"BInding, it's binding, you saw the sun move, that's divine witness—"
As the golden light faded from the throne room, leaving only the ordinary gray illumination of a cloudy afternoon, the silence shattered into a thousand shards of whispered speculation. Silk sleeves brushed against velvet as the courtiers leaned together, their voices rising like a tide against the marble.
"—in the tongue of magic, did you see? The sun itself—"
A single beam, impossibly precise, pierced the high windows and fell upon Hallah and Lucan alone. The rest of the court fell into shadow. The two of them stood illuminated in a column of golden light that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere, that warmed without burning, that witnessed.
And the sun moved.
"—the Second Prince? Of all the useless, timid—"
"—the Paladin must have seen something in him, something we didn't—"
"—the gods have blessed the oath, you saw the beam, only the Six could—"
Hallah heard them, the words slipping through the crowd like eels through murky water. She kept her hand on Gold Rush's grip, her jaw tight, her eyes fixed on the King. Let them chatter. Let them wonder why a Paladin had chosen the timid spare over the Crown Prince. Let them chew on that bone until their teeth cracked.
She felt their eyes on her back—calculating, greedy, afraid. Near the eastern door, Duke Valmont had cornered a younger lord, his silver beard brushing the man's ear as he whispered urgently. Hallah caught the flash of a signet ring—Lord Aldric Dawnshield II, the Crown Prince's maternal cousin, age twenty-four, already known for his skill with a blade and his blind loyalty to his namesake.
"—cannot stand," she caught. "—correct this mistake. The Crown Prince must be informed immediately. We cannot allow common filth to—" Lord Dawnshield's hand tightened on his dagger hilt, his pale eyes finding Hallah across the room with cold assessment. "—the Paladin must be broken before she becomes entrenched."
Countess Sylvaine stood nearer, her gaze dragging over Hallah's body with uncomfortable scrutiny. The woman was beautiful in the way ice was beautiful—sharp and dangerous. Her eyes lingered on Hallah's chest, then her face, then her calloused hands. "Common-born," she murmured to her companion, a thin man in priestly robes, "but the gods chose. Look at
her—muscles hidden under that princess face. D-cup at ten? Dangerous precedent. If they can breed Paladins in the gutter, what need have they of us?"
Hallah felt heat rise to her cheeks—not shame, but anger. She was aware of her body in ways that still confused her. The "upgrade," as she sometimes thought of it in Bear's voice. The way her armor didn't fit quite right anymore, the chest plate pressing against curves that hadn't existed when she'd forged it at eight. The way the court ladies looked at her with envy and fear, seeing a child with a woman's figure and a warrior's hands.
She was aware, too, of Lucan beside her. Of his eyelashes—long and dark, clumped together with dried tears. She caught herself staring at the way his hair fell across his forehead, the delicate line of his jaw, and mentally slapped herself. He's ten, you're ten, stop being weird. But she couldn't help noticing pretty things—had noticed the Countess's sharp cheekbones, too, and the way the captain of the guard filled his armor. It was confusing, this body, these eyes that saw beauty in everyone and everything.
She pushed the thoughts aside. Focused on the weight of Gold Rush in her hand. Remembered cold Anchorage air, the smell of exhaust and snow, the feeling of bleeding out beside Gold Dust while her life ran red across the chrome. The warmth of the palace felt wrong against that memory—too soft, too safe. She should be dead. Instead, she was here, ten years old and already sworn to protect a prince.
"Silence."
The King's voice didn't rise. It didn't need to. The word fell like a blade, and the courtiers snapped their mouths shut as one, turning their eyes to the floor, the walls, anywhere but the throne.
Aldric LXIX leaned forward, his ancient hands gripping the arms of the Throne of Luminis. His storm-gray eyes fixed on Hallah with an intensity that made her want to step back, though she held her ground. He looked older up close—one hundred twenty-two years carved into his face like runes into stone. But there was nothing frail about him. He looked like a sword that had been sharpened too many times, all edge and no mercy.
"Girl," he said. "Do you know the significance of what you have just done?"
Hallah met his gaze. "Bound my life to your son. Swore to protect him. Die for him if it comes to that."
"You have bound your life to my son," the King repeated, his voice heavy with the weight of nine thousand years of history. "But I cannot let you take up your post right away. You are still untrained. Untested. Ignorant of the ways of the royal court."
The words stung. Hallah felt her hackles rise, the Bear in her chest bristling at being called ignorant. She'd survived Thornwick Cut. She'd killed men before she was ten. She knew steel and blood and the weight of a shield, knew the smell of copper and shit and fear that came when steel opened bellies. She knew the sound a man made when he died with her blade in his gut.
