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Book 2: Chapter 16: The Wyrm Does Not Wait
🕑 Added 2025-08-13 11:58:11 +0000 UTCChapter 16:
The Wyrm Does Not Wait
The capital was in an uproar.
News from the East and the North came every day now. Refugees with cracked lips and bandaged feet. Merchants talking in tight circles, counting losses under their breath. Travelers who had seen too much. Homecoming soldiers who stared past everyone and said very little. Even the embassies moved, doors shutting at dawn, shutters going up, seals pressed into warm wax. Some claimed “security concerns.” Others clearly wanted to be first to cut ties and be first to write a polite letter to the new empire in the east.
An empire in the east. What a joke.
The King stood at a high window and watched roofs and river smoke, a city of more than a million breathing in short, quick gulps. The old capital had stood since the Fifth Era, rebuilt, scarred, stubborn. There was a reason Virethorn had never been invaded or conquered. Even Boran the Madman had failed half a millennial ago. These stones did not kneel.
It still hurt to look at it.
This is my fault. The thought landed without mercy. I didn’t see the signs. I didn’t want to see them. Ashford had been preparing a long time. New roads that didn’t ask permission. Quiet levies. Numbers that didn’t match ledgers. And while they built, they pulled away. They looked back at the Crown and decided it was soft.
Liliana of Ashford wasn’t the only one in the kingdom whose personal strength could break an army. But she was the one who had chosen to make that point.
Oh, Liliana… why this path? Is it because I took Merrick from you?
The name pressed under his ribs. He had not done it lightly. By the end, Merrick wasn’t the man he had known. Duty had demanded it. The choice still clawed at him.
He had hoped until the last moment. He had invited Liliana to the capital. He had been ready to settle it. But now the letters were written, the banners raised, and it was too late.
“Your Majesty. It’s time.”
The voice came from his right. He didn’t need to look to know the robe—dark cloth stitched with a golden wyrm winding from hem to hood. The white dragon mask that turned windows into mirrors. Zyras, the High Court Mage.
He was one of the few to reach a realm beyond ordinary men. At least Seventh Circle, perhaps more. Rumor said he had served the crown for over a century. Rumor also said he walked the city sometimes as a peasant, listening to things people only told one another. Rumor said many things. Only the King knew the face under the porcelain.
Zyras did not leave him now. Not in these days. The fear of a knife between doors was too real.
The King nodded and stepped away from the window.
They walked. The palace air changed with each corridor, from old stone cool to the dry paper scent of the scribes’ wing to the polished wax of the great hall. With every turn, more people fell in behind them: the steward with a stack of sealed tubes under his arm, the chancellor already whispering about tariffs and ships, the Lord General of the capital’s army with gauntlets clenched out of habit, two guild masters with ink on their fingers, a priestess of Lirien in her green robe, who smelled faintly of incense and steel.
Pages hurried ahead to open doors. Guards fell in, then more guards, until the footsteps became a single sound. No one spoke to the King unless he spoke first. But he didn’t. He kept his pace even.
“Reports from Stormvale, sire,” the steward murmured to Zyras instead, understanding the rule. “And from the Gate.”
Zyras inclined his head the smallest amount. The golden wyrm on his robe caught the light and looked alive for half a heartbeat.
They reached the last doors. Bronze-bound. Old hinges, new oil. Sunlight waited beyond them.
Outside, the King’s Guard already stood in formation. One battalion. A hundred men. Golden mail. Bright helms. The crowned wyrm on their tabards. Faces set. No one shuffled. No one coughed. When the captain stepped forward, he dropped to one knee and rose only when the King lifted two fingers.
“Form on the King,” the captain said, voice steady. “Shield to shoulder.”
It happened in a breath. The front rank’s shields came up and locked with a dull certainty. The second rank set their spears at the right angle to make a wall a man thought twice about walking through. The formation folded around the King and his small procession like a door closing the wind out.
Zyras stood at the King’s right shoulder, close enough to speak without turning the mask. “We will move through the city,” he said softly. “Let them see you.”
“Good,” the King said.
