Kael broke the wax seal, unfolding the parchment. The letter was short—three sentences in Sorian’s elegant hand.
To Lord Kael Darron,By order of the Crown, you are herewith reassigned to Castle Threadneedle.Report within the week.Further instructions to follow.
—Sorian Ardan, First Blade
Threadneedle.
The word sank into his mind like a stone. Threadneedle, a frozen wasteland in the North, where the Crown sent those it wished to forget. Where careers withered and died beneath endless frost.
Across the garden, Lord Sorian Ardan raised a glass in Kael’s direction, his familiar not-quite-smile laced with gloating satisfaction.
The gilt chain hanging over Sorian’s brocade glinted in the afternoon sun filtering through the canopies. Long tables, draped in white linen trimmed with gold, stretched across the castle gardens. Nobility drifted between trays piled high with crystal goblets, jeweled fruits, and steaming meats.
Kael folded the letter, slipping it into his cloak. His steel-blue eyes remained calm, though his anger churned beneath the surface.
Let them.
Let them send him North. Let them think they could bury him in ice and snow.
Kael Darron would not crumble!
Freedom was not only about breaking chains: it was about mastering the hand that held them. Whatever Sorian had planned, whatever the Crown hoped to prove, Kael would outlast it. Sometimes, there was no greater revenge than doing what they expected of you—better than anyone could ever think.
But involuntarily, his hand drifted to the silver pendant hidden in his tunic, the one Sorian had just pinned the medal over. He felt its quiet pull to the past, a tether to his humble birth and to a nagging doubt: he could never truly belong here.
Then he raised his silver goblet in return, nodding to Sorian, as the taste of the sweet wine lingered on his tongue.