, pushing the doubts aside. She had to focus.

“Witz, wait!” Adelinde hurried after him, her footsteps echoing in the chamber. “You can’t just drop hints and riddles and expect me to back down.”

He paused, emerald-tinged scales catching the lantern light. “Can’t I?”

“No.” She drew herself up, squaring her shoulders. “The Kingdom is fracturing. The wyverns are falling ill. My father is dead. I need answers, not tests.”

“And what gives you the right to demand them?”

“This does.” She gestured to her notes. “I’ve tracked the corruption’s spread. Mapped its patterns. Something is poisoning the foundation of our power, and I won’t stand idle while it happens.” She stepped closer, meeting his gaze. “I need to examine you. To make sure you haven’t been affected.”

Witz’s laugh rumbled through the chamber. “You wish to examine me?”

“Yes.” She held her ground. “Unless you have something to hide.”

His tail lashed the air. “My commitment to the throne is absolute. It has been since before your grandfather’s grandfather drew breath.”

“Then why discourage me from seeking the truth?”

“Discourage you?” His eyes glinted. “No. I test your resolve. The path you walk is dangerous—I needed to know if you would falter at the first sign of resistance.”

“The stakes are too high for games and riddles.” Adelinde’s voice cracked. “People are dying. Bonds are breaking. Tell me what you know, Witz. Please.”

Witz studied her for a long moment. He turned to Klara and Sigmund.

“Leave us.”

Klara stiffened. “My lady, I don’t think—”

“It’s alright.” Adelinde forced certainty into her tone. She nodded to her apprentice, managing a small smile. “Go with Master Sigmund. I’ll find you later. See if you can find a way to treat the wyverns.”

Sigmund’s hand settled on Klara’s arm, gentle but insistent. The apprentice hesitated a moment longer before allowing herself to be led away. Their footsteps grew fainter until the chamber doors closed with a resonant thud.

Witz turned, gesturing with a wing. “Follow me.”

He led her deeper into the chamber, past rows of restless wyverns, until they reached a section of bare wall. Landing beside it, Witz tapped a massive claw against a particular stone.

Adelinde examined it, running her fingers over the smooth surface.

Ancient script caught beneath her nails, so faint she might have imagined it. “There’s something here, but...” She pushed, muscles straining, but the stone refused to yield.

She traced the nearly invisible text. Her mind pieced together fragments of meaning—words about bonds and balance, about prices paid in blood and power.

She pressed her shoulder against the stone, legs braced against the floor.

Still nothing.

“There must be a mechanism.” Her mind raced through possibilities. “The text mentions balance.”

Witz watched her. “Indeed.”

Adelinde stepped back, studying the wall.

Not just the stone itself, but its relationship to the whole.

The pattern of mortar lines, the subtle play of shadows.

“It’s not about force. It’s about precision.” She placed her hands on specific points, fingers finding grooves too subtle to see.

The stone shifted with a resonant scrape, revealing a set of stairs descending into darkness.

“What is this place?” She held up her lantern, trying to pierce the gloom.

“Some answers,” Witz said. “I hope.”

6. Elana

Elana sat at the meeting room’s round table, her posture perfect, her expression a mask of serene authority. But beneath the calm surface, her mind raced with questions and suspicions.

Across from her, Baron Gerlach lounged in his chair, his portly frame draped in silks and velvets that strained at the seams. He smiled, his eyes never resting on any one point for too long. “Your Highness, I appreciate your summons. I know your time is valuable, especially in these...troubled days.”

Elana inclined her head. “Of course, Baron Gerlach. The council’s unity is of the utmost importance. I’m always happy to discuss strategy with a respected colleague.”

Gerlach’s smile widened, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Indeed. Unity. A noble goal, to be sure. But one that seems increasingly out of reach, wouldn’t you say?”

Elana’s smile faltered slightly, her focus sharpening. “I’m not sure I follow, Baron. The council has always had its differences, but we’ve always managed to find common ground.”

Gerlach leaned forward, his hands clasped on the table before him. “Ah, but these are not ordinary times, are they? With the King’s untimely death, the succession in question, and the...shall we say, ambitions of certain individuals...”

Behind Elana, Velten shifted.

“I’m afraid I don’t deal in rumours, Baron.” Elana kept her voice measured. “If you have specific concerns about a member of the council, speak plainly.”

Gerlach chuckled. “Of course, of course. Forgive me, Lady Elana. I forget sometimes how...direct you can be.” He leaned back in his chair, his fingers drumming a rhythm on the leather-bound ledger before him. “It’s just that I’ve noticed certain...patterns, shall we say. Certain individuals who seem to be positioning themselves for something more than mere council business.”

Elana kept her expression carefully neutral. “Oh? And who might these individuals be?”

“Why, Lord Darius, of course. Surely you’ve noticed how his influence has grown in recent months. He seems to have his fingers in every pie from here to the border.”

Elana thought about this. Darius had always been ambitious. He’d certainly always sought to expand his power and influence. “I’m not sure I would characterise Lord Darius’s actions as anything out of the ordinary. He is a powerful man with many connections. It’s only natural that he would seek to use those connections to the Kingdom’s benefit.”

Gerlach’s smile widened, his teeth flashing in the warm light. “Ah, but that’s just it, isn’t it? For the benefit of the Kingdom...or the benefit of Lord Darius himself?” He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I’ve heard rumours, Lady Elana. Whispers of secret meetings and alliances being forged in the shadows. Darius has been busy, oh yes. Busy indeed.”

“And what proof do you have of these rumours? Whispers in the dark are one thing, Baron. But the council cannot act on rumour alone.”

Gerlach sniffed. “Proof? No, I’m afraid I have no proof. Not yet, at least. But I have eyes and ears throughout the Kingdom, Lady Elana. And what they tell me is concerning, to say the least.”

“Concerning, how?”

“Darius has been meeting with the border governors, you know. Promising them support, resources, even military aid. And all in exchange for their loyalty, their backing when the time comes.”

Elana’s mind raced, trying to fit this new information into the larger puzzle. The border governors had always been a contentious bunch, more concerned with their own power and influence than the good of the Kingdom as a whole.

“And then there’s the matter of Molotok. Our dear neighbours to the north, always so eager to lend a helping hand.”

“What about Molotok?”

“Oh, you know how it is, Lady Elana. A little gold here, a little influence there...Molotok has been very busy in the border towns, very busy indeed. And who do you think has been facilitating that business, hmm? Who has been opening the doors, greasing the wheels, making sure that Molotok’s interests are well-represented?”

Elana’s thoughts reeled. If Darius had indeed allied himself with Molotok, if he was using their resources and influence to further his own ambitions...

“This is troubling news, Baron. But I must ask—why not take your concerns to the council as a whole?”

He tapped the side of his nose. “Ah, but you see, I’m not the only one with eyes and ears in the Kingdom. Darius has his own network of spies and informants, his own web of influence. If I were to bring these accusations to the council openly, without proof”—he shrugged one shoulder—“well, let’s just say that I might find myself on the wrong end of a very sharp blade.”

“And what would you have me do, Baron? If you have no proof, no evidence to bring before the council...”

Gerlach leaned forward. “Well, that’s where you come in, Lady Elana. You have the ear of the council, the trust of the people. If you were to investigate these rumours, I’m certain you will find enough evidence to bring Darius to heel.”

“I see.” She steepled her fingers. “So, you’re perfectly content with me taking on that risk?”

“Let’s just say the Kingdom would owe you a great debt. And perhaps when the question of succession is pushed, you will have friendly allies supporting your claim.”

She tried to make sense of Gerlach’s words. Was he truly concerned for the Kingdom’s welfare, or was this just another ploy, another move in the endless game of politics and power?

Behind her, Velten shifted again. She sensed his unease through their bond, his suspicion mirroring her own.

“I appreciate your concern, Baron. And I will certainly take your words under advisement. But I cannot make any promises, not without proof, not without evidence to back up these allegations.”

Gerlach spread his hands. “Of course, of course. I understand completely. But do keep in mind, Lady Elana...the longer we wait, the stronger Darius grows. And the harder it will be to stop him, when the time comes.” He rose from his chair, his silk robes whispering. “I’ll leave you to your thoughts, then. But remember—the Kingdom’s fate hangs in the balance. And those who act decisively, who seize the moment, they will be the ones to shape that fate, for good or ill.”

With a final smile, he bowed and sauntered from the room, his footsteps echoing in the sudden silence.

Elana sat frozen, pausing to consider the far-reaching implications of Gerlach’s words.

Velten’s stretched out his silvery wings. “He’s playing you. Using Darius as a distraction, a smokescreen to hide his own ambitions.”

Elana nodded, holding her body rigid. “I know. But why? What does Gerlach stand to gain by turning me against Darius?”

Velten was silent for a long moment, his eyes gleaming in the warm light. “Power. The same thing they all want, in the end. Gerlach sees an opportunity to weaken his rival, to sow chaos and confusion in the council. And he thinks you’re the key to making it happen.”

Elana’s heart sank, the weight of responsibility settling on her shoulders. She had always known that the game of politics was a dangerous one, that the stakes were high and the risks even higher. But to be caught in the middle of such a web of lies and deceit while still reeling from her father’s death was almost too much for her to bear.

She ran a hand down her face, trying with all she had to keep her breathing steady. “What do I do, Velten? How do I navigate this?”

