The sun broke through the clouds over Valebast like a sword parting a veil. It bathed the walls of the keep in light, but the city below still bore the bruises of recent weeks. Soldiers trained in the courtyards, shouting commands that echoed off stone. Messengers galloped through muddy streets, carrying letters that weighed heavier than steel. Black banners were gone now, replaced by Kell's personal crest, a rising blade in a field of gold. Not yet a king's banner, but close.
In the great hall, Kell stood by the war table, a map spread before him like an invitation. Dama leaned on the edge, brow furrowed, while Ithren scratched something in her ledger with ruthless precision.
"We need to know how many lords will march," Dama said.
"And if the king even controls his own army," Ithren added. "We've heard whispers. But nothing solid."
The door opened.
Two men stepped in.
Torik, wearing a travel-worn cloak, dust on his boots, a weight to his eyes. His stride had changed. Still sharp, still cautious, but steadier. He carried himself like someone who'd faced a man with power and left the field standing.
And behind him, not far, perhaps half a mile outside the gates, an army. Two thousand men bearing the banners of House Farris. Their march through the outer city had caused a stir, drawing citizens to the walls, eyes wide with awe and disbelief. The city's murmurs would become rumors before sundown.
Kell blinked as he stared out the window. "Gods above."
Torik shrugged. "You said survive. I figured showing up with an army counted."
Dama let out a sharp, pleased whistle. "The boy knows how to make an entrance."
Ithren just looked up and said, "We'll need more beds. And food. And space."
Torik stepped up to the war table. He didn't say anything at first. Just looked at Kell, then at the others. He was different, they could all feel it. Not just stronger. Not just sharper.
Purpose had settled into his bones.
"Lord Farris sends his full support. Two thousand men, supplies, and battle equipment. He didn't make a big speech. Just said, 'I know who I am.' Then ordered the march."
Kell exhaled, he clapped Torik on the shoulder. "You exceeded my expectations."
Torik almost smiled. Almost. "It felt good. Not the army, well, alright, the army too. But doing something that mattered."
Then the doors opened again.
Whistle entered next, walking with that same casual stride, but his eyes were sharp. Calculating. He paused halfway down the steps into the hall, removed his gloves finger by finger, and tossed a bloody scrap of royal cloth onto the table.
"Your Majesty," he said, mock-formal, bowing low. "I bring word from Highrock. And a corpse or two."
Kell looked at the cloth. His jaw tightened. "Tell me."
Whistle sobered. "The king is not the man he was. Maybe not even a man anymore. He's been drinking from the Bound's cup for too long. They fed him bits of power. Veilbinding. Thoughtbinding. He's not quite broken, but he's not whole either."
"Controlled?" Ithren asked.
"Influenced," Whistle said. "I made up a false report. Said you were dead, and Valebast had fallen. He nodded. Didn't even blink. Then tried to summon Jorah."
Dama's eyes narrowed. "The High Priest?"
Whistle nodded. "So, I stuck two knives in his guards and had a chat with the king. He remembers things. But he's slow. And afraid. The Bound lead him by the nose."
Torik stepped forward. "So he won't stop them."
"No," Whistle said. "He might not even want to anymore."
A heavy silence filled the room.
Then Kell spoke.
"Then we stop them. All of them. The Bound. Galrick. Whatever bastard sits in that gilded chair."
He turned to Torik again. "Did you hear back from Maribel or the others?"
Torik shook his head. "Haven't heard a thing, which is odd, I'd expect to by now."
Kell paced around the table, arms folded behind his back. "How many men did you see with the kings army, Whistle?"
"A hell of a lot" He replied swiftly, then continued after getting raised brows from Kell, "About twenty thousand I'd reckon."
"We have seven as it stands with Lord Farris joining us," Ithren said, tapping her quill.
"We'll need more men, Lord Trellion can provide a lot of troops, we have to hope he joins the fight," Kell said.
Whistle leaned forward, resting a boot on the edge of the table. "I've got something else. That city, Highrock. It's not just the king. They're breeding more Bound in the catacombs. I saw the rituals. The chains. They want an army."
Kell turned slowly. "How long?"
"A few weeks, maybe," Whistle said. "We hit them now, and we don't just win a battle. We cripple their future."
Dama folded her arms. "So we're to win, survive, and stop a tide all in one go. Sounds like a fine morning."
"You jest," Ithren said, "but you're not wrong."
Torik looked around. For once, he wasn't the outlier. He wasn't the street rat squatting at a noble table. He was part of it. His words mattered.
"Then we hold the line," he said. "Long enough for the others to see it. For the ones still weighing their loyalty."
Kell smiled grimly. "I hope they're watching. Because we're about to put on a hell of a show."
He looked around the table. At Dama's resolve. At Ithren's clarity. At Whistle's quiet readiness. And at Torik, who stood not as a thief, but as something more.
A man becoming the very thing he once mocked.
"I want messages sent to every house on the edge. Tell them what Farris saw. Tell them what Whistle found. Tell them the truth. And tell them we ride soon."
"How soon is soon?" Whistle asked again.
Kell looked out the window, toward the distant banners.
"We ride at dawn."