The morning after his return, Cassian woke to the smell of fresh bread and the distant clang of the blacksmith’s hammer.
He lay still for a moment, letting the familiar sounds of Castle Elvenstone settle around him.
The capital felt like a dream now—the blazing chandeliers, the whispers of the court, the young hero’s confused eyes.
Here, in the cold clean air of the north, such things seemed almost unreal.
But they were real.
They had happened.
And the consequences were only beginning to unfold.
He rose, dressed himself in a simple dark coat, and made his way to the solar where Gerhardt had already laid out a modest breakfast.
The old steward was reading through a sheaf of correspondence, his spectacles perched on his nose.
“Your Grace,” Gerhardt said, rising.
“I trust you slept well.” “Well enough.” Cassian sat and poured himself tea.
“The reports you prepared were thorough.
I have a few questions, but they can wait.” He paused.
“Is there anything I should know immediately?” Gerhardt hesitated.
“Only that Advisor Edgar has requested a private audience.
He has been…
persistent…
in your absence.
He sent several letters to the capital that you did not receive, and has been waiting at the castle gates each morning since news of your return arrived.” Cassian took a slow sip of tea.
“Has he.” “He seems very eager to speak with you, Your Grace.
I took the liberty of telling him you were occupied.” “You did well.” Cassian set down the cup.
“But I will see him.
Tell him to come to my study in an hour.” Gerhardt bowed and withdrew.
Cassian stared at the closed door.
Edgar.
The man who, in the original story, had sold his secrets to the hero.
The man who had smiled as Cassian fell.
He had been patient long enough.
Now it was time to begin the careful, delicate work of turning a known traitor into a weapon.
The study was cold when Edgar entered.
Cassian had not bothered to light the fire.
Edgar was a man of medium height, with thinning hair and a face that was perpetually arranged in an expression of earnest concern.
He wore a dark green coat with silver buttons—new, Cassian noticed.
Expensive.
The kind of coat a man bought when he was expecting a promotion.
“Your Grace,” Edgar said, bowing deeply.
“Words cannot express my relief at seeing you safely returned.
The capital is a nest of vipers.
I prayed daily for your safe passage.” Cassian did not smile.
“Your concern is noted.” Edgar straightened, his eyes flicking to the cold hearth, the bare desk, the duke’s unreadable face.
He was fishing for clues, Cassian knew.
Trying to determine what had happened in the capital, and how it might affect his own position.
“I heard reports of the ball,” Edgar said carefully.
“They say you comported yourself with great dignity.
Some were surprised.” “Were they.” “The court is not accustomed to seeing the Wolf of the North in a…
diplomatic posture.” Edgar allowed himself a thin smile.
“It confused them.
Confusion, as Your Grace knows, is a form of power.” Cassian leaned back in his chair.
“You have a talent for making flattery sound like strategy.” Edgar’s smile widened, encouraged.
“I merely observe, Your Grace.
And I am pleased to see you in good health.
The collapse before your departure was deeply troubling.
I feared that the pressures of leadership might have…
affected you.” He let the word hang, a baited hook.
Cassian did not bite.
“The collapse was nothing,” he said.
“I have recovered fully.” “Of course, Your Grace.
But if I may speak freely—” “You always do.” Edgar’s smile faltered, then recovered.
“The court will be watching you now more than ever.
Some will see your restraint as weakness.
They will test you.
They will probe for cracks in the northern armor.
It is essential that you project strength, unity, and the absolute confidence of your household.” “And you see yourself as part of that projection?” “I have served House Elvenstone for fourteen years,” Edgar said, placing a hand over his heart.
“My only desire is to continue that service.” Cassian looked at him for a long moment.
Fourteen years of service.
Fourteen years of smiles and bows and careful words, and at the end of it, a knife in the back.
The novel had not described the betrayal in detail—only that Edgar had opened the castle gates to Leon’s forces.
But Cassian could imagine it vividly.
The quiet footsteps in the dark.
The whispered password.
The gates swinging wide while the duke slept.
And now this man stood before him, pledging loyalty.
“I have a task for you,” Cassian said.
Edgar’s eyes brightened.
“Anything, Your Grace.” “The grain stores in the eastern villages are dangerously low.
The winter has been hard, and the spring planting will require seed.
I need someone to travel to each village, assess their stores, and compile a report on what is needed.” Edgar blinked.
“The grain stores?
Your Grace, I am an advisor on matters of diplomacy and strategy.
Surely a simple clerk could—” “You said anything.” Edgar’s mouth closed.
He swallowed.
“Of course, Your Grace.
I only meant that my talents might be better used elsewhere.
But if inspecting grain stores is what you require, I will do it diligently.” “Good.” Cassian turned back to his desk, a clear dismissal.
