Chapter 75

Chapter 75

THE SOUTHERN ALLIANCE – A STORM IN THE SHADOWS

The rain came down like a curtain of needles, veiling the outskirts of the capital in a thick gray gloom. The cobblestone path leading to the old hunting lodge was nearly swallowed by overgrowth and mud, as if the land itself had tried to forget the structure still stood. It was far from the polished marble of the court, hidden deep within the forested hills near the southern border—a place of old blood, older grudges, and secrets that festered like rot.

Inside, the air was warm with firelight and heavy with the scent of wet fur, damp wool, and sour wine. The stone walls sweated with the storm outside, and the wooden beams overhead creaked like the bones of a dying beast. A single iron chandelier cast swaying shadows across the long table at the center of the room.

Seated at that table were men who had once held honor.

Now, they held daggers behind smiles.

Duke Edmond of the Southern Kingdom lounged in his chair, his silver-ringed fingers wrapped around a goblet of blood-red wine. His tunic was unbuttoned, revealing a dagger-shaped pendant that glinted in the firelight. His wolfskin cloak was soaked and discarded at the door, but his smug arrogance remained untouched by the weather.

Beside him stood Chancellor Orrick—thin, hawk-nosed, and sharp as broken glass. He wore black like it was second skin, and his gloved hands never stopped fidgeting with the scrolls and seals he carried in his leather satchel. He was the mind behind the strategy, the whisper behind court decisions that slowly poisoned the heart of the capital.

Across from them sat a figure long believed to have vanished into grief and political exile: Duke Matthias Macmayer—Abby’s father.

His once-proud golden hair had turned a silvery ash, his face gaunt from years of silence, but his eyes burned with dangerous clarity. They no longer belonged to the grieving father of a lost daughter or a loyal Duke of the North. Tonight, he sat cloaked in midnight blue, his crest removed, his allegiance no longer to crown or country—but to vengeance.

His assistant, a quiet man known only as Veyren, stood at his shoulder, eyes scanning every movement with a spy’s precision.

“…It’s time,” Duke Edmond said, swirling the wine lazily. “The boy prince plays at being king while his father fades behind velvet curtains. And now he’s chasing ghosts—charming that McMayer girl instead of preparing for war. He’s a distraction to himself. A liability to the realm.”

Chancellor Orrick nodded, tapping a map laid out between them. “The Rift grows. The council is fractured. The nobles are divided—half of them praying for Duke Alaric’s return, the other half convinced he’s dead and buried. With the kingdom paralyzed, our move must be swift.”

“And bloody,” Edmond added with a grin. “We don’t need fanfare. We need fear.”

Duke Macmayer’s voice cut through the room, low and steady.

“You said you had mercenaries. Not thugs.”

Orrick smiled. “Not thugs. Killers. The Raven Blood Company. They answer only to gold. No loyalties. No questions. Once the order is given, they will strike in the capital. It’ll look like a Rift attack. Or perhaps… an assassination by loyalists of the dead Duke. Whichever story sells better.”

Veyren finally spoke. “And what of Abby?”

A heavy silence fell.

Edmond clicked his tongue. “She’s in too deep. Gifted. Dangerous. Emotionally unstable. She’s become a symbol of hope—and the kingdom has no place for martyrs who cannot be controlled. If we move, she must be... contained.”

Macmayer’s jaw twitched. His hands balled into fists, knuckles white against the table’s dark oak. For a moment, the fire crackled louder than breath.

“She is still my daughter,” he growled.

“She is a threat,” Orrick said coldly. “And threats do not get special treatment—royal blood or not. If she sides with Prince Damian, she becomes an obstacle.”

“Then she’ll be handled,” Macmayer said tightly. “But not by your knives.”

Edmond leaned back. “Sentimental, are we?”

Macmayer's eyes were like frostbitten steel. “Sentiment has nothing to do with it. I created the girl. I’ll decide how to end her, if necessary.”

Outside, thunder rolled again. The wind shrieked through the cracks in the lodge, as if the gods themselves were listening.

Orrick cleared his throat, producing another scroll. “Our informants within the palace have confirmed Queen Isolde is growing suspicious. She still commands respect among the mid-court, but her influence wanes. If the King dies within the next moon cycle—as our physicians suggest—the throne will officially pass to Prince Damian. That cannot be allowed.”

Duke Edmond leaned forward. “Then it’s settled. We move before the coronation.”

Macmayer stood slowly, his chair scraping against the stone floor. “Give me your timeline.”

“Seven days,” Orrick said. “The festival of the twin moons will have the guards stretched thin. The capital will be distracted. The Raven Blood strike force will enter through the eastern sewer gates. Once the Prince is dead, we’ll move our forces from the Southern border and declare martial rule under emergency law. You,” he nodded to Macmayer, “will lead the claim for stabilization, and declare a provisional regency until a new heir is chosen.”

“Chosen by us,” Edmond said with a wicked grin. “By the people, of course.”

Macmayer turned to the fire, watching the logs spit sparks as another gust of wind howled through the cracks. “And if Abby stands in our way?”

There was silence again.

Orrick only said, “Then she falls with him.”

Macmayer didn’t respond.

Not immediately.

But deep in his chest, where a father’s love warred with a broken man’s rage, something cold and final shifted.

He stared into the flames, unmoving.

And in the shadows behind the room, the storm raged louder than ever.

THE SOUTHERN ALLIANCE – CONTINUED

“A kingdom does not fall in a day. But it begins with a crack no one sees.”

Outside the lodge, the storm drowned the forest in darkness. The guards stationed near the horses held their cloaks tightly, eyes darting. Even the birds had fled these trees. The world had stilled—not in peace, but in the anticipation of violence.

Inside, the fire flickered as Duke Macmayer finally turned from the hearth. His eyes met Chancellor Orrick’s with a narrowed calculation. “Seven days, then. And the Raven Blood mercenaries will be paid in advance.”

Orrick nodded once, sharp and efficient. “Half now. The rest once the Prince is dead and the palace secured. They’ve already been contacted. They require only your seal.”

Macmayer reached into his inner coat pocket and produced a black-stamped letter bearing his crest—no longer the proud northern stag, but a scorched, altered sigil: the stag in chains. He placed it on the table without hesitation. “You have it.”

There was a sick sense of finality in the air.

The former Duke of the North—the man once praised as a noble war hero and the father of a gifted girl—had now aligned himself with the South’s most dangerous traitors.

Duke Edmond raised his goblet again, his grin far too wide. “To new beginnings,” he said, clinking his cup against Orrick’s with a hollow chime.

Veyren said nothing. He simply adjusted his coat and opened the door, letting the stormy air blast through the lodge for a brief second as he left to prepare the horses. He didn’t need to speak—he already knew their departure would leave no trace.

As the others began folding maps and sealing deals with wax and ribbon, Macmayer lingered behind. His hand hovered over the sigil he had just given away—his birthright, his legacy, twisted now into something unrecognizable.

His thoughts drifted not to the throne, nor to the blood that would soon stain the capital’s stones.

But to Abby.

He remembered her as a child—barefoot in the snow, cheeks flushed from frostbite and laughter. She had always been different. Her eyes too bright, her questions too sharp. Her powers had manifested too late, and it had terrified the court. But not him.

At least not then.

He had loved her in his own way—fierce, quiet, restrained. But love did not protect kingdoms. Loyalty didn’t either. Not when betrayal became currency and power the only language anyone respected anymore.

He clenched his jaw.

“If she stands in our way…”

Macmayer closed his eyes. There would be no forgiveness in this path. No return. And yet he walked it all the same.

When he finally exited the lodge, he didn’t look back.