The wyvern remained silent for a long moment, his gaze distant. “Carefully. You gather what evidence you can, you follow the threads wherever they lead. But you do it quietly, secretly. And you trust no one, not even those who claim to be your allies.”

Elana nodded, her resolve hardening. She had sworn an oath to protect the Kingdom, to serve its people with all her heart and soul. And she would not falter now, not when the stakes were so high, the dangers so great.

“Darius is many things, but he’s never careless. I still can’t get past why he marked assassins with his own sigil. Even as a double-bluff, it draws too much attention. And Darius hates attention. He prefers to work from shadows.” She paused, fingers drumming against her father’s old strategy board. “Gerlach, though...” Her lips thinned. “And his lands would expand considerably if House Darius fell from grace.”

“Yet you have no proof.”

“None. Just patterns and possibilities.” She turned to face her wyvern. “Should I speak with Darius directly? Try to gauge his reaction?”

“Not yet. You’re playing this well, Elana. Watching, learning, letting others reveal their hands first. Don’t show yours too soon.”

She sank into her chair, suddenly weary. “There’s more happening here than I understand. Irmin’s found something—I can tell by how carefully she words her reports. And Adelinde...” She trailed off, thinking of her younger sister’s increasingly urgent notes about the ravenglass corruption.

“The pieces are moving,” Velten said. “But not all are visible yet.”

Elana straightened. “We need to compare notes. No more working in isolation.” She reached for her writing desk. “It’s time my sisters and I had a proper conversation.”

7. Irmin

Irmin gripped her sword hilt, her thumb tracing the familiar pattern etched into the pommel.

Before her, the Guardian operative sat bound against a crate, his insignia glinting dully beneath his torn cloak. Blood had dried at the corner of his mouth, but his eyes held nothing but defiance.

“Let’s try this again.” Irmin kept her voice level, controlled. “Who ordered the corrupted ravenglass?”

The operative’s lips twisted into something between a smile and a grimace. “You military types. Always wanting simple answers to complex problems.”

Berthold’s growl resonated. The wyvern’s massive form paced outside. His agitation matched her own, though she refused to let it show.

“There’s nothing complex about treason,” she said.

From his position against a nearby crate, Riven snorted. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that.” His fingers played with a small knife, whose blade caught the lamplight as it danced between his knuckles. “Treason’s plenty complex. Just depends which side you’re standing on when you name it.”

Irmin glared at him. “I don’t recall asking for your input.”

“And yet here I am, providing it anyway.” He shrugged one shoulder and grinned. “Funny how life works out.”

The operative’s gaze flickered between them, calculating. Irmin recognised that look—she’d seen it often enough in command meetings, officers weighing angles and advantages before speaking.

“The throne’s vision is flawed. Some of us see the cracks in the foundation. The rot beneath the gilding.”

“And corrupting ravenglass somehow fixes that?” Irmin stepped closer, letting her shadow fall across him. “Turning wyverns against their riders? Destroying bonds that have held the Kingdom together for generations?”

“Sometimes...” The operative paused, testing his bonds. “Sometimes things must break before they can be rebuilt properly.”

Riven’s knife stilled. “Now that’s interesting.” He straightened. “You’re not just trying to weaken the Kingdom. You’re trying to reshape it.”

The operative’s silence was answer enough.

Irmin’s mind raced. Recent reports of wyvern aggression took on new meaning—not random incidents, but systematic attacks on the Kingdom’s foundation. She felt Berthold’s matching realisation, his fury at the violation of something sacred.

“Why are the Guardians doing this?”

The operative shrugged. “They aren’t.”

“But—”

“So it’s a rogue faction?” Riven cut in.

The operative gave a slight nod. “Something like that.”

“How many?” Irmin kept her voice hard. “How many Guardians are involved?”

“Enough.” The operative’s lips curved. “More than you’d think. Less than we’d like.”

“I take it this isn’t your base of operations?” Riven asked.

“Well, obviously.”

“And you’re not doing official Guardian work.”

The operative shrugged. “Aren’t you the observant one?”

Irmin glared at Riven then turned her attention back to the operative. “I want names.”

“Now why would I give you those?” He settled back against his crate, somehow managing to look comfortable despite his bonds. “The Kingdom has stood too long, Commander. Grown too rigid, too controlling. When was the last time a wyvern chose its own path? When was the last time a rider truly flew free?”

Riven pushed off from his crate. “He’s got a point there.”

“Stay out of this.” Irmin’s hand tightened on her sword hilt.

“Why? Because I might understand what he’s saying?” Riven’s smile turned bitter. “Because I’ve seen firsthand how the Kingdom treats those who don’t fit its perfect vision?”

The operative’s eyes gleamed. “You see? Even your pet knows the truth of it.”

“The only truth I see,” Irmin said, “is that you’re helping destroy everything we’ve built. Everything my father died protecting.”

“Your father.” The operative’s voice softened with something like pity. “Do you really think he understood what he was protecting? The price of all that precious stability?”

Riven sniffed. “He’s stalling. Playing for time while—”

An explosion rocked the warehouse, sending crates tumbling.

The operative laughed. “Right on schedule.”

More explosions followed.

Berthold’s warning came sharp and urgent. “Riders approaching. At least a dozen. Moving fast and low,” he said through their bond.

Irmin took a sharp breath. A dozen riders meant this was no random attack. This was coordinated, planned.

“You weren’t just a smuggler,” she said to the operative. “You were bait.”

His smile widened. “Finally catching up, Commander?”

The warehouse roof groaned as something massive landed above. Dust and splinters rained down, accompanied by the distinctive sound of wyvern claws on wood.

“Commander!” Sergeant Wulfram’s voice carried over the noise. “We’re surrounded!”

Irmin kept her sword trained on Riven while eyeing the operative. “This was all a trap. Get us focused on the smuggling, the corruption, while something bigger moved into position.”

The operative’s bonds fell away, cut somehow during the chaos. He stood, rubbing his wrists.

Another explosion rocked the building. Through gaps in the walls, Irmin glimpsed shapes moving in the darkness—riders and wyverns, their forms distorted by corruption’s purple glow.

Irmin’s jaw clenched. They were outnumbered, surrounded, and caught completely off guard. Which left only one option.

“Berthold!”

Berthold’s massive form filled the warehouse doorway. His scales caught the purple light of corrupted ravenglass as he advanced.

“Enough of these games.” Berthold’s gaze fixed on the operative, who shrank back. “You have what you need, Irmin. Act now, before this poison spreads further.”

Irmin squeezed her sword hilt. The operative knew more—had to know more.

Every instinct screamed at her to press harder, to unravel the full scope of the conspiracy before it was too late.

“We need names,” she said. “Proof of who’s involved.”

Berthold’s tail lashed, sending a crate skittering across the floor. “Decisiveness is your strength, Irmin. Do not waste it on half-truths from cowards.”

His frustration crashed against her. Images flashed between them—corrupted wyverns attacking their riders, the purple veins spreading through ravenglass specimens, her father’s blood staining courtyard stones.

“The wyvern speaks truth.” The operative’s voice carried an edge of mockery. “Though perhaps not in the way he intends.”

Before Irmin could respond, another explosion rocked the warehouse. The blast threw her sideways as crates toppled, filling the air with choking dust.

She rolled to her feet, sword drawn, ears ringing, but the operative was gone.

Wingbeats echoed through the settling dust.

Berthold’s roar shook the rafters. He burst through the debris, launching after the fleeing operative.

“Commander!” Riven emerged, coughing, his dark clothes coated grey, but his smirk remained untouched. “You let him go? Or was that part of the plan?”

Berthold’s return sent a tremor through the floor. His growl rumbled low. “This is what hesitation brings. Now the trail grows colder.”

The wyvern’s scales bristled with barely contained fury.

She turned to Riven, studying him through dust-filled air. How did he know the operative was playing for time?

“If you’re working both sides, Riven, you’ll wish the Guardians had caught you first.”

His smirk widened, knife dancing between his fingers. “Always so suspicious, Commander. Haven’t I proven my loyalty?”

“Have you?”

“I suppose that depends on how you define loyalty, doesn’t it?”

Purple light pulsed from the scattered ravenglass, casting strange patterns across walls and faces.

Outside, wings beat against the night air. Whether friend or foe, Irmin couldn’t tell.

She ran through what she knew for certain. The operative’s escape meant lost intelligence, lost opportunities to unravel the conspiracy’s full scope. And Berthold was right—hesitation had cost them.

And now, standing in the ruins of their interrogation, she faced another question. Could she trust the rogue rider who seemed to have all the right answers at all the wrong times?

Riven’s smirk was answer enough, and her doubts only deepened.

Berthold’s certainty pressed against her mind. “We cannot afford to doubt ourselves now. The poison spreads while we chase shadows.”

She nodded, squaring her shoulders. “Secure what’s left of the ravenglass. We move out in ten minutes.”

“Running away, Commander?” Riven said. “And here I thought you military types never retreated.”

“We advance in the opposite direction when tactics demand it.” She turned to face him fully. “Unless you’d prefer to stay and greet whoever set that explosion?”

His smirk faltered. “After you, then.”

As they worked to gather the scattered ravenglass shards, Irmin kept one eye on Riven. The way he handled the corrupted crystals, the careful way he wrapped each piece...

He knew too much. Moved too surely. Anticipated too well.

The question wasn’t whether he was playing both sides.

