Jared Grimhart stood outside the heavy oak doors of his father's solar, one gloved hand hovering an inch from the wood. The stag-and-comet crest carved into the grain seemed to mock him—four hundred years of conquest reduced to a polite knock.
"What now?" he wondered. Another lecture on duty? Another veiled reminder that his empty blood still owed the empire its pound of flesh? The palace corridors behind him were quiet in the wake of six days of celebration, but the weight of the summons pressed heavier than any monster wave or battle he had faced in the Uncrowned Lands.
His knuckles had barely brushed the door when the Emperor's voice rolled through the wood like distant thunder.
"Enter."
Jared's hand stilled. Of course. The Emperor had sensed him the moment he stepped into the wing, Edenian blood calling to Edenian blood, even the diluted drop that ran in Jared's veins. No need for knocks when his blood themselves announced his presence. He pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The solar was a study in imperial luxury: black marble floors veined with silver, walls lined with ancient tomes bound in rare dragon hide, and a massive obsidian desk that looked as though it had been carved from the same meteorite as the throne. Everflame lanterns hung in silver cages shaped like falling comets, casting a warm but unforgiving light. Emperor Ezra sat behind the desk, silver hair swept back, golden eyes sharp as the blade at his hip. Sael stood at his father's right shoulder like a living shadow.
Four other figures occupied the room.
They were the last of the Great Dukes—the only ones the Emperor still trusted with the empire's largest territories. The rest had either fled across the seas with their riches or rebelled and been erased from the face of the continent.
Duke Haelys Valerius of House Valerius lounged in a high-backed chair to the left, lord of the Glass Sea in the west. He was a lean, silver-haired man in his prime, robes of deep azure embroidered with wave motifs that shimmered like water under moonlight. His House had ruled the western coast for centuries as Kings then submitted to Moses Grimhart during his conquest.
Beside him sat the Orc Duke Tyrock of the Desert Mountains in the east—a mountain of green muscle and scarred hide, ceremonial furs draped over plate armor etched with tribal runes. His tusks were capped in gold, and his small, intelligent eyes watched the room with the patience of a predator who had survived a hundred monster waves and a cunning ruler always wanting to make profit from every situation.
Opposite them, Duchess Rosalind Storm of House Storm reclined with elven grace that belied her centuries. Even in old age she was breathtaking: silver hair braided with living starlight vines, skin like polished moonstone, eyes the color of storm clouds before lightning. Her gown of midnight silk clung to a figure that could still turn heads in any court, her house's loyalty to the Grimharts was older than most bloodlines. It is said that her people were the ones that welcomed Moses Grimhart when he was chased from Eden.
And at the far end, towering even while seated, was Duke Malachi of House Lionhart—the last surviving branch house of the Grimharts themselves. Tall and broad as a siege tower, he wore a simple black tunic emblazoned with a golden lion. His blue eyes weak from exhaustion since he had arrived this morning but still unmistakably Edenian—met Jared's without flinching. Jared's mind snagged on the man for a heartbeat.
"Where are the other branches?" he wondered. The empire had once boasted eight major ducal territories. Now only four remained. Had his father quietly wiped the rest out for disloyalty? He filed the question away for later.
Ezra's golden eyes flicked to his second son. "Good. You're here." His voice carried the easy command of a man who had never lost a war. "As you all know, this is my son Jared."
The dukes rose as one—magicless or not, a Grimhart prince was still a Grimhart prince. They bowed with perfect precision: Haelys elegant and fluid, Tyrock a short respectful dip of his massive frame, Rosalind a graceful nod that made her starlight braids shimmer, and Malachi a deep, martial salute that spoke of shared blood.
Jared returned the bows with a crisp inclination of his head. "You called for me, Father."
"I did." Ezra leaned back, steepling his fingers. "We were discussing the Dungeon of Cold Blight had broken out in the west."
The name pulled memories from Jared's time in the Uncrowned Lands—reports smuggled by merchants and traders who had dared to move the frozen roads. For almost two years the dungeon had been vomiting monsters without end: ice trolls, colossal snow serpents that could swallow a warhorse whole.
The blight had plunged half the Western territory into perpetual winter. Fields that once fed the capital now lay under three feet of ice. The Glass Sea—famed for waters so clear you could see the coral floors on the bottom—had frozen solid for the first time in recorded history. Trade had slowed to a trickle. A Great Wall, taller than the palace spires and longer than any road in Veldara, had been raised at staggering cost—stone and magic and the lives of thousands of conscripted laborers—to hem the dungeon's horrors into their own frozen realm.
