Theron’s footsteps were heavy as he trudged to report to Valgarr. He dreaded telling Valgarr about the failed slaughter of the dogs. He still wasn’t sure what happened.

  He opened the door into the cold cellar Valgarr liked to spend his time in.

  “Your Excellence” Theron greeted.

  "Sit down, Inquisitor. You look like you've seen something you'd rather forget."

  Theron’s eyes met Valgarr’s. For a second he thought that maybe Valgarr had heard already “There was a complication when we tried to follow king Jorvan’s orders.”

  “How so? That’s not like you to have a complication.” Valgarr’s eyes bored into Theron.

  “That’s the complication. I don’t know what happened.”

  “Tell me what you think happened and maybe I can illuminate the situation for you.”

  “Last night, just before we began…” Theron paused, searching for steadier ground. “Something dark appeared at the edge of the square. It frightened the dogs and the guards. And I’ll confess, myself too. And what’s more concerning is that we haven’t found one dead or living dog in all of Eldmere since last night’s incident.”

  “Can you describe this spectre?”

  “Not quite. It was large and it appeared to have wings. The sun was in my eyes, and none of the guards could give me a definitive description either. But it appeared like a cave… like nothing. It was very strange.”

  “Fascinating.”

  “Will you inform King Jorvan of the situation, or must I?”

  “Let’s not be hasty. Let me handle his highness. In the meantime you find out more about the cause of the panic.” Valgarr let out a sigh as if all the world's problems were his to solve, “and I’ll see what I can discover through scrying. Dismissed.”

  Theron turned to leave.

  Stolen story; please report.

  ***

  Valgarr glided to Jorvan's chambers, already calculating what this would cost him. Scrying never came cheap. Two years minimum, more if the subject resisted being seen.

  He caught his reflection in a polished shield on the wall - the line between his brows was visible even without frowning now. It had been smooth six months ago. By tomorrow it would be deeper still.

  Establishing the Eldmere chapter couldn't happen fast enough, he needed to siphon more life from the tithes but setting this up in Eldmere would take months. Until then, every spell aged him faster than it should.

  The irritation settled like ash in his mouth. This invasion had better be worth it.

  He opened the door to Jorvan’s chambers without knocking.

  “Your majesty,” Valgarr greeted Jorvan.

  “Oh good, Valgarr, I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”

  “How can I be of service, your Majesty?” The words tasted like bile as he said them, but he kept his face neutral.

  “I’ve been thinking. We should probably get all the important people - the lords, the wealthy ones - on our side. A masquerade ball. Make them love us. What do you think?”

  “Oh I agree, however let’s not make it a masquerade. Surely we want to get to know the nobles of Eldmere, and a masquerade would…” Valgarr paused to add weight to his words, “complicate introductions.”

  “Good thinking. Good thinking. We should invite the merchants too. Only the wealthy ones. I still need a queen and I need a way to fund my conquests. Thanks to your youth initiative, I have many years left to achieve my goals. Do you think we’ll struggle to get Helmut on board?”

  “Not at all, Your Highness, Helmut has no idea how to really run a kingdom. He thinks a ball is just dancing and wine with friends. He doesn't realize the evening is only the beginning of more... intimate arrangements.”

  Jorvan smiled, “Your insights, Valgarr are always so on the nose. I wouldn’t be here today without your guidance.”

  Valgarr’s eye twitched.

  “I live to serve, Your Majesty.”

  "I'll go tell Helmut the good news. Surely this will keep him and his little artist busy. Oh, here—" Jorvan pushed a small plate across the desk. "Try one. New baker in the kitchens. Remarkable little things."

  Valgarr took one, more to avoid refusing than from appetite. The first bite surprised him—warmth spreading through his chest, the irritation easing like a hand lifted from his shoulder.

  “Your Highness, maybe we should allow a few more days for travel.”

  “Good thinking. I’m so used to Garanwyn where all my nobles live at court.” Jorvan donned his robe and strode out to tell Helmut the news.

  Valgarr touched the line between his brows. He looked down at the half-eaten cookie in his hand—black nails against golden pastry—then back at Jorvan. The man was still a fool. But somehow, in this moment, a tolerable one.