*Year 1622 — 15th Day of Auxo — Castle Thornhaven, Boreas*
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### PART ONE: THE ARRIVAL
**Year 1622 — 15th Day of Auxo**
The morning was warm for Auxo, the sun climbing over the Thornwood in a haze of gold, burning off the mist that had settled in the valleys. Celia stood on the battlements with Edric, watching the road that wound south toward the Mercian border. She had been in Thornhaven for forty days now, and the rhythm of the castle had become familiar: the clang of the smithy, the shouts of the guards, the quiet hours in the library with Edric and her books.
But this morning, something was different.
A column of riders was approaching from the south. Twenty of them, by Celia's count, moving in loose formation, their horses fresh, their gear well-maintained. They flew no banner, but they moved with the easy discipline of men and women who had fought together for years.
"Mercenaries," Ghislaine said, appearing at Edric's elbow. His black armor was dull in the morning light, his halberd resting against his shoulder. "Good ones. Look at their spacing. They are ready for an ambush, even on a road they have never traveled."
"Do you know them?" Edric asked.
Ghislaine shook his head. "I know their type. Professionals. Not the kind who take contracts from villages. These are army-breakers."
The riders reached the gates. The guards challenged them, and a moment later, the captain of the gate appeared at the foot of the battlements, looking up.
"They ask for audience with the princes," he called. "They call themselves the Iron Hounds. Their leader says he has business with the Iron Trust."
Edric and Celia exchanged glances.
"Bring them to the great hall," Edric said. "We will receive them."
---
**The Great Hall**
The Iron Hounds filed into the great hall in silence, their boots ringing on the stone floor. They were a mixed company—humans, a dwarf, an orc, even what appeared to be a half-elf among them—and they moved with the precision of soldiers who had been in more battles than they could count. Their armor was varied but well-kept; their weapons were clean; their eyes were sharp.
At their head walked a man who drew every eye in the room.
He was tall—not as tall as Bjornolfr, but taller than most men—with broad shoulders and the lean build of a swordsman who relied on speed as much as strength. His hair was dark, cut short, and his face was weathered, lined with years of wind and sun. A scar ran from his left temple to his jaw, white against tanned skin, the mark of a blade that had come too close.
His armor was unlike anything Celia had seen. A heavy cloak of dark wool fell from his shoulders, its hood thrown back, lined with fur the color of iron. Beneath it, a cuirass of steel plates overlapped with hardened leather, covering his chest and shoulders while leaving his arms free. Vambraces of the same steel protected his forearms, and his hands were covered in leather gloves reinforced with iron knuckles. His boots were scuffed and scarred, but the steel greaves beneath his trousers gleamed.
Across his back was slung a sword that should have been too large for any man to carry. The zweihander was nearly as long as he was tall, its hilt wrapped in black leather, its crossguard straight and unadorned. The blade was dark, almost black, and it seemed to drink the light from the hall.
He stopped before the high table where Gareth, Leofric, Oswin, and Edric sat. Celia stood to the side, her hand resting on the hilt of her sword, watching.
"Prince Gareth," the man said. His voice was low, calm, the voice of a man who had learned to be heard without shouting. "I am Arthur. I lead the Iron Hounds. We have come to offer our services."
Gareth leaned forward. "You know my name, but I do not know yours. Who sent you?"
"No one sent us. We heard that Thornreach is a kingdom on the edge of something. A succession. A war. A change." Arthur's eyes moved across the four princes, lingering for a moment on Edric, then moving to Celia. "We have been fighting for ten years. We have served kings and lords and merchant councils. We have learned to recognize when a kingdom is about to need swords."
"And you think we need yours?"
"I think you will." Arthur smiled, and it was not a pleasant expression. "The orcs are broken, but they are not gone. The wyvern is awake, and it will remember. Your king is dying, and your nobles are circling like wolves. You have made an alliance with Mercia, but Mercia is still recovering from its own war. You have a mage—" he nodded toward Celia, "—but she is one, and a war needs more than one."
He reached up and drew the zweihander from his back. The blade came free with a whisper of steel, and for a moment, Celia saw something flicker along its edge—a pale blue light, faint but unmistakable.
"I have something else," Arthur said. "Something that your enemies do not have."
Gareth's eyes narrowed. "What is that?"
"Mana."
