Midday light fell in long bars across the hall’s stone, dust turning in it like slow snow. Adolf had cleared the side aisles and posted two guards outside with orders to admit no one. A single table stood beneath the banners; on it, a pitcher of water, three cups, and the ledgers Morena had marked the night before.
The captain arrived on the dot, boots thudding a steady rhythm down the hall. He was older than she’d pictured when she was younger, younger than she’d felt he must be last night—broad through the shoulders, gray at the temples, eyes the pale kind that missed very little.
Captain Rorik, tall, broad-shouldered, his cuirass polished but scarred, a cloak of deep gray thrown across one arm. His eyes followed her movements.
He bowed to her and to Adolf, then straightened, posture neat without being stiff.
Morena said with respect in her tone, after all, the man before her had been by her father’s side longer than most; in fact, he had been serving her father since before she was even born.
While he may not be a Rank 2 Warrior like her father, he was still a high-level Rank 1 Warrior who stood above many. That alone earned him respect.
He didn’t reach for the water. He set his helm on the floor and kept his hands on his knees, as if to show her they were empty.
"First—your lord father?"
"He’s doing fine. Recovering. He asked me to hear you and act in his stead."
The captain gave a single nod to that, neither surprised nor pleased—merely accepting the terms of the room.
"Then I’ll speak plainly."
"I was told you wished to see me."
"I did. My father has temporarily entrusted me with handling the matters that he can’t. One of those is the meeting you asked for."
His gaze narrowed faintly, but he inclined his head.
"You requested this meeting. Why?"
"Because your father would not have tolerated silence, and there were matters I thought he would like to know. If the council and their dogs circle the house, I need to know where you want the teeth bared. And where you want them hidden."
Morena studied him. This wasn’t the stiff formality of reports; this was the voice of a man who had spent his life with blood on his boots, not ink on his fingers.
"Then start with what you would have told him, tell me."
He crossed his arms, the cloak slipping back.
"Men reassigned without my order. Once, I’d call it incompetence. Twice, I’d call it laziness. But it’s been five times now, Lady. And always the night rota. Always where fewer eyes see the change."
Morena’s eyes sharpened.
"Ellor’s name came up in this already. Did the orders carry his hand?"
"His, or someone using him. He’s weak and foolish. Easy to lean on. I’ve left him in place to see who pulls the strings. From what I can tell, one of the Council hands, Iloni, has something to do with it."
She inclined her head.
"Using that, I expanded my search, as you know, some of my veterans were approached in taverns. Offered coin, offered girls, offered wine. Just to ’look the other way’ if certain men walked the yard at night. I had them play along long enough to get descriptions."
He recited details: one man with a scarred chin and soft hands, from the sounds of it, a scribe; that is what he assumed and what Morena assumed as well. However, the second one was interesting: a man carrying a sword and wearing plain white armor hidden under a cloak.
"They weren’t local, that much was certain."
"The Council wouldn’t be that obvious with their schemes, they’re too cowardly. The church? Perhaps both?"
His eyes lingered on her.
"I questioned the women who were asking my boys, mentioned a description that fit Iloni, but coin only works so far. Fear works longer. The men are jumpier than they admit. They whisper about your father’s wound. About what happens if the old wolf dies."
He let the word hang, testing her.
"And what do you whisper, Captain?"
Morena asked plainly, her eyes testing the man just as he tried to test her.
"That the pups had better learn to bite."
Her grip tightened faintly on the ring of keys at her belt.
"Seems you’re slow to the rumors, I’ve already learned how to do that."
For the first time, something like respect flickered across his face.
"Good. Because I’ll tell you the truth of it: if the council moves openly, steel will be drawn. You want me to hold the men back? I can. You want me to bleed them forward? I can. But you have to choose. A captain without clear orders makes corpses, not victories."
Morena’s gaze didn’t waver.
"If they push at our gates, you hold. If they strike at our blood, you bleed them. And if they go against the family, you erase them. Nothing less."
Rorik studied her, his jaw working.
"Spoken like your father. I will hold you to those words, my lady."
The silence stretched, but this time he broke it first.
"Then I’ll give you more. There’s a name you haven’t heard yet: Veynar."
Morena tilted her head, but the memory of the name came quickly.
"The family from the marshes."
"Aye. Two weeks ago, a Veynar rider came through quietly, with a priest. I don’t like it. Veynar has more debt than sense, but they’ve always known when to cut their losses. Selling that knowledge to the church could be a way to pay for it."
"Or they were forced into such a situation."
He stood up from his seat, moving closer to her with his large form.
"So tell me, Lady: if I find proof—letters, riders, names—do you want it buried, or dragged into the hall where all can see?"
Morena didn’t hesitate.
"Dragged into the light. Secrets are power. I’d rather hold it in my hand than wonder whose pocket it hides in."
His lips curved, not into a smile, but something close.
"Then we understand each other."
"Anything else I should know?"
He hesitated, then nodded once.
"I’m sure you’re aware that the Council has been keeping him in a separate estate, under the disguise of ’educating’ him to be a proper noble."
"If they were to make a move, then he would be another pawn in their hands to do it. He’s young, but he has your father’s blood. If he is fooled by them, or used by them, he could stand against you."
Morena’s jaw clenched.
"That is something they intended to do from the beginning. I’m more than prepared for that."
"That might be the case. But remember, his sister, your half-sister, has more blood in common with him than with you. Are you certain she wouldn’t side with him, against you?"
His tone was flat, certain.
"Keep her close, Lady. Or you’ll wake to find her used as a knife against you."
That stung—not because it was true, but rather, because it was a possibility she had considered. As close as she could say she had gotten to her sister over the days, the thought never left her.
"Thank you for the warning, Captain, I will keep it in mind."
She said with a nod allowing no emotion to show on her face.
He inclined his head.
"Until the Lord rises again, I’ll do my job and ensure to follow your wishes."
The meeting ended with no bowing flourish, no wasted words. He turned and strode from the hall, leaving her alone with the echo of boots and the weight of his warnings.
That evening she was no longer in the mood for any meetings or conversations, instead she locked herself away in the archive.
The archive lay beneath the eastern wing, behind a narrow oak door fitted with three separate locks. The keys turned one by one with a heavy click.
She expected dust, maybe a cramped chamber. Instead, she found a hall longer than the armory, shelves running in ordered rows beneath arched stone. Hundreds of volumes lined the wood: books, maps, scrolls bound in cracked leather, caskets with wax seals.
It was not the library’s polished grandeur. This was older, rougher; a place for keeping what was necessary, not what was beautiful.
The scent was parchment, wax, and faint oil. She drew her hand across the spines as she passed: ’Harvests 576–598,’ ’War Records: Eastern March,’ ’Treatise on Council Law, Annotated.’
The farther she walked, the stranger the collection grew. A glass case held a bundle of arrows, their heads blackened and warped. Another shelf bore a row of sealed jars, each with faded labels: ’Ash from Fallen City,’ ’Water from Ruined Well.’
Finally she stopped before a locked chest at the far wall. The sigil carved into its front was her family’s crest, but older, rougher, the head stylized differently.
[Wood density prevents direct imaging. Trace residue detected: ink, iron, wax. Aging suggests the chest is over 250 years old.]
She brushed her thumb across the old iron clasp. It was one of the shelves her father had forbidden her from touching.
For now, she passed it by.
Instead, she walked back to the start of all the shelves. She intended to spend the rest of the day here storing all the information she could in the AI; expanding the database by a large margin.