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EPILOGUE

LEVIATHAN CHURCH

Firelight danced over the dark wood floor of Leviathan Church’s office, casting long shadows across the overflowing bookshelves lining the walls, the piles of missives and tomes.

The lord sat behind his heavy oak desk, elbows perched on the edge, hands clasped under his chin. Boots echoed in the hallway outside, muffled through the heavy door, and his lip curled into a small, satisfied smile when a knock sounded.

He arranged his features into a neutral expression before opening his mouth and letting the gravitas of his voice flow through the room. “Enter.”

With a creak, Sir Cedric Thorne stepped inside, the flickering fire casting the sharp angles of his face in shadow. The knight was dressed casually, his suit of armor foregone in lieu of a dark tunic and breeches beneath a stitched doublet. His chestnut hair had grown in the months since he returned from Luminaria, curling at the tips of his ears and around his face. A face that was just as carefully schooled as the lord’s—stoic, respectful. No sign of irritation, of being inconvenienced by the last-minute nature of his summons.

Leviathan knew better than to trust it. Cedric was hiding something from him, had been since the day he emerged from the Celestial Sanctum. The knight had told the lord much of what happened, to be sure. A less-seasoned man might have thought he told him everything.

Leviathan was absolutely positive he had not.

“Sir Thorne,” he intoned, his voice smooth and deep. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”

“Of course, my lord.”

Leviathan gestured to a wide-backed chair in front of the desk. “Take a seat, my son.”

Cedric’s eyes widened at the uncharacteristic term of endearment, but he obeyed, dropping into the chair without hesitation. For a moment, Leviathan simply observed him, noting the stiffness of his posture, the flicker in his gold-ringed eyes that might have been something like unease.

“Do I make you nervous, Cedric?” Leviathan asked, running a hand through his dark brown hair, flattening the thicker strands of gray streaked within.

Cedric shook his head. “Of course not, my lord.” Then he seemed to contemplate his words. “Not usually. This is just all a bit unexpected. The messenger made your summons sound rather urgent.”

“Stole you away from your adoring fans, did I? I am sure many are clamoring for the Victor of Havensreach’s attention these nights.” Leviathan let a hint of amusement dance between his words, all too aware of how much Cedric disliked the designation.

The knight huffed something that sounded almost like a laugh. “Hardly, my lord.”

A moment passed, then another. Leviathan allowed the silence to hang between them, to turn into tension, daring Cedric to cut through it. To see if he would let his knightly visage slip, let some of whatever truth he was hiding come to the surface. For a fleeting instant, Leviathan thought he saw Cedric’s hand twitch, as if ready to reach for the dully glowing token hanging from his neck.

True to his role as the honor-bound knight, however, Cedric said nothing. Leviathan was almost disappointed.

“I’ve received word from King Callum. The accord has been finalized, the agreement sealed with blood.” Displeasure curled his lip. “Havensreach will allow Nyrundelle to send some of their people into our lands as part of their search for Varyth Malchior. To hunt the Cult of Malakar.” He drummed his fingers on the desk. “Arcanians have been officially sanctioned entrance into the realm of Havensreach. I never thought I’d see the day.”

Some emotion flashed across Cedric’s face, too quick for Leviathan to catch. It was a reaction, though. A strong one.

Cedric noticed the lord noticing. “This is a good thing, is it not, my lord? In exchange, they have given up part of the Midlands.”

“Yes,” Leviathan said. “A rather poor deal for them to make, is it not? Swaths of mana-rich land in exchange for passage for a few errant Arcanians. Does that seem like a trade their fairy king should be inclined to make?”

Cedric frowned. “I...I suppose not at first glance. But you are aware of the danger that Varyth Malchior poses. And I’ve explained the lengths to which he has already gone. You know what will happen should he get his hands on the other half of the Crown of Concord. Perhaps their king takes the threat just as seriously.”

“Or, perhaps they know something they think we don’t know about the power Malchior has stolen. Perhaps they race to get access to both pieces of the crown at once, to unite its power before we can.”

