Eryshae

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Ruwan

The Court's stone walls echoed with a quiet tension as Chief Corven stood at the head of the chamber. A few advisors sat nearby, watching in silence. A judge presided formally, his expression unreadable. Herbalist Myrtle stood on the marble floor below them, her hands folded neatly in front of her apron.

Chief Corven's gaze remained hard. "State your findings, Herbalist."

Myrtle bowed her head respectfully. "Chief Corven, my investigation into the tea remnants and Vael's condition was thorough. However…" She hesitated, lips tightening. "My findings were inconclusive. The samples were irregular, and I was unable to identify a specific alchemical agent. There is no solid proof to determine the source or cause beyond speculation."

A murmur passed between a few of the advisors. The judge raised a hand to quiet them. Myrtle shook her head. "There are no consistent symptoms to support the claim of poison, Your Honor. She clearly suspected Ruwan, yes, but not poison by anything I can name." Corven's jaw flexed as he listened. "So we are left with mystery and shadows."

"No more than that," Myrtle replied softly. The judge scribbled something down. "Thank you, Herbalist." Corven turned to the others. "We must consider what we do know. Vael invited Ruwan and Durnan inside while Sam is insistent that he nearly perished after being drugged by Ruwan's tea and he insists Vael was next. We cannot let the unknown fester." The room grew quiet again, the weight of uncertainty thick in the air.

Ruwan shifted in his seat. The tension in his shoulders, once buried under cultivated calm, twitched to the surface. He leaned forward slightly, lips parting.

"I…"

A slender hand touched his arm. "Don't," murmured a woman beside him.

His advocate, Silva Veradine, rose smoothly to her feet. She was tall, draped in charcoal-gray robes edged with ivory trim, her pale hair twisted into an elegant knot at the nape of her neck. Her voice rang out with clear, formal authority; measured and confident.

"If it please the Court," Silva began, her eyes flicking briefly to Chief Corven and then to the judge, "I will speak on behalf of my client." The judge gave a silent nod. Corven folded his arms, face like carved iron.

Silva took one graceful step forward. "We have just heard from the esteemed Herbalist Myrtle that the evidence in this case is, in her own words, inconclusive. The alleged poisoning lacks a confirmed agent, a consistent symptom profile, and; most crucially; an identifiable mechanism by which my client could have delivered such a substance undetected in the presence of two other parties."

She paced slowly as she spoke, each step deliberate. "Furthermore, it must be noted that Lady Vael herself extended the invitation for tea. There was no forced entry. No ambush. No coercion. My client and his father entered the Court as guests; welcomed, not infiltrators. That context must not be ignored."

She pivoted toward the seated advisors, voice rising ever so slightly. "To suggest criminal intent from a gesture as commonplace as sharing tea is speculative at best, and dangerously prejudicial at worst. Are we now in the business of prosecuting on feelings? On glances? On vague suspicions from those emotionally entangled?"

A few advisors shifted uncomfortably. Corven's scowl deepened.

"And let us not forget," Silva continued, "that the very individual accusing Lord Ruwan of this so-called attempt; the Vice-Chief, Samuel; is himself uniquely bonded to Lady Vael in both spirit and sentiment. His testimony, while undoubtedly heartfelt, is not impartial. He is her lover, her protector. His instincts are fierce, and admirable. But that does not make him correct."

Ruwan sat back, the tension ebbing slightly beneath her words.

Silva turned toward Chief Corven now, her gaze level. "Chief Corven, you are known across the lands as a man of principle and discernment. You do not move on rumor. You do not condemn without clarity. Today, we have no clarity. We have conjecture and contradiction. And my client; a nobleman, a scholar, a man with years of unblemished service to the realm; is being shadowed by accusation without evidence."

She placed both hands behind her back. "Justice demands more than fear and implication. And unless you are prepared to overturn every precedent of this Court, I respectfully request my client's full release and exoneration."

The room fell into silence.

Even Myrtle, who had returned to her quiet place at the back of the chamber, looked uncertain. The judge cleared his throat. "Chief Corven?"

Corven said nothing at first. Then: "You make a compelling case, Advocate Veradine." He turned his gaze toward Ruwan, eyes sharp. "But know this: should further proof arise, or should the winds of treachery stir again, the Court will not hesitate to revisit these proceedings."

He looked to the judge. "Let the record show that Lord Ruwan Eberflame is released from custody. No charges will be filed at this time." The judge nodded once and banged the gavel.

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Silva inclined her head with flawless restraint. Ruwan exhaled slowly, his hand flexing over the dark-veined ring on his finger. As the murmurs resumed, Silva leaned close to him, voice low and controlled. "You were seconds from ruining everything," she said without looking at him. "Keep that mouth shut. Or next time, I'll let them hang you."

Ruwan didn't answer.

The rain had tapered to a mist by the time Silva Veradine stepped through the heavy oak doors of the Court. Her robes were unmarked by water, thanks to a slender parasol carried by a mute servant trailing behind her. She moved with quiet precision, eyes scanning the courtyard before settling on Durnan Eberflame.

He waited beneath the edge of a stone archway, the kind that once bore crests of a family long erased from favor. The moment their eyes met, he dismissed the guards with a flick of his fingers.

"Silva," he said, voice low. "You performed beautifully." She gave him a look like polished marble; cool, unreadable. "I performed… truthfully. Or close enough."

He stepped forward, reached into the folds of his coat, and withdrew a black velvet pouch. The weight of it was evident. He placed it gently into her hand. "Your usual rate. Plus the gratitude of a very dangerous man." She didn't look inside. She never did. She tucked it into her belt and nodded once. "Ruwan nearly unraveled it."

