But they weren't.There, where the sky kissed the sea, was an island, its outline jagged and shrouded in mist, its cliffs rising like the broken bones of sailors whose ships had floundered against them.
Was it real, or another vision born of delirium?He couldn’t tell, but the ring’s warmth urged him forward, a silent command to survive.
Then in that moment, the currents shifted.They were no longer chaotic but purposeful, pulling him toward the island with a strength that felt almost alive.He let them carry him, too weak to fight or swim, his body a leaf in the stream.Waves crashed around him, but they no longer dragged him under; instead, they bore him onward, as if the sea itself had chosen to spare him.The visions faded, leaving only the island’s silhouette, growing larger with each sluggish heartbeat.
His feet brushed something solid—sand, not ice.The current pushed him forward, and he crawled, half-conscious, onto a beach of black sand that glittered faintly under the dim light filtering through the mist above.The grains were coarse, biting into his palms as he dragged himself clear of the surf.His body trembled, wracked with shivers, his breath a shallow rattle.The ring still burned against his finger, a faint glow that seemed to pulse in time with the island’s heartbeat, as if the land itself were alive.
Guwayne collapsed, his cheek pressed against the cold sand, the world spinning.The roar of sea and wind faded, replaced by an eerie silence, broken only by the soft lapping of waves.The mist clung to the shore, curling around him like, but it felt different from the fog of earlier.That had felt menacing, dangerous.This felt… almost protective.He sensed that this was no ordinary island.And another thought came to him.Something, someone had guided him here.
But he had no idea why.Or if their motives were pure or evil.
And in that moment, he couldn't care less.All he knew was that he was alive.He had survived.And that he was exhausted.
He closed his eyes, too weak to move, and allowed consciousness to slip away in the slight breeze.
CHAPTER SIX
The great hall of Castle Larkridge echoed with the clamor of armored boots and heated voices, a stark contrast to the silent dungeons below where Queen Gwendolyn languished in chains.Lord Aldrich stood at the head of a long oak table, his velvet-clad fingers drumming impatiently on its scarred surface.Maps of the Ring sprawled across it, marked with crimson ink.Castles and villages were circled, arrows depicted troop movements, angry slashes and curses denoted anger at certain events.
Above them, three candelabras swung in a breeze that was impossible to keep out, despite three feet thick walls and heavy wall hangings.The light from them flickered, throwing the long shadows from the room's occupants across the floor, making them look like they were dancing.Or fighting.
The noble cabal had grown since the coup, swollen by opportunistic lords and ladies who smelled power in the air like hounds on a scent.That in itself had caused unrest.Those that had been there all along, those that had taken the biggest risks, eyed these newcomers with distaste, seeing them only jumping when the wind was favorable.Could they be relied upon if and when things got tricky, nervy?On the other hand, they needed numbers.The more people they had on their side, the more noble houses, and by default, the people who looked to them as well as, or even instead of, the crown, the better for the movement.
Baron Holt slouched in his chair, his drab robes hiding a paunch earned from years of indulgence, his small eyes darting suspiciously.Lady Elowen perched opposite him, her green eyes sharp as daggers.Lord Garrick paced the room's perimeter, his massive frame tense, the scar across his blind eye twitching with barely contained rage.And there were others: nobles like Sir Draven of the western marches, Lady Mivan, a sly widow with ties to the merchant guilds, her fingers glittering with stolen rings, and Lord Varis, a rotund man from the western provinces.As usual his attire reflected his profession and wealth.Fine fabrics embroidered with the grapes that had provided his money and his entertainment.His gray beard highlighted the redness of his face.In days of old, it was florid from overindulgence.Now it was anger at his lands being carved up for 'unworthy' farmers to grow wheat and corn that caused the coloring as much as the product of his vines.
Aldrich cleared his throat, his hooked nose flaring as he surveyed them."The Ring is ours," he began, his voice smooth as oiled silk."King's Court bends to our will, the remnants of the Shield Guard and the Silver are scattered or imprisoned, and the breaches...well, they serve as a convenient reminder of the old regime's failures.We've consolidated the garrisons, levied new taxes under the banner of 'restoration,' and our spies report that the common folk whisper less of rebellion with each passing day."
Baron Holt snorted, leaning forward with a creak of his chair."Consolidated?Bah!Your 'consolidation' leaves much to be desired, Aldrich.Reports from the southern villages speak of open dissent—farmers hoarding grain, refusing our tax collectors.And in the eastern towns, like Eldridge and Barrowford, they've started singing ballads about the 'lost queen.'If we don't crush this now, it'll spread like wildfire."
Lady Elowen nodded, the raven pendant at her throat swaying as she gestured sharply."Holt speaks true.Your leadership is...cautious, Aldrich.Too cautious.These potential threats must be met with steel, not subtlety.Send the mercenaries—burn a village or two as an example.Let the people see the cost of disloyalty."
