The great brass bells of Sol-Vaelen tolled deep into the night, their heavy bronze tongues sending tremors through the white porphyry colonnades of the Imperial Palace.
Inside the High Throne Room, the vast cedar braziers had been cleared of the Solar Concord’s holy oils, filled instead with dry mountain larch and pitch that crackled with fierce, smoky orange light. The sweet, cloying perfume of the old court was gone, replaced by the honest stench of camp leather, greased steel, and horse sweat.
Aurelia sat upon the golden dais, leaning back against the pelts of the orichalcum throne.
She had washed the soot and blood from her face and arms in a basin of rosewater brought by trembling palace chamberlains, but she refused the silks of the dead dynasty. She wore a tailored tunic of heavy black wool, laced with silver cord at the throat, her twin curved blades resting across her knees like folded wings of shadow.
At the foot of the dais stood General Kaelen, flanked by the six foremost mercenary captains of the Western Host.
Before them on the marble floor lay twelve iron-bound chests, their lids thrown back to reveal the crown jewels of the Solar Dynasty—tiaras of uncut rubies, torque necklaces of elven gold, and the royal seal-matrices of the seven imperial provinces.
"The Wall of Saints is secured, my Queen," Kaelen reported, his gravelly voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling. "The Imperial Guard in the lower docks threw down their halberds at midnight. We have five thousand spears holding the river bridges and three cohorts patrolling the merchant quarters. Not a single house has burned."
"And the treasury beneath the Grand Basilica?" Aurelia asked, her dark eyes sharp, gleaming with the pale, subterranean light of the Veil.
"Four million gold pieces, stored in ingots of four stone each," Kaelen replied, a grim smile tugging at his scarred mouth. "Enough to pay every spearman in our ranks for twenty years, with enough left over to rebuild the northern border walls from bedrock to battlement."
A heavy step resonated from the private archway behind the throne.
Malakor emerged from the shadows of the royal solar. He had stripped off his dented cuirass, wearing a fitted doublet of black leather studded with iron rivets. His dark hair was still damp from the baths, curling loosely around his broad shoulders and the thick cords of his neck. Across his chest, the jagged scars of a hundred battles were on plain display, crowned by the silver brand of their shared bloodline pulsing softly over his collarbone.
The mercenary captains stiffened in instinctive reverence, their fists striking their breastplates in a unified, iron salute: "Hail the Sovereign Lord."
Malakor did not look at the captains. He walked straight up the nine steps of the dais, his amber eyes locked entirely upon Aurelia.
He didn't take a separate chair. He moved behind the high back of the orichalcum throne, leaning forward until his large hands rested upon her shoulders, his thumbs sinking into the soft flesh between her neck and collar with firm, possessive familiarity. The radiating heat of his frame chased away the lingering draft from the vaulted ceiling, settling over her like a warm mantle.
"The courier birds from the Eastern Marches arrived an hour ago," Malakor murmured, his deep rumble vibrating through the back of her head for her ears alone.
Aurelia tilted her head back, her cheek brushing against his scarred forearm as she looked up into his fierce, unyielding gaze. "The Archduke of Val-Mora?"
"He has mobilized twenty thousand heavy horse at the River Crossing," Malakor said, his voice dropping into that dark, predatory timber that signaled a new hunt. "He claims the imperial throne by right of his mother's bloodline. He calls our victory a northern rebellion and vows to drown Sol-Vaelen in salt before winter breaks."
A low, collective rumble of anger rose from the mercenary captains at the foot of the steps.
Aurelia did not flinch. A slow, lethal smile curved the line of her lips, her hand rising to cover Malakor’s wrist, her fingers pressing into the heavy, rhythmic beat of his sovereign pulse.
"Twenty thousand horse," she whispered, her eyes flashing with pure quicksilver. "A formidable army for an archduke who has never smelled the breath of a real wolf."
Malakor’s lips parted in a wicked, savage smirk. He leaned down, his mouth grazing the soft curve of her temple, whispering against her skin so closely that his breath stirred her dark curls.
"Then we will not make him wait for the frost," Malakor growled, his grip on her shoulders tightening with fierce, unyielding promise. "Tomorrow, we send his envoys back with the Emperor’s head. And the day after, my Queen, we ride east to teach the Archduke how to kneel."