The sun cast long golden fingers across the hills of the western reaches as Maribel rode at a steady pace, her posture poised, her veil fluttering like a banner. She was dressed in layered silks, a dark maroon cloak edged in gold, her face painted with the cool detachment of nobility. Not too pretentious, not too modest. The illusion had to be perfect.
She was not Maribel here.
She was Lady Evelyne Blackwell, a known advisor of Valebast's late Highlady Ysara. A persona built years ago for moments like this. Confident, controlled, and utterly noble.
Ahead, the banners of House Trellion rose into view. Their city was perched on a gentle rise of stone, ringed in ancient blackwood trees and autumn-burnt foliage. It was a city of tradition, not like the marble spires of Valebast or the sharp cliffs of Highrock, but rooted, resilient. Just like the man who ruled it.
Lord Halren Trellion.
He had fought beside Kell in the border wars, though the two had not spoken in years. Known as a lord of cautious wisdom, Halren was a strategist more than a swordsman, a man who spoke little but weighed every word like a commander measured distance between spears.
Exactly the kind of man they needed.
Or the kind of man who might turn his back and let them burn if he thought it correct.
Maribel rode through the gate without fanfare. She traveled with only two guards, their armor unadorned. Her arrival had been planned, a letter sent in advance by courier under the Blackwell name.
The city around her was quiet, but not lifeless. Cobblers worked in open stalls, children darted through narrow alleyways, and soldiers drilled in the yard beside the keep. The place smelled of oak, oil, and earth. It had none of the oppressive heat of southern cities, nor the gleaming polish of royal courts.
This was a place where decisions were made by firelight, over worn maps.
She was led to a receiving chamber just off the main hall. A fire burned in the hearth, and tapestries of battles long past adorned the walls. The room was more functional than decorative, a warrior's space.
Then he entered.
Lord Halren Trellion wore no crown. Just a well-cut tunic and a scar down one cheek that made him seem perpetually unreadable. His eyes were steel-grey, his beard trimmed close, his hair streaked with white.
"Lady Blackwell," he said with a shallow nod.
She curtsied with practiced grace. "Lord Trellion. I bring the regards of the late Highlady Ysara, and now of her named heir, Lord Kell."
"So, the rumors are true," he said. "Kell sits her seat."
"He does," Maribel replied. "But not as a usurper. As her chosen successor."
"And he sends you."
"He sends the late lady's most trusted advisor."
That earned a flicker of amusement from the lord. "And what does this advisor want from the west?"
"What every honest person should want," she said smoothly. "Peace. And the strength to hold it."
Halren poured a glass of dark red wine, then gestured for her to sit. "Tell me how the peace ends with Galrick marching."
So she told him.
Not every detail. Not the Crown. Not Tharoghul. But of Ysara's death, the Bound's rise, Galrick's army, and Kell's response.
She spoke of soldiers willing to fight for freedom from the Bound's hypocrisy. Of lords considering which side to trust. Of the old oaths Kell had upheld and the men he had saved.
Halren listened.
Not once did he interrupt. Not once did he react.
When she finished, he asked, "And what does Kell offer in return?"
"Not gold," she said. "Though there will be spoils. Not titles, though he has the right to grant them. He offers you something rarer."
He raised a brow. "And what's that?"
"A voice in what comes after."
Halren leaned back in his chair. "You speak like a woman who's spent too long at court."
She smiled, sipping her wine. "Perhaps. But court hasn't killed me yet."
He stood then, pacing toward the hearth.
"I fought beside Kell. Years ago. We bled together. But bleeding beside a man isn't the same as betting a city on him."
"He knows that. And he sent me anyway."
"Why you?"
Maribel paused. Then set her cup down.
"Because I know how to wear masks, Lord Trellion. And sometimes you need a mask to see through someone else's."
Halren turned, studying her.
"And what do you see through mine?"
"A man who wants to fight," she said, softly. "You've fought too many battles to count, but not one actually meant something. You want a fight that has meaning, something to fight for, something to win for."
Halren's eyes widened in awe. It was almost like nostalgia, remembering what he lusted for every time he picked up his sword.
Maribel stared at him curiously.
Halren noticed what he was doing and cleared his throat with embarrassment before walking back and having a seat.
"You'll stay the night."
"Of course."
"And in the morning, I'll have my answer for you."
Maribel bowed her head. "I understand."
"One more thing. This Lady Blackwell... is not your real name, is it?"
She met his gaze without flinching. "Does it matter, if the truth I brought is real?"
He smiled, just barely.
"No. I suppose not."
That night, she stood on the balcony of her chamber, looking out at the hills. A hawk circled far above, gliding through clouds like it had always belonged there.
The city of Trellion slept beneath her, but her thoughts raced. She reviewed her conversation again and again, picking it apart like a puzzle.
In the morning, a servant brought her breakfast. A soft-boiled egg, rye bread, and a letter.
She opened it with care.
Inside were only a few words:
"Ride home."
No seal. No signature.
The corner of her mouth curled, she was not amused.
She folded it and tucked it beneath her sleeve.
The lord left the letter open-ended to give himself more time, but the reality was they had no time he had to ride out as soon as possible.
With Lord Trellion, the future was a blade yet drawn.