But she didn't know which fork to use at a state dinner. She didn't know how to address a duchess versus a baron. She didn't know the seventeen different bows required for various ranks of nobility, or which colors were appropriate for which season, or how to dance around words until they cut without ever touching steel.
She swallowed the pride. It tasted like bile. "No, Your Majesty. I ain't... I'm not trained in court ways."
The King nodded, a slow movement that seemed to carry approval. His fingers drummed once against the throne's arm—a nervous habit, she noted, filed away for later. "Then let me test you. What would you do if my son ordered you to kill a man?"
Hallah didn't hesitate. "I'd ask if he deserved it."
A murmur ran through the court. The King's eyebrows rose—surprise, perhaps, or amusement. "Not 'I would obey immediately'?"
"No, Your Majesty. I'm your son's shield, not his sword. If he wants someone dead, he better have a damn good reason." She caught herself. "A good reason. Or I'm not doing it."
The King leaned back, and for the first time, something like a smile touched his lips. "Honest. Moral. Unwise." He nodded slowly. "You will do, Paladin. You will do."
He continued, his voice regaining its formal weight. "But I will do this. You and your family will stay here in the castle, if you are amenable. I will have you attend my son's lessonsetiquette, magic, and history—before you attend the Academy. You will learn the court as he learns it. And I will have you train in combat with the royal guard. You have raw power, Paladin, but you lack refinement. You will learn both the pen and the blade under my roof."
Hallah glanced at Lucan. The boy stood trembling still, his cracked glasses perched crooked on his nose, blood drying on his chin. He looked at her with something like hope, like wonder, like the first light of morning after a long night of being kicked in the dark. His hands were clenched at his sides, the knuckles white, as if he were holding onto his courage by main force.
She chose me, Lucan thought, the words echoing in his mind like a bell. She looked at Aldric and chose me.
He couldn't stop staring at her. At the way she stood—feet planted, shoulders back, completely unafraid of his father. At the way her red hair caught the light, wild and untamable. At the smell of her—iron and coal and something else, something warm like bread fresh from the oven. His heart was beating too fast, and he didn't understand why, only that he wanted to be near her, wanted her to keep looking at him with those jade green eyes, wanted to be worthy of the violence she'd done on his behalf.
She'd punched Aldric. No one had ever punched Aldric for him. No one had ever chosen him.
She thought of Bear, of Gold Dust, of the cold Anchorage nights when she'd protected her own. She thought of the weight of a promise made in blood and magic. She thought of her parents—her father who'd taught her to swing a hammer and made her that custom razor she used every morning, her mother who'd taught her to heal—and how they'd given up their forge, their home, their life in Sovringard to bring her here.
"We're amenable," Hallah said. "Damn straight we are. Thank you, Your Majesty."
The King leaned back, the tension draining from his shoulders. For just a moment, he looked like what he was—an old man worried for his son. Then the mask slid back into place, and he turned to Brant, who still knelt beside his daughter, his forge-hardened face carefully blank.
"Forge-master," the King said, and his voice changed, became softer. "Afterward, I would like to have a conversation with you. Not king to subject. But as father to father." He paused, his eyes flicking to Hallah, then back to Brant. "I will have a maid send for you after you get settled."
Brant's eyebrows rose, the closest to surprise Hallah had seen on her father's face in years. He bowed his head, his voice rough when he spoke. "Your Majesty honors me."
"Go now," the King said. "All of you. Margarethe will show you to the Paladin's quarters. The rest of you—" His gaze swept the court, the nobles still staring at Hallah with expressions ranging from greed to fear to calculation. "—the audience is concluded."
Margarethe appeared from the shadows near the pillar, her face still gray but her composure restored. She coughed into her sleeve—a wet, rattling sound that spoke of too many winters in damp stone—and gestured toward a side door. "This way, my lady. My lord. Mistress."
Hallah fell into step beside Lucan as they followed the maid. The boy walked unsteadily, his small hand brushing against hers once, twice, before he seemed to realize what he was
doing and snatched it back. She could feel the tremors running through him, the fine shaking that came from shock and fear and the aftermath of violence.
But she could also feel the heat of him, the way he watched her when she moved, like he was memorizing how to be brave.
"You're okay," she said quietly. "I got you."
He didn't answer, but his hand crept back to brush against hers again, and this time he didn't pull away. His fingers were cold and trembling, but they squeezed hers with surprising strength, as if he were anchoring himself to her, to this impossible girl who had descended from nowhere and made the sun itself move.
I got you. The words echoed in his mind. No one had ever said that to him. No one had ever meant it.