The question was which side would claim his final loyalty.

And whether she’d live to see the answer.

“Kill him. Now.” Berthold’s scales bristled. “If you won’t do it, I will.”

“No!”

“He will die!”

“Berthold!” Irmin stumbled under the weight of his fury. She’d never felt him like this—so raw, so violent. Their bond stretched thin, its edges fraying. “This isn’t you.”

The corruption was affecting him, seeping into their connection.

“Commander?” Sergeant Wulfram hefted a crate of shards. “Should we transport these back to—?”

“No.” She cut him off, watching Berthold’s tail lash dangerously close to where Riven stood. “Leave it all. We need to get the wyverns away from here. Now.”

“But the evidence—”

“Will mean nothing if our bonds sever.” She reached for her connection with Berthold, pushing all her strength into it. “Listen to me. It’s the ravenglass. It’s affecting you, affecting us.”

The wyvern’s head snapped towards her. His eyes blazed, and for the first time in her life, Irmin felt afraid of her bonded partner.

That fear penetrated Berthold’s rage. He reared back, thrashing his head. “No!” His face twisted. His wings twitched. His tail shook in spasmodic jerks. “No rider should ever fear their wyvern. No bond should taste of terror.”

“We can do this, Berthold. Trust me.” Irmin pushed all she could into their bond—ideas of calm and safety. “But we can’t stay here.”

Berthold bowed his head. “Quickly then.”

“Everyone mount up!” Irmin commanded. “We’re leaving. Now.”

She grabbed Riven’s arm, dragging him towards Berthold. “Not a word. Not a movement. Not a breath I don’t authorise.”

They scrambled into the saddle as the squadron took flight, leaving the corrupted ravenglass behind.

Then Irmin felt Berthold’s shame, warring with the lingering effects of the corruption.

“I would never...”

“I know.” She pressed her hand against his scales, feeling their connection steady as they put distance between themselves and the warehouse. “I know.”

8. Adelinde

Adelinde’s fingers trembled as she clutched her lantern.

Witz’s black eyes fixed on her, seeming to measure her worth.

Without a word, he turned towards the concealed staircase and descended.

Adelinde followed, her curiosity warring with her growing unease. The staircase spiralled down into the darkness, making depth and distance difficult to judge.

“My father...” She paused, gathering her thoughts. “Why didn’t he ever mention this place?”

“Some secrets,” Witz said, his voice drifting back through the darkness, “are too great to be shared. Until they must be.”

They descended further, each turn of the spiral taking them deeper beneath the palace.

The air grew cooler, thicker, carrying a strange metallic taste that reminded Adelinde of her ravenglass experiments.

A vibration began to build, so subtle at first she thought she imagined it. But as they descended, it grew stronger—a deep resonance that seemed to pulse through the very stone, matching the rhythm of her heartbeat.

The staircase finally opened into a vast cavern, its ceiling lost in darkness above.

Adelinde’s breath caught in her throat. At the cavern’s centre stood a massive chunk of ravenglass, larger than any she’d ever seen or read about. Its surface was perfectly smooth, drinking in what little light reached it.

“This,” Witz said, “is the heart of Ostreich. The bond between wyvern and rider begins here—and ends here.”

Adelinde approached slowly, drawn by the core’s presence despite her instinctive caution. Its energy was palpable even from a distance, making her skin prickle and her thoughts sharpen.

All her research, all her theories about how ravenglass amplified and stabilised wyvern bonds—this changed everything.

“The network. This is how it maintains stability across the Kingdom. The core acts as an anchor point, doesn’t it? A resonance hub that—”

“That allows humans and wyverns to maintain their bonds, yes.” Witz’s tail swept through the air. “Without it, the bonds would collapse. Our greatest strength would become our greatest vulnerability.”

Her research into corrupted ravenglass took on new, terrifying significance. If even a fraction of that corruption reached this core... “The Kingdom would fall.” The words emerged barely above a whisper. “The wyverns with severed bonds would turn feral. Everything we’ve built, everything we are...”

“Would crumble to dust,” Witz said, fixing her with those bottomless black eyes. “Now you understand why I’ve brought you here.”

Adelinde turned to face him fully, questions tumbling through her mind. “But why me? Why now? Surely the council should know about this, or at least my sisters—”

“Because you can be trusted.” His interruption was gentle but firm. “No one else can.”

“But—”

“This is Ostreich’s greatest secret, and its greatest vulnerability. If knowledge of its existence falls into the wrong hands, all is lost.” His gaze seemed to pierce through her. “Tell no one. Not the council. Not your allies. No one.”

Adelinde’s hand tightened on her lantern. “What about my sisters? Shouldn’t they know about this?”

“That is your choice.” Something in Witz’s tone suggested this was a test. “But choose wisely. No one else. Ever.”

She turned back to study the core, reaching towards it without touching.

“Everything we fight to protect,” Witz said, moving to stand beside her, “centres on this ravenglass. You’ve seen the corruption spreading through smaller specimens. Imagine what would happen if it reached here.”

Adelinde’s mind supplied the images all too readily. The bonds would shatter like glass, leaving riders and wyverns alike lost in chaos.

The military would collapse as their mounts turned feral.

Trade would grind to a halt as aerial routes became death traps.

“The Kingdom would crumble in days,” she said.

“And that is exactly what some wish to see.”

His words chilled her. The conspiracy she’d been tracking suddenly seemed both larger and more focused. This wasn’t just about destabilising the Kingdom—it was about destroying its very foundation.

“The corruption’s spread...” She pulled out her notes, fingers trembling slightly as she traced the patterns she’d mapped. “It’s not random, is it? They’re testing the network, probing for weaknesses.”

“Perhaps.” Witz’s tail lashed the air. “Or perhaps they already know where to strike, and are simply waiting for the right moment.”

Adelinde’s mind raced through possibilities, theories, implications. Everything she’d studied about ravenglass resonance suggested the corruption could spread through the network like poison through blood.

“I need to adjust my research,” she said, already sketching new diagrams. “Focus on protection rather than just understanding. There might be a way to shield the core from corruption, or at least slow its spread through the network.”

“A scholar to the end.”

Was that approval in Witz’s voice?

“But remember—this knowledge is as dangerous as it is powerful. Choose carefully who you trust with even fragments of the truth.”

He turned towards the staircase, indicating their time below was ending.

Adelinde lingered a moment longer, studying the core’s steady pulse. It seemed almost alive.

As she finally turned to follow Witz, her resolve hardened. The core was the key to everything—and the stakes were higher than she’d ever imagined. But the question gnawed at her: who else already knew?

The corruption’s spread suggested someone had intimate knowledge of the network’s structure. Someone who understood exactly how to exploit its weaknesses. Someone who might even now be planning the Kingdom’s fall.

Her fingers tightened on her notes as she climbed. She had work to do, and precious little time to do it.

9. Elana

Evening shadows crept across the meeting room. Elana sat straight-backed at the head of the long table, her diplomatic mask firmly in place despite the exhaustion tugging at her shoulders. Behind her, Velten’s silver scales caught the last rays of sunlight streaming through tall windows.

Her sisters had chosen their seats with telling care—Irmin to her right, closest to the door, while Adelinde settled at the far end, half-hidden behind a stack of research notes.

Their wyverns arranged themselves with similar deliberation—Berthold prowling near the entrance, Gisela perched in a reading alcove.

And watching it all with those bottomless black eyes—Witz. The royal wyvern had claimed a side table as his observation post.

“Thank you for coming,” Elana began, falling into the formal tones that had become second nature. “Given recent events—”

“Skip the diplomacy.” Irmin’s fingers drummed against her sword hilt. “We all know why we’re here. The Kingdom’s falling apart while we chase shadows in different directions.”

“If you’d let me finish—”

“Oh, like you let me finish investigating the smuggling ring?” Irmin’s voice carried an edge. “Before running off to play politics with Baron Gerlach?”

Velten’s steady presence was helping Elana maintain her composure. “My meeting with Gerlach was necessary. His support could be crucial in—”

“His support?” Adelinde looked up from her notes. Ink stained her fingers. “The man’s been systematically undermining council unity for months. I have documentation of his—”

“Documentation?” Irmin’s laugh held no humour. “While you’ve been buried in your books and papers, I’ve uncovered an actual conspiracy. Corrupted ravenglass stockpiles, Guardian operatives working with smugglers—”

“The ravenglass corruption isn’t just about smuggling!” Adelinde’s voice rose. “If you’d bothered to read my reports on the resonance patterns—”

“Enough.” Elana didn’t shout—she never shouted—but her tone cut through their bickering. “This is exactly why I called this meeting. We need to share information properly, not argue over whose crisis matters most.”

Behind her, Velten rumbled agreement. “The Kingdom’s enemies benefit from your division.”

Irmin sat back, nodding curtly. “Fine. You want my report? The assassination leads all point to House Darius—too perfectly. Someone’s trying to frame them while smuggling corrupted ravenglass through the northern territories.”

“How much ravenglass?” Adelinde leaned forward.

“Enough to poison half the Kingdom’s wyverns.” Irmin’s hand tightened on her sword. “And that’s not counting what the Guardian operative mentioned before he escaped.”

“Guardian operative?” Elana inclined her head. “You didn’t mention this in your official reports.”

“Because I can’t trust official channels anymore.” Irmin stood, pacing the room. “The corruption goes deeper than we thought. The Guardians themselves might be involved.”

