Duke Terros ran.
He had left his horse in Anticourt. The night wind tore at his hair and cloak. Frost crunched under his boots. With each stride he poured power into his legs, numbing the burn, driving them faster.
He needed distance.
Distance from Anticourt's ruined square—but more than that, he needed witnesses.
His trusted men had fallen back even before the skirmish was over. Terros' jaw clenched.
Thirty thousand.
With his ducal output, thirty thousand missing cores was enough to merit an audit. It was enough to keep the capital satisfied.
He had been greedy.
Now he had a hole in his accounts and a compromised hole in his ledgers.
"I need to be seen in Loria," he muttered, breath puffing white. "In my seat. Holding court. Reviewing levies. Anything but near Anticourt."
If he were seen there, then that would have made a much stronger case for the missing cores.
His mind leapt ahead.
For now, there was no reason to trigger an audit, but if Blackfyre somehow got lucky...
No. He needed help.
"I hope His Grace will lend," Terros said under his breath, more to steady himself than anything. "He needs warm bodies for his own designs. He will not want my duchy gutted. Not now."
His Grace.
If that man chose to cover the shortfall—shift cores from one holding to another, massage the numbers, bribe the right officials in the Capital—then this Anticourt business might yet be buried.
If not…
Terros could already feel the tribunal inching toward his duchy.
He pushed more mana into his legs and ran harder.
***
When morning struck Anticourt, a line had already formed outside the Avarium. Hawks were waiting to be sent all over the empire and beyond. Men in Anticourt had sent messages out to various points of contact. Reitz had arrived in the night, and with him the last doubt vanished: the toddler was Blackfyre's heir.
Reitz took control of the arrangements for Ezra's return to Bren at once. The child was kept inside the keep the entire time—no visitors, no servants beyond vetted hands, and no one allowed near the inner rooms without a personal order.
Of course the nobles pressed him for answers. Reitz gave them only the kind that calmed a room without feeding it. According to him, it was not an abduction; it was just a coincidence. The Arcanist attack, however, was not.
That was enough. Half the lords in Anticourt pledged riders on the spot to Deimos and Phobos; the rest promised men once their retinues could be gathered and brought in.
Zannis and Mallos were among them.
"That was an Awakening," Mallos said over breakfast in the Trident, still sounding as if he needed to convince himself.
Zannis nodded. "No question."
"The boy's a monster." Mallos stared into his cup, replaying the scene from the night before. "If that's what he does as a toddler—"
"It's what he is," Zannis cut in. "A Primarch in the making."
Mallos swallowed. "That could shape the whole Empire."
"A marcher Primarch," Zannis said, almost tasting the words.
Mallos leaned forward. "The Rex—he—"
"Yes." Zannis didn't let him finish. "He saw it coming."
"That's insane."
"Not really," Zannis disagreed. "Eyes and ears are easy to buy once you're Emperor. It's obvious in retrospect. He betrothed his daughter to Blackfyre. He went to see the child himself. He put his hand in the crib before anyone else could make a move." Zannis's gaze hardened. "And now the Imperial seal's been set on that boy's head. Most men won't dare touch him."
"A Primarch aligned with the Emperor," Mallos murmured. "That's…"
"Dangerous," Zannis said. "To our Primarchs, at least."
"So what happens now?"
"To Blackfyre, or to the Empire?"
"Blackfyre," Mallos said.
"Daggers," Zannis replied at once. "That heir will grow up with a knife aimed at him every day of his life." He paused. "But if Reitz keeps him alive until the next Ascent, Blackfyre buys himself a kind of immunity."
Mallos blinked. "How?"
Zannis set his cup down. "Answer me this. If Blackfyre were your liege, and if you were strong enough to beat your liege—truly beat him—would you invoke the Aufsteigfrieden?"
"House Hollorn would only invoke if we had cause," Mallos said automatically. "Our liege has been good to us. We've never exercised the Right, not once."
Zannis almost rolled his eyes. Hollorn's restraint was famous—and infuriating. On the rolls they were only barons, but their real strength ran closer to an earl's.
"Fine," Zannis said. "Pretend your liege is an ass. Pretend he wronged you. Would you invoke, if you could take him?"
Mallos hesitated, then nodded. "Yes. If he'd earned it."
"Good. Now pretend you win." Zannis leaned in. "What does the realm look like fifteen years later?"
Mallos frowned, thinking.
"His heir challenges you," Zannis said, before Mallos could answer. "And you lose—because by then that heir is halfway to sixth circle, maybe seventh. Do you see it?"
Mallos's expression tightened. Slowly, he nodded.
"So," Mallos said, "Blackfyre only needs to guard the heir… and he's secure for the next cycle."
"Bingo."
"Even though the Primarchs have the power to crush the seed in the crib, they can't simply send archdukes to do it," Zannis said, then stopped to sip before continuing. "Anyone who could fight both Lord and Lady Blackfyre at the same time is hard to find. Harder to buy. And proud enough to do things their own way once they're in motion. That kind of thing needs political clout to mobilize—and something more overt."