They stepped forward.
The palace square widened into a throat that led to the city’s heart. People had already gathered, servants with bundles in their arms, apprentices in leather aprons, clerks, beggars, a woman with a child on her hip who craned and then tucked the boy’s head against her neck when she saw the steel. Embassy servants moved in fast lines with crates, porcelain wrapped in straw. On one balcony a flag came down slowly, careful hands on the cord. On another, a steward pretended nothing had changed and inspected potted plants.
Snatches reached them over the steady rhythm of the Guard.
“—is it true, Ashford declared an empire—”
“—the Gate’s closed, my cousin says—”
“—Stormvale’s full of soldiers, the roads aren’t safe—”
No answers. Not here. Not now. The Guard kept the pace slow and even. People watched the King walk through his city without hurry and without fear.
He kept his thoughts matched to his steps.
Shelter who comes. Feed who can be fed. Hold the embassies. Hold the armies…
“Council when we return,” Zyras murmured. “Messages from Stormvale. From the Gate. The envoys who stayed request an audience.”
“They can wait until after the council,” the King said. “Not before.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
They took the long way, past the Street of Bells, past the Office of Accounts where clerks moved like ants under a kicked log, past a temple of Iras where a line of people stood to light candles. The Guard did not hurry. That was the point. Let the city see them.
The streets opened at last onto a broad public square.
Two stages dominated the far side. The front stage was dressed in deep blue and gold, the Crown’s colors draped in neat, heavy folds. Behind it, on a slightly smaller platform, stood an execution block, bare wood, blackened by oil and time. Halberdiers waited on either side, iron shining in the light.
The square was full. The moment the King stepped out from the Guard’s ring and began to climb the steps, the noise swelled into a cheer that rolled off the stone.
He felt it, its heat, and its hunger swallowed against the weight behind his ribs.
The King took his place at the front of the stage. Zyras remained half a pace behind at his right. The Guard formed a firm crescent below the dais, shields to the crowd, spears angled toward the air. The herald tapped his staff twice. The sound cut cleanly through the square.
The King let the noise come down to a hush before he spoke.
“People of Virethorn,” he said, voice steady. “I am Marcus the Third—your King and your protector. I come to you with sad news.”
The hush tightened.
“I know many of you have heard it already. I confirm it now. Our good Marshal Dareth—who protected our lands for nearly half a century—was slaughtered with the Second Army only days ago.”
The reaction broke like a wave. Shouts. Cries. Hands thrown into the air. The rumor had been true.
“It was not a foreign enemy,” Marcus went on, not raising his voice but hardening it, “but betrayal. Betrayal by our own.”
The uproar grew. People cursed; others grabbed their hats; someone began to weep, loud and open.
“He was a good friend to me,” Marcus said. “And the good sons of our kingdom did not deserve this. They came in good faith to protect lands that asked our protection.”
He let the beat hang, then drove it home.
“Yes. It was Ashford who turned their blades against us.”
Another surge. Rage, fear, vindication, it all showed at once.
He lifted a hand and the square slowly found its breath again.
“I am here today to tell you what many already feared,” he said. “We are at war, with our own.”
He paused. Even the flags seemed to still.
“But we will not falter,” he said, and strength returned to his tone. “We will crush anyone who brings injustice to our beloved kingdom. Anyone who dares to kill our sons. Anyone who sets foot to invade our lands.”
A roar answered him. Some beat their fists against their chests; others lifted children to see better.
“I declare the Duchy of Ashford fallen lands,” Marcus said. “Any who stand with the Duchess stand guilty of high treason against the Crown.”
The front ranks of the crowd shouted themselves hoarse. The sound rolled back through the square, a living thing. He let it run until throats began to tire.
“Do not be afraid,” he said then, and softened nothing. “The Wyrm does not wait. Soldiers from all over the kingdom—loyal men and women—have heeded our call. They gather here, in this city, to march east. We will walk back to the shameless walls of Valewick and bring them down. We will subjugate the East again.”
The cheer this time became a single long roar. It went on and on, until, as all sound must, it dropped.