Margarethe led them through a side door and into a narrow servants' corridor, the walls close enough to touch on both sides. The passage smelled of beeswax and old stone, of secrets kept too long and whispers never meant for noble ears. The older maid moved with surprising speed despite her cough, her worn shoes making no sound on the flagstones, her eyes darting to check for eavesdroppers at each intersection.
They passed through kitchens where servants froze at their approach, through storerooms stacked with barrels of wine and sacks of grain, past armories where racks of spears gleamed in the torchlight. Then they turned a corner and passed through a vaulted chamber that made Hallah stop walking.
The royal treasury.
Gold gleamed in the torchlight—coins stacked in neat columns, plates and goblets and artifacts that caught the light and threw it back in dizzying patterns. Hallah found herself calculating automatically, her smith's mind assessing weight and value. One gold plate would buy twenty forge-hammers. One goblet would feed a family for a month. The display before her represented more wealth than Sovringard had seen in a generation, and it was just sitting here, locked away, while people starved in the lower districts.
"Little flame," her father murmured, his hand on her shoulder, reading her thoughts. "Don't."
She nodded, jaw tight, and moved on.
They climbed a spiral staircase, the steps worn concave by centuries of feet. Hallah counted the turns—fifteen, sixteen, seventeen—memorizing the route without conscious thought. Bear's habit. Always know your exits. The air grew colder as they ascended, the
stone walls sweating condensation that made the steps slick. Her breath fogged in the dim light of the wall sconces.
At the twentieth turn, they encountered the captain from the gate—the silver-templed man who'd waved them through. He stood aside to let them pass, and as Hallah drew level with him, he nodded—not the half-bow of a noble to a commoner, but the respectful acknowledgment of one warrior to another.
"My lady," he said quietly. "The guard barracks are on the third level, should you wish to train. I will inform the men."
Hallah nodded back, surprised. "You got a name, Captain?"
"Garrett, my lady. Captain Garrett."
"I'll remember it."
They walked in silence until the sounds of the throne room faded completely, replaced by the distant clatter of kitchens and the whisper of servants going about their duties. Until they were deep in the residential wings, where the torches were spaced farther apart and the shadows pooled like ink.
It was Lucan who broke the silence, his voice small and cracked. "Your sword. Is it... is it heavy?"
Hallah looked down at him. The boy was staring at Gold Rush's hilt with something like fascination, his fear momentarily forgotten in the presence of a new mystery. His eyes were wide behind his cracked lenses, and she realized with a start that they were blue—pale blue, like the sky over Anchorage in winter.
"Not to me," she said. "Paladin strength. But it'd be heavy to you. Want to see?"
He nodded, eyes wide.
She stopped walking, drew the blade carefully, and held it out horizontally. The steel gleamed in the torchlight, the edge catching the flame and throwing it back in dancing patterns.
"Gold Rush," she said. "Named her myself. She's a bastard sword—hand-and-a-half. Longer than a normal blade, but I can use her one-handed because of the strength."
"It's beautiful," Lucan whispered. He reached out, tentative, and brushed his fingertips against the wire-wrapped hilt—not the blade, but the handle, cool and solid and real. His touch was feather-light, reverent, as if he were touching something sacred. "I've only ever read about swords. In books. I've never... I've never seen one up close. Not like this."
"You'll see plenty now," Hallah said, sheathing the blade. "I'm gonna be around. And I'm gonna teach you, if you want. Not the sword—don't think your father would like that—but how to hold one. How to stand. So you're not afraid."
"I'm always afraid," Lucan admitted, the words barely audible. But he didn't look away from her, and his hand, when it fell back to his side, brushed against hers again, seeking contact.
"Yeah," Hallah said. "Me too. But I do it anyway."
Margarethe stopped at a corner where two corridors met, glanced both ways, then turned to Brant. "I shouldn't say this," she whispered, her voice barely audible over her wheezing breath. She pressed her fist against her mouth, stifling another cough, her eyes bright with fever or fear. "But your daughter... she's done something significant. Something dangerous."
"How do you mean?" Brant asked, his hand resting protectively on Hallah's shoulder. Eira stepped closer, her healer's eyes assessing the maid's pallor, the sheen of sweat on her forehead.
The maid leaned closer, her voice dropping to a thread. "The Second Prince is His Majesty's favorite. Has been since the boy was born. The Queen... she saw it. The King's face when he held Lucan. Not the Crown Prince. Never Aldric." She paused, her eyes haunted. "The King has been unhappy with the Crown Prince for years—worried his son is following a path of darkness, like he once did."
She turned to Hallah, her expression shifting to something like awe mixed with terror. "You did the one thing that could earn you the King's true favor. You stood up for his timid son. Protected him when no one else would." Her hand shot out, gripping Hallah's wrist with surprising strength. "You should know—the maid was executed for treason an hour ago. Althea. They found she'd been passing information to the Crown Prince's faction for months. She didn't just stand by out of fear... she was complicit. She was paid to look away, to report when the Second Prince was alone. Vulnerable."