“Perhaps,” Cedric agreed, then somewhat hesitantly added, “Is that not what we are doing as well?”

Leviathan didn’t answer. Instead, he leaned forward in his seat, eyes narrowing slightly at Cedric. “And you?”

“Me, my lord?”

Leviathan let the unspoken accusation hang in the air. Cedric’s jaw flexed, his posture going rigid. “Are you not intrigued by this development? By this looming peace ?” The very word curdled on Leviathan’s tongue.

“Should I not be, my lord? ”

“Perhaps I am simply curious as to the true reason for your interest. The Arcanians will be sending a delegation to Kingshelm. Are you not the slightest bit curious who they will send?”

Cedric’s shoulders sagged. “Of course, I am curious, my lord, but no more so than the average citizen.”

One side of Leviathan’s mouth tipped up. “I’m sure.”

Another few heartbeats of tense silence settled into the space between them.

Finally, the lord said, “And your own progress? Have there been any developments in your search for the other half of the crown? Any new information?”

“Nothing of substance, I’m afraid, my lord. I continue following what leads I can, but I will need time. Sir Hale suggests we consult the magisters in Paidaeus. I was going to ask your permission to travel there with him next week.”

Leviathan allowed a small frown to crease his brow, a performance of contemplation. “Very well,” he conceded. “Continue your efforts. Learn what you can. But remember, time is a luxury few can afford. And with Varyth Malchior and his stars-damned cultists doing Aurelia-knows-what in the meantime, we must be strategic and steadfast. Who knows how long this treaty”—he suppressed a shudder—“will truly last.”

“Yes, my lord.” Cedric inclined his head. “I understand what is at stake.”

With that, Leviathan dismissed him, watching as the knight rose and left the room—shoulders square, movements sharp. He had changed in the Sanctum, there was no doubt about it. Truth be told, Leviathan hadn’t expected to see Cedric come back at all. It was a pleasant surprise to be able to welcome him back with open arms. Or, to welcome whoever Cedric had become. It was clear he was not the same compliant student and obedient knight that the lord had shaped.

He was something else entirely.

When the door clicked shut and Leviathan Church found himself alone once more, he stood, crossing the office with languid steps. He stopped in front of an ornate gilded mirror, its shining edges tarnished by time. One hand on the token dangling from his neck, he flicked his wrist. A darksteel dagger appeared in his free hand, and he wasted no time slicing it across the back of his arm.

Blood trailed down his wrist, dark and rich, and Leviathan smeared it onto the surface of the mirror. Crimson symbols appeared overtop his reflection, and the mirror slid aside with the whispered rumble of stone on stone, revealing a recessed compartment.

Leviathan’s eyes roamed over the contents spilling over the shelves within—leather pouches full of gold coins, tokens pulsing with mana, gilded jewelry and shining gemstones, an array of small darksteel weapons.

And right in the center, nestled on a bed of black velvet between a ring of darkest onyx and a heavy gold locket, there it was.

Sharp golden spires, set with sparkling jewels. The jagged edges on either side where Daephinia’s cursed arrow had shattered it.

The Crown of Concord.

Or one half of it, at least.

Leviathan’s lips curled into a slow, satisfied smile as he let his fingers trace the delicate edges of the stolen crown. It was quiet. Still. He couldn’t feel its power, but he knew it was there. Knew it wouldn’t stay dormant for long. He just needed to stay vigilant, to stay the course a little longer.

He was close.

After all this time, after all he’d worked for, all he’d sacrificed, he was so, so close.

Wiping the blood from his arm with a handkerchief, Leviathan swapped out the token around his neck with a freshly charged one. With the wave of his hand, the mirror slid back in place, the compartment sealed, nary a drop of blood to be seen on its shining surface.

Soon , he thought. Soon all Arcanis would know, would remember, would fall before him. And the thought filled him with such dark joy that for just a moment, he allowed the serene mask he always wore to slip. He let the ruthless ambition that constantly burned beneath it bubble to the surface.

“Soon,” he repeated into the empty room. And this time, it wasn’t Leviathan Church that spoke.

It was Varyth Malchior.