“Impossible.” Adelinde’s voice wavered. “The Guardians are sworn to maintain balance, not destroy it. Their entire purpose is to—”

“Their purpose?” Irmin spun to face her. “Wake up, little sister. While you’ve been theorising in your laboratory, I’ve been chasing these people down. They’re not interested in balance anymore.”

“No, you don’t understand.” Adelinde shuffled through her notes. “The corruption isn’t just affecting individual ravenglass specimens. It’s spreading through the entire network of wyvern bonds. If it reaches...” She trailed off, glancing at Witz.

“Reaches what?” Elana narrowed her eyes.

“I...I can’t say exactly. But it’s worse than we thought. Much worse.”

Irmin threw up her hands. “More secrets? Really? Father’s dead, the Kingdom’s fracturing, and you’re still playing scholar with your precious theories?”

“They’re not just theories!” Adelinde’s voice cracked. “If you’d listen for once instead of rushing off to hit things with your sword—”

“At least I’m doing something! While you hide in your library and Elana plays politics, I’m actually trying to find Father’s killers!”

“And how’s that working out?” Elana’s calm tone carried a bite. “Chasing obvious leads into obvious traps? Getting your evidence conveniently destroyed before anyone can verify it?”

Irmin snapped back. “What exactly are you implying?”

“I’m implying that we’re all being manipulated.” Elana stood, meeting her sister’s glare. “House Darius, Baron Gerlach, the Guardians, Molotok—someone’s playing us against each other. And we’re letting them.”

Velten’s approval hummed. But Berthold’s growl filled the chamber.

“So we should...what? Sit around making diplomatic small talk while traitors walk free?” Irmin’s voice dripped scorn. “Tell me, sister, how many nobles have you appeased today? How many compromises have you made with people who might have ordered Father’s death?”

“Stop it!” Adelinde slammed her hands on the table, sending papers flying. “Both of you! This is exactly what they want. Can’t you see? The corruption isn’t just in the ravenglass anymore. It’s in us. In how we’re turning against each other instead of working together.”

Silence fell, broken only by the soft rustle of leathery wings.

Elana sank back into her chair with a sigh. Her sister was right—they were playing into their enemies’ hands. But how could they work together when they couldn’t even trust each other with their findings?

“Three paths lie before you.” Witz’s eyes swept over each sister in turn. “The warrior seeks justice through strength. The scholar pursues truth through knowledge. The diplomat builds allies through compromise. But divided...” He spread his wings. “Divided, you will fall. And the Kingdom will fall with you.”

Witz’s words hung in the air.

Elana looked at her sisters—really looked at them. Irmin’s rigid posture couldn’t quite hide her exhaustion. Adelinde’s hands trembled as she gathered her scattered notes. They were all trying so hard to save the Kingdom in their own ways.

And they were all, perhaps, missing the larger picture.

“Irmin.” Elana kept her voice neutral. “Tell us exactly what the Guardian operative said before he escaped. Everything, not just the parts you thought relevant.”

Irmin hesitated, then nodded. “He said the ravenglass corruption was designed to weaken wyvern bonds. Called it the first step in something bigger.”

“Adelinde.” Elana turned to her younger sister. “What have you discovered about how the corruption spreads? Leave out any secrets you’re sworn to keep, but tell us what you can.”

Adelinde glanced at Witz, who inclined his head slightly. “It’s not random. The corruption follows existing resonance patterns in the ravenglass network. Someone who understands the system is deliberately targeting its weakest points.”

“And the nobles?” Irmin asked. “What are they planning?”

Elana smiled grimly. “Baron Gerlach is trying to turn me against House Darius. Meanwhile, Lord Darius seems to be cultivating allies among the border governors. Everyone’s preparing for something, but no one’s showing their full hand.”

“And what of Molotok?”

“Molotok.” Elana’s lips thinned. “Their envoy arrived within hours of Father’s death. Too quickly to be coincidence.”

“What?” Irmin straightened. “Why wasn’t I informed?”

“Because you were hunting assassins, and I needed to handle it carefully.” Elana’s fingers traced the edge of the table. “Ambassador Javik came bearing condolences and veiled threats in equal measure. He knew details about our northern mining operations that should have been secret. Knew about increased activity in areas we’ve kept under strict surveillance.”

Velten’s unease rippled at the memory.

“He made pointed comments about smuggling operations, about ravenglass moving through ‘unauthorised channels.’ As if testing how much we knew,” Elana said.

“Or letting us know how much they knew,” Irmin said. “Did he mention the corruption?”

“Not directly. But he offered Molotok’s assistance with ‘security concerns’ along the northern border. He even asked specifically about you, Irmin. Said you were ‘quite busy these days.’”

“They’re watching us.” Irmin’s hand clenched and unclenched. “All of us.”

“Yes. But why show their hand?” Elana stood, pacing as she thought aloud. “Javik’s timing, his carefully chosen words...he wanted us to know Molotok was involved. Wanted us looking north while...” She paused.

“While what?” Adelinde asked.

“While something else moves in the shadows.” Elana turned back to her sisters. “Think about it. House Darius being framed too obviously. Baron Gerlach’s transparent manipulations. Molotok’s envoy arriving with suspicious knowledge. Everyone’s being too obvious, too perfect in their roles.”

“A distraction.” Irmin’s voice hardened. “While we chase the obvious threats...”

“The real danger strikes from an unexpected direction,” Elana said, nodding. “But what could be worth this level of misdirection? What prize justifies Molotok risking open conflict?”

Adelinde clutched her notes tighter, her face pale. But she remained silent, glancing again at Witz. “We have to be careful not to ascribe coordination to events that could be separate and unrelated,” she said eventually.

Irmin shook her head. “No. There are too many coincidences. It’s all connected.”

“But how?” Adelinde met Irmin’s gaze. “What’s the ultimate goal? Destabilising the Kingdom is one thing, but this feels bigger.” Velten’s thoughts brushed against Elana’s mind. “Unity begins with trust,” he said. “Even incomplete trust is better than none.”

She nodded. “We need to work together. Share what we can, respect what we can’t, and stop dismissing each other’s priorities.” Her gaze moved between her sisters. “Agreed?”

Irmin worked her jaw for a moment before she nodded. “Agreed. But no more secret meetings with suspicious nobles.”

“And no more rushing into obvious traps.”

They both looked at Adelinde, who clutched her notes to her chest. “I’ll share what I can. But some secrets...” She glanced at Witz again. “Some secrets have to stay hidden. For now.”

Witz’s eyes fixed on her. “You have a choice to make, Princess. Be certain it is the right one.”

“I...” She looked between her sisters. “There’s something you need to understand about the ravenglass network. About what happens if the corruption reaches...” Again she trailed off, her gaze darting to Witz.

“Reaches what?” Irmin demanded. “More secrets? More theories while actual threats go unchallenged?”

“The threats you see aren’t the only ones that matter!” Adelinde’s voice held an edge of desperation. “If the core is corrupted, there will be nothing left to protect. Nothing.”

Silence stretched between them.

“The core?” Elana watched her younger sister carefully, noting how she seemed to curl inward, protecting her notes like shields. “What core?”

But Adelinde shook her head. “I can’t...I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have...” She gathered her papers. “Just trust that this is bigger than smugglers or noble politics. If we don’t stop the corruption...”

“Trust?” Irmin glowered at her. “That’s rich, coming from someone keeping secrets that might save the Kingdom.”

“Like you’re not keeping secrets of your own?” Elana’s diplomatic instincts screamed at her to smooth things over, but frustration won out. “Your reports grow vaguer by the day. This rogue rider you’re working with—Riven. What aren’t you telling us about him?”

Berthold’s growl filled the chamber. The massive wyvern’s scales bristled as he moved to stand behind Irmin. “Choose your accusations carefully, diplomat.”

“They’re not accusations.” Velten’s calm voice cut through the tension. “They are concerns. From sisters who once trusted each other without question.”

“And look where trust got us.” Irmin shook her head. “Father trusted his guards. Trusted the nobles. Trusted the system. And now he’s dead.”

The words hung in the air.

Velten helped Elana maintain her composure. But only barely. “So we trust no one?” she said. “Turn on each other while our enemies laugh?”

“We trust those who earn it.” Irmin’s gaze swept between her sisters. “Those who prove themselves with actions, not words.”

“And how do we earn that trust?” Adelinde’s voice was barely a whisper. “When you dismiss my research as theoretical? When Elana’s diplomatic work is just ‘playing politics’? When every attempt to explain is met with accusations?”

Gisela’s wings rustled. “The truth splinters like crystal, each shard reflecting differently. But the whole remains one piece, if you step back far enough to see it.”

“Pretty words.” Irmin turned towards the door. “But words won’t catch killers or stop corruption. I have work to do.”

“Irmin.” Elana’s tone carried authority she didn’t quite feel. “We’re not finished here.”

“Yes, we are.” Her sister paused at the threshold. “Call me when you’re ready to act instead of talk. Until then, I’ll do what needs doing.”

The door closed behind her.

Adelinde stood as well. “I’m sorry. I wish I could explain everything. But as I’ve said...” She glanced at Witz again. “Some secrets have to stay hidden.”

“Even from family?”

“Especially from family.” Adelinde’s smile held more grief than joy. “Because family is what they’ll use against us, in the end.”