"I know," Durnan said quietly. "But he's learning." A few paces away, Ruwan stood at the edge of the courtyard, rain still clinging to his hair. He didn't turn, but Silva's gaze flicked to him once, sharp as a blade. "He's reckless," she said. "He's becoming useful," Durnan replied. "And I have plans for him." Silva arched a brow, then offered a rare half-smile. "You always do."

Ruwan stood in the rain-washed courtyard outside the Court. His cloak clung to him. The ring pulsed again; subtler now. He felt a presence beside him before the voice came. "You'll report to Emberhold," Durnan said, stepping up behind him. "We've been too reactive. It's time to control the narrative again." Ruwan turned slightly. "You're sending me away?"

"I'm deploying you. You'll take control of our contacts. Some still owes us blood. The merchant guilds in the eastern quarter have grown fat and careless. Sam and Vael will reach for them soon. Cut the fingers before they close a fist." Ruwan's jaw flexed. "And if they come after Emberhold next?"

"Then make it a graveyard," Durnan said simply. "But quiet. Strategic. Emberhold must become essential. Invaluable. Make them need us more than they fear us." Ruwan nodded slowly. Rain beaded off his shoulders. The fog clung low, wrapping the cobblestones like a secret. "When do I leave?"

"Tonight."

Ruwan exhaled. The weight in his chest lifted slightly. The game hadn't ended; it had simply changed boards. He turned, met his father's gaze. "I won't fail," he said. Durnan's expression was unreadable. But beneath the cold mask, something sparked; approval, perhaps. Or calculation. "See that you don't." As he stepped towards Silva.

Durnan glanced once toward his son, then back at her. His voice dropped further. "I'm sending him to Emberhold. Away from here. But you," he offered his arm now, smooth as a practiced diplomat, "have earned an evening of something finer than strategy and shadow." Silva's lips twitched. "Are you offering me a drink or a confession?"

"Neither," Durnan said, his eyes cold with emberlight. "Just the temporary illusion of pleasure before we resume the war." She took his arm. "Then lead well, General."

Their footsteps echoed gently over the wet stone as they turned down the lantern-lit corridor that led to the lower levels of the Court; where the servants had been dismissed early, and a bottle of red ashwine already waited.

The candlelight flickered low in the underground chamber, casting long, warped shadows across the stone walls like ghosts too tired to scream. Ruwan stood alone at the obsidian table, hands clasped behind his back. His robes hung like ink in motion.

Before him, the map was spread wide. A battlefield of carved figures. Tiny lives. Painted fates. A red token marked the last reported location of the convoy. He reached forward, finger trailing across parchment until it paused at a narrow valley flanked by forest. He tapped it once.

Twice.

"Perfect."

Behind him, the iron door creaked open. "You're late," Ruwan said, without turning. "My lord." The voice was gravel over broken glass; gritty, sharp, and used to killing. A man in piecemeal armor stepped into the glow. His hood cast his face in shadow, but a jagged burn cut across one cheek, gleaming in the firelight. He bowed low. "We waited for the patrol to pass. No trouble."

"Good." Ruwan finally turned. His eyes were pale glass. Reflective. Empty. "The convoy camps tonight. They feel safe." He plucked a blue-striped soldier token from the table, held it between two fingers… and flicked it to the stone floor. It clattered, spun, and settled on its side.

"They aren't." From the shadows, a second figure emerged. Mira; lean, knife-laced, eyes lined with soot and hunger. She moved like a whisper before a scream. "You'll lead the infiltration," Ruwan said without glancing. "Kill the sentries. Stack them. Make it quiet. Make it unsettling."

"And if they see us early?" Mira's voice was the creak of rope in wind. "Burn the tents," he replied. "Set the raccoons loose. Let chaos blind them. Take the supplies. Take the mounts. Leave the rest to the fire."

He turned back toward them, gaze hardening. "I want the green-haired woman; Princess Vael; alive. Shackled. Dragged. She comes to me."

Mira gave a sharp nod. "Alive." Ruwan's eyes drifted toward the map again. "And the Vice-Chief…" Ruwan's voice cooled. "No mercy. No capture. No second chances."

He stepped back from the table, speaking now like a blade pressed behind a silk curtain: "This is the first step to a true Eryshae Tribe. The chamber held still. Even the candle seemed to lean away from him.

"Is that clear?" he asked.

"Clear," they echoed.

Ruwan placed his hand gently on the red convoy token. He traced a slow circle around it… then crushed it beneath his fist. A fine dust drifted over the map. He exhaled once, like it was already done.

Ruwan stood at the edge of the overlook, high above the valley where the convoy slept beneath the trees. From this height, the campfires looked like dying stars. Small. Flickering. Unaware.

The wind tugged at his cloak, cold with the scent of pine and wet soil. Behind him, Mira and the others prepared their approach. Below, the night crept steadily toward blood. He didn't watch the camp. He didn't need to. He'd already played this scene a hundred times behind his eyes.

Sam. The Vice-Chief with bark on his arms and something stubborn in his spine. He was supposed to be a footnote. A disposable fool. But somehow, he'd become a symbol. A shield. A name whispered with pride.

No more. Ruwan's fingers curled slightly. "I want to see the light leave his eyes," he murmured to no one. "I want him broken before the end. I want him to know he failed."

And Vael. He closed his eyes briefly. Her face flickered behind his lids; proud, clever, unyielding. She had been a challenge. A fascination. Almost something else. He would have her bound in silence, chained before him, not as a lover or rival; but as proof. That even a star could be dimmed.

"I will not kill her," he whispered. "Not yet. Not until she begs to be spared the choice." The wind howled once between the trees. He opened his eyes. Down in the valley, the first torch was snuffed out. Silent. Efficient. The game had begun. Ruwan smiled; slow, cold. "Let them burn."