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The next portion attacks my treaties with K’sheng merchants and Miou captains. Varrus describes negotiation as the refuge of a house unwilling to spill blood. He neglects to mention that his own estates profit from the routes my agreements protect.

I lean back in my chair.

The inherited ring on my right hand strikes the armrest with a quiet tap. It was resized when House Morwen’thir passed to me, the old metal worked to fit without disturbing the wards carried in its black stone. Generations of lords have worn it. Most are remembered for battles. Few are remembered for ensuring their descendants inherited anything worth ruling.

Varrus prefers the first kind of memory.

His black hair, red eyes, and the thin scar above his brow rise easily in my mind. I gave him that scar during a formal duel seventy-three years ago. He challenged my right to command a border campaign. I disarmed him before the assembled officers and stopped my blade close enough to mark his face.

I should have marked his throat.

The report continues.

A lord without a consort governs only the present. A lord without an heir condemns his house to twilight.

The room cools.

Not from weather. The fire remains strong, flames feeding upon dry tiphe logs. This cold comes from the pressure of chaos gathering beneath my skin, an old response to anger disciplined by centuries of practice.

A black fracture appears across the silver inkstand.

I close my hand.

The crack stops.

Chaos is possibility without patience. It changes, dissolves, and remakes. Left unguided, it can turn stone to liquid or flesh to smoke. The Arbiter teaches balance because power without judgment destroys what it intends to preserve.

I draw a slow breath and restore control. The inkstand remains damaged. A thin trail of dark metal runs down one side where solid silver briefly forgot its shape.

Varrus has chosen his attack carefully.

Fortifications can be defended through results. Trade agreements can be justified through revenue. An unmarried lord presents a simpler target. House Morwen’thir has no recognized heir. My nearest eligible relations belong to branches weakened by debt, disputed bloodlines, or loyalties too easily purchased.

If I die, the king will determine succession.

Varrus would ensure that choice serves him.

I rise and cross to the window. Morwen’thir Stronghold descends around me in black walls and narrow towers, each built to resist invasion. Far below, the roofs of Vesper’s Peak Lowtown cluster beneath the cliffs. Smoke crawls from a few chimneys. The human settlement exists because the pass requires laborers, haulers, miners, and farmers.

Its inhabitants pay for the privilege through coin and service.

A patrol moves along the lower road, silver armor reduced to pale points against the dark ground. Beyond them, the mountains disappear beneath thickening clouds.

My steward warned that this winter would be severe. The account ledgers confirm poor harvests and reduced trade. Those concerns require adjustment, though not the sentimental measures lesser rulers favor when they wish to be praised for generosity. Resources spent without calculation weaken every dependent territory later.

The report waits on my desk.

I return to it.

Varrus follows his accusation with a list of old houses joined through marriage. He praises heirs who preserve bloodlines and wives who secure alliances. He never directly declares me unfit to rule. A crude accusation could be challenged. Instead, he creates a comparison and trusts his audience to reach the intended conclusion.

Clever.

Direct confrontation would satisfy both of us. I could challenge him before the court and remind every noble present that his celebrated devotion to the Warrior has never enabled him to defeat me. He would accept. Pride would compel him.

Victory would quiet the martial criticism for a time.

It would not produce an heir.