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Vex’s tone brightened, and she turned toward Arabella as if she were giving cheerful news. “Lord Blackrose personally dispatched the latest groups.”

Arabella’s expression flickered—something that looked more like deep thought than horror. She set her spoon down.

“And the troublesome part,” I went on, “is the location of these raids. The villages fall into a muddled no-man’s-land between Arvoryn and Solandris.”

Griffin fumbled with his contraption again, producing a high-pitched squeal that set my teeth on edge. He twisted a gear, silencing the device with an apologetic grin.

“You mentioned Viscountess Morana,” Arabella said quietly. “Doesn’t she watch over Arvoryn?”

“Yes, but these villages traditionally belong to Solandris,” I clarified. “But there’s enough dispute that Morana lays claim as well and has pledged protection.”

A spasm of motion from Griffin’s contraption promptly died when he jostled the apparatus too hard. He cursed under his breath, turned a little valve, and then returned his attention to dinner, muttering about calibrations.

Arabella drew a slow breath. “Who’s actually responsible for defending these villages, then?”

“Exactly the question,” Sims said, sliding a fresh map across the table. “These red zones show territory historically claimed by both Arvoryn and Solandris. King Auremar pulled back his patrols from that region three months ago.”

Arabella’s brow furrowed as she studied the map. “And Morana doesn’t have enough soldiers stationed there?”

“She claims she does,” I told her, slicing a piece of roasted meat. “But the raids keep happening. If she’s truly protecting them, she’s doing a piss-poor job.”

My wife looked unconvinced. “That doesn’t sound like Auremar. He’s always portrayed as the Peacemaker King, champion of his people.”

“Propaganda,” I said, my voice flat.

Dinner continued, and I took advantage of the lull to watch Arabella’s reaction: the crease in her brow, the set of her shoulders. It suggested she cared more than she let on.

“All right,” she said finally. “What proof do you have that these raids are more planned than random?”

That was the opening I’d been waiting for. “I arrived at Thornwick village this morning and found it burning. The bandits were in the midst of slaughtering farmers who couldn’t escape. A survivor claimed they’d sent messengers to Auremar, pleading for help, yet no reply came.”

Griffin’s contraption clattered again. This time, a small spring shot across the table and landed in Thorne’s wine. He fished it out with a long-suffering sigh.

“Sorry, sorry,” Griffin murmured, accepting the dripping component.

“I questioned one of the bandits before executing him,” I continued. “He confessed that a well-dressed man from Solandris had been feeding them information—patrol timings, best targets, even paying in Solandrian gold.”

Arabella’s gaze darted over to me, her face grave. “You think King Auremar ordered it?”

“Maybe not directly,” I said, “but he didn’t stop it. Failing to protect his subjects while funneling resources elsewhere is almost the same thing.”

Vex added in a soft voice, “The Golden Roses. It always comes back to them.”

A collective hush spread across the table. Griffin even paused in his tinkering.

“What do the Golden Rose fields have to do with border villages?” Arabella asked.

I put my knife down and measured my words carefully. “Have you witnessed the rose harvest ceremonies?”

She shook her head. “They’re restricted to those close to the crown.”

“I’m surprised your mother never took you, since she was of heroic blood herself,” I probed.

A flicker of hurt crossed Arabella’s face so quickly, I almost missed it. “She died when I was eight. If she participated in any royal ceremonies, I was too young to remember.”

Quiet settled over us. The fire’s crackle sounded too loud, as if breaking some unspoken taboo.

“My condolences,” I said, surprising myself with the sincerity behind it.

She seemed just as surprised. “Thank you,” she replied softly.

Clearing my throat, I steered us back on track. “The Golden Roses aren’t just ornamental as you know. They hold ancient power that Solandris harvests, but in a flawed way.”

Arabella’s eyes narrowed. “Flawed?”

Griffin jumped at the chance to elaborate. “If done properly, the roses can heal mortal wounds and bolster wards. But for years, their potency’s been on the decline. And King Auremar, being the shrewd merchant he is, keeps raising prices.”

“Years ago,” I explained, “rose essence could save a man half-dead. Now it’s hardly enough to soothe a mild fever. Meanwhile, Auremar diverts protection from remote villages to the rose fields, leaving many outlying areas vulnerable to bandit raids.”

Arabella pressed her lips into a thin line. “That still contradicts the stories I’ve heard about Auremar.”

I suppressed a chuckle. “Stories, indeed. They’re worth less than the paper they’re inked on.”

Griffin’s contraption suddenly whined again, and he twisted a gear to silence it. A faint beam of light shot directly into Sims’s eye, provoking a stream of curses from him.

“Minor calibration problem,” Griffin offered lamely. Then, to everyone’s surprise, the machine whirred softly and projected a three-dimensional map of glowing lines above the table.

Arabella’s eyes widened. “What is that?”

“The ley lines,” I said. “Specifically, those running beneath Solandris. This power is what sustains Auremar’s precious roses, and what currently makes it difficult for me to infiltrate his lands.”

