CHAPTER 58: LYRIA CITY V

By sundown, the story had reached every corner of Lyria. From the perfume-soaked parlors of the aristocracy to the damp cellars where the city’s rats in human skin played at cards, the message was the same—Fenric Vareldis did not bluff.

In the taverns, the usual raucous music played softer. Even the bards chose their ballads carefully, replacing tales of scandal with safe, predictable legends of long-dead heroes. No one wanted their tongue to be the next trophy on the city gates.

Fenric, meanwhile, had not left his office since the execution. The scent of ink and old parchment clung to the air, mingling faintly with the metallic tang that still seemed to follow him after every killing. A dozen maps lay spread across his desk—some political, others far more personal. Lines of movement, supply routes, names circled in red.

Aria stood at the window, watching as a patrol marched past the courtyard below. "The underground’s quiet," she said. "Too quiet."

Fenric didn’t look up. "Fear is silence, and silence is fertile ground. The roots are growing."

She turned toward him, one brow arched. "Roots of what?"

"Order," Fenric replied simply. "The kind you can’t buy with coin or command with rank. The kind that grows because people are too afraid to do otherwise."

There was a knock at the door. A young clerk stepped in, pale and nervous, holding a sealed letter. "Your Highness... this came from the palace. Urgent."

Fenric took it without ceremony, breaking the wax seal in one motion. His eyes scanned the page, the faintest curl of amusement ghosting across his lips.

"Bad news?" Aria asked.

"Not for us," he said, folding the letter neatly. "The capital thinks Lyria is a problem child. They’re sending someone to... ’assist’ me in administration."

Aria’s gaze sharpened. "An overseer?"

"A viper," Fenric corrected, his tone almost bored. "And like all vipers, it thinks itself the only one with fangs."

Outside, the wind picked up, carrying with it the distant toll of the city’s bells. Somewhere in the alleys, men who had once called themselves kings of the night now hid their faces. And beyond the walls, unseen by all, a dust-covered rider was approaching—bearing tidings that would change the city again before the week was done.

Fenric leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled, his gaze distant but calculating.

"It’s probably the Dark Empress’s ploy," he said at last. "She thinks I’m consolidating too much power here—so she sends someone to ’oversee’ me. In truth, to make sure I don’t bring the city to order."

Aria’s eyes narrowed. "If the man was sent by her, wouldn’t that mean he might try to kill you?"

Fenric’s nod was almost imperceptible. "That’s exactly what he’ll try. Most likely."

She tilted her head. "Then you’ll have to kill him first."

"Of course," Fenric said evenly. "Though... if she sent one of her own blood to do it, she’ll have a problem. If he dies without a proper reason, the rest of her family will be the first to call for her head. And she knows it."

His tone carried no bravado—just the cold certainty of a man who had already begun planning exactly how the pieces would fall.

***

The next morning broke under a sky the color of tarnished silver—heavy clouds rolling low, as if the city itself was holding its breath.

The palace rider arrived at the northern gate just after sunrise, his black stallion lathered in sweat, the imperial crest on his cloak drawing stares from soldiers and citizens alike. Word traveled faster than hoofbeats; by the time he reached the lord’s manor, half of Lyria already knew an envoy had come from the capital.

Fenric was still at his desk when the doors to the audience hall swung wide. The man who entered was tall, lean, and dressed in the deep crimson of the Imperial Court Guard—a color reserved for those who served directly under the royal family. His hair was black and sharp as ink strokes, his expression unreadable.

"Your Highness Fenric Vareldis," the envoy said, voice smooth but carrying a subtle weight. "I am Lord Kareth Vion, here by decree of the Empress to assist in the governance of Lyria."

Aria stood to the side, her hand resting loosely on the hilt of her sword, eyes flicking between the two men.

Fenric rose slowly, deliberately, as if testing how much silence the envoy could tolerate before speaking. "Assist," he repeated, his tone mild. "That’s an interesting word."

Kareth’s smile was the kind that never reached the eyes. "In troubled cities, the line between governance and rebellion can blur. My presence ensures it does not."

"That’s a polite way of saying ’watchdog,’" Fenric said, stepping down from the dais. "And we both know what watchdogs do when they think they’ve found a wolf."

