632 D.E.

Malin gripped the bundle of letters in her hand. It was too thin.

For years, messengers had come to Arigel from the other kingdoms of Dalran, carrying reports and assurances to strengthen the continental alliance. Arigel sent its own messengers in return, without fail, but as the second year of her husband’s reign crawled from summer to autumn, communications grew as sparse as the leaves. Malin’s heart raced.

She took the back hallways to avoid the main corridor, which would be full of nobles and small talk she had neither the time nor patience to endure. Deep in a side hall, a thick tapestry of wild horses hung heavy in the golden light of the setting sun; Malin pushed it aside and slipped through the shrouded door behind. The private rooms inside were luxurious and fit for a korae. Her husband, Baellon, sat hunched over his desk. Already he looked a haggard monarch. Malin held out the meager bundle of letters.

“Have they all arrived?” he nervously asked as he unwrapped the leather cord to spread the letters across his desk.

Malin nodded solemnly. “All but Vysarus. Six months without a single report.”

Baellon ran a shaking hand through his hair. “The king of Vysarus is the only member of the original council still seated. He hasn’t named a successor yet. If something has happened to him—”

“Happened to him?” Malin balked in disbelief. “Baellon, the alliance is barely forty years old. He was a king without it. What makes you think he hasn’t just changed his mind?”

“Vysarus needs the other kingdoms.” Baellon gripped the arms of his chair. “Our food, our resources. Even if they did break from the alliance, Vysarus could never stand against the other six kingdoms as a united force.”

“And the rumors?” Malin spun a letter on the desk to face him. “Reports from the border kingdoms still show a steady influx of Vysarian immigrants. Small but noticeable. They’re fleeing. The question is from what.”

Baellon studied the letter.

“Conscription?” Malin suggested. If Vysarus was planning to turn against the alliance, it would need more of an army than it had ever had. One its modest population would be stretched to supply. At the edge of the desk, Baellon toyed with a small letter half buried under the stack, his head turned so he looked only near it, not at it. Malin read every letter before she delivered them to her husband’s desk—she always did—but there was one that made her blood run cold each time it was delivered. The small slip now sat at the edge of her husband’s nervously tapping finger.

“How many?” Her voice shook.

Baellon didn’t look at the letter even as he answered. “Over two hundred confirmed missing.”

Malin’s breath caught in her throat, and she raised a hand to her stomach; she wasn’t a mother yet, but the number still crushed her.

“He can’t build an army with children,” she pulled her hand away, “no matter how many he abducts. Even if he tries, it’ll take years. He can’t send children to war and hope to win.”

Thunder rumbled outside the window. Late summer always brought heavy storms from the north. Most dumped their rain in boisterous familiarity and faded away before dawn, but now there were distant storms, ones that thundered far off on the western horizon and vanished before ever drawing near. Sometimes, in the deep night when the storms swallowed the sky, the lightning almost appeared to flash red. Malin gripped the edge of the desk as thunder vibrated through the palace rafters.

Baellon turned from the letters and squeezed her hand tightly. “His people will turn against him,” he reassured her, and himself. “If he turns to madness, they will rise up. And the alliance will bring them justice.”

Malin nodded and squeezed his hand tighter as thunder echoed across the horizon.

Next Chapter: Chapter One