Several cities away from Milten, a beautifully carved wooden door flew open with a loud bang that echoed through the extravagant meeting hall that stretched beyond it. Riches that had once adorned its halls had long since been sold, and a thin layer of dust had taken residence across the room’s surface. And even in spite of that, the air itself seemed to hold its breath in respect for the grandiose presence that the room had once possessed. Heavy breath filled the silent air as a messenger rushed into the room, sweat streaking his brow and his hair disheveled. Two people sat at the head of a long table that took up the majority of the room’s space. One was a man with a clean-cut beard and sharp, dangerous eyes. Years of age had taken their toll on him, whitening his hair and wrinkling his skin, but he still sat proud. The man wore leather armor that still bore fresh scars from training that morning. A large swathe of fresh meats, pastries, and other delicacies were laid out before him, completely untouched. The other was a young man, no older than fifteen. He was thin and frail, with white hair and features that closely matched those of the man at the head of the table. Both he and the older man held several cards close to their chests. The only thing on the table before the young man was a plate of plain porridge and a deck of cards. A wooden crutch leaned against the side of his chair. “Duke Alaric!” the messenger rasped. “Godspit, man,” the duke said, rising from his spot at the head of the table and setting his cards down. He grabbed the hilt of the sword that hung at his side. “What are you doing? Are we under attack?” “Nobody sounded the bells, father,” the boy beside Alaric said. “We can’t be under attack. Do you concede the hand?” “We’re not under attack,” the messenger rasped, straightening as he caught his breath. “Your Grace—” “I’m not that old yet,” Aleric said with a raspy chuckle. “Listen to Vix if you will not listen to me, Art. I do what I must for our family.” “Maybe you care about some family too much,” Art snapped. He slapped the cards in his hands face-down onto the table. “Isn’t the entire Nightviper Guild family? Isn’t Vix?” “Of course they are,” Aleric said. “So why do you keep me as Heir? Vix would present a united front. She can fight. She can inspire. What can I do other than present an open neck to our enemies?” “You can lead,” Vix said. “I can’t. Being a good fighter doesn’t make me a good leader, Art. The guild trusts you — and what good would I be as a leader when I will be dead within three years? At least you have no expiry date.” Art winced. “I’m sorry.” Aleric rose to his feet. “Enough. You have heard both of our thoughts, Art. Vix does not want to be Heir. It must be you. I fear I am too old to work on making another Heir.” Art’s jaw clenched and his gaze averted. “I don’t want to be the reason our guild collapses, Father.” “You will not be,” Aleric said. “It is only after the castle has fallen that the flaws in its design are made apparent. Continue as you are. Our family will not fall. It has you — and it has Vix. There will be an opportunity. You must simply be prepared for when it arises.” “There is an opportunity,” Vix said. They both turned to her. “The Secret Eye approached me. We’ve been invited to the Proving Grounds,” Vix said. Aleric smiled. “And so the Mesh provides, just as it always has.” “That could be what we need,” Art muttered. “A chance to demonstrate our power. We can’t attack the other guilds directly. We aren’t strong enough. But if we can win the tournament, the Secret Eye would give us the wealth and the location of someone who could help Vix. We would have our strongest player on the board.” “Assuming I survive the tournament,” Vix said, her lips curling up into a bitter smile. “Training does little when your body rots away from the inside.” “It’s gotten that bad already?” Aleric asked, his features paling. “Perhaps you should—” “I already accepted the Secret Eye’s offer.” Vix cut Aleric off. “Death marches for me regardless. I may as well do something with the time I have left instead of wasting away, training for a fight that will never come.” “It is your decision,” Aleric said, squeezing his eyes shut in pain. “I wish I could do more for us, but we must make the most with the pieces we have. If you can win the tournament, there is a chance. Perhaps our only one.” “So were my thoughts,” Vix said. She hesitated for a moment. “There is only one requirement.” “What is it?” Art asked. “They mandated that you must be one of the members of my party,” Vix replied, her features going grim. “Godspit,” Art said. “This is a setup. Why would they want me in the tournament? What do they think I could do?” “I don’t know,” Vix replied with a shake of her head. “But it’s the only chance we have, Art. The only one I have — and the only one this family has. I should have asked you, but—” Art’s jaw clenched. “No. You’re right. I can’t fight, but if you can fight well enough for both of us, then it doesn’t matter, does it? We have no choice. If we wait around, you’ll rot away and I’ll have my throat slit a week later once the other guilds realize we really do have nothing left.” “Ideally, we will have to find a third,” Vix said. “But I do not know anyone to call on.”