Chapter Thirty-Three · The Fallen Rook

The outer court of the palace burned with torchlight as winter closed in.

High Commander Derron’s residence stood in the western quarter of the fortress. Inside, the great hall opened wide, its walls lined with trophies from the war fifty years ago, taken in battle beside the former King, Aethrador.

At its center, a long table waited, set with food, wine, and candles. Only two chairs faced each other across it.

Tonight, Derron was receiving a special guest. The servants had been dismissed.

The doors opened.

Chancellor Syveris stepped inside, his cloak whispering over marble. He carried something draped in red velvet.

Derron was already seated. Behind him hung the sword he had carried through the war. Above the hearth, a golden eagle statue stood with its wings spread, its beak sharp and poised.

“Welcome, Chancellor. I hear the King has granted me command over both the Gemariel and Sonareth borders. You have my thanks.”

“Congratulations, High Commander.” Syveris inclined his head.

“I’ve brought a small gift.”

He set it on the table and drew back the velvet.

A deep crimson cloak lay beneath the candlelight, trimmed in gold thread and white fur. The royal mantle of Eryndar.

Derron’s eyes widened. His throat tightened.

“This winter will be cold,” Syveris said softly. “I had it made to your measure.”

Derron stilled.

“Syveris…” His voice lowered. “You dare bring this here?”

Syveris smiled.

Derron waved it off.

“I have no use for that. A king’s cloak is for those who sit the throne, not for an old soldier who has spent his life in the field.”

“No,” Syveris said. “The cloak is only a symbol.”

He met Derron’s gaze.

“For fifty years, this kingdom has endured.”

A pause.

“And not because of who sat the throne.”

Derron narrowed his eyes, as though expecting more.

“The court may forget,” Syveris went on, quieter now, “but the army does not. While Eryndar was still playing with wooden swords, you were bleeding beside his father. Without you, there would be no Tharion.”

Derron drank, then set the cup down.

Silence settled.

He looked at the cloak again, his fingers lingering on the fabric.

His gaze held a fraction too long.

Then he let out a short laugh.

“You do know how to speak, Chancellor.”

He lifted his cup.

“Fine. Leave it.”

Syveris took a slow sip.

“Excellent wine. As expected of the High Commander.”

He rose, drifting toward the hearth. His fingers lingered on the wing of the golden eagle.

“In this kingdom,” he said, almost casually, “men learn where to bow.”

“As they should.” Derron’s fingers moved back and forth over the cloak, his mind turning.

“No alliance dares betray strength.”

“Of course.”

Syveris stepped beside Derron and raised his cup.

“Your strength would make all eight clans tremble.”

Their cups touched.

“Drink,” Syveris said.

He poured.

Again.

And again.

Each time, a little more.

Color crept into Derron’s face. His vision blurred. He squinted, trying to focus.

Syveris watched him for a moment, then stepped close, lowering his voice to a whisper beside Derron’s ear.

“I’ve heard your command seal is rare,” Syveris said. “I would consider it an honor to see it. Just once.”

Derron snorted.

“Easy enough.”

He hesitated, just a breath.

Then he pushed himself to his feet.

“Wait here.”

He went into the inner chamber and came back with a carved wooden box inlaid with gold, his steps uneven.

“Allow me.”

He set the box on the table, opened it, and took out the seal.

Syveris watched, hands folded.

His gaze lingered on the seal.

“If the day ever comes,” he said quietly, “I trust you’ll remember who stood with you.”

Derron laughed.

“You needn’t worry about that.”

His voice came slower now, the words slurring together.

From his sleeve, Syveris slipped a strip of golden silk, marked with a few lines of ink.

Derron squinted.

“What’s that?”

Syveris angled it, just enough to blur the script.

“A minor order. Routine.

Stamp it for me. I’ll see it carried out.”

Derron’s eyes narrowed. He tried to read it again, but the words would not settle, his mind going blank.

“For your sake,” Syveris added, almost as an afterthought.

“If anything goes wrong, Eryndar will take my head before he ever comes for yours.”

Derron laughed.

“Good. Good. Do it.”

He pressed the seal into the silk.

Then he raised three fingers beside it.

Flame flickered to life.

Three marks burned clean into the cloth.

It was done.

For a moment, Syveris said nothing.

Then he lifted his cup.

“Long live the High Commander.”

Syveris took Derron’s cup.

“Just one more.”

He uncorked a fresh bottle and poured.

His hand lingered a moment too long over the rim.

A small dark pellet slipped from his fingers into the wine and vanished.

“High Commander,” he said, his voice low, “may your ambitions soon be fulfilled.”

Derron turned back. He took the cup and drank deep.

His head tipped back. His breath hitched faintly.

He lowered the cup, frowning.

“Why does it taste… like that?”

He glanced at Syveris, then let out a short laugh.

“Must be the drink.”

He set the cup down, overturned.

“That’s enough.”

Color flooded his face.

His steps faltered, his balance slipping.

“I’m turning in. See yourself out.”

Syveris inclined his head, but did not move.

His gaze followed Derron.

Derron took a few steps up the stairs.

Then he stopped.

His breath caught. His gaze slipped, eyes rolling back.

He swayed and collapsed, striking the stone hard.

His body locked, then jerked.

Once, then again, the convulsions coming hard.

They slowed after a moment, then went still.

Syveris stepped closer. His expression shifted at once.

He called out loudly.

“Attend him. The High Commander is seizing. Quickly.”

Servants rushed in from the rear, voices rising, uncertain.

At that moment, Luca burst in from outside. He dropped to his knees beside his father and pulled him into his arms as another convulsion seized him.

“I was gone for a moment. What happened?”

The servants’ voices broke into stammers.

“Fetch a physician. Now.”

The servants scattered again, none daring to linger.

“Father was well. How could this—”

He turned sharply and seized Syveris by the cloak.

“What did you do?”

Syveris brushed his hand aside and crouched slowly.

His gaze slid from Luca to Derron. Then he unfolded the silk.

He held it out.

Luca read.

His expression hardened.

“So this was what you wanted.”

Syveris leaned closer, his voice low.

“My prince, the eagle has fallen. Do not let anger take you with it.”

Luca’s jaw tightened.

“I swear, you will answer for this.”

Syveris gave a faint smile, resting a hand briefly on his shoulder.

“I’ve already dealt with your assassin.”

“You dare?”

Syveris’s hand slid to the back of Luca’s neck.

A cold shiver ran down Luca’s spine.

Luca did not move, his throat tightening.

Syveris rose, brushed a speck of dust from his cloak, and walked away.

Silence settled.

Luca sat frozen beside his father’s body.

By morning, the High Commander’s residence was draped in white and filled with flowers.

Word spread that Derron had died of a seizure.

The King granted him military honors.

After his death, the residence changed.

Strange visitors came and went.

Luca drank. Then drank more. Nights blurred together.

Before long, he stopped leaving his chambers.

The High Commander’s residence fell quiet.

No one of rank came anymore.

In his own residence, Syveris sat at a chessboard.

He flicked a rook aside.

A raven picked at the fallen pieces.

“The rook is gone,” he murmured.

“Now for the Queen.”