---
### PART TWO: THE NATURE OF POWER
**Year 1622 — 15th Day of Auxo — The Great Hall**
The word hung in the air. Celia felt it resonate in her chest, a vibration that was not quite physical, like the echo of a bell that had been struck in another room.
"Mana," she said, stepping forward. "You use mana."
Arthur turned to face her. His eyes were grey, like Edric's, but colder, harder. "You know the word."
"I know it from the texts of the Aethelburg Tower. Archmage Seraphina wrote of it. She said that mana is the energy that flows through all things, the same energy that mages draw on through their sparks. But she said that only mages can touch it."
"She was wrong." Arthur raised the zweihander. The pale blue light flickered again, stronger this time, running along the edge of the blade like water along a stream. "Mana is not only for mages. It is for anyone with the will to shape it. The difference is in how you shape it. A mage speaks words of power, draws on their spark, and bends the world. A warrior who learns to use mana does not bend the world. They bend themselves."
He lowered the blade. "I can make my sword sharper than steel should be. I can make my arms stronger, my legs faster. I can feel the intentions of my enemies before they move. But I cannot light a candle with a word, or heal a wound with a touch. That is not my path."
Gareth stood up. "You are telling us that you have magic without a spark?"
"I am telling you that there is more than one kind of power in this world." Arthur sheathed his sword. "The mages have their towers and their schools. The rest of us have the old ways. The ways that were here before the Thalassian Empire, before the mage towers, before the gods gave their sparks. The ways that warriors have used since the first blade was forged."
---
**The Library — That Afternoon**
Celia spread the Codex of the Seven Schools across the table, turning pages until she found the chapter Archmage Seraphina had written on the old arts. Edric sat across from her, reading over her shoulder.
"Seraphina called it 'the Warrior's Path,'" Celia said. "She wrote that there are some who can cultivate mana within themselves without the aid of a divine spark. They build what she called 'cores'—centers of condensed mana within their bodies."
"How?"
"She did not know. Or she did not write it. The text says that the process is different for everyone, and that it cannot be taught. A warrior either has the gift or they do not."
Edric read the passage aloud. "'The formation of the first mana core is a crucible that few survive. It requires years of meditation, physical training, and a will that can shape the energy of the body as a smith shapes steel. Those who succeed gain abilities that rival the mages—but they gain them at a cost. The mana within them is finite. It can be exhausted. And if it is exhausted too quickly, the cores shatter. The warrior never recovers.'"
He looked up. "Like aether exhaustion."
"Like aether exhaustion, but slower. A mage who empties their aether dies. A warrior who shatters their cores simply loses the ability to use mana. They become ordinary again."
"How many cores does Arthur have?"
"I do not know. Seraphina wrote that the number of cores determines how much mana a warrior can hold and how powerful their techniques can be. One core is rare. Two is exceptional. Three—" she shook her head— "three is almost unheard of. The texts say that the greatest warriors of the Thalassian Empire had three cores. After the empire fell, the knowledge was lost."
"Until now."
"Until now."
---
**The Training Yard — That Evening**
Arthur stood in the center of the training yard, his zweihander resting point-down on the ground, his cloak stirring in the evening breeze. Around him, the members of the Iron Hounds had gathered in a loose circle, watching. The Iron Trust—Gareth, Leofric, Edric, Ghislaine, Celia, and the knights—stood opposite them, their weapons ready.
"You want to see what mana can do," Arthur said. It was not a question.
"We want to know what we are hiring," Gareth replied.
Arthur smiled. "Then watch."
He drew the zweihander.
The blade came free with a sound like a bell, and the pale blue light that Celia had seen in the great hall burst along its edge. It was not a flicker this time; it was a corona, a mantle of light that wrapped around the steel and seemed to make it hum. The air in the yard grew heavy, charged, as if before a storm.
Arthur raised the blade above his head. He brought it down.
The stroke was not aimed at anyone. It was aimed at a target at the far end of the yard—a wooden post, thick as a man's thigh, that had stood there for years, scarred by a thousand practice blows.
The blade never touched it.
The light leaped from the steel, a crescent of pale fire that crossed the yard in an instant and struck the post. The wood did not splinter. It exploded, bursting into shards that flew in all directions, leaving nothing behind but a stump that smoked in the evening air.
The yard was silent.
Arthur lowered his sword. The light faded from the blade, and the weight in the air lifted. "That is what one core can do. A blade aura. A projection of mana beyond the steel. It can cut through armor, through bone, through stone. It can kill a man at ten paces."
