"Vellam," Kenric says softly, and there’s a pity in his voice that is sharper than any blade I own. "You still don't understand, do you?"
"Understand what? It’s a fortune! More than you’ll make from this pit in a year!"
Kenric leans in, his voice dropping to a level that only a human, or a very attentive Fey, could hear. "I don't have a 'vote' in your penance, Vellam. And even if I did, you’re trying to bribe the man who has to live with the woman you just called a monster."
Kenric glances over his shoulder at me. Our eyes meet. He gives me a faint, wry smile, the look of a man who knows exactly what kind of fire he’s married to.
"But more importantly," Kenric continues, turning back to the Earl, "you aren't alone here. Look at the shadows behind you, Vellam. Do you feel that sudden chill?"
The wind picks up, a sharp, unnatural gust that smells of ozone and old, wet earth. It’s the Night-Walkers I’ve bound to the shaft. They aren't visible yet, but they are curious. They can smell the greed on him like rotting meat.
Vellam stiffens. The velvet pouch slips from his fingers, hitting the grey dust with a soft thud.
"They don't take rubies," I call out from the carriage, my voice carrying that predatory chime that makes the miners cross themselves. "They take time. And effort. And occasionally, the toes of people who don't keep their promises."
I step into the carriage and hold out a hand for Kenric.
"Keep the gems, Overseer," I say, as Kenric climbs in beside me. "You’ll need something to look at during the long nights. Just remember: the darker it gets, the more they like things that sparkle."
As the carriage pulls away, I look through the small rear window. Vellam is standing in the middle of the road, the "energetic" curse forcing him to start pacing in tight, frantic circles. Behind him, the shadows of the mine entrance seem to stretch out, elongated and hungry, reaching for his heels.
He doesn't scream. Not yet. He’s too busy trying to remember how to breathe.
"He tried to bribe you," I muse, leaning my head on Kenric’s shoulder.
"He did," Kenric sighs. "He offered me the Codegorian coast in a velvet bag."
"And?"
Kenric kisses the top of my head, his hand finding mine in the dark of the carriage. "I told him I already have everything I want. And unlike him, I actually plan on sleeping tonight."
The gates of the Dobile palace don't open; they groan, as if the stone itself is reluctant to let the North back in.
We roll into the courtyard with a rhythmic clatter that draws every idle eye from the balconies. The air here is thick and heavy with the scent of damp stone and the desperate, cloying perfume of people who think importance is something you can spray on.
I step out first. I’ve been gone for five days, but in court time, that’s long enough for the vultures to have convinced themselves we’ve failed. I wear my midnight-blue silk like a second skin, my glamour pulled so tight it feels like a wire. Behind me, the girls emerge. Sarah, Elin, and Rho don't scurry. They walk with their spines straight, draped in the "armor" Jagger fashioned for them.
Then comes the wagon.
Kenric’s men, led by a young sergeant who looks like he hasn't slept since we left Silver Peak, flank the iron-bound chest. Beside them stands my Honor Guard. They don't breathe the way humans do. They don't shift their weight. They simply exist, seven statues in lacquered armor, their eyes tracking the movement on the balconies with the terrifying precision of hawks.
King Oskar is already halfway down the stairs, flanked by Duke Webbe and a cluster of advisors. He looks like a man who has been holding his breath for a week.
"Kenric! Víl?!" Oskar bellows, his voice echoing off the stone. "You’ve been gone long enough for the weeds to take my garden. Tell me you bring the weight of the world in that wagon!"
Kenric steps forward, his hand resting easily on the hilt of his sword. He bows, and it's the perfect, measured bow of an Earl who knows he is the only thing keeping the King’s treasury from collapsing. "The North is waking up, Your Majesty. It is a slow process, but a certain one."
He gestures. His men and my guard work together to haul the chest to the foot of the stairs. It hits the paving stones with a heavy, metallic thunk that makes the nearest advisor jump. One of my guards flips the lid.
