The morning mist clung to the horses’ legs as they descended the narrow road from Fort Dawnhold. The sun had yet to clear the ridges, and the air was sharp with pine and cold stone.
Al shifted in his saddle, still uneasy under the heavy House Vaughn cloak. “Where are we headed?” he asked, keeping his tone neutral but wary.
Catrin glanced back over her shoulder. “We were assigned to Aelthar’s Maw by decree of the Triumvirate,” she said. “Rumors spoke of a cult — dragon worshippers, necromancers, or worse. It was deemed significant enough that no single House was trusted with the task.”
Pryce gave a dry laugh. “Be fair, Catrin. They thought we’d fail. Sending heirs from three rival Houses was convenient—no one House would lose face when we died. If we lived, they’d all take credit.”
“That’s politics,” Evan muttered from behind them. “Same wherever you go.”
Rhyosyn’s expression was distant, her red hair catching a glint of sun through the fog. “We return now to report to our Lady Mothers—each of whom serves the Triumvirate’s will in her own way.”
Al frowned. “So you’re part of this Triumvirate?”
Catrin shook her head. “No. Our mothers serve them, but are not of them.”
Pryce adjusted her reins, her tone shifting to something almost academic. “Think of the Triumvirate as three crowns balanced on one head. They share rule: one of Blood, one of Law, one of Faith. Together they embody what remains of the old Crown.”
Al frowned. “So who’s actually in charge?”
Rhyosyn smirked. “No one. Which is why everything takes twice as long as it should.”
Catrin shot her a look, then sighed. “Let me try to explain more plainly. The Triumvirate sits above all — three Ladies Sovereign who govern jointly. Beneath them are the Courts — the noble Houses who enforce their decrees and administer the provinces. And beneath the Courts, the Clergy — the temple orders, the healers, the keepers of records and faith. Each claims to serve the Crown.”
Al squinted. “And the Crown is… what, exactly?”
Rhyosyn’s voice took on that smug lilt she used when she thought someone slow. “The old royal bloodlines — what’s left of them. None of the current Houses carry enough pure lineage to claim the throne outright, so they share the illusion of unity.”
“So basically,” Al said dryly, “you’ve got three rulers pretending to take turns, a bunch of nobles pretending to listen, and priests pretending to keep them honest.”
Rhyosyn turned in her saddle to look at him, brows arched. “You put it crudely, but… yes.”
Evan chuckled. “He learns quick.”
Pryce’s tone turned chilly. “Cynicism suits you poorly, foreigner. You live because we protect you—remember that.”
“Hard to forget,” Al said.
The group fell silent again, the only sound the steady clop of hooves and the occasional creak of leather. The mist was burning away now, revealing rolling ridges below them, and the long valley road that would lead back toward the Triumvirate’s heartland.
Al glanced sidelong at Rhyosyn. “So we’re going to report to your bosses.”
She gave a small, humorless smile. “Our mothers,” she corrected. “And through them—to theirs.”
He nodded slowly. “And I’m guessing none of them are going to be happy about what you found in that Maw.”
“No,” Catrin said softly. “Nor about what we brought back from it.”
Al didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. They all knew exactly what she meant.
***
The Hall of Three Crowns
The capital shimmered in morning light like a city half-dreamt — towers of white marble rising from mist, bridges strung between them like silver threads. The banners of the Triumvirate hung motionless in the high air: crimson for Blood, blue for Law, gold for Faith. Below, courtiers and petitioners moved through tiled courtyards under the watchful eyes of armored wardens — all women, their spears catching the sunlight like shards of glass.
At the apex of the Citadel, beneath a vast dome painted with constellations, three thrones sat upon a single dais of obsidian. Each was carved in the likeness of its dominion: the first shaped like a coiled serpent of gold, the second a pillar of interlocking scrolls, the third veiled in hammered silver filigree.
A courier burst through the side doors, armor dusty from flight. Her kestrel still clung to her shoulder, feathers ruffled, eyes wild from the long journey. She dropped to one knee before the dais, holding up a sealed scroll bound with the crest of House Vaughn.
“Your Ladyships,” she said, voice breathless but steady, “word from Aelthar’s Maw.”
The Lady of Blood — tall, iron-haired, her crimson gown patterned with the sigils of every noble house — extended a jeweled hand. “Read.”
The courier broke the seal and began, her voice echoing across the chamber. “Mission successful. The corruption within the Maw was purged. The cult scattered. Survivors: Lady Catrin of Arwen, Lady Elowen of Pryce, Lady Rhyosyn of Vaughn, and two retainers. Casualties minimal.”
A low hum of approval rippled through the gathered aides and advisors. Then the courier hesitated.
“There is… an additional note, my Ladies.”
The Lady of Law adjusted her spectacles, eyes narrowing. “Continue.”
The courier swallowed. “They report… a man.”
The word fell into the hall like a stone into still water.
A hundred whispers stirred at once. Advisors leaned to one another, faces pale, hungry, or calculating.
The Lady of Faith’s veiled head tilted slightly. Her voice was quiet, musical, and cold. “A man? Alive?”
“Yes, my Lady. Foreign by their account. The quartermaster reports that she believes him to be unregistered, and unclaimed.”
The Lady of Blood sat forward, rings glinting like drops of red glass. “Unclaimed? Then he is wild. That cannot stand.”
“Indeed not,” said the Lady of Law. “A rogue male could upset every balance we have built in these generations.”
“Or,” murmured the Lady of Faith, “he could be providence.”
Silence followed — sharp, heavy.
The Lady of Blood’s tone cut through it like a blade. “We will see which. Summon their mothers. The daughters return under escort. And send a warden cohort to the border—quietly. No rumors. No panic.”
The Lady of Law nodded once. “And if the man resists?”
The Lady of Blood smiled faintly, the expression colder than steel. “He is a man, he will be taught the meaning of obedience.”
The Lady of Faith’s voice drifted from behind her veil. “No. Not obedience. Purpose.”
The hall fell silent again save for the flutter of the kestrel’s wings as it took flight, circling once above the throne before vanishing through the open dome.
Far below, the city’s bells began to toll — not in alarm, but in summons. Somewhere in the winding streets, clerks were already drafting orders, and in the noble quarter, messengers ran with sealed letters marked only by a single sigil.