Every gutterborn in the realm had heard the name Whistle.
They said he once stole the robes off a Bound Highpriest mid-sermon. That he'd emptied the treasury vaults of three cities in a single night. That he once talked a woman out of her wedding dress, on her wedding day, while disguised as her fiancé. Lies, most of it.
Except the wedding dress. That one was true. He still had the ribbon.
But today, Whistle wasn't interested in silk or sermons. Today, he was hunting something far rarer.
A king.
Highrock was not the capital in name, but it was in essence. A great city built on a sheer pillar of stone rising from the center of a lake so vast you couldn't see its far shore on a cloudy day. The only ways in were a narrow causeway manned by spear lines or boats watched closely by navy-trained dockmasters. The city itself was a network of towers, bridges, and spiraling stone walkways, winding ever upward toward the king's keep, sharp and tall like a crown of cliffs.
Whistle had never liked Highrock. Too vertical. Too exposed.
But it made stealing from it more satisfying.
He wore a guard's uniform now, it was well-fitted, subtly aged and stolen from a laundry rack near the river gate. He'd knocked out a man twice his size for the boots alone.
The guards at the inner keep didn't question him as he passed through the massive iron doors. They were used to new faces. Highrock rotated guards weekly. Too many assassination attempts over the years. Whistle found that funny. If you want to kill a king, you don't charge through the front gate.
You walk in smiling and carrying his wine.
He moved through the keep with quiet confidence. The halls were wide and gold-trimmed, with high vaulted ceilings and tapestries that weighed more than most men. The kind of place designed to feel bigger than you.
But Whistle never felt small.
He passed servants, scribes, a few knights in ceremonial garb. He made mental notes. Where the guards patrolled. Which doors were barred. Which were not.
Then he reached the interior gallery that looked down on the throne room.
There he was.
King Aldric. Crownless for the moment, his circlet rested beside him on the steps, but unmistakably royal. He sat in his throne like a man who had grown tired of being looked at. Pale, aging, and thinner than the portraits made him seem. A pair of guards flanked him. Nothing extravagant. The hall was empty otherwise.
Aldric looked... vacant. Not sick, not broken. But not entirely present, either. Like a man waiting for the days to end.
Whistle could kill him now.
One knife. A clean throw. It would arc down like a falling star, and the king would slump forward, and perhaps… perhaps, the world might change.
But Kell wouldn't want that. And there was only one man in the realm who could make Whistle doubt the wise thing.
So instead, he stepped from the shadows into the hall, not as a thief, but as a soldier, at least by appearance. The uniform was clean, the boots polished, the sigil of Highrock's third infantry sewn neatly on the shoulder. He'd forged the dispatch scroll himself… not everyone could be a veilbinder.
Two guards stood at the base of the throne, their spears held more out of habit than attention.
"Message from the northern front," Whistle called, his voice clipped and professional. "Urgent report from Valebast, my lord."
The guards turned slightly. The king, seated without his crown, looked up slowly. His eyes were pale, unfocused, drifting across Whistle's face like he was a painting on the wall.
"Report," the king said, his voice dull, as if dragged up from a well.
Whistle stepped forward, handing him the scroll. The king took it, slowly, broke the seal, and read.
Whistle watched his face.
No flicker of concern. No question. Just a slow nod, like the words meant very little. Or perhaps nothing at all.
"I see," Aldric said at last. He turned to one of the guards. "Send for Jorah. The Bound will know what must be done."
The guard nodded and took a step.
That was enough.
Two flicks of Whistle's wrist.
Two knives.
One buried in the guard's neck. The second flew before the other could shout.
Both dropped like sacks of meat.
The king jolted in his seat.
Whistle was already crossing the floor. Calm, measured, hands ready.
He placed a third blade gently at the king's throat.
"Now," he said, voice light and easy, "let's try that again. But this time, fewer priests."
The king stared up at him, lips parted in confusion.
"Who are you?" he asked, his voice suddenly clearer. Almost frightened.
"Whistle," he said. "Not a soldier. Not your enemy, if you don't try anything stupid."
He pressed the knife in, just a fraction.
The king didn't move.
"If you scream," he said cheerfully, "I'll give your blood a chance to see sunlight. Fair warning."
The king raised his hands slightly. "What do you want?"
"I want," Whistle said, "to know why you're letting the Bound do what they want. I want to know why they're bleeding people dry in the name of a faith that doesn't even follow its own damn rules. Why your knights are infused with the titans stolen power, while the priests pretend it's holy light."
The king didn't respond.
So, Whistle leaned in, voice quieter. "And more than anything, I want to know if you're still in there. Or if I'm talking to a puppet on a throne."
Aldric exhaled slowly. "I am the king."
"That's not an answer."
"I serve the realm."
"Still not an answer."
Silence. Then the king turned his head, slowly, toward his sword, his hand slowly inched towards it.
Whistle's hand twitched.
A knife appeared in the king's lap.
"You try that again," Whistle said, "and I'll introduce your liver to the floor tiles."
The king went still.
Whistle crouched beside him, elbow resting on one knee. "I've seen what they're building. Bound Knights. Grey skinned monsters. You know what it is, don't you? The thing they use to make them."
"The Crown," the king whispered.
Whistle nodded. "Tharoghul's. And you let them use it."
"It was never meant-"
"Oh, don't feed me that," Whistle snapped. "You think that thing whispers politely? You've heard it. I know you have. You're not stupid. Just... something else."
Aldric's eyes watered. He looked down at his hands.
Whistle pulled back slightly. Studied him.
"You weren't always like this," he said. "You used to breathe fire in court. Now you barely breathe air unless someone tells you to."
"They told me it would help," Aldric said. "That the realm needed strength. That I was... too cautious. That it would help me make decisions faster."
Whistle's jaw clenched.
"They bound you."
Aldric didn't deny it.
"Not all at once," he murmured. "A sip here. A whisper there. Power, they said. For the good of the realm."
"And now you can't tell which thoughts are yours."
The king looked at him. Truly looked. And in that moment, Whistle saw the man beneath the crown.
And he pitied him.
"I'm going to leave," Whistle said. "And you're going to say nothing for five minutes after I go. You're going to write nothing. You're going to sit here and reflect on what it means to have been turned into a marionette."
The king looked as if he might weep.
"Can you do that?"
A nod.
Whistle stood. Sheathed his blade.
And before he turned, he leaned close again.
"One day soon, someone's going to put a real knife in your ribs. Not because they want to. But because the kingdom might need it."
"I know," the king said.
Whistle turned on his heel.
He left the hall the same way he came. Silent as guilt.
And Highrock, for once, did not notice a single thing.