Hallah felt the blood drain from her face. The complicated mercy she'd felt for Althea—the doubt, the wondering if she'd been too harsh—curdled in her stomach like sour milk. "She was working with Aldric?"
"Watching for weakness," Margarethe confirmed, releasing her grip. She smoothed her apron with shaking hands. "Reporting his routines. His fears. She told them about the books he liked, the places he hid when the Crown Prince was angry." Her voice dropped even lower, barely a breath. "She told them he was afraid of the dark. That's how they knew where to find him. When to hurt him."
Lucan made a small sound—a wounded noise like a kicked dog—and pressed closer to Hallah's side. She felt his tears soaking through her tabard, his small frame shaking against her hip. But even through his fear, his hand found hers again, lacing their fingers together with desperate strength.
She's warm, Lucan thought, the observation breaking through his terror. She's warm and she smells like the forge and she's real and she chose me.
"The King knows you didn't know," Margarethe continued. "But he wanted you to understand—the mercy you showed her would have been wasted. She was already dead the moment you arrived. The only question was which charge would kill her."
They walked the rest of the way in silence, the weight of the revelation settling on Hallah's shoulders like a lead cloak. Althea hadn't just been broken—she'd been bought. And Hallah had punched the Crown Prince in front of the entire court, marked herself as enemy to a man who'd already proven he could turn servants into spies and brothers into tormentors.
The corridors grew wider as they climbed, the stonework finer, the tapestries more elaborate. They passed doors of polished oak and iron, each marked with symbols Hallah didn't recognize. The air smelled of lavender and beeswax now, of wealth and secrets.
"Here," Margarethe said finally, stopping before a heavy oak door banded with iron. The wood was dark with age, the metal fittings worn smooth by centuries of use. She produced a heavy iron key from her apron pocket, her fingers trembling as she unlocked the door. "The Paladin's quarters. And the guest chambers for your parents, Forge-master."
She pushed the door open, revealing a suite of rooms that made Hallah's breath catch. A sitting room with a fireplace already lit, tapestries depicting battles she didn't recognize, furniture that looked like it cost more than her father's forge. Beyond, doors led to separate chambers—a bedroom with a bed large enough for three of her, draped in velvet the color of wine, a washroom with a copper tub big enough to swim in, a window seat overlooking the city spread out like a toy below.
It was beautiful. It was terrifying. It was a cage with velvet lining.
Hallah thought of the forge in Sovringard, of the cramped room she'd shared with her parents, of the honest smell of coal and iron. This place felt wrong—too soft, too pretty, too much like accepting she belonged here.
"Rest," Margarethe said, handing Brant the key. "The King will send for you when he's ready."
She turned to leave, then paused, her hand on the doorframe. "My lady Paladin? The Crown Prince has a long memory. And he knows you chose." She looked back once, her eyes meeting Hallah's. "Be careful in the dark. The palace has eyes."
Margarethe disappeared down the corridor, her footsteps fading into the stone until only the echo of her cough remained.
Hallah stood in the doorway of the Paladin's quarters, her hand still clutching Lucan's, and felt the weight of the castle settle around her like a shroud. Her parents moved past her into the rooms, Brant checking for exits with the same methodical care he brought to checking a horse's shoes, Eira running her hands over the furniture as if assessing it for hidden dangers.
But Hallah didn't move. She looked at Lucan—this small, bruised boy who was his father's favorite, who had a monster for a brother and a palace full of spies for a home. This boy who cried silently, his tears tracking through the blood on his face, his hand still clutching hers like she was the only real thing in a world of shadows.
He was looking at her like she was the sun. Like she was the answer to every prayer he'd never dared to speak. His eyes were wide and blue and utterly devoted, and Hallah felt the weight of that devotion settle on her shoulders alongside everything else.
"Well," she said, her voice rough in the quiet hallway. She squeezed his hand once, hard enough to feel the bones, grounding them both in the physical. "I chose. And I will ensure you're never seen as the spare again."
She met Lucan's wide, terrified, adoring eyes—eyes that had seen too much darkness, that flinched from raised hands and expected pain from every corner, that looked at her now like she was the beginning of something new.
The words hung in the air like smoke, like blood, like a promise written in the language of revolutions.
"You should be king," she said.
Behind her, she heard her father stop moving. She felt her mother's eyes on her back. But she didn't look away from Lucan, didn't take back the words, didn't pretend she hadn't meant them.
The treason was spoken.
Now they had to survive it.