Aria spoke up then, her voice cool. "Sometimes they bite first... and end up swallowing a blade for their trouble."

Kareth’s gaze slid toward her, unflinching, before returning to Fenric. "The Empress hopes you will... value my counsel. It would be unwise not to."

Fenric’s smile was slow, dangerous. "And I hope you’ll value my hospitality. It would be unwise not to."

The air between them felt like a drawn bowstring—taut, humming, one wrong word away from release.

From somewhere deep in the manor, a bell tolled, announcing the hour. Fenric gestured toward the long table at the side of the hall. "Come. We’ll dine. In Lyria, we prefer to feed our guests before we decide whether to kill them."

Kareth’s lips twitched, just barely, before he followed.

The dining hall of the manor was all polished marble and shadowed alcoves, the flicker of torchlight casting gold over silverware and cold steel alike. A long table stretched between them, set with roasted game, black bread, and a decanter of deep red wine that caught the firelight like liquid garnet.

Fenric sat at the head, Aria just to his right. Lord Kareth took the seat opposite her, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips as though he already knew the game being played.

Servants moved like ghosts, silent and precise, laying dishes without meeting anyone’s eyes. The air smelled faintly of rosemary and charred meat, but underneath it was the sharper, metallic scent of weapons close at hand.

Fenric raised his glass. "To Lyria—may it prosper in times of... transition."

Kareth’s glass touched his with a soft chime. "And to those strong enough to lead it." He took a sip, eyes never leaving Fenric’s.

The first half of the meal was courteous enough—safe topics, brief nods to the capital’s politics, small observations about the state of the city. But each sentence was a blade wrapped in silk.

"I’ve noticed," Kareth said casually, "that the streets here are... quieter than they were under your predecessor. Almost as if fear has taken root."

"Fear," Fenric replied, cutting into his meat, "is the best fertilizer for order. The trick is knowing when to prune."

Kareth’s smile was faint, his fork unmoving. "And when the gardener becomes too ambitious?"

"Then you replace the gardener," Fenric said, not looking up. "Or bury him under his own soil."

Aria sipped her wine, her gaze flicking between them like a duelist watching two masters circle.

When the plates were cleared, Fenric leaned back. "You’ve come a long way, Lord Kareth. Rest tonight. Tomorrow, I’ll show you how Lyria truly works."

Kareth rose smoothly, bowing his head just enough to honor the etiquette—but not enough to suggest deference. "I look forward to it."

He left with a measured stride, his red cloak trailing behind him like spilled blood.

"He’s not going to sleep," Aria said.

Fenric nodded. "No. Everyone knows how cold-blooded and cold-headed I am. He’ll be out there tonight, digging for anything—evidence he can twist into a case that I’m unfit to rule. Something he can use to force me back to the palace."

Aria chuckled softly. "I doubt he’ll find anything... or rather, he might just be astounded by how far the crime rate has taken a deep dive since you took over."

"Hm," Fenric mused. "Not many are foolish enough to aim at me anymore. I am, after all, the prince of the strongest empire on the continent—the Vareldis Empire. They might have the nerve to test me, but not to scare me. They know the weight my name carries... the shadow of Vareldis itself."

By the day after Sylens’s head was mounted on the gate, the truth spoke for itself—those who had once dreamed of becoming criminal lords, those who had harbored ambitions over Lyria, had either fled the city entirely or buried those ambitions so deep they would never dare dig them back up.

"Besides," Fenric said, his tone almost casual, "no one can harm me unless it’s another prince or princess. The Imperial Court grants us total freedom to fight amongst ourselves—but if anyone outside dares to interfere, their end is... very brutal."

Aria cocked her head, unable to resist asking, "Then what about the Dark Empress poisoning you when you were just a baby? Why wasn’t she stopped for that?"

"It was... a kind of test," Fenric replied, his eyes narrowing slightly. "To see if I was even worthy of being considered part of the real game. When I was weak—when I posed no threat—no one cared. I wasn’t fit to be a contender for the next throne."

His faint smile carried no warmth, only a cold certainty. "But now... now that I’m healed, I’m eligible to enter the race. And that means I’m entitled to every privilege the others enjoy."