Zannis paused. "And if the Primarchs themselves overtly move to crush the whelp—"
He stopped when he saw the odd look on Mallos's face.
This one's too innocent. Omniscence around, who was this man's tutor?
"This is all hypothetical, of course," Zannis said, smoothing his tone.
Mallos's eyes eased.
"It would trigger a civil war," Zannis finished.
Mallos nodded. "Of course. There will be no just cause for going to war against Blackfyre."
But Zannis only shook his head. Maybe that was why Mallos had inherited so young—young, anyway, by their standards—while his father still lived. Zannis had always assumed the old man stepped down on purpose: to force Mallos to learn the weight of a domain before the empire did it for him. In Zannis's mind, it was a good choice. Mallos needed it.
Zannis knew the Aufsteigfrieden held up "peace" only so long as men still wanted peace. If they wanted war badly enough, they would find a way.
"Now," Zannis said, "leave civil war aside. If we go strictly by the Aufsteigfrieden, how does it look? Try to think like the Primarchs."
Mallos tilted his head. "If I follow your train of thought… then the most vulnerable under the Aufsteigfrieden will be the Primarch who is weakest."
"Good," Zannis said. "That's another point. The problem is we don't know who the weakest Primarch is, right?"
Mallos nodded again.
"But it's enough to rattle them," Zannis continued. "In the coming years they'll find a way to expose who among them is the weakest."
Mallos thought, then opened his mouth. "This means there will be infighting in the Primarch bloc?"
"Definitely," Zannis nodded. "And I think the Rex has already set this up. Once he confirmed the child had that much potential, it relieves him of pressure." Zannis's gaze sharpened. "Let the Primarchs circle each other."
"But they could also unite and band together to face the shared concern of the Blackfyre heir," Mallos replied, deep in thought.
"Correct," Zannis said, nodding. A thin smile cut across his mouth—Mallos was starting to understand higher court politics. "But either way, it still relieves pressure from the Emperor."
"And for every move they make, it affects the entirety of the Empire," Mallos said, still pensive.
"Right again," Zannis replied. "Whatever they do next, it touches all of us. That's why the Blackfyre heir is the pivot." His gaze flicked, briefly, toward the keep as if he could see through stone. "In the next few years the Empire will revolve around that child. Every letter, every levy, every knife will point toward that nursery—directly or indirectly."
Mallos nodded once.
"So," Zannis continued, "the question is: where do we align our interests?"
"Obviously we serve the Primarchs. We should follow them."
Zannis, who had been holding his patience by the fingernails, rolled his eyes.
"Really?" he said. "At the cost of your territory? At the cost of your grain? At the cost of your people?" He let the questions sit between them, then leaned in. "You're a lord, Mallos. Think in horizons longer than the next duel. Fools only think of the duel. They never think of what the duel does to everything around it."
Mallos frowned. "What do you mean, Zannis? It's only the Crown and the Primarchs who have power. Right?"
"No," Zannis said. "There's going to be a third player."
Mallos blinked. "You mean the Blackfyres themselves?"
"Right now it doesn't feel like it," Zannis admitted, "but it's possible. If they hold on long enough—if the heir lives, and grows into more than what we saw last night—they won't just survive the system." His voice lowered. "They could topple the whole arrangement of it."
"Preposterous," Mallos said, though the word came out less certain than he meant.
"Right now it's their board, yes. Crown on one side, Primarchs on the other. But if the piece becomes a player…" His thin smile returned. "Then the game gets interesting."
"You are not suggesting the child can become the Emperor, are you?" Mallos swallowed.
"I am just saying we need to keep our minds open," Zannis shrugged.
He tapped the table lightly, once—like a seal set in wax. "And you, as Lord Vespra, need to be ready for what it does to your roads. To your markets. To who buys your grain when the roads close."
Mallos stared at him, silent.
"And Mallos," Zannis added, "we need to watch how it plays out."
***
The air in the Theladonian Synodus chamber was tense.
"So that confirms it, Talen," one of the delegates said.
"Your report was misaligned," another added.
Talen nodded once, grim-faced. "We reported only what we observed."
A hush settled over the council.
The report had arrived from Anticourt a week earlier. Through the Theladonian merchants' guild, they kept informants scattered across the Empire, and Anticourt was one of their consolidated bases. Being a merchant city, it was easy to plant eyes there without the oversight of a great House—and with the sheer volume of traffic, hawks came and went without drawing suspicion.
"We specifically didn't want to overblow it," Syras said. "We included the anomaly we observed, but we couldn't verify whether the boy was hiding something."
"Come on," said Ionas Karthenos of Thyressa, leaning back with a thin, tired smile. "Who thinks a baby is hiding anything?"
Syras didn't flinch. "A baby, no," he said evenly. "But a House might. Or whoever was moving around him."
Across the chamber, Doros Vhalekath of Sathurion spoke without humor. "Either way, the result is the same. A Blackfyre heir that threw a fourth-circle effect in public, with Shadow Walkers on the field."
"And now Reitz has confirmed the boy's identity," someone muttered.
