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“Someone’s paid off your guards in Heistone,” I say to Lawrence, growing even more uneasy. “How else can we explain it?”

Lawrence grimaces at the thought. “What human in their right mind would join hands with theHigh Vales?”

“There’s some irony in that,” Ayan says to Audra, who merely answers with a scoffing noise.

“You know what I mean,” Lawrence says. “We’re striving for peace, But this… This is an act of treason. Who would welcome war into their home?”

“Someone who was loyal to your sister,” I say quietly.

Slowly, Lawrence turns to me. I shrug, not liking it any more than anyone else in the room.

Lawrence shoves his hand through his long hair. “Even dead, Camellia’s causing trouble.”

“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” Henrik says reasonably. “Right now, we need to track down the golems and confiscate them before we have a war on our hands.”

“I need you to lead a band to Heistone to deal with this,” Lawrence says, agreeing. “I’m afraid your knighting ceremony will have to wait.”

Henrik merely grunts out an affirmative, looking like he expected nothing else.

6

HENRIK

I overseethe last of the crates as several guards carry them into the cool, dark vault. Bartholomew stands next to me, silently surveying the vast room. We’re underneath the castle, in a highly protected space that used to be the High Vale royal crypt. King Telgin transformed it into a treasury when the elves demanded their ancestors’ tombs be transported to Revalane after the humans’ victory in the war.

Smoke mingles with the smell of the stale, ancient room. Firelight shines on the men’s faces and flickers on the stone walls, but our torches do little to reveal the century of dust that’s gathered. When Cabaranth belonged to Ayan’s family, the High Vales constructed oil chambers to provide light in the crypt. But it’s an outdated, inefficient system, using a high quantity of the precious fuel the elves charge us so dearly for. We won’t be here long enough to justify lighting them.

“Strange this has always been down here and I’ve never seen it,” Bartholomew says, my squire’s voice hushed in the echo-prone space.

Relics won in the war, precious goods gifted from Calendria, and nearby stacks of gold ingots catch the torchlight. The crown jewels are kept here, as are rugs, art, and even the gowns of queens long past, each adorned with precious gems.

But there is little order. It’s a glorified storeroom, a collection of priceless goods carelessly piled upon tables or haphazardly placed in corners and promptly forgotten.

“Is this my grandmother’s fabled golden tea set?” Bartholomew asks incredulously, pausing in front of not just a teapot with matching cups and accessories, but an entire table crafted of gold, complete with chairs to match. “I thought it was a family joke.”

It’s certainly not the only strange item in the collection. And now, elven war golems join the assemblage, secure and guarded.

Once the last crate is placed, Bartholomew and I join Lawrence and his sealed knights in the cluster of torchlight. They surround an open box and stare at the golem inside.

“It looks sturdier than the relics I’ve seen,” Bartholomew says.

Lawrence raps on the golden soldier’s chest, creating a clang as his signet ring meets the metal. “The golems created a century ago were made of straight talvernum.”

“What is this metal?” Alfred asks, scowling at the Vallen weapon. “And can it be pierced with steel?”

Though it’s the only metal that works as a conduit for magic, talvernum is somewhat soft. It wasn’t easy to fight the metal soldiers a hundred years ago, but it could be done. In the ancient creations, the energy crystals were installed in the chest cavity—a jewel heart of sorts. Once their energy source was cut out of them, the spelled soldiers fell to the ground, lifeless.

But if steel won’t penetrate this metal…

“Try it,” Lawrence says to Alfred.

We stand back as the knight draws his dagger. With both hands wrapped around the hilt, he rams the blade downward.

With a horrible clang of hard metal meeting, the dagger slides across the cuirass and embeds itself in the straw the golem rests upon.

Miguel curses. “Wretched High Vales and their tinkering. What have they created?”

“It wasn’t the elves,” I say heavily, pressing my hand to the crate's edge.