A Dance Of Blades And Hearts

HALEMOND

Halemond by dusk was a land cloaked in rain-washed mist. Beneath the shadows of its pine-covered ridges, narrow paths wound like scars toward its heart — and it was there, along a lesser-used road near the base of the eastern hills, that the king's riders had trailed their quarry.

They rode in silence. Three men cloaked in black cloak. None bore sigils.

At the head of their column, Damon Dragarth pulled back his hood. The air was cool here, clean, but his face was stone. His eyes burned with flint-bright precision. He'd heard enough rumors to bring him this far — now he wanted names.

The man they followed was not their main target. His name was Irven Lothar — a minor landowner from the east side of Halemond. Smooth talker. Mid-level tradesman. The type who dealt in wine by day and secrets by moonlight.

Irven exited a grim little inn tucked beneath the pines and mounted quickly. He rode west, not toward his manor, but toward a narrow forest track rarely used by nobles. Damon's instincts flared.

They followed him.

It was just past twilight when Irven realized he wasn't alone.

He yanked his reins and jumped down from his horse, blade half-drawn.

But Ethan was already behind him.

"Easy now," Ethan said, his tone dry. "No one's come to rob your fine tunic."

Irven froze. His eyes darted from Ethan to Leon, who emerged from the underbrush with a wolfish grin. Both men were unmistakable.

He knew their faces.

He had seen them in court — those two behind the Storm Lord. They called them the King's men in taverns and back halls.

Irven eyes darted — finally — to the third man, still mounted, still silent, still cloaked.

Irven squinted. "Who are—?"

The third man dismounted.

Damon's boots struck the earth with quiet finality.

"You've been busy, Irven," the King said, his voice as calm as it was heavy. "Drinks with lords. Quiet shipments. Slipping coin through shadowed fingers."

Irven stiffened. "I don't—"

"Speak another lie," Damon interrupted, stepping forward, "and I'll break your bones before you blink."

Irven hesitated.

Then smirked. "You don't scare me, whoever you are. If your King wants answers, he should come himself."

Leon raised a brow.

Damon gave a thin, terrible smile.

Then, without warning, he stepped forward and drove a fist across Irven's face.

The sound cracked through the trees.

Irven stumbled, crashed into the dirt, blood streaming from his nose. He gasped, blinked, blinked again—like his mind had just reset.

"Let's try again," Damon said as he pulled the hood back, his voice utterly unchanged. "You'll start with the name of the man you've been trading with. The one moving people through the border towns. The one who thinks no one sees him."

Irven coughed, spat red, looked up—and this time, he saw Damon clearly. His eyes widened in horror.

"Y-your Majesty," he whispered. "You—"

Damon crouched.

"I'm in a good mood," he said calmly. "You won't like me when I'm not."

Irven looked at the King — lips trembling, eyes wide — and for a second, he saw not a king, but something cruel, something primal. This was not a court-bred man wearing a crown.

This was a storm in flesh.

He gave up.

"It's Lord Travis," he blurted out hoarsely. "He's the one. He pays me to handle the shipping ledgers. The slaves come from the coast — smuggled through Blackhollow, some from further down in Braemorin. They're moved inland in covered wagons, listed as livestock."

Ethan's face darkened.

Leon let out a long breath. "Lord Travis from Stonecrest?"

"Yes. Gods, yes," Irven gasped. "I only wrote the manifests. I never touched them, I swear it on my house—"

Damon stood. "That's enough."

Irven froze.

Damon turned to Ethan. His voice was low but firm. "Ride back to Arkenfall with him. Take him to Gareth. Let him read the confessions from this rat himself."

Ethan didn't hesitate. "And you?"

"I want to visit an old friend," Damon replied, already turning towards his horse.

Leon frowned. "Alone?"

Damon glanced over his shoulder, the ghost of a smirk touching his lips. "You're with me, aren't you?"

Leon let out a quiet laugh, adjusting the sword on his back. "Wouldn't miss it."

Ethan gave them both a look — a mix of concern and acceptance. "Don't start a war before you return."

"No promises," Damon said, and with that, he pulled his cloak up as they mounted their horses and ride off.

Irven was already trembling again. "Where… where are they going?"

Ethan turned him, eyes cold. He yanked Irven's reins and the two of them rode off into the rain-slick dark, toward the capital.

*********************

The balcony overlooked the mist-veiled ridges of Halemond, where pines stood tall and unmoving, cloaked in the usual hush of cold air and drifting fog. Halemond was always cold — not bitterly so, but with a constant chill that kissed the stone and clung to the breath. The wind rolled gently off the mountain's shoulders, curling around the eaves of the old estate.

Lord Velmorn poured the next glass himself. He was a tall man, grey at the temples, but broad-shouldered still. His hands bore the calluses of both sword and scroll, and when he turned to look at the man beside him, it was with the kind of fatherly weight few could muster.

Damon Dragarth sat with Lord Velmorn in thick cloaks, steam curling from their cups. His black cloak draped over the side of his chair, and though his sword still hung at his hip, he looked — for the first time in days — at ease.