The silver is beautiful. It’s raw, jagged, and carries that faint, ethereal shimmer unique to the Silver Peak. It has a glow that suggests it’s made of frozen moonlight rather than mere earth. But as Oskar stares into the chest, his face turns a dangerous, mottled purple.
"This is it?" Oskar’s voice is a low, vibrating growl. He reaches in and hoists a ten-pound bar, his fingers trembling. "A hundred pounds? Maybe a hundred and twenty? I let you leave Dobile, I gave you the title, I ignored the screams of my council… and you return with a pittance?"
"It is a proof of concept, Sire," Kenric says, his voice as cool as a mountain stream. "The deep shafts were filled with... obstructions. My wife and I had to clear them before a single miner could safely swing a pick. We have established the line. The rest will follow."
"I don't want a concept!" Oskar shouts, slamming the silver bar back into the chest. The sound rings out like a gunshot. "I want a ton! I have mercenaries at my door demanding pay and a navy that’s half-rotted! You've been gone for days! You should have had them digging by torchlight until their hands bled!"
"They are digging, Oskar," I say, stepping forward. I don't use magic, but I let the Killing Wind sit in my voice, a cold, melodic edge that makes the King’s own guards shift their feet. "Under the direct supervision of the new Overseer, Earl Vellam. He is finding the work quite... stimulating."
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At the mention of Vellam, a ripple of uneasy whispers goes through the Dukes. They know Vellam didn't come back.
"A ton in five days is a fairy tale, even for me," I continue, meeting the King’s eyes until his own shift away. "We have secured the site. We have proven the purity. The silver will flow, but the earth does not move for a King’s tantrum."
The court gasps. No one speaks to Oskar like that. But then, no one else is providing him with the only currency that matters.
"It is a meager showing," Duke Webbe sneers from the top of the stairs. He looks down at Rho, a predatory smirk touching his lips. "Perhaps the 'Fey Princess' found the management of a real mine too taxing for her delicate hands? Or perhaps the Finstaads are simply keeping the best for their own vaults?"
Stephen steps out from behind Webbe, looking impeccable and bored. He doesn't look at the silver. He looks at Rho, his tongue flicking over his lip as if he’s already imagining her in a kennel.
"If the Bank cannot provide," Stephen drawls, "perhaps the Crown should look for more... traditional stewards for the Padma lands. Ones who don't need a week to find a handful of rocks."
I feel the Killing Wind rising in my chest, a cold, howling gale. I look at Stephen, and for a second, I let the glamour slip just enough that he sees the teeth. He flinches, his smirk wavering, but he doesn't look away. He thinks he’s safe here, in the heart of the King’s court.
Oskar sighs, the greed in his heart finally overriding his anger as he looks back at the shimmering bars. He knows they’re worth five times their weight in common silver.
"A hundred pounds," he mutters, his voice settling into a sulk. "It will buy me a month of peace. But I want the rest, Kenric. Or the title of Earl will be the shortest-lived in the history of Centis."
"Understood, Sire," Kenric says.
"To distract from this... disappointment," Oskar adds, looking up at the gray sky, "we shall have a Royal Hunt tomorrow. The bluffs to the East are thick with stag. I need to kill something. And since I cannot kill my Earl for his slowness, a beast will have to do."
I look at Stephen. He is leaning down now, saying something to Rho that makes her shrink toward Sarah.
"A hunt," I murmur, my voice lost in the sudden chatter of the departing court. I reach out and touch the cold iron of my guard’s hilt. "What a wonderful idea. I find I am quite hungry for one myself."
The dawn is a cold, grey smear across the sky, smelling of wet stone and the nervous energy of hounds.
In the courtyard, the nobility of Dobile is a riot of color, in their bright reds, hunter greens, and gold embroidery, as if the world isn't crumbling beneath their feet. They laugh too loudly, their breath frosting in the air. Among them, Stephen is the loudest. He is dressed in fine chamois and leather, a recurve bow slung over his shoulder. He looks like a man who believes he’s already won.