She slipped out before Elana could respond, leaving only silence in her wake.

Elana sank back into her chair, the weight of failure pressing down. Velten’s thoughts brushed against her mind. “You tried.”

“Not hard enough.” She stared at the empty chairs where her sisters had sat. “We’re supposed to be stronger together. Instead we’re fracturing exactly as our enemies want.”

“The truth lies between you,” Witz said. “Between Irmin’s action and your diplomacy. Between Adelinde’s knowledge and your practical experience. But pride and fear blind you all.”

“Then how do we move forward? How do we trust, when secrets divide us?”

“Layer by layer, piece by piece. But it must have a seed to grow from.”

“And what’s our seed? What common ground can we find when we each think our path is the right one?”

“You have already found it, though you refuse to see it. What drives Irmin to chase leads? What keeps Adelinde searching through ancient texts? What makes you navigate noble politics?” He spread his wings. “Love. Love for your father, for the Kingdom, for each other. That is your seed. Now you must choose whether to let it grow or let pride poison it.”

“It’s too much...Irmin’s too stubborn. Adelinde’s too stubborn.”

“And so are you. Time grows short, Princess. The corruption spreads, the nobles plot, and the Kingdom’s enemies draw closer. You must find a way to work together, or all will be lost.”

10. Irmin

Wind howled through the northern mountains, its bitter chill cutting through Irmin’s layers of leather and wool. Snow-covered peaks stretched before them, stark and unforgiving in their desolate beauty.

She sensed Berthold’s wings strain against the freezing air, each powerful beat fighting the relentless mountain winds.

Behind her, Riven sat with irritating casualness, as if they weren’t searching for conspirators in one of the most inhospitable regions of the Kingdom. His breath ghosted past her ear as he leaned forward. “Quite the view. Though I prefer my mountain expeditions with less chance of freezing to death.”

Irmin ignored him, her eyes scanning the terrain below. Every ice-covered ridge, every snow-filled valley, could hide evidence of the smuggling operation. But hours of searching had revealed nothing but pristine whiteness and jagged stone.

Berthold’s growl vibrated through the saddle. “The rogue grows too comfortable. Perhaps we should let him walk.”

“Don’t tempt me,” Irmin muttered. She felt her wyvern’s growing irritation—both at the cold and at carrying a passenger he didn’t trust.

“You know,” Riven said, “if you’re looking for tracks in fresh snow, you might want to check the trade routes. Smugglers tend to prefer established paths over scenic mountain flights.”

“Because you’d know all about smuggling routes?”

“I know enough.” His tone shifted, losing some of its usual mockery. “The operative’s escape was too clean, too practised. This isn’t some small operation we’re chasing—it’s organised, professional. They’ll be using existing infrastructure, hiding in plain sight.”

Berthold’s wings caught an updraft, carrying them higher. “He speaks as if from experience.”

Irmin’s hand tightened on the reins. “And how exactly would you know their methods?”

“The same way I know you’re wasting time searching random peaks.” Riven’s breath fogged in the freezing air. “We’re chasing shadows up here. If you want results, we need to think bigger. The borders where all the pieces come together—supplies, movement, power plays.”

As much as she hated to admit it, he had a point. The scale of the corrupted ravenglass operation suggested something far more organised than scattered hideouts. And the border offered too many opportunities for concealment—trade caravans, merchant stations, official checkpoints that could be compromised.

She spoke through the bond web. “Squadron, adjust search pattern. Focus on major trade routes and border crossings. Report any unusual activity, no matter how small.”

Acknowledgements came back through the network as her riders spread out across the vast white expanse. Berthold banked sharply, angling towards a deep valley where several trade routes converged.

Hours passed with little to show for their efforts. The sun arced across the steel-grey sky, its weak light doing nothing to warm the bitter air.

The rest of the squadron reported similar frustration—no signs of movement, no suspicious activity, nothing to suggest the massive smuggling operation they knew had to exist.

“Commander.” Sergeant Wulfram’s voice came through the network. “The wyverns are showing signs of fatigue. This cold...”

“Understood.” Irmin fought down her own exhaustion. “One more pass along the main trade route, then we’ll—”

“Wait.” Riven’s hand gripped her shoulder, pointing toward a cliff face barely visible through swirling snow. “There.”

Irmin followed his gesture, seeing nothing but white and grey stone. But Berthold’s head snapped around, his keen eyes fixing on something she’d missed.

“Tracks,” the wyvern said. “Fresh ones, leading to that outcropping.”

Now she saw it—a faint trail in the snow, too regular to be natural. It led to what appeared to be a solid rock face, but...

“The shadows are wrong,” Riven said. “See how they don’t quite match? There’s an entrance there, concealed by clever stonework.”

Berthold circled lower, his wings stirring up clouds of powder. As they descended, Irmin caught the unmistakable purple glow of corrupted ravenglass emanating from what she’d thought was solid cliff.

“Squadron, converge on my position. Establish a perimeter and watch for any movement.” She hesitated. “Be alert for signs of corruption. If your wyverns show any unusual aggression, fall back immediately.”

Berthold landed with grace despite his size, claws finding purchase on the narrow ledge before the hidden entrance. Up close, the stonework was even more impressive—the door had been crafted to blend seamlessly with the natural rock, visible only by the faint purple light seeping through its edges.

“After you?” Riven’s smirk was audible.

“If you think I’m letting you out of my sight...” Irmin swung down from the saddle, her boots crunching in fresh snow. “We go together. Berthold, maintain position. If anything seems wrong—”

“I will tear the mountain apart.” The wyvern’s growl carried absolute certainty.

The entrance was narrow but well maintained, its edges smooth from frequent use. As they slipped inside, the temperature dropped even further, their breath forming crystals in the purple-tinged air.

“Cosy,” Riven whispered. “Though the decorating could use work.”

“Shut up and stay alert.” Irmin’s hand found her sword hilt as they moved deeper into the passage. The corrupted ravenglass’s glow grew stronger with each step, its presence making her teeth ache.

She felt Berthold’s growing unease. The wyvern remained outside, but he could sense the wrongness emanating from deeper within the mountain.

Riven’s hand shot out, catching her arm. She nearly struck him before realising he’d stopped her from stepping on a trigger plate set into the floor.

“Careful,” he said sincerely. “This place is rigged. Professional work too.”

Irmin studied the floor more carefully, noting where subtle differences in stone colouring marked other traps. “You seem very familiar with security systems.”

“Let’s just say I’ve had experience with people who prefer their privacy.” He stepped carefully around the trigger plate. “After all, someone has to test these things before they’re used on paying customers.”

The passage opened into a larger chamber, and Irmin’s breath caught. Corrupted ravenglass specimens filled the room, which was larger than any she’d seen before. A purple glow filled the space with sickly light.

“Well,” Riven said. “I think we found what we were looking for.”

“Commander Irmin. We’ve been expecting you.”

Irmin’s blade cleared its sheath, her mind already calculating odds and angles.

Six figures emerged from the shadows. Their Guardian insignias caught the purple light. Too many for a straight fight in these close quarters.

“Now this is awkward,” Riven said, his own blade appearing as if from nowhere. “I don’t suppose we could discuss this over drinks?”

The lead Guardian’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Secure them.”

Irmin moved before the words finished echoing. Her sword swept up in a defensive arc as she backed towards the tunnel entrance. Through their bond, she felt Berthold’s fury building, ready to tear through stone to reach her.

“Wait,” she commanded, both to her wyvern and their attackers. “Before this gets messy, let’s consider what we all know.” Her diplomatic sister would be proud of her measured tone. “Baron Gerlach’s behind this operation. You’re supplying him with corrupted ravenglass, using Guardian networks to distribute it across the Kingdom.”

The lead Guardian’s expression flickered slightly. Good. She’d caught him off guard.

“Quite the theory, Commander.” He gestured, and his men spread out, cutting off possible escape routes. “Though I wonder where you got such specific information.”

“This isn’t just smuggling, is it? This is a supply chain. Each shipment carefully tracked, each destination chosen for maximum effect.”

Berthold rumbled a warning. “The rogue moves like a snake about to strike. Watch him.”

But she couldn’t spare attention for Riven now. The lead Guardian was studying her with new intensity, calculation replacing his earlier confidence.

“You understand nothing. This isn’t about power or profit. We’re correcting an imbalance that’s festered for generations.”

“By corrupting wyvern bonds? By turning our greatest strength into a weapon against us?”

“The bonds themselves are the weapon.” His voice carried zealous certainty. “They’re chains disguised as partnership, control masked as cooperation. We’re not destroying the bonds—we’re freeing the wyverns from slavery.”

Riven’s laugh held no humour. “And I’m sure Baron Gerlach’s support comes from purely altruistic motives.”

The Guardian’s eyes narrowed. “Gerlach is a means to an end. His faction provides resources, influence, protection. But the plan is larger than any noble’s ambition.”

Irmin sniffed. “The plan, or the conspiracy?”

“Call it what you will.” He raised his hand, signalling his men to move closer. “But you won’t live to expose it.”

“About that...” Riven’s blade flickered in the purple light. “I don’t suppose my previous employment history counts for anything?”

The Guardian’s smile returned, colder than before. “The rogue rider? Your reputation precedes you. Though I wonder if the Commander knows exactly what that reputation entails.”

Berthold’s suspicion blazed through their bond. “He knows too much. This was never a coincidence.”