Ionas's fingers drummed once on the table. "We need to stop talking about whether it's true and start talking about what we do."
"That's the point," Doros said. "We already pay tariffs to the Empire. We already live under their shadow in practice." His gaze swept the benches. "A Primarch-level threat within marching distance of our border is different. That's not tariffs. That's fate."
A procedural voice in the chamber cut in, impatient. "So speak it plainly. What are the next steps?"
"This isn't just news," Ionas said. "It's actionable."
Talen's jaw tightened. "Actionable doesn't mean reckless."
Syras nodded once. "We need a path that protects us if the Empire fractures—and protects us if it doesn't," he said. "Because either way, the north just changed."
Ionas Karthenos of Thyressa leaned forward. "Short term," he said. "What does Reitz do now that everyone saw a knife reach his heir?"
Talen Jorathi of Orokyne answered immediately. "He tightens," he said. "Not because he likes it. Because he has to. If he looks porous after this, every rival in Fulmen smells blood."
Syras Melkorin of Nerathis nodded once. "He'll make the roads narrow," he said. "Checkpoints. Writ checks. Caravans stopped and searched. Hawks delayed or grounded unless the seal is right. He'll call it 'hunting Arcanists.' Everyone else will read it as: Blackfyre security is no longer assumed."
The Asterion chair tapped the table. "So the consequence for us is not a new tax. It's friction."
"Yes," Syras said. "Friction that turns into cost."
Cressara's leader frowned. "Cost in what form?"
"Time," Syras said. "Spoilage. Missed contracts. And bribes—because whenever an Imperial road gets tighter, the men at the gate discover new reasons to hold your wagons."
Ionas smiled thinly. "And then tariffs rise anyway," he said, "because the moment our trade shifts, someone else notices."
Talen's eyes narrowed. "Couralt."
Syras didn't deny it. "If Fulmen's roads become unreliable, we lean harder on Couralt routes," he said. "Couralt will leverage that. Not because Reitz wants it—because Couralt is Imperial and opportunistic."
The Asterion chair nodded slowly. "And sea routes?"
"Sea still needs touchpoints," Talen said. "Resupply. Repair. Safe water. Closest is Fulmen's coast lanes. If the north is nervous, those lanes get watched harder."
Cressara's leader leaned forward. "So the short-term plan is obvious: assume inspections. Assume delay."
"And prepare before the tightening becomes routine," Syras said. "Stock key goods now. Adjust contracts now. And if we send letters, we send them to shape inspection behavior—not to beg for lower tariffs."
Ionas lifted a brow. "You think Reitz will listen to our preferences?"
"I think Reitz will listen to anything that helps him look in control," Syras replied. "Predictable inspection rules make him look strong. Random seizures make him look like a province on fire."
Talen nodded once. "And troop movements?" he asked, turning it back to the board.
"Inside Fulmen," Syras said, "he shifts troops to roads, gates, and key junctions. He also calls riders—fast response, patrols. The goal is not conquest. It's to show that next time someone tries a knife, the knife dies."
Ionas's fingers drummed once. "Long term," he said. "Fifteen years. If the child lives."
The room went quiet again.
Talen said it flatly. "Then we plan as if a powerhouse grows within marching distance."
Syras nodded. "And we plan for the politics around him," he added. "Because even before he's strong, the Empire will move as if he will be. More scrutiny. More 'security cooperation.' More pressure on borders."
Cressara's leader's mouth tightened. "Meaning we need independence from the Fulmen land gate."
"Not full independence," Syras said. "That's fantasy. But we can reduce exposure: diversify routes, build reserves, build internal road security, and keep Couralt from becoming our only alternative."
Ionas's thin smile returned. "Make them compete."
"Exactly," Syras said. "Fulmen's tightening creates the problem. Couralt's leverage exploits it. Our job is to avoid being trapped between them."
The Asterion chair looked around the twelve benches. "So: short term we harden and hedge. Long term we reduce dependency and watch troop posture."
Syras nodded, but his eyes went distant. Right now the council was discussing the obvious, but sooner or later he knew the Empire would reach out its hands into the Synodus—and that either divided or united, they would eventually have to pick a side.
Blaise broke the Anticourt seal with her thumb and skimmed.
She set the paper down without changing expression.
"So it happened," she said quietly.
Her clerk waited by the doorway, ledger board in hand. Behind him, the VOC Southern headquarters echoed with boots on planks, scratching quills, and the distant sound of gulls outside the shutters.
"Orders, Commandant?"
Blaise pulled a Bren ledger toward her. It was already tabbed.
"Send word to our factor in Oarmen's Rest," she said. "We're expanding our outpost in Bren to a center. Make it small at first. Clean front. Storage, couriers, and private rooms. This doesn't need to be immediate—we will construct bit by bit. We don't want them to raise any alarms. Secure a writ before they tighten security."
The clerk hesitated. "Under whose charter? Which member of the board?"
Blaise's pen paused over the page. Then she wrote the stamp line herself.
"Mine," she said. "It's time we put more resources in Bren."
"As you command, Commandant Blaise," the clerk answered as he bowed.