Chapter 6 Through the City Gates

The gates of Ebonhold rose like teeth from the earth tall, jagged obsidian veined with red iron, scorched black at the tips where old siege fires had licked and failed.

Caelen rode with his hood up and posture straight, the forged wax seal of House Vaelric tucked neatly in his satchel, its ink still smelling faintly of fresh oil. Beside him, a hired courier thin, sun pocked, and well paid to speak only when spoken to held the reins of a mule stacked with travel trunks. The city guard, dressed in steel trimmed with rust, barely glanced at their sigils before waving them through.

No one questioned the name.

The first breath inside the walls felt heavier than it should.

Ebonhold was a city built to intimidate: spires of blackened stone and arched bridges twisting overhead like ribs. The streets were crowded but silent. Vendors hawked nothing. Children played with no laughter. Every corner had a watchtower. Every watchtower had a pike with something still rotting on it.

Caelen kept his gaze forward.

They passed under banners fluttering above: the crowned lion of the old king now paired awkwardly with the Thorn Rose Queen Isolde's new sigil. The threadwork looked recent, as if sewn in haste to erase what came before.

The deeper they went, the more the illusion of grandeur unraveled. Fountains cracked and dry. Noble mansions boarded at the upper floors. A line of women queued for grain beneath a marble statue whose face had been chiseled off.

"Strange place," the courier muttered. Caelen gave him a look that ended the conversation.

They turned toward the High Quarter, where the cobblestone shifted to polished slate and the stink of boiled roots gave way to incense and rose oil. Here, armored footmen swept doorsteps and gilded lanterns burned even at noon.

Their destination was a narrow, ivy-strangled manor perched between two merchant houses. It had a single brass plaque reading Vaelric House in crisp, new lettering. The estate was too small to be grand, too ornate to be forgotten. Precisely the kind of place one might give a noble family with just enough prestige to be useful but not enough to threaten.

Caelen dismounted slowly, handing his reins to a servant who bowed without making eye contact. His boots struck the stone path. The ivy brushed his shoulder as he stepped toward the door, his shadow stretching long behind him.

Inside, the air was perfumed with dried citrus and beeswax. A fire crackled. The furnishings were fine velvet chairs, carved paneling, a harp that hadn't been played in decades. It smelled like someone else's memory.

A woman approached a steward in dove gray livery. "My lord," she said with a bow, "we are honored to receive you. Her Majesty's court has been informed of your arrival. You are expected at the Twilight Gathering in two days' time."

Caelen nodded once. "Have my seal delivered to the palace registrar."

"Yes, my lord."

"Unpack only what's necessary. Burn the rest."

The steward hesitated, but bowed again. "As you wish."

Caelen climbed the staircase to the study overlooking the garden. The window glass was warped, and through it he could see the city stretch outward broken towers, torchlight, a river choked in fog. The sun was gone now. Just the glow of fires and cold moonlight.

He rested one hand on the window frame, fingers trailing the warped lead between panes.

There were no sounds of birds.

No laughter from the streets.

Just the long, watching hush of a city that had seen too much and trusted nothing.