Irmin’s grip tightened on her sword. “Riven. Something you want to share?”

“Would you believe I was about to ask them the same thing?” His tone remained light, but she caught the tension in his stance. “Though perhaps this isn’t the best time for career discussions.”

“No more games.” The Guardian’s patience clearly wore thin. “Surrender now, and your deaths will be quick. Resist”—he gestured at the corrupted ravenglass surrounding them—“well, the corruption has interesting effects on human minds too.”

Irmin’s thoughts raced. The tunnel was too narrow for Berthold to help directly. Her squadron was too far to reach them in time.

“You’re right,” she said, letting her blade lower. “No more games.”

She kicked the nearest crate of corrupted ravenglass directly at the Guardians.

The crystal shards erupted in a blast of purple energy. Irmin was already moving, sword becoming a blur of midnight as she cut through the chaos. Behind her, Riven’s blade sang a harmony of death.

Berthold’s roar shook the mountain. “The tunnel mouth is clear! Move!”

They fought their way back towards the entrance, purple light painting everything in sick shadows. The Guardians recovered quickly, their own blades weaving deadly patterns in the confined space.

Irmin caught a slash on her vambrace, turned it aside, and drove her pommel into a masked face. Beside her, Riven moved with deadly grace, his fighting style unlike anything she’d seen before.

“Commander!” His blade intercepted a thrust meant for her back. “Perhaps we could continue this discussion somewhere less fatal?”

She grabbed a ledger from a fallen crate, tucking it into her coat as she parried a Guardian’s attack. “Run now, trust issues later?”

“Works for me!”

They reached the tunnel mouth as Berthold’s roar split the air again. The wyvern’s massive form blocked most of the entrance, his wings spread wide.

“Time to go.” Irmin grabbed Riven’s collar, ignoring his yelp as she practically threw him onto Berthold’s back. She swung up behind him just as arrows hissed through the space she’d occupied.

Berthold launched himself from the ledge, wings straining against the bitter wind.

Behind them, the Guardians emerged from the tunnel, shouting orders that were lost to the mountain air.

“Well,” Riven said as they climbed higher, “that was exciting. Though I notice you grabbed more evidence before we left. Planning to light some fires under certain nobles?”

“The only thing I’m planning right now is getting answers. Starting with how you knew so much about their operation.”

“Ah. Would you believe it’s a long story?”

“One you’ll be telling very soon.” She kept her grip steady as Berthold banked towards where her squadron waited. “If this was a trap, Riven, you’d better hope they get to you before I do.”

His laugh carried no trace of humour. “My dear Commander, if I wanted to trap you, I wouldn’t have helped you escape.”

11. Adelinde

Alchemical lanterns cast a steady glow across Adelinde’s laboratory, their light competing with the radiance of ravenglass specimens arranged on her workbench. Pure shards glowed black, while corrupted pieces pulsed with purple veins.

She checked her tools for the third time: precision tongs crafted from silvered steel, measurement crystals calibrated to detect the slightest resonance shift, and containment vessels lined with protective glass. Each instrument had been placed with precision, ready for the delicate work ahead.

“The theoretical framework is sound.” Sigmund’s weathered hands traced patterns in the air as he spoke from his position near the book-laden desk. “But remember—ravenglass responds to intent as much as technique. You must maintain absolute focus.”

Adelinde nodded, though her attention remained fixed on the specimens before her.

Klara moved beside her. “I’ve prepared the emergency containment field if anything goes wrong.”

“Nothing will go wrong.” Adelinde’s voice carried more confidence than she felt. “The corruption spreads through existing resonance patterns. If I can isolate those patterns, reverse their flow...”

“Theory is one thing.” Sigmund’s tone held a careful warning. “But no one has successfully purified corrupted ravenglass before. The risks—”

“Are necessary.” She selected a pure specimen, its void-black surface drinking in lamplight. “If we can’t cleanse individual shards...”

She left the thought unfinished. They all knew what was at stake.

Adelinde positioned the corrupted shard in its containment vessel, and the purple light cast strange shadows across her hands. The specimen’s energy felt wrong, discordant, like a song played in a key that shouldn’t exist.

“Remember the principles,” Sigmund said. “Pure ravenglass resonates at specific frequencies. The corruption twists those frequencies, but the original pattern remains beneath.”

Adelinde lifted the pure shard, feeling its cool weight in her palm. “This will act as a reference point, helping to guide the corrupted frequencies back to their natural state.”

She closed her eyes, reaching out with other senses. Years of study had taught her to feel ravenglass’s subtle energies, to trace the complex patterns that allowed it to amplify and stabilise wyvern bonds. The pure shard hummed against her consciousness, its resonance clear and strong.

The corrupted piece fought her touch, its twisted energies recoiling like something alive. Purple light flared, and Klara took a step back.

“Steady,” Sigmund said. “Don’t force it. Guide it.”

Adelinde drew a deep breath, letting her mind settle into calm. The corruption wasn’t just damage or decay—it was a deliberate alteration of the ravenglass’s fundamental structure. Someone with intimate knowledge of the material had carefully woven these discordant patterns.

Which meant they could be unwoven.

She pressed her will through the pure shard, using it as a tuning fork to identify the corruption’s false notes. The specimen’s surface rippled, purple veins writhing as she began to isolate individual threads of energy.

Sweat beaded on her forehead. This was delicate work, requiring absolute precision. One mistake could shatter both specimens—or worse, allow the corruption to spread.

Adelinde pushed deeper, following paths of energy through crystalline lattices. The corruption fought her at every step, trying to maintain its twisted patterns. But she persisted, using the pure shard’s steady resonance as a guide.

A particularly stubborn knot of corruption resisted her efforts. She probed carefully, sensing how the energy had been woven into the ravenglass’s structure.

Slowly, steadily, she unwound the corruption’s threads, guiding them back to their natural frequencies.

Minutes stretched into hours. Her hands began to shake, fingers cramping from maintaining precise positions. But she couldn’t stop—not when she was so close to success.

Finally, the last purple vein faded. The corrupted shard’s surface cleared, becoming void-black once more.

Its resonance settled into perfect harmony with the pure specimen, creating a subtle symphony that only trained senses could detect.

Adelinde sagged in her chair, suddenly exhausted.

“You’ve done it.” Sigmund moved closer, studying the purified shard. “Though this is only the beginning. A single specimen is one thing, but cleansing larger quantities—”

“Will require refinement.” Adelinde was already reaching for her notebook, hands trembling slightly as she recorded observations. “The corruption’s structure was more complex than I expected. But I think—”

“One step at a time.” Sigmund’s hand settled on her shoulder. “You need rest. This level of manipulation takes a toll.”

She shook her head. “There’s too much work to do. If I can isolate the signature patterns, maybe trace them back to their origin—”

“Adelinde.” Klara’s tone carried unusual firmness. “Master Sigmund is right. You’re exhausted. You need to rest.”

Reluctantly, Adelinde set down her quill. They were right, of course. She could barely keep her hands steady, and proper research required proper rest. But her mind raced with implications.

The corruption wasn’t just destroying ravenglass—it was claiming it, marking it.

Someone had developed a way to impose their will on the material itself, twisting its very nature to serve their purposes.

And if they could do that to individual specimens...

She thought of the core. The massive ravenglass heart that powered their entire bond network would be especially vulnerable to such targeted corruption.

“We’ll resume tomorrow,” she said, forcing herself to stand. “Klara, please secure these specimens in the vault. Master Sigmund, I’ll need your help to review the historical texts again. There might be references to similar manipulation techniques that we missed.”

As her apprentice carefully stored the ravenglass shards, Adelinde stared at her trembling hands. She’d proven purification was possible, but the energy required for even a small specimen had nearly overwhelmed her.

How could she hope to protect something as vast as the core?

The answer had to lie in the corruption’s source. If she could understand how they were created, perhaps she could develop countermeasures. Some way to shield the core from corruption before it spread too far.

Her eyes burned with fatigue, but her mind refused to rest. Time was running out, and she had only begun to unravel the mystery.

Wings rustled as Gisela joined her. The wyvern’s eyes fixed on the purified shard. “This knowledge makes you powerful. And power attracts enemies.”

“I have to continue the research.”

“Listen to me.” Gisela’s tail curled around Adelinde’s workspace. “Those who corrupted the ravenglass will not simply stand aside while you undo their work. If they discover your ability to purify it—”

“They’ll try to stop me. But I know the risks.”

“Do you? They won’t just try to stop your research. They’ll eliminate you entirely. No loose ends, no chances of the knowledge spreading.”

Adelinde felt her wyvern’s fierce protectiveness warring with genuine fear. Not fear of death or danger, but fear of losing her rider to forces beyond their control.

“We’ll be careful. Limited access to the laboratory, encrypted notes, trusted allies only.”

“And whom do you trust?” Gisela’s question carried weight. “Your sisters, who can’t even trust each other? The council, filled with ambitious nobles? The Guardians, who may be behind the corruption?”

Adelinde glanced at Klara, still carefully storing equipment, and Sigmund. “I trust you. And these two. For now, that’s enough.”

The wyvern’s tail tightened around the workspace. “And if it’s not? If our enemies are stronger, more numerous than we suspect?”

“Then we adapt.” Adelinde lifted the purified shard. “This proves it can be done. The corruption isn’t invincible. It can be undone, reversed, cleaned away. That knowledge alone is worth the risk.”