Gareth's face was pale. "And you have more than one core."
"I have three."
The silence that followed was heavier than before.
---
**The Negotiation**
They met in the council chamber after dark, the four princes, Celia, and Ghislaine on one side, Arthur alone on the other. The Iron Hounds had been given food and quarters, and the castle was quiet around them.
"Three cores," Gareth said. "How?"
Arthur was silent for a moment. Then he said, "I was a soldier in the Mercian army, before Osric's father took the throne. I was good with a sword, better than most, but not good enough. In a battle against the orcs, I was wounded. A blade through the chest. I should have died."
He touched the scar on his face, almost absently. "I did not die. I lay on the field for three days, unable to move, unable to speak. And in those three days, something happened. I felt the mana in my body, the energy that had always been there, waiting. I felt it gather, condense, form into something solid. A core. The first core."
"And the others?"
"Years of training. Years of pushing myself to the edge of death. The second core came in the Free Cities, when I fought a mage who was trying to burn a village for the crime of not paying his protection money. The third came in the mountains of Boreas, when I faced a troll that had killed a dozen hunters. Each core cost me something. A piece of myself. A memory. A part of who I was."
He looked at his hands. "I am not the man I was before the first core. I am stronger. Faster. More dangerous. But I have lost things too. I do not remember my mother's face. I do not remember the name of the woman I loved when I was young. The mana takes payment, just as the spark does. It just takes different coin."
Edric leaned forward. "You said you are here to offer your services. What are your terms?"
Arthur met his eyes. "We want a contract. Six months. We will fight for you, protect your borders, train your men. In return, we want gold, supplies, and the right to recruit from your kingdom when our contract is done."
"Recruit?"
"My company is twenty now. I want it to be more. Thornreach has good people—hard people, people who have survived orcs and winters and the long dark. I want some of them."
Gareth exchanged glances with his brothers. "That is a bold request."
"It is an honest one. I am not here to steal your soldiers. I am here to offer them something more than a life of farming and dying in the next orc raid. The Iron Hounds travel. We fight. We earn enough to live well. And when we die, we die with swords in our hands, not in a bed of old age."
Gareth stood. "We will consider your offer. In the meantime, you and your company are welcome here. Eat. Rest. We will speak again in the morning."
Arthur bowed. "As you wish."
He left the chamber.
---
### PART THREE: THE IRON HOUNDS
**Year 1622 — 16th Day of Auxo**
The next morning, Celia went to the training yard early, hoping to see more of Arthur's technique. She found the Iron Hounds already there, running through drills with the discipline of a regiment.
She watched from the edge of the yard, her notebook open, recording what she saw. There were twenty of them, each with their own weapons, their own armor, their own style. She began to pick out individuals, to learn their faces, their names.
---
**The First Five**
**Arthur** stood at the center of the yard, directing the drills. His zweihander was sheathed across his back, but his eyes missed nothing. He called corrections in a voice that carried without shouting, and the warriors responded instantly. He was the kind of leader who did not need to raise his voice to be heard.
Beside him was a woman with a face that had been broken and healed more than once. Her hair was cropped short, her ears were pierced with rings of iron, and her arms were covered in scars that looked like they came from claws. She carried a pair of short swords, their blades curved and wicked.
"That is **Brigid**," a voice said behind Celia. She turned to find Ghislaine leaning against the wall, his halberd beside him. "She is Arthur's second. She has one mana core. They call her the Butcher of the Eastern Marches."
"Why?"
"Because when a Mercian lord tried to cheat them out of their payment, she killed his guards, his captain, and then the lord himself. Twenty men in a single night. She does not use blade aura like Arthur. She uses her mana to make herself faster. Stronger. Harder to kill."
Celia looked back at Brigid. The woman was laughing at something one of her companions said, her face open, her eyes bright. It was hard to reconcile that face with the story Ghislaine had just told.
"The Iron Hounds have a reputation," Ghislaine continued. "They take contracts from lords and kings, but they have rules. They do not kill the innocent. They do not take payment from those who cannot afford it. They do not break their word."
"Like the Iron Hand code."
"Like it, but older. Arthur says the code came from the Thalassian Empire, passed down from soldier to soldier for a thousand years. It is the same code that the Iron Hand copied when they wrote their charter."