Sael spoke next, voice ringing with the confidence of a man who had never failed a binding ritual. "We are planning to take the fight to it and end it for good, brother. No more containment. No more waiting for the next wave to hit the Wall."
Jared nodded once, grey eyes steady. He had read the casualty lists. He had spoken with refugees who described nights when the sky itself screamed with cold. But the question burned on his tongue. "Then why am I here?"
Ezra's golden eyes met his without mercy. "You will go with your brother. Take part of our standing army and link with Duke Haelys's forces already on the ground. I will prepare a second host to join you once our foothold is secured. You will fight, push forward, and claim a permanent foothold in the Ice Blight territory beyond the Wall."
Jared was surprised—not by the order to march, war was the only language he had spoken for seven years, but by the casual mention that *the Emperor himself* would lead the second host. Ezra only took the field when rebellion threatened the throne or a house needed erasing. This was different. This was personal. The bloodline was thinning; the empire needed victories written in Grimhart steel.
"Alright," Jared said simply. "That's doable."
The dukes studied him with varying expressions. Duke Haelys looked impressed by the calm certainty. Tyrock gave a slow, approving grunt. Duchess Rosalind's storm-cloud eyes sparkled with something like amusement at the young prince's bluntness. Only Duke Malachi's blue gaze lingered a fraction longer, weighing the branch blood against the main line.
Jared pressed his advantage before anyone could speak. "But I would request, dear Father, that supplies be sent to the Forgotten Sons in the north. They are my men. They have fought with me—and for the glory of our beloved empire—for seven years against northern threats. They deserve to eat while we march west."
He delivered the words in perfect princely cadence, every syllable polished. Behind the desk Sael's shoulders twitched; the heir bit the inside of his cheek so hard Jared could see the strain. The misfortune of his little brother was still the heir's favorite entertainment—brotherly, never cruel, but undeniably enjoyable.
Ezra's golden eyes narrowed for the briefest instant. He had expected rage, resentment, the same storm-grey glare from the throne room. Instead his second son stood here making polite requests like a seasoned courtier. Seven years of silence had not broken the boy; it had tempered him into something sharper. The Emperor felt a flicker of something uncomfortably close to pride—and the faint disgust of a man who preferred open hatred to quiet competence.
"Very well," Ezra said. "Duke Tyrock's territory lies closest to your men. Supplies will be immediately." The orc duke gave a single nod, tusks glinting.
Jared inclined his head. "When do we head out, Father?"
"Duke Haelys's forces are already at the great wall killing any beast entering their perimeter." Ezra answered, and the smile that curved his lips was bone-chilling smile"You and your brother will depart after your honeymoon."
Jared froze mid-turn, hand already reaching for the door latch. The word landed like a war-axe between the eyes. *Honeymoon.* Singular in phrasing, but he remembered the plural his father had used in the family meeting. Brides. Multiple. The empire's answer to a thinning bloodline, and he was the sacrificial stud.
"I see…" was all he managed. His duty felt heavier than plate armor.
"Oh, and your wedding is the day after tomorrow," Ezra added, voice smooth as oiled steel. "You will meet your brides tonight during the private dinner. Do not be late."
Jared's grey eyes flicked back. Sael was visibly fighting for composure—lips pressed tight, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. Tears of mirth actually glistened at the corners of the heir's eyes.
The misfortune of his little brother—forced into political matrimony while the rest of the family watched—was still something Sael enjoyed in that pure, brotherly way that only siblings could manage.
Jared stood there a heartbeat longer, the luxurious solar suddenly too small, the air too thick. The dukes watched with carefully neutral expressions, but he caught the flicker of sympathy in Duchess Rosalind's storm-cloud eyes and the faint amusement in Tyrock's. He bowed once—precise, controlled—and turned on his heel.
The door closed behind him with a soft, final click.
Outside in the corridor, Jared exhaled through his teeth. The palace stretched around him, beautiful and suffocating. Two days. Two *days* until he was married off like a prized stallion to women whose names he did not even know. Tonight he would meet them. Tomorrow the empire would celebrate another union meant to thicken the blood. And the day after, he would ride west to fight an eternal winter while his father prepared to join the fray.