CHAPTER 43: JACKALS AND LEVIATHANS

The grand pyrestone pillars of the Ember Court glowed with a constant ember-light, each one carved with runes that pulsed like veins of molten rock.

It was here that Veltharion Ignarion sat in stern silence, a heavy crown of black iron resting on his brow, as the reports piled before him.

One by one, the courtiers spoke. Their voices were sharp, clipped, heavy with fear and calculation.

"My Lord, the latest shipment from the Red Coast never arrived," one steward said, sweat beading his brow. "Three merchant galleys lost without trace. Not wreckage. Not even flotsam returned."

Another courtier leaned forward, his face pale.

"The Shivering Sea has turned against us. In the past month alone, eleven vessels have gone missing. Sailors whisper of leviathans in the deep, of storms that rise without warning, and of ghostly hands pulling men overboard."

Veltharion’s jaw tightened. His molten eyes narrowed like fissures of lava in a black stone face. "Superstition," he spat, but even he could not ignore the numbers before him.

The parchment tally was undeniable: profits cut by half, grain shipments stalled, iron imports delayed. His armies, the very foundation of Ignarion power, bled gold with every lost vessel.

And even then those Armies were desperately trying to restore their former glory with their loses suffered in the Siege of Dawnhaven.

A merchant prince of the court bowed low, his tone measured, cautious.

"With Dawnhaven beyond our reach, and with our Ashlands producing little sustenance of their own, my Lord... we depend on the sea. If this continues, the people will starve before the year is out. Already, prices have doubled. Riots smolder."

Another voice, a younger noble, bold enough to risk Veltharion’s wrath, ventured forward.

"Could this be no accident? Could another power be guiding the sea against us? The timing, the precision, these are not natural disasters."

Murmurs followed, hushed yet urgent. Some whispered of sea-elves. Others of ancient Naga.

A spectral race from the ghost stories of sailors, of which no confirmed sighting had ever been seen.

Or at least so far as the human Magi were concerned.

Veltharion raised a hand, and silence fell like an axe.

"Whether it is storm or sabotage, witchcraft or mere chance, it matters little," he growled. His voice carried the weight of molten stone.

"The world must not see House Ignarion as crippled. If the sea denies us, we shall bleed the land instead. We will tighten our grip on trade routes over the Ashroads. We will levy higher tariffs. And we will scour our coasts of whatever filth dares prey upon our ships."

The courtiers bowed, but unease lingered in their eyes.

For though Veltharion dismissed it aloud, a single question gnawed at the Ember Court like a rat at grain:

Who had turned the sea itself against House Ignarion?

The Ember Court adjourned in silence, but silence did not reign for long in the Human Realms.

Word of Ignarion’s failing sea trade flowed as swiftly as the tides themselves.

Sailors carried whispers from port to port, merchants gossiped in market squares, and by the time the month ended, every Magus House of significance had heard the same tale:

House Ignarion bleeds upon the water.

---

Within the gilded chambers of House Marvik, Lord Erydan listened to the report with an amused smile.

"Eleven ships lost, perhaps more? Mmm. Veltharion is too proud to admit it, but he faces an enemy he cannot fight. You can’t burn the sea, no matter how much fire you conjure."

His advisors chuckled, some cautiously, others with bold derision. For generations, Marvik had chafed beneath Ignarion’s dominance of trade and tariffs. Now at last the tide turned.

"Withdraw our grain shipments from their markets," Erydan commanded.

"If they are desperate for food, they will pay us thrice over the worth. And if not, their armies will starve. Either way, we profit."

A murmur of assent rippled through the court. Already, Marvik’s merchants licked their lips at the prospect of selling wheat to starving Ashlanders at prices fit for gold.

Far to the east, Lady Caltrisse poured over her ledgers. Unlike Marvik, she did not smile. She was too shrewd for that.

"Veltharion will grow desperate," she mused, tapping her quill against her chin.

"Desperation makes men reckless. If his pride blinds him further, he will lash out at his neighbors, and in doing so, expose his flank."

Her spymaster bowed low. "Shall I expand our agents along the Ashroads, my Lady?"

"Do so. Every riot, every hungry peasant, every tax revolt in the Ashlands, we shall stoke it. Quietly. Carefully. Let Veltharion’s own people bleed him while we sit back and watch."

Caltrisse never struck first. She preferred her prey weak, broken, and unable to resist. Ignarion’s fall would be no different.

House Serevant, ever eager for opportunity, smelled blood in the water. Their merchants met in shadowed chambers, counting coin with trembling excitement.

"Raise tariffs on iron exports," one whispered. "Veltharion cannot forge arms without our mines."

"Sever half the caravans we send them," another added, "and funnel the goods to Dawnhaven instead. Let the Ferrondels rise as Ignarion falls. It will balance the scales of power, and keep both too busy to look at us."

Their Lord approved with a quiet nod. House Serevant had no intention of fighting openly, but every intention of profiting while the lions tore at one another.

By the season’s end, Ignarion’s isolation was palpable. Prices in the Ashlands tripled. Caravans were delayed.

Riots flared in the shadow of Veltharion’s blackstone citadels, put down only with ruthless fire and lash.

Other Houses offered polite words in council, but no aid. Indeed, their courtiers whispered behind closed doors that perhaps Ignarion’s age of dominance was nearing its twilight.

And though Veltharion raged, though his voice thundered across the Ember Court that no fire could extinguish the might of his House, the truth smoldered quietly beneath the ash:

The jackals had scented blood. And each day, they grew bolder.