I stand by my mount, a black stallion that doesn't like humans. I am dressed in charcoal-grey leathers, practical and silent. My Honor Guard stands behind me, four shadows in the morning mist.
Kenric approaches, checking the cinch on my saddle. He doesn't look at the King. He doesn't look at the hounds. He looks only at me.
"The Ravine of Mists is the best ground for stag," Kenric says. His voice is conversational, but his eyes are steady. He is telling me where the isolation will be absolute. "The King will likely drive the main herd toward the eastern bluffs."
"And the cousins?" I ask, my hand resting on the pommel.
"Stephen will want to show off," Kenric says. He adjusts a strap on my stirrup, his fingers lingering near my boot. "He’ll break from the line to try for a solo kill. He thinks the Padma lands are his to take. He’ll want a trophy to prove it."
I lean down, my voice a breath of cold air. "I promised Eamon there would be no burial, Kenric."
"I know," he says. He doesn't flinch. He doesn't ask for mercy. He knows that as a daughter of Hloir? Aralli?, my word is a binding law of the universe. To break it would be to unravel myself. "Just make sure you’re back before the sun hits the meridian. Oskar will want to boast about the kill over lunch."
"I will be back," I promise.
The horns sound, a brassy, discordant blare that signals the start of the slaughter. The King leads the charge, a whirlwind of velvet and arrogance. Stephen follows, casting one last, lingering look at Rho, who is watching from the safety of the stone balcony. He offers her a mock salute with his bow.
He has no idea he’s saluting his own executioner.
I mount the stallion in one fluid motion. I don't follow the hounds. I move to the flank, blending into the treeline. My Honor Guard melts away into the mist, they know their role. They will ensure no stray page or curious knight wanders into the Ravine until I am done.
The Royal Hunt is a cacophony of barking hounds and the rhythmic thrum of hooves against the damp forest floor. King Oskar is in the lead, shouting jokes to Duke Webbe, his ego inflated by the mere promise of the silver shipment currently sitting in his vaults.
I drop back. It is easy to do; a Princess is expected to tire, to find the pace of a true chase too much for her delicate constitution. Kenric catches my eye as I slow my mount. I give him a single, sharp nod. He knows. He turns his attention back to the King, becoming a wall of polite conversation that ensures no one looks behind them.
For the humans, it is a game of noise and blood. For me, it is the fulfillment of a contract. I track the scent of Stephen’s horse, a pampered, nervous creature that is already lathering in the damp air. I move through the brush, my stallion's hooves silent on the moss, a Lawful Fey moving toward a debt that is already overdue. One I'm ready to put paid on.
Now, I am Kili Uin, the Killing Wind.
I slide from my saddle while the horses are still moving, blending into the shadows of a massive oak before my mount even realizes I’m gone. I don't need a horse. I run. My boots barely touch the moss. The air in my lungs is sweet, and the magic under my skin hums a war-song I haven't sung since I left Imelenora. I track Stephen by the scent of his fear, a sour, metallic smell that cuts through the pine and damp earth.
He has separated from the main group, lured by a glimpse of white fur I’d projected into his peripheral vision moments ago. He thinks he’s hunting a trophy.
The hunt is on.
I see him now. He’s broken away from Webbe, heading deep into the bluffs, exactly as Kenric predicted. He wants to be the hero. He wants to return with a stag and a claim.
I let a single, low-frequency hum escape my throat, a Fey call that mimics the sound of a dying fawn.
Stephen stops. He reaches for an arrow. He thinks he’s found his prize.
"The Ravine of Mists is beautiful this time of year, Stephen," I whisper into the wind, letting the magic carry the words so they seem to come from the very bark of the oaks surrounding him.
He spins, his bow half-drawn. "Who’s there? Víl?? Is that you?"
I don't answer. I just let him see a flash of violet eyes in the shadows.