“You will leave tomorrow.
Gerhardt will provide you with a list of the villages and the necessary supplies for the journey.
I expect a full report within two weeks.” Edgar bowed, lower than before.
“As you command, Your Grace.” He retreated to the door, his expression a carefully controlled mask.
But Cassian caught the flicker of something beneath—frustration, perhaps.
Or fear.
A man who was used to being at the center of power, suddenly relegated to the periphery.
“Edgar,” Cassian said, as the advisor’s hand touched the door handle.
Edgar turned.
“Yes, Your Grace?” “The grain stores are vital.
I am trusting you with the welfare of my people.
Do not disappoint me.” The words were a gift and a warning, wrapped in the same breath.
Edgar bowed again and left.
Cassian sat alone in the cold study, staring at the closed door.
The grain stores were important, yes, but the task was also a convenient way to remove Edgar from the castle for two weeks.
Two weeks without access to sensitive information.
Two weeks for Cassian to tighten his security and prepare for the next threat.
He reached into his coat and touched the folded paper there—his list of death flags, now reduced by one.
The betrayal by his closest advisor was still on that list.
But it would not happen as it had in the novel.
Edgar would not open the gates, because Edgar would never have the chance.
He would be watched.
He would be managed.
And when the time came, he would be used.
Later that afternoon, Cassian sat with Gerhardt in the solar, reviewing the household accounts.
“The eastern villages,” Gerhardt said, reading from a ledger.
“Elvenholm, Thornwood, Dunridge, and five others.
The grain situation is as you described.
A clerk would have been sufficient.” “A clerk would have been efficient,” Cassian agreed.
“But Edgar needed to be reminded of his place.” Gerhardt looked up.
“You do not trust him.” It was not a question.
“No,” Cassian said.
“I do not.” He did not elaborate, and Gerhardt did not ask.
The old steward had learned long ago that some questions were better left unspoken.
But Cassian could see the understanding in his eyes.
Gerhardt had served under three dukes.
He had seen advisors rise and fall.
He knew the signs of a duke who was cleaning house.
“There is another matter,” Cassian said.
“Personal.
Not for the ledgers.” Gerhardt set down his pen.
“Anything, Your Grace.” “Before my collapse, I had begun making inquiries about…
a relative.
Someone I had not seen in many years.” He chose his words carefully.
“A half-brother.
From my mother’s first marriage.” Gerhardt’s expression did not change, but his hands stilled on the desk.
“I was not aware Your Grace had a half-brother.” “Few are.
The marriage was brief, and the son was sent away after my mother wed my father.
I only recently learned of his existence.” This was not entirely true.
Cassian had known about the half-brother for years—had been aware of him as a distant, irrelevant fact.
But in the novel, that half-brother had been a blade in the dark, betraying Cassian’s location to Leon’s forces at the final battle.
He had been a minor character, a footnote in the hero’s victory.
But a footnote could still kill.
“I want to find him,” Cassian said.
“Discreetly.
I do not want him to know he is being sought.
I only want to know where he is, and what he has been doing.” Gerhardt nodded slowly.
“I will make inquiries, Your Grace.
There are men in the southern cities who can be trusted for such work.
But it may take time.” “I have time.” Gerhardt rose and bowed.
“I will begin at once.” He left the solar, and Cassian sat alone, staring at the ledger without seeing it.
The half-brother was another death flag, another thread in the web.
In the original story, the half-brother’s betrayal had been motivated by resentment—a lifetime of being the forgotten son, the cast-off heir, the one who had been denied everything while Cassian ruled the north.
It was a bitterness that Cassian, in some small way, could now understand.
He had been forgotten too, once.
In another world.
But understanding did not mean accepting.
The half-brother would be found.
He would be confronted.
And this time, Cassian would offer him something he had never offered anyone in his first life: a choice.
Peace.
Or the consequences of refusing it.
That night, Cassian stood on the ramparts and watched the northern lights dance across the sky.
They were green tonight, ribbons of emerald light that rippled and twisted above the mountains.
He had watched them a thousand times in his first life, and a hundred times more in his dreams during the fifteen years of exile.
They had always seemed cold and distant, beautiful but unreachable.
Now they seemed closer.
Warmer.
As if they were welcoming him home.
He thought about Edgar, riding east tomorrow through the snow.
He thought about the half-brother, somewhere in the south, nursing old grudges.
He thought about Leon Rayford, still in the capital, still clutching a notebook full of certainties that were no longer certain.
And he thought about the list in his pocket.
Sixteen death flags remaining.
Sixteen threats to defuse, one by one.
It was a long road.
But he had already walked a longer one.
He turned from the ramparts and went inside, where the fire was warm and the castle was quiet and the future, for all its dangers, was still his to shape.