---
**The Rest of the Company**
Over the next few days, Celia learned the names of all twenty Iron Hounds. She wrote them in her notebook, along with her observations, her questions, her attempts to understand what made them different from the other mercenaries she had known.
**Brigid** — Second-in-command. Twin short swords. One mana core. Fast, deadly, and fiercely loyal to Arthur. She laughed often, but her eyes were always watching.
**Corbin** — A tall, thin man with the look of a scholar and the hands of a killer. He carried a longbow that he could draw faster than any archer Celia had ever seen. No mana core, but he did not need it. His accuracy came from years of practice, not magic.
**Dagny** — A dwarf woman with a beard the color of copper and arms like a blacksmith's. She carried a warhammer that she swung as if it weighed nothing. She had one mana core, which she used to harden her skin until it was like stone.
**Elara** — A half-elf with hair the color of autumn leaves and eyes that shifted from green to brown depending on the light. She was the company's scout, silent as a ghost, and she carried a pair of daggers that she could throw with deadly accuracy. No mana core, but she had learned to read the land in ways that seemed almost magical.
**Finn** — A young man, barely older than Edric, with the eager face of someone who had not yet learned to be afraid. He carried a spear and a shield, and he was learning to use the mana he had just discovered. One core, newly formed. He was the youngest of the Iron Hounds, and the others treated him like a younger brother.
**Greta** — A massive woman, nearly as tall as Bjornolfr, with hands that could crush a skull. She carried a great axe that she wielded with a grace that seemed impossible for her size. She had no mana core, but she did not need it. Her strength was natural, her skill hard-won.
**Hakon** — An ursine, smaller than Bjornolfr but still massive, with fur the color of wet sand. He wore no armor, trusting in his hide and his speed. He had one mana core, which he used to sharpen his claws until they could cut steel.
**Ilsa** — A woman with a face like winter, cold and pale and beautiful. She carried a rapier and a main gauche, and she moved like a dancer. She had one mana core, which she used to make her thrusts faster than the eye could follow.
**Jesper** — A man with a permanent grin and a habit of whistling while he worked. He was the company's smith, a dwarf who had learned his trade in the Free Cities. No mana core, but his weapons were said to be as good as anything forged in the mage towers.
**Kael** — An orc with skin the color of old iron and tusks that had been filed to points. He carried a massive cleaver that he used as a sword, and he had one mana core that he used to make himself nearly invulnerable to pain.
**Lena** — A young woman with red hair and freckles, the company's medic. She had no mana core, but she knew every herb in the northern forests and could stitch a wound with the precision of a master tailor.
**Mikkel** — A giant of a man, as tall as Lionell, with a face that had been burned in some long-ago battle. He carried a shield that covered half his body and a mace that could cave in a helmet. No mana core, but he was the company's wall, the one who stood in front and did not move.
**Nessa** — A woman with silver hair and the pointed ears of a high elf, though she claimed she was not from Ramoth. She carried a bow that was almost as tall as she was, and she had one mana core that she used to guide her arrows, making them curve around obstacles and strike targets she could not see.
**Orin** — A man with a scar across his throat that had left his voice a whisper. He was the company's spy, a former thief who had learned to move through shadows without a sound. No mana core, but he could pick any lock, climb any wall, and disappear into any crowd.
**Petra** — A woman with arms covered in tattoos, each one marking a contract completed. She carried a spear and a net, and she was the company's tracker. No mana core, but she could follow a trail that was days old, through forests and mountains and swamps.
**Quinn** — A man with a face that seemed to shift depending on the light, sometimes young, sometimes old, sometimes kind, sometimes cruel. He was the company's negotiator, the one who talked to lords and merchants and kings. No mana core, but he could convince almost anyone of almost anything.
**Rolf** — A dwarf with a beard that reached his belt and a voice that could shake the walls. He carried a crossbow that he had built himself, and he had one mana core that he used to make his bolts hit with the force of a siege engine.
**Sanna** — A woman with hair the color of straw and eyes the color of ice. She was the company's quartermaster, the one who kept track of food and water and arrows and gold. No mana core, but she could stretch a week's supplies into a month.
**Torben** — A man with a face that had been beaten so many times it had settled into a permanent scowl. He carried a heavy flail that he swung in circles, clearing space around him. No mana core, but he was the company's brawler, the one who went into the middle of the fight and did not stop until it was over.
