Author's Preface
"Don't talk to Jericho alone," Sunny said, his fingers tracing the rim of a ceramic vase.
The Wanderer frowned. "Why?"
"You might slip," Sunny replied, turning to face him. He stepped closer. "It’s better if you take Uncle Harith. My presence would look odd anyway, considering I’ve never spoken to a Red Crown in my life."
Harith stared at his nephew in disbelief. "I can't believe you've adjusted to this situation so fast."
"Vincent would have done the same," Sunny replied.
The Wanderer cut the conversation short. "So be it. I’ll go and set up the meeting with Jericho."
Thirty minutes later, the Wanderer returned to the guest suite, gesturing for a line of servants to follow him inside. They carried racks draped in the finest silks and tailored wools, placing them in the center of the main hall. With a nod from the Wanderer, the servants bowed and dismissed themselves.
Sunny stepped up to a rack, grabbing a silky garment and rubbing the fabric between his fingers. "You weren't kidding about living like a noble."
Helen entered from the adjoining room, her eyes lit up as she pulled a fancy dress from the rack to hold it against herself. But when she caught Harith’s sad eyes tracking her movements, her excitement faded, and quietly set the dress back down.
Harith sighed, turning his head away toward the high stone windows. "These fancy clothes won't fit my old bones."
"We are invited to dinner, Father," the Wanderer said. "Uncle Jericho made sure we have a feast waiting. But I prefer if it's just you and me attending. At least for tonight."
The Wanderer walked over to Sunny, keeping his voice casual. "How about you show my mother around the citadel? She could use the fresh air."
He glanced back at Helen, who was keeping herself busy by reorganizing the racks, then leaned in close to Sunny, whispering. "Check the perimeter around the guest suite. See if anyone is watching us closely. And keep your mouth shut around the servants, don't let Helen rant to them either."
Sunny nodded, his eyes darting toward his aunt. "She doesn't know you're not Vincent," he whispered back, "but I'm sure she has her suspicions. You'd better avoid spending too much time around her yourself."
The Wanderer nodded in return. He walked over to the racks and picked out two dark garments. One for himself, and one for Harith.
A few hours later, the Wanderer and Harith crossed the open courtyard, heading toward the grand dining hall.
Harith tugged at his high collar, shifting uncomfortably. "Damn this silk. It’s making me itch."
The Wanderer ignored the complaint. "If you see me say or do something out of Vincent's character, cough."
Harith gave a reluctant nod. "Alright. But how are you planning to ask about this Nigel person?"
"Not sure yet," the Wanderer replied. "We'll see how the room feels."
They reached the double doors of the hall. Inside, Jericho was already seated at the head of the food-laden table. He gestured for them to take their seats.
The Wanderer slid into a chair. "I thought the custom was to greet your guests before sitting down, Uncle."
Jericho clamped his utensils and aggressively sliced into a piece of roasted meat while staring at the Wanderer. "Aren't you done calling me that?"
The Wanderer picked up his own knife and fork, letting out a short laugh. "Relax. There's no one around us, Uncle."
He began to eat, but a cough from across the table made him pause.
The Wanderer looked over. Harith was fumbling with his cutlery. The Wanderer hesitated for a moment, then faked frustration as he looked at the blunt edge of his knife before slamming the utensils down onto the table.
He reached out and grabbed the chunk of meat with his bare hand, and bit off a large piece, chewing loudly.
Jericho watched the display in disgust. "If you are going to stay here, you will need to learn some basic manners."
The Wanderer smiled back at him, letting food show between his teeth. "What can I say? You can take the man out of the slums, but you can't take the slums out of the man."
Jericho looked down at his own plate, actively avoiding the sight of the Wanderer’s open mouth. "What is it you wanted to discuss?"
The Wanderer wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. "Has the council reached a decision yet?"
"No," Jericho said. "I told you, these things take time." He turned his attention to the older man, pointing his fork at him. "I am curious, Harith. How did you ever approve of giving up Defiance?"
Harith looked at the Wanderer, then back to Jericho. "It’s been lost for years anyway. And Vincent is the rightful heir to it." He lowered his gaze to his plate, trying to mask the sorrow in his voice. "It’s best to leave the future to the new generation."
Jericho grinned. "How wise of you. I didn't expect that kind of forward-thinking from a Black Crown."
Harith slammed his fist onto the table, standing up. "You let Altharion cage us with the Nullstones!"
Jericho stood up just as quickly. "You aimed Defiance at your own king!"
"You would have done the same if magic was your curse, redhead!" Harith shouted, pointing a trembling finger.
"We remained neutral!" Jericho roared back, leaning over the table. "Even after we lost our Qi users defending this wretched kingdom!"
The Wanderer stood up, raising a hand toward each of them. "Let's all calm down. That's a thing of the past."
They both reluctantly sat back down, slipping into a tense silence.
The Wanderer cut through the quiet. "I didn't know Altharion lived that long. Just how old is he?"
Harith coughed loudly.
Jericho narrowed his eyes. "It’s fascinating how ignorant you are. It’s as if you never lived a day in Hosar, let alone as a Dragonborn."
