Chapter 9 — Beneath the Banner of Loyalty
The scout stood stiffly before the war table, boots leaving thin trails of melting snow on the stone floor. His cloak was still damp from the northern winds. “Duke Valemont,” he said with a short bow. “Imperial movements along the northern border are thinning. Most of their patrols have shifted westward. Only a few remain to watch the treeline.”
Father’s eyes narrowed as he leaned over the map. His finger traced the border’s inked line, stopping where the red markers denoted Imperial positions. Several markers had been pulled back. “So they’ve taken the path we laid for them,” he murmured.
I stepped closer, studying the same map. They’ve moved. The Veil Pulse worked.
“How many remain?” Father asked without looking up.
“A dozen at most, my lord. They’re not searching anymore. They’re watching.”
Father grunted softly, the sound low and thoughtful. “Which means they still smell something, but they’re not sure where to bite.”
“Let them watch,” I said. “If they look in the wrong direction long enough, they’ll start believing it’s the right one.”
He gave me a sidelong glance but didn’t press further. I hadn’t told him the full truth behind the Shadows or Kael. Some secrets needed to remain buried a little longer.
“Double the border watches,” Father ordered. “If they want to play silent games, we’ll play them better. No surprises.”
“Yes, my lord,” the scout said, then vanished down the hall as quickly as he’d come.
When the door closed, the room fell quiet except for the faint crackle of the fire. Father’s gaze lingered on the map a moment longer. “They’ve moved west,” he said quietly. “But don’t think this is over. His Majesty’s leash may slacken, but it never comes off.”
I stared at the map. No, it doesn’t. But this time, I won't be the one wearing it.
Father shifted his weight and looked at me. “We need to act while His Majesty’s eye isn’t fully on us.”
I nodded slowly. “A gesture. Something to make them believe their leash on us is already tight.”
“You have something in mind?”
“A unit from the Frostward Order to assist their western sweep,” I said. “Men loyal to Valemont. And… a token that carries weight with the Nobility.”
His gaze sharpened. “Iron.”
Father leaned back slightly, the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “The iron we’ve been mining from the vein you found is some of the best in the Empire. We’re not giving them that.” He tapped the table with one finger, thoughtful. “But I’ve got about twenty crates from my stockpile—iron produced and stamped by the Duchy of Thronevale. Good quality, but nowhere near what we’re pulling out of the north.”
His eyes narrowed just a little, calculating. “Enough to show loyalty without showing our hand.” His expression softened a fraction. “And we’ll send the letter to your mother. She knows how to make whispers in the capital sound like thunder.”
Of course she does. Even far from Valemont, Mother’s name traveled through high society like wind in silk—felt more than seen, but strong enough to move banners.
“I’ll draft it now,” Father said, already turning toward his desk. “Co-signed, sealed in red wax.” He pressed the seal into my hand.
“I’ll ready the hawk,” I said.
The night air outside bit sharply at my cheeks. Frost lacquered the courtyard stones, glittering beneath the torches. The mews rose near the western wall—black stone, narrow windows, warm air humming with old fire runes. Inside, the Hawks of Valemont shifted upon their perches, keen-eyed and restless, bred for speed in the north winds. The hawkmaster bowed as I entered, beard grayed, eyes as sharp as his birds’ talons.
“Young master,” he greeted. “We send one tonight?”
“To the Palace,” I said. “And a mirror letter to the Duchess’s estate.”
He gave a low whistle and chose a broad-shouldered male with storm-dark feathers. The bird cocked its head, ready, restless for the sky.
I tied the sealed message to the hawk’s leg. The bird tilted its head, obsidian eyes catching the light. “Fly fast,” I whispered.
The hawkmaster lifted his arm. With a crack of wing and air, the bird launched into the night, vanishing between the stars.
Let His Majesty hear what he wants to hear. We’ll keep the truth for later.
Dawn came pale and thin. In the yard, Captain Harven and a line of veteran knights stood in dark cloaks, breath steaming in the cold. Harven was iron-haired, broad of shoulder, a pale scar cutting his cheek—an old border war’s keepsake. He saluted Father, then inclined his head to me with the dry respect of a man who tested everything twice.
“Thirty, my lord,” Harven reported. “Boots that don’t slip, hands that don’t shake.”
“You’ll lead,” Father said. “No entanglements, no unnecessary heroics. Show discipline. Let the Imperials believe we’re easy to command and impossible to misuse.”
Harven’s mouth twitched. “A tricky balance. I’ll walk it.” His eyes slid to me. “And the young master?”