Gisela’s wings rustled. “Knowledge has always been your strength. But it is also your vulnerability. You see patterns others miss, connections they ignore. That insight makes you valuable—and dangerous.”

Adelinde’s hands trembled as she set the shard back in its protective case. The day’s work had drained her more than she cared to admit, but her mind refused to rest. So many implications to consider, so many possibilities to explore.

12. Elana

Afternoon sunlight streamed through tall windows, making the private sitting room easier to navigate than the dimly lit corridors outside. Elana settled into her chair, her cane resting within easy reach as she studied Lord Darius’s face. She’d positioned herself so the light fell from behind her, illuminating his features clearly while saving her eyes the strain of adjusting to glare.

Velten’s presence steadied her. The wyvern perched near the window, his silver scales catching the light.

“Thank you for coming, Lord Darius.” She kept her voice warm, measured. “I trust the council session wasn’t too taxing?”

Darius sat with careful poise, though his occasional glances towards the door betrayed unease. “Not at all, Your Highness. Though I must admit some surprise at your invitation.”

“Really?” Elana reached for the tea service between them, her movements precise as she poured. Years of practice had taught her to make such careful motions appear graceful rather than necessary. “I would have thought my interest in all council matters was well established.”

“Of course.” He accepted the cup she offered, his fingers tremoring slightly. “Your dedication to diplomacy is something for which we are grateful.”

She noted the emphasis on ‘diplomacy’—as if it were somehow separate from real leadership.

She leaned forward, keeping his face in clear focus. “I know what’s been going on.”

Colour drained from Darius’s face. He set down his cup. “Your Highness, I...”

“Lord Darius. Is there anything you feel you need to admit?”

His composure cracked. “It was me. I admit it.”

Ice slid down Elana’s spine. “How could you?”

“What? You think I...No!” He half-rose from his chair. “This is about the succession!”

Elana blinked, forced to readjust her focus as he moved. “The succession?”

“Yes! I admit it. I’ve been campaigning for Commander Irmin. The Kingdom needs strength now more than ever. With Molotok pressing our borders, the wyvern bonds growing unstable...”

“You’ve been undermining my claim.” The words emerged cooler than she’d intended. “Because you think me weak?”

“No! That’s not...” He sank back into his chair, running a hand through his hair. “It’s not about you personally, Your Highness. It’s about how others perceive Ostreich. A strong military leader sends a message.”

“And what message does a half-blind ruler send?”

The words hung in the air. She hadn’t meant to speak them, hadn’t meant to acknowledge what everyone whispered behind curved hands. But there it was—the real reason behind his campaign.

“Your Highness, I would never...” But his protest rang hollow.

“Never what, Lord Darius? Never suggest that someone who needs a cane to walk the palace corridors might appear weak to our enemies?” She kept her voice level through sheer force of will. “Never imply that diplomatic skill somehow matters less than military might?”

Velten helped to steady her.

“You misunderstand,” Lord Darius went on. “Your diplomatic achievements are remarkable, especially given your...circumstances. But these are dangerous times. The Kingdom needs someone who projects strength. Commander Irmin—”

“Projects strength?” She shook her head. “Tell me, Lord Darius, how many trade agreements has my sister negotiated? How many alliances has she built? How many potential wars has she prevented before they could begin?”

He squirmed in his seat. “That’s not what I—”

“No?” She leaned forward, keeping his face in sharp focus. “Then explain to me exactly what you meant. Explain how gathering nobles behind my back demonstrates anything but weakness.”

“The Kingdom—”

“The Kingdom,” she cut him off. “Needs unity. Not secret campaigns that divide us further. But thank you, Lord Darius. You’ve made your position admirably clear.”

He stood. “Your Highness, please understand. These are difficult times. We must present a strong front—”

“And you think I cannot provide that strength? How fascinating that you see more strength in secrecy than in someone who has never hidden what she is or what she can do.”

Velten’s approval hummed through their bond,.

“Your Highness.” Darius held up his hands. “I never meant to imply...”

“Yes, you did. But consider this, Lord Darius. While you’ve been gathering nobles in secret, I’ve been building alliances in the open. While you’ve been worrying about appearances, I’ve been securing trade routes and stabilising borders.”

“He fears change,” Velten said through their bond. “Fears anything that doesn’t fit his narrow view of power.”

“Then let him fear.”

She gestured for Lord Darius to sit. “Before you leave, there is the reason I brought you here.” She kept her voice neutral as she unwrapped the dagger, placing it on the table between them. The weapon’s polished surface caught the afternoon light, making its seal clearly visible. “I believe this belongs to you.”

Darius stared at the weapon. “Where did you find this?”

His shock appeared genuine—the slight tremor in his hands, the way his eyes remained fixed on the blade.

“You recognise it then?”

“Of course I...” He reached for the dagger with trembling fingers. “It was stolen. Months ago, from my private armoury. I thought...” His grip faltered as he lifted the weapon. “I assumed it was stolen. It belong to my grandfather.” A deep furrow set on his brow. “What is this about? Why do you have my dagger?”

She let the silence stretch, watching his expression carefully. “It was used to kill my father.”

The dagger clattered to the table. Darius recoiled as if struck. “No. No, that’s not...” He looked up at her, eyes wide. “I would never...”

“I know.”

He stared at her, mouth working soundlessly for a moment. “You know?”

“The seal is too obvious.” She gestured to the fallen weapon. “Which is precisely why you would never use it for assassination.”

His breathing steadied. “Then why show me? Why tell me this?”

“Because someone went to great lengths to obtain your dagger, ensure it would be recognised, and use it at precisely the right moment.” She shifted forward, jabbing a forefinger down on the table. “Someone who benefits from turning the council against you. Someone who’s been quietly gathering support while you take the blame for Father’s death.”

“Gerlach,” he whispered.

Elana didn’t respond, letting him follow the threads.

“Of course.” He looked at the dagger again. “How long has he been planning this?”

“Tell me about him. You’ve known him longer than I have.”

“Gerlach has always been patient,” Lord Darius said. “Calculating. He builds alliances through favours and subtle pressure, gathering debts that can be called in at the right moment.” His expression hardened. “But this? Using my weapon to kill the King? That’s bold, even for him.”

“Perhaps he’s growing desperate.” She reached for her teacup. “Or perhaps he’s finally ready to show his true ambitions.”

“Be careful, Elana.” The use of her given name betrayed his agitation. “If Gerlach is behind this, he’s more dangerous than you know. He has connections everywhere—in the military, the merchant guilds, even...” He hesitated.

“Even the Guardians?”

His sharp intake of breath was answer enough.

Velten’s thoughts pressed against Elana’s mind. “He speaks truth now. Fear has stripped away his pretences.”

Elana stood. “Thank you for your candour, Lord Darius.” She gestured to the dagger. “I trust you’ll keep this conversation between us?”

He rose as well. “Of course. And thank you. For showing me this. For trusting me with the truth.” He waited. “I was wrong before, about you.”

She moved towards the door, cane in hand. “Remember that, when Gerlach makes his next move.”

“You think he will?”

“I think he’s already moving.” She paused at the threshold, keeping him in clear focus. “The question is, what will you do when he does?”

Darius picked up the dagger. “I’ll remember who showed me truth, and who tried to bury me in lies.” He bowed, deeper than protocol required. “Good afternoon, Your Highness.”

Elana watched him leave, tracking his movement until he passed beyond her direct line of sight.

“He’ll support you now,” Velten said as they moved through the palace. “Though perhaps not openly, not yet.”

“Sometimes subtle support is more valuable.” Elana’s cane tapped softly against the marble floors. “Especially when your enemy thinks they’ve already won.”

13. Irmin

Torchlight cast wavering shadows across the garrison’s stone walls, each flicker making the guards’ shadows dance. Irmin pressed against cold stone, counting heartbeats between patrol rotations.

The disciplined movement of soldiers along the walls spoke of proper training, but something in their patterns felt wrong—too rigid, too careful.

Through their bond, Berthold’s unease rippled down to her. “More guards than usual for a garrison this size. And their wyverns...” His thought trailed off as he circled high above, hidden by cloud cover.

“What about their wyverns?”

“They’re agitated. Fighting their bonds.”

Beside her, Riven shifted. His usual smirk had given way to focused intensity as he studied the garrison’s defences. “Third window from the left. Storage level. The bars are newer than the rest—replaced recently.”

Irmin shot him a look. “And you know this, how?”

“Let’s just say I make it my business to notice such things.” He glanced up at the clouds where Berthold circled. “Quite the security upgrade since my last visit, though.”

“You’ve broken in here before.”

“Allegedly.” His grin flickered in the darkness. “Though I’d appreciate it if you kept that detail out of your official report.”

Before she could respond, Berthold hummed a warning. A patrol approached their position, boots crunching on gravel. Irmin pressed deeper into shadow, one hand closing around Riven’s arm to keep him still.

The guards passed within arm’s reach, their conversation drifting on the night air.

“—another shipment tonight. Southeast gate.”

“Better than last time? That batch was weak—barely affected the test subjects.”

Irmin’s fingers tightened on Riven’s arm as the patrol moved on. She felt Berthold’s growl building. The wyvern’s protective instincts warred with the need for stealth.

“Southeast gate. Interesting. That’s not their usual delivery point.”