Her gaze turned from the projected light back to me. “So that’s why you can’t just storm in. The combination of rose essence and the ley lines resists your dominion magic.”

“Indeed.” My voice felt tight. I was rarely so transparent with anyone, but she deserved this small glimpse if I wanted her fully on my side.

The contraption sputtered, then sparked. Griffin groaned in frustration and snatched a goblet of water, dousing it with minimal ceremony. A hiss of steam rolled into the air.

Dessert arrived—Solandrian pastries stuffed with a sweet berry compote. While we ate, Arabella stayed uncharacteristically quiet.

“I’m trying to reconcile King Auremar as you describe him with the man I saw years ago,” she said eventually. “He always seemed the epitome of goodness.”

I studied her carefully. “Have you met him, personally?”

“A few times, though I had only one real audience.” Something in her voice hardened. “My father tried to get me placed in the royal court as a healing prodigy. The king politely declined.”

That bitterness in her eyes was fleeting but potent. It told me more about Auremar’s supposed benevolence than any rumor could.

Griffin’s contraption sparked again, drawing all eyes as a puff of black smoke wafted up. He scrambled to salvage the pieces, muttering frantic apologies.

Arabella turned to me. “One thing still bothers me. Why do you protect these outlying villages at all? You don’t rule them.”

I allowed a slow, dark smile. “Many reasons. One is ensuring their gratitude, which often proves more durable than forced tribute, and makes them happy to have my garrisons nearby. Another is sabotaging Auremar’s reputation. And, well, I like to irritate him.”

She took that in, then muttered, “Practical villainy at its finest.”

“I try.” I set down my utensils and signaled the servant to clear the plates. “Which brings us to our next matter: Viscountess Morana invited us to Arvoryn Pass.”

Arabella’s eyes narrowed. “Us?”

“She specifically requested you,” I said, relishing the slight annoyance that flashed across her face. “And if you go, it flaunts our marriage in her courtyard and undermines her expectations that this union is a temporary arrangement.”

“She did nothing but glower at me during our wedding,” Arabella pointed out.

Thorne snorted. “She looked like she wanted to carve you up with a butter knife.”

Vex let out a sardonic laugh. “Her brawl with the Syndicate that night also left her guard dead, which complicates things. Three letters from the Syndicate in one week, each more threatening than the last.”

Sims shuffled his documents. “The Syndicate demands compensation for the injuries to their representative. Meanwhile, Morana claims her guard was murdered under mysterious circumstances.”

“Convenient that nobody can pin it on any single party,” Thorne added. “Might’ve been the Syndicate or Morana herself.”

I dismissed it all with a wave. “We’ll handle that in Arvoryn. And remind her that attacking Syndicate affiliates leads to problems I’d rather not address.”

Arabella observed me for a moment. “So I’m basically an accessory to piss her off and demonstrate solidarity.”

“An accessory with insight,” I corrected, letting my shadows flicker playfully. “And you’ll see for yourself what Solandris has turned into. Arvoryn sits exactly on the border—close enough to glean plenty of revelations.”

“I doubt the Viscountess requested me for my charming company.”

“You needn’t worry,” I assured her. “The Viscountess knows better than to harm what belongs to me.”

Arabella’s eyes flashed. “I don’t belong to anyone.”

My shadows flared in response, and a candle guttered in protest. The table fell silent as my advisors suddenly found their plates fascinating. I allowed her rebuke to slide, however, since I needed her cooperation.

Arabella held my gaze for a measured moment, aware of every advisor watching their Dark Lord yield ground.

She took a deliberate sip of wine.

Just then, Griffin’s apparatus coughed back to life. A bright band of light projected onto the ceiling: the glowing rivers of magic twisted and turned, forming a pattern that resembled some ancient script when viewed from below.

“There!” Griffin crowed, triumphant for half a second before the machine popped in a shower of sparks, but the image remained. “I’ll recalibrate it tomorrow,” he promised, looking crestfallen.

The moment of magic lingered as we gazed at the swirling lines. Then Arabella turned to me, and I recognized the intent in her eyes—curiosity, determination, a wariness that hadn’t yet resolved into trust.

“All right,” she said at last. “I’ll go. I need to see the truth myself.”

Griffin’s apparatus gave a final, pitiful sputter and died for good. Sims looked far too satisfied as he set his papers aside.

With the tension broken, conversation meandered into smaller topics.

Arabella asked about Griffin’s latest failed experiments.

She traded sly barbs with Sims and laughed at Thorne’s gruff jabs about incompetent raiders.

I leaned back in my chair, letting her interact with my advisors on her own terms.

While she laughed with Vex about some lesser demon fiasco, I found myself studying the lines of her face, how her mouth curved when amused, how her hair glinted softly in the firelight. Another unwelcome ache settled in my chest at the sight of her so at ease.

I reminded myself that I was a warlord with plans to topple a kingdom; she was the key to harnessing power I’d dreamed of for years. Still, that logical reasoning wobbled dangerously every time I imagined her laughter turning softer, intimate, as if shared only for me.