**Una** — A woman with hair the color of fire and a temper to match. She was the youngest of the Iron Hounds, barely older than Finn, and she had only recently discovered her mana. One core, newly formed. She was learning to use it to enhance her speed, but she was still clumsy, still learning.
**Viktor** — A man with a face like carved stone, expressionless, unreadable. He was the company's heavy infantry, the one who carried the banner into battle and stood where Arthur told him to stand. No mana core, but he had never retreated, never faltered, never failed.
---
### PART FOUR: THE CONTRACT
**Year 1622 — 18th Day of Auxo — The Council Chamber**
The council met again, and this time, the Iron Hounds were invited to sit with the princes.
Gareth opened the discussion. "We have considered your offer, Arthur. We have questions."
"Ask."
"You have twenty warriors. Many of them have mana cores. You could be working for any lord in the continent, for any price. Why come to Thornreach?"
Arthur was silent for a moment. Then he said, "Because your kingdom is honest."
He looked at the princes, at Celia, at Ghislaine. "I have fought for kings who were tyrants. I have fought for lords who cheated their people. I have fought for merchant councils who cared more for profit than for lives. I am tired of it. I want to fight for something worth fighting for."
"And you think Thornreach is worth fighting for?"
"I think it could be. Your father was a good king, by all accounts. Your brothers are better than most. You have a mage who uses her power to protect, not to dominate. You have a mercenary who turned down a fortune because a lord lied to him. You have a white ursine who fights for villages that cannot pay. That is worth something."
Gareth leaned back. "And what do you want in return?"
"Six months. Pay for my people, food, supplies. The right to recruit from your villages. And when the succession comes, when your father dies and the nobles move against you, we will be there. We will stand with you."
"And if we refuse?"
Arthur smiled. "Then we will find another contract. But you will not find another company like us."
The chamber was silent. Gareth looked at his brothers, at Celia, at Ghislaine. One by one, they nodded.
"Then you have a contract," Gareth said.
---
**The Oath**
They met in the great hall that evening, the Iron Hounds and the Iron Trust together for the first time. Arthur stood at the center of the hall, his zweihander drawn, the pale blue light of his mana flickering along its edge.
"I swear by the code that has been passed down since the Thalassian Empire," he said. "I will not break my word. I will not harm the innocent. I will not leave my comrades behind. I will fight for this kingdom as if it were my own."
His warriors echoed the words, twenty voices rising together.
The princes rose. Gareth stepped forward.
"Then welcome to Thornreach, Iron Hounds. You are our allies now. Our swords are yours."
Arthur sheathed his sword. "And ours are yours."
---
### PART FIVE: THE LESSON
**Year 1622 — 20th Day of Auxo — The Training Yard**
The next morning, Celia found Arthur alone in the training yard, running through forms with his zweihander. He moved slowly, deliberately, each stroke a meditation, each breath a count. The pale blue light of his mana flickered along the blade, not flaring, not fading, just… present.
She watched for a long time before he acknowledged her.
"You want to know about the cores," he said, not stopping.
"I want to know about mana. How it works. How it is different from the spark."
Arthur lowered his sword and turned to face her. "The spark is a gift from the gods. It connects you to something outside yourself. Mana is the opposite. It is inside. It is you. Your will, your body, your spirit, all bound together."
"Seraphina wrote that mana cores are formed through a crucible. A moment of crisis."
"She was right. You cannot form a core by wanting to. You have to need to. You have to be at the edge of death, or at the edge of despair, and you have to reach inside yourself and find something you did not know was there." He touched his chest. "My first core formed when I was bleeding out on a battlefield. I did not choose it. It chose me."
"And the others?"
"The others I chose. After the first core, I knew what was possible. I spent years pushing myself, fighting enemies that should have killed me, going to places that should have been my grave. Each time, I found more mana. Each time, I built another core."
"What does it feel like?"
Arthur was silent for a moment. Then he said, "It feels like being hollowed out. Like something is taken from you, and something else is put in its place. The first core took my memories of home. I can still see my mother's face, but I cannot remember her voice. The second core took something else. I do not know what. I only know that something is missing."
"And the third?"
He looked at her, and for a moment, his face was not the face of a warrior. It was the face of a man who had lost something he could never get back.
"The third core took the fear," he said. "I do not feel fear anymore. Not for myself. Not for my men. Not for anything. It is useful in a fight. But it makes it hard to remember why I am fighting."
