Chapter 22: The Gilded Leash
The chamber assigned as the headquarters for the newly sanctioned Royal Shadow Hunters was a study in gilded irony. Located in the austere eastern wing of the palace, it was lavishly appointed with furniture of polished sourwood and silver inlay, yet the windows were high and narrow, and the single heavy door was observed at all times by the stoic Royal Guard. It was, indeed, a beautiful cage.
Crown Prince Strelm stood admiring a tapestry depicting a historic Warsenbrenn victory, a goblet of wine swirling in his hand. He turned as Don, Caria, Leinara, and Dvrik entered, a smile of perfect, predatory charm gracing his lips. His dark eyes, so like his father's but lacking any trace of weariness, held a chilling, calculated gleam.
"Lord Don," Strelm began, his voice smooth as honeyed poison. "Welcome. I trust your new station—and its accompanying authority—are to your liking. The Crown is most generous to those who prove their loyalty and bring such… *uncomfortable* truths to light." The last words were spoken with a subtle, cutting emphasis, a direct jab at the exposure of his mother.
"The Crown's generosity is appreciated, Your Highness," Don replied, his own voice a calm counterpoint to the Prince's veiled threats. His long black hair framed a face that was unreadable, his eyes revealing nothing of the furious calculation beneath. "We are eager to begin our work. The threats Tidor wields are indeed concerning."
"Excellent," Strelm said, moving to a large map table, his movements precise and economical. "Because your first official mission awaits. We have received troubling reports from the Barony of Silverwood, far to the north. Whispers of violent beasts, strange lights in the forest, and growing civil unrest. The Baron seems unable to control his people, or worse, has lost their loyalty." He tapped a location far to the north, in a territory known to be staunchly loyal to House Adraels and a key supporter of the crown, but struggling under recent royal levies. "Go there. Assess the threat. Pacify the region. Show the realm that the King's peace will be kept, by whatever means necessary."
The order was a finely crafted weapon. It was a legitimate task, yet its location and vague nature were designed to put Don in a politically impossible position—forcing him to either harass his own allies or disobey a direct royal command. It was a test of his obedience, and a trap for his reputation.
"We will leave at once," Don said, his voice even, giving no hint of the trap he saw being laid. Caria, beside him, caught his subtle glance and understood immediately. Her emerald eyes narrowed in shared frustration, but her posture remained flawlessly composed.
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While Don accepted the Prince's mission with outward compliance, his council was already moving on other fronts. Dressed as a simple courtier, Leinara made her way to the city's sprawling market. She didn't go near "The Serpent's Coil" again, but instead observed the flow of goods with a hunter's patience. Following a hunch, she tracked a specific merchant known to supply the palace kitchens – a seemingly innocuous route, but one that could easily be used for covert communication. As she watched from a distance, she saw the merchant pass a seemingly innocent note to one of the Queen's known gardeners. The network was still alive, communicating through the mundane arteries of the city, a testament to its deeply embedded nature.
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Miles away, in a fortified hunting lodge deep in the northern woods, two fathers met. Earl Dunnel Adraels and Lord Varant Griffor, a mountain of a man with a voice like a crashing tide, sat across from each other, a fire crackling between them, its flames mirroring the dangerous truths they discussed.
"The message arrived," Varant rumbled, his voice like grinding stones. "The Queen's treachery. And the King's 'justice.' The boy is walking on a blade's edge, tethered to the very viper who would see him fall."
"He is," Dunnel agreed, his face grim. "The King has chained him to the wolf. But a leash can be slipped. Don understands the game. He will not break easily." They spent the next hour planning in low tones—coordinating troop movements on their respective borders, redirecting trade caravans to bolster their allies without drawing overt royal suspicion, and preparing their own houses for a storm they both knew was inevitable. The strength of the Adraels-Thornf-Griffor alliance was growing, a quiet counter-force to the Crown's manipulations.
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In the palace, a different warning was being given. Princess Athina, under the guise of discussing elven poetry, met with Caria in the Royal Conservatory. Caria, radiant even in the subdued lighting of the glass-domed chamber, radiated a quiet power that Athina sensed and respected.
"Be wary, Lady Caria," Athina whispered, her eyes darting towards the door, a nervous habit that spoke of constant fear. "My brother is not just watching Lord Don. He has requested texts from the forbidden archives—specifically, treatises on containing and neutralizing sources of elemental and ancestral fire. He is not learning about Lord Don's power to respect it; he is learning how to extinguish it."
Caria's elegant hand instinctively went to her staff, the crystal tip humming softly in response to the ominous news. "He believes he can contain the Black Flame. He deludes himself."
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The journey to Silverwood was tense. When they arrived, they found no monsters. They found a town on its knees, its people gaunt and desperate. The Baron, a proud but broken man, confessed the truth. Crippling taxes levied by the Crown to fund its ever-growing army had bled his people dry. The "monsters" were illusions, clever light-spells woven by the Baron's court mage—a desperate attempt to frighten off the ruthless royal tax collectors.
"Prince Strelm knew," Don said, his gaze sweeping over the anxious faces of the hungry villagers. His voice was cold, his long black hair falling across his face as he surveyed the devastation. "He knew there were no beasts. He sent us here to make an example of a loyal house, to break their will and implicate us in their suffering."
Dvrik clenched his massive fist, his usual calm replaced by a simmering rage. "So we fight? Do we send the tax collectors packing? Do we expose the Prince's lies to the Baron?"
"No," Don said, a plan forming in his mind, precise and cutting. "We obey the Prince's orders to the letter. He asked us to 'pacify the region.' We will."
Don returned to Erydon three days later and requested an immediate audience with the Prince. He entered Strelm's study, his head held high, Caria a silent, beautiful, and equally unreadable presence at his side.
"Your Highness," Don reported, his tone one of perfect military formality, his long black hair falling over his shoulders. "I am pleased to report that the situation in Silverwood has been pacified."
Strelm leaned forward, a hungry, expectant look in his eyes. "And the beasts? Were they difficult to dispatch? Did the Baron's pleas prove… inconvenient?"
"There were no beasts," Don replied calmly, his voice flat. "The 'strange lights' were a minor magical disturbance emanating from a fissure in the earth—a natural, if unusual, phenomenon. We have sealed the fissure and contained the energy. The unrest among the people was due to the fear this phenomenon was causing. With the 'threat' gone, calm has been restored, and their minds eased." He presented Strelm with a flawlessly written, technically detailed report, complete with geological surveys and magical readings expertly fabricated by Caria. It was a masterpiece of plausible denial, designed to be irrefutable.
He then added, as an afterthought, his eyes meeting the Prince's with a subtle, challenging glint, "To further aid the pacification, I took the liberty of using my house's funds to pay the barony's overdue taxes as a gesture of goodwill from the Crown. I'm sure you agree that a prosperous barony is a peaceful one, and an even more loyal one, Your Highness."
Strelm was speechless. Don had followed his orders, solved the problem, and made the Prince look like a fool who had wasted royal resources on a ghost hunt. Worse, he had done so with a generosity that would earn him even more loyalty in the north, cementing his reputation as a protector, not a tyrant. The gilded leash he had placed on the young lord felt less like a chain and more like a tripwire.
The Prince forced a smile, but his eyes were chips of ice, colder than any winter storm. "Excellent work, Lord Adraels. Your… *resourcefulness* is duly noted. You surprise me, even after all this."
As Don left the chamber, Caria's hand found his, a silent current of shared triumph and sensual acknowledgment. Strelm stared at the false report, his knuckles white. He had not caged a lion. He had invited a wolf into his own hall, and it was showing its teeth, already carving out new allegiances from within the Crown's own domain.