Harith quickly jumped in, leaning over the table. "My idiot son was making a joke. Everyone knows Altharion is a title passed down to the new king in honor of the first king of Valoria."
The Wanderer offered a quick smile, playing along with the cover-up. He shrugged. "Lighten up, Uncle." He adjusted himself in his seat, leaning back. "Anyway, I need a list of every servant and soldier within the citadel. I need to make sure no spies slip in here or there, you know."
"That is sensitive information," Jericho said. "And you are not officially a part of this place."
The Wanderer leaned forward. "Yet."
Jericho stood up, smoothing down his clothes in haste. "I have more important matters to attend to." He turned and began walking away.
"See you later, Uncle," the Wanderer called out.
Jericho stopped in his tracks, gritting his teeth, before he forced himself to march out of the hall.
Harith glared across the table, his voice a harsh whisper. "You will get us all killed." He stormed away from the table.
The Wanderer followed him out into the open courtyard.
"You're a real ignorant fool," Harith shouted, spinning around to face him.
"I didn't have the time to study your history," the Wanderer replied calmly. "Tell me then. And remember. No lies."
Harith sighed, as his anger began to drain. "Walk with me."
They walked along the stone pathway, Harith's eyes drifting as he began to speak. "The First Dragon had powers borrowed from the God of Light himself. None of his children inherited it."
"Because of the curse?" the Wanderer asked.
"Probably. We don't know," Harith said. "What we do know is his firstborn, Altharion, was made the king of Hosar. The Red Crowns had meridians, like anyone in Avaris at the time. They were made enforcers, meant to keep the peace within the new kingdom." He sighed heavily. "As for us, we were the army."
"An army of mages, huh?" The Wanderer glanced at him. "But why are there no mages now?"
"Altharion was wise. At first, at least," Harith said. "He expanded and established the new capital."
"Valoria, right?"
Harith nodded. "However, one day out of nowhere, he found a mine of Nullstones and discovered its anti-magic properties. Suddenly, he built walls out of it, banning the use of magic within Valoria entirely."
The Wanderer rubbed his chin. "But why would he ban his own army?"
"He went mad," Harith said, his voice tightening with old anger. "All Altharions are doomed to madness once they become kings."
They arrived at the doors of the guest suite. Harith stopped and turned back to the Wanderer, his face grim. "And those damn Red Crowns were losing their Qi users fast. They decided to remain neutral, choosing to side with whoever won as the king's new army and the Black Crowns tore each other apart."
A few days passed before Jericho finally summoned the Wanderer to his office.
The Wanderer walked through the restricted sectors of the citadel, aware that the halls were no longer forbidden to him. When he stepped into the office, Jericho lifted his gaze from his desk.
"Congratulations, Duke Vincent," Jericho said. "You are now a noble." He offered a sharp smirk. "Not officially yet, of course. You need to visit the king for that. But the slums are your assigned territory. Enjoy it."
The Wanderer chuckled. "I couldn't expect a less scummy place to be mine." He shrugged, brushing it off. "A title is a title. What about the council seat?"
Jericho waved his hand dismissively. "They rejected it."
The Wanderer slammed his palm onto the desk, leaning over it. "Make it work. Your son owes me his life."
Jericho leaned back in his chair, letting out a slow sigh. "How about this? Give us the sword first, and then we talk about the seat."
The Wanderer leaned closer. "Not in your wildest dreams, Jericho."
Jericho stood up, pulling himself to his full height. "It is Lord Jericho to you. Fine. Assume your position as duke first. Maybe later we can find a way to secure you a stool at the table."
"I'll wait," the Wanderer said. "But tell your red-headed cousins that the delivery of the sword might be delayed if things don't move faster. Anyway, where is the list I asked for? I assume I'm allowed to have it now."
Jericho narrowed his eyes. "Why do you insist on this list, anyway?"
The Wanderer smiled. "Safety first... Lord Jericho."
"It won't help you much," Jericho muttered, looking away. "But regardless, you can check with the citadel's clerk for it."
The Wanderer offered a mocking bow and left the office to find the registry.
He eventually arrived at a cramped library. A frail man sat buried behind stacks of parchment.
The Wanderer stepped forward into the room. "Are you the clerk?"
The man adjusted his oversized glasses. "Yes." He looked the Wanderer up and down. "You are Vincent, I assume."
"It's Duke Vincent now." The Wanderer corrected.
The man went
back to reorganizing his scrolls unfazed. "Not yet. How can I help you?"
"I need a list of every servant and soldier within the citadel." Said the Wanderer.
The clerk flipped through a few dusty shelves, pulling out a couple of thick parchments. He laid them on the desk and pushed an inkwell forward. "Sign here, please."
The Wanderer grabbed the quill and signed Vincent's name in haste.
He snatched up the parchments, unfolding them and began skimming the columns for Nigel's name.
His eyes locked onto the line. The name Nigel Dragonborn was there, but it had been scratched out with a red line.
The Wanderer looked up at the clerk, who was currently staring intently at the fresh signature on the logbook. "What does the red line over a name mean?"
The clerk slowly lifted his head. "It means the person is missing. By the way... did you change your signature?"