---
**The Spar**
They sparred that afternoon, Celia with her sword, Arthur with his zweihander. It was not a fair fight—he was faster, stronger, more skilled—but Celia did not care. She wanted to feel what it was like to face a warrior with three cores.
Arthur did not use his mana. He did not need to. His sword was a blur, a wall of steel that she could not penetrate. She tried to find gaps, to force openings, to use her speed against his reach. She failed.
After an hour, she was on her knees in the dirt, her sword knocked from her hand, her arms shaking with exhaustion. Arthur stood over her, his blade resting on his shoulder, his face unreadable.
"You are good," he said. "Better than most mages I have fought. You have been trained."
"My grandmother taught me."
"She taught you well. But you are trying to fight like a warrior, not like a mage. You have a spark. Use it."
Celia looked at her hands. She could feel the aether within her, the water in the cup. She had been saving it, hoarding it, afraid to use it after what happened with Kaelos.
"I am afraid," she admitted.
"Good. Fear keeps you alive. But do not let it control you." Arthur offered her his hand. "You want to understand mana? Understand this. It is not the power that matters. It is what you do with it."
She took his hand, and he pulled her to her feet.
---
### PART SIX: THE SUCCESSION SHADOW
**Year 1622 — 25th Day of Auxo — Castle Thornhaven**
The Iron Hounds had been in Thornhaven for ten days when the news came.
King Aldric was dying.
It was not unexpected. He had been ill for months, had been fading since the winter, had been a ghost of the man he had been. But knowing it was coming did not make it easier.
Gareth sat by his father's bedside, holding the old king's hand. Leofric stood by the window, his face turned to the light. Oswin sat in the corner, a book open in his lap, but he was not reading. Edric stood in the doorway, watching.
Celia waited in the corridor. She could hear the murmur of voices, the occasional sob, the long silences. She had not known King Aldric well. He had been too ill to receive her when she arrived, and she had seen him only once, from a distance, being carried from his chambers to the garden in a chair. He had looked small, fragile, nothing like the warrior who had united the northern marches.
Arthur found her there. He did not ask what was happening. He did not need to.
"The succession will be contested," he said. "The nobles who have been waiting will move. Ashford. Mercer. Others you have not seen."
"I know."
"You are a foreign mage. They will use that. They will say you are a spy, a weapon, a threat. They will try to turn the people against you."
Celia looked at him. "And what should I do?"
"Stay close to the princes. Do not give them an opening. And if they come for you—" he touched the hilt of his sword— "do not be afraid to use your spark."
The door opened. Edric stepped out, his face pale, his eyes red. He looked at Celia, then at Arthur.
"He is asking for you," he said to Celia.
"For me?"
"He wants to meet the mage from Mercia. The one who saved his son."
Celia hesitated. Then she walked into the chamber.
---
**The King's Chamber**
King Aldric lay in a bed of oak and crimson velvet, his hands folded on his chest, his face as white as the pillows. He was smaller than she had imagined, smaller than the stories had made him. The man who had fought orcs and trolls, who had united the northern marches, who had ruled for forty years—he was just a man now. Old. Tired. Dying.
"Princess Celia," he said. His voice was a whisper, but his eyes were still sharp. "Come closer."
She knelt beside the bed. "Your Majesty."
"I wanted to thank you. For my son. For what you did in Aethelburg."
"I did what was necessary."
"Necessary." He smiled, and for a moment, she saw the man he had been. "That is what Edric would say. You are alike, you know. You and my youngest. You both see what is necessary, and you do it, even when it costs you."
"I am honored to be compared to him."
"He will need you. In the days to come, he will need you." Aldric's hand found hers, his grip weak but warm. "Promise me you will protect him. Not with your magic. With your heart."
Celia did not know what to say. She looked at Edric, who stood in the doorway, his face unreadable.
"I promise," she said.
Aldric smiled. "Good. That is good."
He closed his eyes. His hand relaxed in hers.
The room was silent. Then Edric moved, walking to his father's side, taking the old king's hand from Celia's. He did not weep. He simply held his father's hand and waited.
Celia left them alone.
---
**The Corridor**
Arthur was waiting.
"He is gone," Celia said.
"I know."
"What happens now?"
Arthur looked down the corridor, toward the great hall, toward the nobles who were already gathering, already scheming, already waiting.
"Now," he said, "the wolves come out of the shadows."
---
*End of Chapter Ten*
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