“If people are worried about filling their stomachs and those of their brood, they’ll not care a sow’s ear who sits atop the throne,” Draven said over a mouth full of dried fruits.
Garrick halted his pacing, slamming a fist on the table hard enough to rattle the goblets."And the queen!Why does she still draw breath?She's a symbol, Aldrich—a rallying cry locked in our own cellar.Execute her publicly, frame it as justice for Thorgrin's 'failures.'The boy prince is vanished; without her, their line ends.We can divide the lands cleanly then."
“True, true,” Varis added, nodding vigorously.“While Gwendolyn lives, she gives them hope, a link to the old times.Snuff her out and you snuff out that hope.Sever that link.”
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the room.Sir Draven crossed his arms, his weather-beaten face grim."Aye, the breaches hit my marches hardest.Beasts roam free, slaughtering livestock, and the peasants blame us now, not the old king.If we don't act aggressively, we'll lose the west entirely."
Aldrich raised a hand, his expression calm, though inwardly he seethed at their shortsightedness.These fools saw only immediate gains, blind to the intricate web he wove."Patience, my lords and ladies.Killing Gwendolyn would make her a martyr, as Elowen herself warned not long ago.Alive, she is leverage—a puppet we can parade when needed, her 'confessions' scripted to legitimize our rule.Dead, she ignites uprisings we cannot afford.As for the dissent in the villages..."He leaned over the map, tracing a finger along the southern borders."We address it not with brute force, which breeds resentment, but with cunning.Our tax collectors will be escorted by larger contingents, and we'll spread rumors of Gwendolyn's 'madness'—how she invited the breaches through dark pacts.The people are fickle; turn their fear against her memory."
Holt's eyes narrowed."And if that fails?Your plans are elaborate, Aldrich, but we've seen little fruit.The council was to share power equally, yet you sit at the head, issuing decrees like a king.Some of us question if you're fit to lead this...transition."
The room tensed, the air thick with unspoken challenges.Aldrich met Holt's gaze steadily, his mind racing through alliances and betrayals.Holt had influence in the merchant quarters, Elowen in the courts, Garrick in the military remnants.To falter now would invite daggers in the dark."Question all you like, Baron, but remember: it was me who got Proudlock, me who effectively killed Thor, the man who many, even in this room, thought could not be killed.It was my gold that bought the mercenaries, my gold that buys them still.It was my strategy that seized King's Court without a prolonged siege.I lead because I see the board entire, not just the pieces before me.Aggressive action?Very well—I'll authorize strikes on the most vocal dissenters in the realm.Garrick, you lead them.Burn storehouses, not homes; make it seem like beast attacks.That will drive the peasants to our protection."
Garrick grunted in approval, his fury redirected.Elowen inclined her head slightly, though her eyes remained wary.Holt leaned back, mollified for now, but Aldrich noted the lingering doubt.He would need to watch them closely—perhaps plant evidence of Holt's own disloyalty, should it come to that.
As the meeting adjourned, the nobles filing out with muttered plans and alliances of their own, Aldrich lingered, pouring himself a goblet of the blood-red wine.The dissent gnawed at him, but it was manageable.Power was a delicate balance, and he held the scales.Yet the true consolidation lay not in squabbling nobles, but in the shadows beyond the Ring's borders.Tonight, he would tip those scales further.
*
Under the cover of a moonless night, Aldrich slipped from the castle's rear gates, cloaked in nondescript wool to blend with the shadows.Two trusted guards flanked him, silent as ghosts, their hands on sword hilts.The eastern marches were rugged here, cliffs giving way to dense forests that bordered the Wilds—a lawless expanse where the influence of the Ring had always been thinnest.But tonight, it was no random patrol; Aldrich rode toward a predetermined rendezvous, his horse's hooves muffled by the damp earth.
The barbarian horde had amassed there weeks ago, drawn by whispers of weakness in the Ring.They were not the azure-tattooed tribes of the far north, but a fiercer breed from the eastern steppes—nomads hardened by endless raids, their banners depicting snarling wolves and bloodied axes.Led by Khan Vargul, a warlord whose name struck fear in border villages, they numbered in the thousands, camped just beyond the Shield's flickering veil.Aldrich's spies had made contact early, seeding the idea of an "alliance" that served his cynical ends.
The meeting site was a ruined watchtower, its stones overgrown with ivy, a remnant of ancient wars.As Aldrich dismounted, figures emerged from the gloom—barbarian outriders, their furs matted with dew, axes slung over broad shoulders.They eyed him warily but led him inside without a word, where a fire crackled in the tower's gutted hearth.
Khan Vargul awaited him, a colossus of a man seated on a pile of pelts, his braided beard flecked with silver, his eyes like chips of flint.Scars crisscrossed his bare arms, tales of battles won, and at his side hung a curved scimitar notched from countless kills.Flanking him were two lieutenants: a wiry scout with a bow across his back and a hulking warrior woman whose gaze promised violence.