The chase has begun. And in these woods, there is only one law that matters: The Killing Wind always collects.
He kicks his horse into a faster gait, seeing to outrun me. Fool of a man.
I let him see me. Really see me.
Not as a Princess. I drop the glamour. I move past him, a blur of leather and violet light, flashing through the trees, keeping pace with his panicked stallion. He looks to his left, and his eyes bulge. I am keeping pace with a galloping horse on foot, my expression as calm as a frozen lake.
"Run, Stephen," I whisper. The wind carries my voice directly into his ear, despite the thundering hooves. "You told Rho she was a dog. Let us see if you can outrun a wolf."
He screams, hauling on the reins, but I flick a finger. A spark hits the horse’s flank. The beast bolts, terrified, and Stephen loses all control. He isn't riding anymore; he’s clinging to the mane as the forest becomes a vertical maze of gray bark and reaching thorns.
I herd him as surely as a sheepdog herds its flock. I know exactly where I want him to go. His horse flees from the terrors I've projected into its mind. The only open path is the place I want Stephen to find.
Every time he tries to steer back toward the King’s horns, I appear in the brush, a flash of teeth and predatory eyes. I drive him toward the limestone bluffs, toward the place where the earth is old, and the stone is soft.
The horse finally lathers and trips in a shallow creek. Stephen tumbles into the mud, his fine silks tearing, his hat lost. He scrambles up, sobbing, looking around wildly.
I am standing ten feet away, perched atop a fallen log. I haven't even broken a sweat. I smile, showing all my teeth.
Today's notes brought to you by the infamous Fey bard, Ashenleaf Brightnote, Chronicler of Courtly Catastrophes.
Oh. OH.
Chapter 145 didn’t just escalate—it took the elevator all the way to the penthouse, kicked in the door, and threw Stephen out the window.
Let’s savor it:
Vellam really tried it.
He reached into his little velvet pouch like:
“Kenric, my dude, wanna betray your wife for beach property?”
And Kenric, bless this granite?solid man, looked at him with the pity you reserve for raccoons stuck in pantry drawers.
Meanwhile the Night-Walkers lurked behind Vellam like:
“Is that guilt we smell? Or fear? Or both? Delicious.”
Truly, a gourmet moment.
Our girl didn’t just punish Vellam.
She curated an experience.
A multimedia presentation titled:
“Actions Have Consequences: An Immersive Haunting Exhibit.”
Highlights include:
- A productivity curse
- Haunted nights
- Toe-loss threats (lighthearted!)
- And a reminder that gems are basically Night-Walker cat toys
Vellam is, at this point, a man being gently marinated for character development.
Oskar sees the silver chest and immediately goes through:
- Hope
- Disappointment
- Rage
- Bargaining
- More sweating
The man is basically a human teakettle:
shaky handle, low whistle, might explode if provoked.
He really said:
“My entire treasury is dying, but also why aren’t you bringing me a mountain of silver in five days?”
Sir.
Please calm down before you rupture something.
Stephen: “I’m going to intimidate the child again.”
Víl?: “Bold choice. Wrong choice. Final choice.”
He gives Rho a little mocking salute like he isn’t about to get National Geographic: Predator Becomes Prey’d.
Ah. Sweet summer monarch.
He thinks this is a recreational outing.
Meanwhile:
- Stephen thinks he’s about to earn glory
- Kenric thinks about logistics and making sure no one gets in Víl?’s way
- And Víl? is putting her hair up because murder is a sport and she wants a clean swing
Stephen, dear fool, chases an illusionary deer into a murder zone.
He hears a “dying fawn” noise, classic Fey bait.
He follows it.
Because he is stupid.
A highlight reel of his choices:
- Sees glowing eyes → continues
- Hears whispering wind → continues
- Notices he’s alone → continues
- Spots Víl? running faster than his horse → screams
This is not a hunt.
This is a cosmic invoice being collected.
The Killing Wind always gets her due.
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