"You still haven't fixed that crack in the north tower," Damon said, eyeing a jagged line running down the old stone arch of the estate. "I saw it three years ago and said it'd bring the whole place down."

Lord Velmorn grunted, swirling his drink. "And it's still standing, isn't it?"

Damon smiled faintly. "Miracles do happen."

Velmorn's beard bristled with a short laugh. "You've grown mouthier since you put on the crown."

"I was always mouthy," Damon said dryly. "You just used to call it grief."

There was a pause. Wind sighed across the balcony again. The lamps inside glowed warmly against the stone walls, but neither man moved to go in.

Velmorn spoke next, voice softer. "How are you faring at court? Truly?"

Damon's lips quirked. "Ah, yes. The court. I have my loyal friends, the rest are just nest of snakes."

Velmorn chuckled.

Damon continued, "Half of them wish I'd get myself skewered in a hunting accident. The other half want to bed me or poison me — depending on the day. And then there are the ones that do both."

"That sounds about right."

"One of the councilmen asked if I was possessed last week. I said yes, but only on my father's side."

Velmorn grinned. "Gods save us all."

The King laughed at Lord Velmorn's remark.

Damon took a long breath and glanced toward the trees, as if looking at the past itself. "You remember what I looked like when I came to you?"

Velmorn's face turned grave. "A boy covered in ash. Blood on your sleeves. Hollow-eyed."

Damon nodded slowly. "I didn't sleep the first two nights under your roof. I kept thinking they'd find me. That they'd storm your gates, drag me out, burn the place down just for hiding me."

"I wouldn't have let them try," Velmorn said quietly.

Damon looked at him.

"You're a good man," the King murmured. "Few like you left."

"You were seventeen years of age," Velmorn continued. "You hadn't eaten in days. You didn't speak for nearly three more. Just stared at the fire like it might tell you what to do next."

"I was waiting for it to tell me how to burn them all," Damon said.

Another beat passed. Damon's jaw shifted — not clenched, not bitter, just weighted with what had been lost.

"They killed each other like animals," he said, eyes unfocused now, voice softer. "Brothers. Sons. Turning blades on mothers, daughters. And for what? A seat. A bloody, gilded seat."

"You didn't kill for the throne."

"No," Damon said. "I killed because they wanted me dead."

Velmorn didn't speak. He didn't have to.

"They had armies," Damon went on. "I had dirt and frost and broken bones. And then you."

Velmorn looked at him, weathered eyes warm. "I loved you like a son."

"I know," Damon said with a smile. "That's why I never forget."

The firelight inside flickered again, casting a gold shimmer across the balcony.

"I've had men die for me," Damon said. "But not many stood for me before I wore a crown. You did."

Velmorn raised his cup. "Then do right with what you've built."

Damon lifted his own, tapping it gently against the old man's. "I'm trying."

Halemond's wind rustled again, and somewhere, a raven called out in the gray.

*********************

Leon stood at the outer corridor of Lord Velmorn's estate, arms folded, boots tapping lightly against the stone. His dark coat was buttoned high, but the wind still found ways to snake down the collar and bite at his neck.

"Bloody cold," he muttered, tucking his gloved hands beneath his arms.

He paced, grumbled to himself, and then suddenly froze — eyes widening.

Kaelith's flower!

He jerked upright, looking around sharply as if he might spy it growing from the tiles themselves. She'd begged him, with that infuriating little smile of hers, to bring back a wildflower that only bloomed in Halemond's highland soil. "Pale blue, with streaks of white. Looks like winter touched it and it smells like strawberries." she'd said, cupping her hands like it was the crown jewel of all herbs.

Leon groaned, sighing dramatically, he wrapped his coat tighter and stepped off the veranda into the crisp air. The mist still clung low across the grass. Pine needles littered the winding path, glistening with dew.

He scanned the estate grounds, searching — for what, he wasn't quite sure. A flash of blue? A flower-shaped miracle?

That was when he saw her.

A young woman — fair, wee-sized, red-haired, moving slowly along the outer edge of the garden path with a small woven basket in hand. The mist caught her hair like flame under fog, and even from a distance, Leon blinked.

She turned, startled by his approach.

"Hello. Good morning," Leon said, smiling with the ease of a man used to charming half a room with half a glance. "Do you live around here?"

The girl tilted her head, eyes gleaming with amusement. "Strange question, considering you're the guest."

Leon chuckled. "I meant no offense. It's just... you looked rather at home."

"I work here," she said simply, brushing a strand of damp hair from her cheek. "At Lord Velmorn's estate."

She didn't offer her name.

Leon took a step closer. "Perfect. Maybe you can help me with something—though fair warning, it's a ridiculous request."

Neriah raised a brow.

"I'm looking for a flower," Leon said, scratching his head like he couldn't believe the words leaving his mouth. "Blue. Pale streaks. Grows in the cold. Smells like strewberries."

Neriah blinked once. Then again. "Let me guess… someone sent you."

"Unfortunately, yes," Leon muttered. "And she'll have my head if I return without it."

Neriah grinned widly. "I know the flower."

Leon lit up. "You do?"

"Yes," she said, gesturing with her chin toward the fog-dusted path. "I will show you."

Leon followed with a smile.