Marcus took that breath. “And for this occasion,” he said, voice clipped to a blade, “we will show the price of treason. Today, we execute the husband of the traitor Liliana of Ashford. For high treason against the Crown.”
A pang hit him sharp, but he did not let it show. He pushed it down where duty lived.
“Merrick of Ashford.”
They brought him out in chains.
The cuffs around his wrists glittered with mage-bane—dull blue gems set into iron, pulsing faintly as they swallowed any stir of mana. His hair, long and blond, fell to his shoulders in uneven strands. His eyes were calm and blue; his gaze was steady, almost firm enough to feel. Six years in a cell had pared him down, but it hadn’t bent him.
As the guards led him up to the smaller platform, the square turned cruel. Boos rolled forward. Men spat. A bruised pear struck the boards and split. Another arm cocked to throw until a halberd tip reminded the hand where the line was.
Merrick didn’t flinch. He stood tall, the mage-bane biting his skin, and lifted his head as if stepping into old sunlight. When his eyes found the King across the gap between stages, the corner of his mouth tipped—not to a smile, and without warmth. Something like a memory of both.
Marcus’s chest tightened. Why did it come to this?
He kept his voice level. “You heard it, Merrick. You are sentenced to death for high treason and…” He lowered it for only that heartbeat. “…for your other crimes in the capital years ago.”
A murmur rippled, people straining to hear what wasn’t meant for them.
Merrick looked down over the crowd from beside the block, then back to the King. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough from disuse but clear.
“You’re too late, old friend.”
The word hit harder than any fruit.
“This was never your throne,” he went on, gaze fixed. “You know why. I saw it. I saw the future.”
A ripple of unease ran through the front ranks. Zyras’s white mask turned a fraction, measuring the air.
“Every one of you will burn,” Merrick said, and the sneer finally showed. “Your children will burn. Your parents will burn. You will all crawl before Ashford.”
His laughter broke wild and wrong across the square—high, sudden, too sharp to be sane. The uproar answered it at once—shouts, curses, a stone skittering uselessly off a shield.
“Enough!” the King’s voice cut across everything.
Silence fell in jolts, then settled. Marcus drew a breath. His eyes were bright, but he gave the crowd nothing of it.
“So be it,” he said, the words clean and final. “These are the last words of Merrick of Ashford.”
He gave the sign.
The captain’s hand flashed. The guards moved as one. They turned Merrick gently, almost carefully, and pressed him to his knees. One palm settled between his shoulders; another eased his chin forward into the worn groove of the block. The priest of Iras stepped in, touched two fingers to Merrick’s brow, and whispered a blessing that asked for a straight road through the dark.
The priest bent closer, breath like warm incense at Merrick’s ear. “Speak what must be carried,” he murmured, so only Merrick could hear it. “Light keeps the names you give it. Iras has blessed you, the goddess child is reincarnated. So, fear not and hail her Grace, hail Grace of Ashford. Her time will come.”
Merrick’s shoulders loosened a fraction. The sneer washed out of his face and left something simpler behind. His lips moved once without sound, then found it on the second try, only a thread of voice.
“…my daughter…”
Zyras’s white mask tilted a degree. A gloved hand found the King’s shoulder. “We have a problem, my King,” he whispered.
The executioner came forward, broad-shouldered, face bare, apron plain. He bowed once to the King’s stage and once to the condemned, because this was a craft for him and he harbored no cruelty. He lifted the sword; the blade caught the pale light and held it.
He set his feet. Exhaled.
The sword rose and fell in one smooth arc.
It was clean. The sound that came back from the square was not a cheer but a single long exhale, as if the city had been holding its breath and finally remembered how to breathe. Blood darkened the wood. A cloth went over what was left. The priest lowered his hand.
Merrick’s eyes, in the last instant that they could, did not leave the King’s.
--::--
Grace hummed to herself as she descended Gatewick’s dungeon. Not because anything here was cheerful, but because humming let the corridor know who owned the mood. The stair curled down and down, stone swallowing sound, blue mage-torches licking the walls like someone had ordered “ominous” from a catalog. At least the place had style. If a fortress insisted on cells, it might as well commit to the aesthetic.
