The dawn over Sol-Vaelen smelled of tallow smoke, river fog, and the nervous sweat of fifteen imperial heralds.
Lord Cassian, high envoy of the Archduke of Val-Mora, knelt at the base of the nine black marble steps, his cloth-of-gold cloak bunched in the cold dust of the Throne Room. Behind him, twelve guardsmen in enameled azure armor stood with their eyes cast strictly to the floor, their gilded halberds shaking faintly in their grip.
Above them, the orichalcum throne gleamed like a golden anvil in the morning light.
Aurelia sat draped in a mantle of dark sable, her twin curved blades resting across the carved armrests. Beside her, standing with his shoulder brushing the back of the golden seat, was Malakor. He wore no crown, only a heavy breastplate of blackened steel over dark leather, but the raw, sovereign aura rolling off him pressed down on the hall with the physical weight of an iron roof.
Between the envoy and the throne sat a rough pine crate, its lid kicked open.
Inside, wrapped in salt and coarse linen, lay the severed head of Emperor Valerius.
"The Archduke offers terms of blood-right," Lord Cassian stammered, his manicured fingers trembling against the marble flags. "He acknowledges your military prowess, Lord Malakor. But the imperial bloodline cannot be claimed by conquest alone. Yield the capital, surrender the royal treasury, and the Archduke will grant you the Northern Provinces as a sovereign duchy... in perpetuity."
Malakor let out a low, humorless rumble that sounded like grinding boulders. He didn't look at the envoy. His gaze was fixed on the eastern horizon visible through the colonnade, where the morning mist hung over the road to Val-Mora.
"The Archduke sits forty leagues away behind twenty thousand cavalry," Malakor said, his voice flat, devoid of anger, and all the more terrifying for its calm. "And he sends a dog in gilded silk to offer me land I already hold with my own boots?"
"My Lord—" Cassian began, sweating beneath his curled wig.
"Be silent," Aurelia commanded.
Her voice was not loud, but it cut through the great hall with the crisp snap of an executioner's whip. The silver glyphs on her palms flared to life beneath the sheer linen of her cuffs, casting an unnatural, pale twilight across the envoy's face.
She leaned forward, resting her forearms on her knees, her dark eyes locking onto the trembling nobleman with absolute, predatory focus.
"Tell your master," Aurelia said softly, "that the Northern Crown does not negotiate with second cousins. Valerius gave his empire to the pyres, and we took it from his throat. If the Archduke wants the throne, tell him to ride his fine white horses through the Lion Gate and take it from our hands."
"And what shall I bring him as your answer?" Cassian asked, swallowing hard against a dry throat.
Malakor moved.
He didn't draw his great sword. In two heavy, measured strides, he descended the dais, stopping directly in front of the kneeling envoy. He kicked the pine crate with his steel-shod toe, sending it sliding across the polished floor until it slammed against Cassian’s knees.
"Take your Emperor," Malakor growled, towering over the envoy like a mountain poised to collapse. "Show the Archduke what happens to men who believe their gold can purchase our mercy. And tell him that if his twenty thousand horse are still camped on the River Crossing when my vanguard arrives, I will use their breastplates to pave the bridge."
Malakor reached down, caught the envoy by the velvet collar of his cloak, and hauled the grown man to his feet with one arm, staring into his petrified eyes with molten amber fury.
"You have three days," Malakor whispered, his breath hot against the diplomat's trembling cheek. "Run."
He released his grip, letting Cassian stumble backward into his escort. Without waiting for a dismissal, the envoy turned and fled the hall, his azure guardsmen scrambling behind him in undignified, panicked retreat.
Aurelia rose from the throne, stepping down to the bottom of the dais to stand beside Malakor as the heavy cedar doors slammed shut behind the departing heralds.
She looked up into the harsh, battle-hungry planes of his face, a slow, intoxicating smile touching her lips.
"Three days?" she murmured, her hand coming up to rest flat over the heavy plates covering his ribs, feeling the violent, joyous thunder of his sovereign heart. "You are growing generous, Malakor."
Malakor caught her wrist, his rough thumb pressing firmly into her pulse point, pulling her flush against his chest with an easy, unyielding authority.
"Generous?" he growled softly, leaning down until his lips brushed against the soft skin below her ear, setting her blood singing with wild, sweet fire. "No, Aurelia. It will take us two days to march the vanguard to the River Crossing. I only gave him one to say his prayers."