“Observes,” Father said. “From here.”
“As it should be,” Harven replied. “For now.”
I said nothing. He thinks I’m only learning the board. Good.
By midday, the Order had marched through the outer gate and down the western road. The stockpile of iron crates remained in the yard, placed where any visitor would see it—visible and deliberate. The snow muffled their footfalls, leaving a clean scar of tracks across the white.
Two days later, His Majesty answered.
The gate guards saluted as the carriage rolled to a stop at the steps. The door opened with a soft creak, and from within emerged a man dressed in a crisp black-and-crimson uniform. His hair, the color of tarnished silver, was pulled back in a soldier’s knot. A faint scar traced down the left side of his cheek, sharp against pale skin. His bearing was rigid—precise, like someone who’d spent his life on parade grounds and battlefields alike.
He stepped down from the carriage with measured grace, the brass crest gleaming on his cloak. Brass—signifying the rank of lieutenant within the Imperial army—caught the pale winter light, leaving no doubt of his station.
“Lieutenant Kaelen Voss,” he announced, his voice clipped and clear. The Imperial crest on his cloak caught the cold light as he stepped forward, calm but observant. There was no open hostility in his gaze—only the kind of quiet watchfulness that made soldiers dangerous or useful, depending on the wind.
“Lord Valemont,” he said, bowing shallowly to Father. His voice was smooth; it did not warm. “His Majesty sends his regards. Your house’s gesture of loyalty has been received—troops and iron.” His eyes flicked to the stockpile of crates left in the yard with deliberate visibility. “Both speak well.”
Father returned a precise bow. “House Valemont serves the Empire.”
“And His Majesty does not forget those who serve him well,” the lieutenant said. The smile that followed was slight and sharp. “Your contribution will be recorded in the Imperial Annals.”
I stood at Father’s right hand, half a step behind. The Lieutenant’s eyes lingered on me a fraction too long to be politeness. Measuring. Weighing.
Go on. Try to count me. You’ll come up short.
“The Order,” Lieutenant Voss continued, “is to report to the western sector within the week. We trust House Valemont will not delay.”
“They are already on the road,” Father said.
“Efficient.” He adjusted a glove. “Our Emperor values swift loyalty.”
“As do we,” Father replied.
The Lieutenant brushed his gloved hand across the crate’s stamp, nodding slightly. “Ah… iron from the Duchy of Thronevale. Their forges are known for their quality. His Majesty will be pleased to see this kind of offering.” His eyes flicked up, sharp but satisfied. “A gesture like this isn’t easily forgotten.”
A pause. The Lieutenant’s tone softened by a hair. “You will find that continued diligence has a way of being rewarded.”
“We seek no reward,” Father said smoothly. “Only the safety of the Empire’s borders.”
“A noble answer.” Lieutenant Voss bowed again—shallow, careful, practiced. “His Majesty recognizes such answers.”
He turned, cape whispering, and re-entered the coach. The riders wheeled their mounts; iron rims bit into frost. As they departed, the courtyard seemed to grow larger around the space they left behind, like breath finally exhaled.
“They came quickly,” I said, watching the last banners disappear into the treeline.
“They never left,” Father replied, his gaze fixed on the gate. “The Emperor’s presence is a tide. Even when you don’t see it, you feel it pulling.”
The courtyard was quieter now, the air sharp and still. The Lieutenant’s words lingered in the cold like smoke, but so did something else—a weight lifting, even if only slightly. His Majesty had seen the gesture. That was enough.
We returned to the war room. Father stood a moment before the map, tracing the western road where our troops had marched. “The Imperial Guards will follow. Their forces will thin here within days. Our lands will be quieter for the first time this winter.”
“Then the gesture worked,” I said softly.
“It did,” Father answered. “But gestures have a price. Every step we give them is another inch they’ll try to claim later. Remember that.”
“I will.”
He rested a hand on the table, his voice low but steady. “You did well, Ardyn. For now, let them believe House Valemont is just another loyal northern house. We will let His Majesty’s eye drift elsewhere.”
Low profile. Quiet steps. Let them believe the lion sleeps and let them forget where it hunts.
Outside, the wind howled through the pines, colder and cleaner than it had felt in weeks. Somewhere far to the west, Imperial boots would soon stamp out new snow. Here, the silence would return—not peace, but space. Space to prepare.
Snow hissed against the outer walls. A Hawk of Valemont cut across the gray sky, the last of the day’s messages bound south towards the Palace. We had given them a gesture they couldn’t ignore. Now they would leave us alone.
For a time.