Two of her knights held the entrance like carved bookends. She had posted them there before she descended to her new dungeon. Gatewick gave her more freedom than the Ashford Estate ever had. She could walk alone in daylight now, make decisions without a hand tugging at her sleeve. Small victories, but they counted.
She was in a good mood, which was dangerous and true.
Her core had opened cleanly in the throne room. She had slid back to Second Circle, yes; both affinities sat there now, Light and Void like twins pretending they didn’t share a closet. Two streams or one braid? She’d diagram it later. The important part: she could open without shattering. The fear that had chewed around the edges of her thoughts was, for now, solved. Everything else was logistics.
At the bottom landing, a guard chamber hunched to the left, table, dented pitcher, an empty chair. To the right, an iron door. Someone had left the keyring on the table, careless or confident. Grace took it, let the metal chime once against her fingers, and turned the lock.
The door protested dramatically. Inside, a long corridor ran under steady blue light: twelve cells, six to a side, bars thick enough to make a point. Her footsteps sounded small inside the corridor.
In the first cell on the left was the merchant who had insulted Clara’s pride. Grace peeked through the bars. He looked worse than before, bruised, split lip, a bowl of stew by the wall to prove someone was doing their job. He jerked when he saw her, then tried on bravery the way a child tried on a coat three sizes too big.
Grace stuck out her tongue at him and winked.
He recoiled like she’d flung acid. Cute. She moved on.
Second and third cells were empty. Fourth held a girl, twelve, maybe, curled around her own knees, eyes raw from crying that had run out of water. Fifth held her brother: round-cheeked, soft-handed, already learning to glare because it was the only thing that didn’t shake.
In the sixth cell was their mother.
She lay flat on the stones until Grace’s shadow crossed the bars. Then she sprang up fast enough to make the chain clink, voice spilling before sense could catch it. “Your Highness—please—my children—please, mercy—”
Grace watched with mild interest. It was curious, how a person inside a box stopped feeling like a person and started feeling like a problem. Not cruelty; categorization. Useful, ugly, and definitely true.
She raised a finger to her lips and made a soft shh. The woman obeyed on instinct; mothers were bilingual in that sound.
“Later,” Grace said, and moved on.
Cells seven and eight were empty. Nine was filled with junk, but no inhabitant. Ten: empty. Eleven…
Harold Winthrop.
Steward of Gatewick. Financial arsonist. Collector of ugly furniture.
He had been educated recently. Purple mapped his cheek; his jaw kept a lesson about enthusiastic knights. Grace made a note to remind those enthusiastic souls that assets shouldn’t be dented. He opened his eyes like he had felt her arrive, pushed to the bars too fast, and steadied.
“Hey, Mr. Winthrop… wake up.”
Her voice carried that bright, too-pleasant lilt she used when she wanted someone to feel the hook before they saw the bait.
He stirred, lifting his head from the wall. The moment his eyes found her, they widened almost comically, and he stood, moving toward her like he wasn’t sure if he was dreaming. His mouth started to form the usual script—my wife, my children, mercy, mercy, blah blah blah—and she raised a hand, slicing through the air.
“No,” she said. “Not today.”
His lips closed.
“Tell me where you stashed my gold,” Grace went on, tone almost conversational. “I know you skimmed taxes from my family for years, and I don’t believe you poured it all into that damn ugly furniture in my castle.”
That made him stop cold. For a moment, she thought he might try to lie, she was almost hoping he would, so she could practice her ‘I’m bored, try again’ face, but then she saw it: the flicker of something heavier in his eyes. No shame, it was grief.
Jon, she thought, the name sliding through her mind with a bitter aftertaste. Urgh, alone the thought about this fucker made me sick.
He straightened a little, not defiant but careful. “If I tell you…” His voice rasped from disuse, and he slowed each word like it might buy him something. “Would you free my wife and my kids?”