“And you know their usual routines, because?”

“Same way I know about the replaced window bars.” Riven slipped from her grip. “Coming?”

Irmin followed. Years of training took over—the perfect placement of each foot, the exact angle needed to avoid torchlight. They worked their way along the garrison’s outer wall, staying low beneath arrow slits and guard posts.

The storage level entrance was exactly where Riven had indicated. True to his word, the window bars looked recently installed, their metal untouched by the rust that marked older sections.

“Here we are.” Riven produced a set of thin tools from his sleeve. “Unless you’d prefer to use the front door?”

“Just get us in.” She kept watch while he worked the lock, her attention split between approaching patrols and Berthold’s aerial surveillance.

The lock clicked. Riven eased the window open.

They slipped inside, dropping onto packed earth. The storage level stretched into darkness, its rows of crates and barrels casting strange shadows in the faint light filtering through high windows.

“This way.” Riven moved with surprising confidence through the maze of supplies. “They’ll keep it separate from standard cargo. Too dangerous to risk contamination.”

“The ravenglass?”

He nodded. “Corrupted specimens have unusual effects on normal supplies. Food spoils faster, water turns brackish, metal develops weak points. They learned that lesson early.”

Irmin filed away that detail for later. “You seem to know an awful lot about their operations.”

“Knowledge is survival.” He paused at an intersection, head cocked. “Though I’ll admit, some of my previous employers were more forthcoming than others.”

A door at the corridor’s end caught her attention—heavy oak banded with iron, a faint purple glow seeping out.

Irmin’s hand found her sword hilt as Riven worked the lock. This one took longer, its mechanisms clearly designed for security rather than convenience. But finally it yielded with a solid click.

The door swung open on well-oiled hinges, revealing a chamber that made Irmin’s breath catch. Crates lined the walls, each bearing military insignias and partially broken seals. Corrupted ravenglass specimens pulsed with sickly purple light, their energy filling the air with wrongness.

“Well.” Riven whistled low. “This isn’t just smuggling. This is sabotage on a scale I didn’t think possible.”

Irmin moved closer, examining the nearest crate. The military seals were genuine—not forgeries, but actual supply markers that should have been impossible to obtain without high-level authorisation.

She pulled out her notebook, sketching rapid notes about quantities and markings. The amount of corrupted ravenglass here could disrupt bonds across an entire city. Maybe more.

“The seals. Those are command-level authorisations,” Riven said.

“Or someone’s trying very hard to make it look that way.” But even as she spoke, doubt crept in. The evidence here was too thorough, too detailed for a simple frame job.

Voices drifted from a nearby room, making them both freeze. Irmin pressed against the wall beside the door, straining to hear.

“—timeline’s too aggressive. The ravenglass needs time to saturate the area properly.”

“Gerlach was very specific. The bonds must be compromised before the solstice.”

Irmin’s hand tightened. Finally, confirmation of Gerlach’s involvement. But why the solstice? What made that date so critical?

“The Guardians won’t like rushing it.”

“The Guardians will do as they’re told. Gerlach’s got enough evidence to bury them if they step out of line. Now, about the stronghold...”

She drew her notebook again, recording details as the conversation continued. A location emerged—a critical defensive position that guarded trade routes to the capital. The officers discussed guard rotations, delivery schedules, everything needed to coordinate a massive sabotage operation.

Through their bond, Irmin felt Berthold’s fury build. The wyvern’s protective instincts raged against this deliberate corruption of sacred bonds. She sent back waves of calm, though her own anger burned just as hot.

Beside her, Riven’s expression had hardened into something dangerous. Gone was the casual rogue, replaced by someone who understood exactly how devastating this plot could be. His hand rested on his dagger’s hilt, his shoulders rigid.

The voices moved closer.

Irmin tucked away her notebook, mind already plotting their exit route. They had what they needed—names, locations, dates.

Now they just had to get out alive to use it.

Heavy boots approached their position.

The crash of a toppling crate shattered the silence.

Voices stopped mid-sentence, replaced by the sound of drawing steel.

“Intruders! Sound the alarm!”

Irmin spun towards the storage room’s entrance. “Riven—”

But he was already moving, ravenglass dagger appearing in his hand as he took up position beside the door.

“Multiple targets converging,” Berthold reported through their bond. “At least two dozen on ground level. More gathering above.”

Boot steps thundered down the stone corridors.

Irmin’s gaze swept the room, noting possible escape routes. The window they’d entered through was too far—they’d be caught before reaching it.

“Up. We go up.”

“Interesting tactical choice.” Riven’s blade danced between his fingers as shouts echoed closer. “Though I suppose death by falling is quicker than death by sword.”

“Just move!”

They burst from the storage room as guards rounded the corner. Irmin’s sword cleared its sheath in a fluid arc, catching the first blade aimed for her throat. She pushed forward, using her attacker’s momentum to drive him into his companions.

Riven fought with deadly grace beside her, his blade finding gaps in armour with surgical precision.

“Stairs!” He jerked his head towards a narrow passage. “Unless you fancy testing gravity’s patience.”

They fought their way through the garrison’s lower levels, the alarm bell’s piercing cry drawing more soldiers with each passing moment. Irmin’s sword moved with mechanical efficiency, years of training condensing into pure reflex.

Berthold’s presence grew stronger. The wyvern had landed on the garrison’s roof, his claws tearing through slate as he sought the best position to assist.

“Two levels up,” he reported. “Fourth window from the left. I’ll clear you a path.”

Irmin nodded, though her chest burned from exertion. Her sword’s weight seemed to grow with each step, but she clutched it tighter.

An arrow hissed past her ear. She spun, blade deflecting a second shot that would have taken Riven in the back.

He responded with a knife throw that found the archer’s throat.

“I suppose that makes us even,” he said, retrieving his blade as they ran.

“Less talking, more running.”

They reached the upper level as reinforcements poured in from side passages. Irmin’s sword arm burned, each clash of steel sending shocks through tired muscles.

An explosion rocked the garrison. Berthold’s roar split the night as he tore through the roof, showering debris onto the soldiers below. His massive form filled the corridor, wings mantled and teeth bared.

“Now would be good.” He growled and his tail swept guards aside.

Irmin grabbed Riven’s collar, dragging him towards their exit. “Move!”

But a guard captain’s blade caught her arm, drawing blood.

She staggered, her sword nearly slipping from her grasp.

Riven’s dagger took the captain in the throat before she could recover. “Consider that interest on our previous debt.”

They reached the window as Berthold’s bulk cleared their escape route. Cold air rushed in, carrying the scent of snow and freedom.

“After you,” Riven said, his blade still moving in lethal arcs.

Irmin didn’t hesitate. She dived through the opening, tucking into a roll that brought her onto Berthold’s waiting back.

The wyvern’s scales burned hot beneath her hands as she secured herself in the saddle.

Riven followed a heartbeat later, arrows pursuing him through the gap. One grazed his shoulder, drawing a hiss of pain.

“Go!” Irmin commanded as more soldiers poured onto the roof.

Berthold launched himself into the darkness, his powerful wings driving them higher.

Arrows fell short as they climbed, the garrison becoming a torch-lit smudge below.

Only when they’d reached cloud cover did Irmin allow herself to breathe.

They had what they needed, though her arm throbbed where the captain’s blade had struck.

“Well,” Riven said, “that was exciting.”

She ignored him, focusing on the reins, her mind racing.

The solstice deadline wasn’t arbitrary—it coordinated with something larger.

“This is going to lead to war if we’re not careful.”

“You’re starting to see how deep this goes.” Riven shifted behind her. “Though I suspect even this is just the surface.”

Berthold’s agreement rumbled. The wyvern’s wings beat a steady rhythm against cold air, carrying them further from the garrison with each powerful stroke.

“We need to warn the other strongholds,” Irmin said. “Get word to command about—”

“About what?” Riven’s tone hardened. “That one of the Kingdom’s most powerful nobles is working with rogue Guardians to sabotage our defences? That military supply lines are compromised at the highest levels? Who exactly do you trust with that information?”

The question hung in the frigid air. After what they’d seen...

“I trust my sisters. And I trust Berthold. Beyond that—”

“Smart girl,” Riven said, interrupting. “Though I’m hurt you didn’t include me in that very exclusive list.”

“You haven’t earned it yet.”

“No?” He laughed. “I suppose taking a blade for you and helping expose a conspiracy isn’t quite enough these days. Standards are so high in the military.”

But there was something in his tone—a hint of genuine hurt beneath the sarcasm. She remembered how he’d fought beside her, how his blade had moved with deadly precision to protect her back.

“You’re not completely useless. Though your timing with that crate could use work,” she said.

“That was not my fault. Though I admit, the dramatic escape added a certain flair to the evening.”

Berthold’s snort carried clearly through the bond. “He grows on you. Like fungus.”

They had proof now—evidence of Gerlach’s treachery and the forces gathering against the Kingdom.

But proof meant nothing without action. And action required trust, coordination, perfect timing.

The real war, she suspected, was only just beginning.

––––––––

Thanks for reading!

The mystery deepens and the stakes keep rising.

From corrupted ravenglass to secret conspiracies, from political manoeuvring to dramatic escapes—our three sisters are finding themselves at the centre of a plot that threatens everything they hold dear.

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Jon

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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, Debbie Harris, Denise Hawley, Rebecca Lang, G. Mark Cole, 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.