Her face lost every trace of emotion. Inside, she could feel the slow rise of annoyance, the kind that prickled her ribs. This bastard really wants to negotiate with me? In chains? In my dungeon? Adorable.
She tilted her head, letting the pause breathe just long enough to make him sweat. “If you tell me the truth, this time, I’ll free one of your children from the dungeon. I give you my imperial word as a Princess.”
There it was, the little choke at the word imperial. He wasn’t broken, but the last two days had stripped away the delusions. He knew where he’d misstepped. He knew who he was speaking to now. He nodded once, sharp and restrained.
“Say it,” she prompted.
"Counting room," he said. "Third shelf is wrong. Brass pin on the right, push down. Behind it, a box of minted bars and coins. Under the wine cellar cistern, a hewn stone; beneath it, two pouches full of Velmire gold, and Crown silver. East tower, in the old crow house at the sixth floor from the window is a ledger. You'll need that more than coins."
Her lips didn’t so much as twitch, but inside she smiled.
Men who skim always adore secret compartments. It makes their lies feel like art.
“If you’re lying,” she said softly, “I’ll take your wife’s left hand and start over.”
“They’re not,” he said.
She believed the fear in his voice more than the words.
“We’ll see.”
Grace turned without hurry, letting the sound of her boots echo down the corridor before she reached the iron door. She paused in the doorway, glancing back down the hall. The blue torchlight painted the bars in that cold, steady hue she liked, made everything look just a bit less human.
In the guard room, she twirled the keys around her finger once, letting them click.
Which child?
The thought poked at her like a blunt stick. A monster would grin and say ‘surprise’. A saint would free them all and deliver a speech about mercy. She was neither. She was just Grace.
No, I’m not killing a kid and calling that “freeing” him, she told herself firmly, then smirked. Not my brand. That’s the kind of cheap plot twist some third-rate serialized hack writes when they’re out of ideas. I definitely don’t do this… or? Yea definitely not! At least for now. Yes, I’m a completely sane six-year-old kid.
But she also wasn’t about to drop the whole family back into the city just because Daddy finally spoke a little truth after years of theft. Actions needed weight. She was building a city that remembered that.
Which left: choice.
Ah… I know what to do.
She’d ask Clara. Clara would hate the dungeon, yes, but Clara had been trying harder and harder to be part of her life. And Clara, Grace suspected, still carried a moral compass… one just slightly better calibrated than her own at the moment. Grace didn’t trust her own moral sense right now, she didn’t need morals to run a city, but she also didn’t want to lose every single tether to the values that made life worth manipulating.
When she thought back to her meeting with her old self in the carriage, she couldn’t deny the uncomfortable truth: her older self was also no one who really thoughts about others, and when she truly not cared about others, how should she do good morality decisions?
Clara, though… Clara would be delighted to be given a part in something like this.
Yes. That was a good idea!
Ask Clara, she decided. Let her pick which child walked out today. And what to do with it. It would cost something either way. And Clara would know Grace had let her choose.
Grace giggled softly to herself as she left the dungeon, the sound bouncing off cold stone.
Ah… the fat ones. Clara was going to love this conversation.
Comments
Trytan
I'll look into this with the new chapter and maybe create an epub every 5-10 chapters! :)
Bunny
Is it possible to have chapters available as Epubs? To import into readers :>
Trytan
Merrick was imprisoned for crimes he committed in the capital around the time of Grace’s birth, and also for political reasons . That’s also why the King feels guilty about him, also he has a connection to him, because Merrick was his squire. (Mentioned in Book 1: Ch:21 Road To Ashford 1, and Ch. 43: They Were The Bad Guys) And yea last book I had more 'pure' interludes and I thought it might be better to do this kind of split POV to give Grace more screentime here and progress the story faster. (Or do two interludes in one chapter) The only 'problem' is at the moment, that the chapters are going bigger and bigger. I'm at the moment at average 4k words a chapter. Before it was 2500.
Ryan N
“Oh, Liliana… why his path? Is it because I took Merrick from you?” did you mean this not his? also I’m really enjoying the split pov chapters TFTC
