Lord Azaerin Bckthorne had a problem.

  It came in the form of an envelope, sitting on his desk like a curse. Azaerin could only gre at it, as if sheer contempt might banish it. Even without the Imperial Seal stamped in deep crimson wax, he could have guessed its origin. The handwriting alone gave it away—his name rendered in flowing bck ink ced with what looked like gold dust, each letter a delicate reminder of just how wealthy, decadent, and insufferably powerful the Imperial Pace remained.

  Why now? he couldn’t help but wonder.

  Marcus, his steward, stood nearby, having delivered the offending missive not minutes ago. The half-elf lingered, studying his Lord’s expression as Azaerin stared at the letter with a mixture of annoyance and unease. His piercing blue eyes held a glint of defiance—as though he might burn the letter to ash and suffer the consequences ter. Clearly, his mind was already working through every possible way to avoid what the letter would ask of him.

  In all his years serving the young Lord, Marcus couldn’t recall the st time he’d seen him so perturbed. Unable to hold back his own curiosity, he cleared his throat.

  “My Lord… it’s not going to go away on its own, you know.”

  The two men were currently in Azaerin’s study—a rge, high-ceilinged chamber with walls of pale grey stone and an air of quiet command. The room’s centerpiece was the massive bckwood desk, positioned before a set of towering French windows that bathed the space in natural light. If one looked closely, they would notice a shimmer of magic woven into the gss—a silent ward against intrusion. Beyond the windows y a stone balcony overlooking the wide courtyard of Bckthorne Keep.

  One wall bore a towering bookcase filled with leather-bound tomes on magecraft, history, and military strategy. In the center of the room y a deep crimson rug, embroidered with the crest of Xenia: a bck dragon with its wings outstretched, poised like a guardian over its territory. Resting atop it was a grouping of couches and armchairs arranged around a low coffee table—an area reserved for more informal counsel.

  From this very room, the fate of the province of Xenia was shaped.

  Azaerin sighed. Of course Marcus was right—better to deal with it now than let it fester. A letter from the Imperial Pace wasn’t inherently a bad thing. More often than not, such correspondence contained invitations to balls, tournaments, or other noble spectacles hosted by the imperial family. Occasionally, they addressed matters of governance or requested assistance with some official task.

  But that was the problem.

  Azaerin had never received such letters. Not one in the eight years since he had become Lord of Xenia at the age of sixteen—the youngest Lord in the Empire in living memory. For the Pace to be writing to him now could only mean one thing.

  He was either already in trouble... or about to be.

  You might wonder why a Lord of the realm could be so btantly ignored. Well—for one, Azaerin never bothered to attend court. Noble politics, petty scheming, and veiled posturing held no interest for him. The false smiles and yered insults would have had him itching for a fight.

  As children, noble heirs are taught to keep their expressions guarded, their emotions masked. But on his one and only visit to the capital, Azaerin let his disdain for the court show all too clearly.

  Fortunately for him, Xenia was considered a backwater—unimportant and unnecessary. Tucked away at the southeastern edge of the continent, it is the most remote province in the entire Empire. Its terrain is rugged, its roads winding, and its forests filled with creatures that would send most imperial scouts fleeing.

  And so, like his province, its Lord was deemed equally distant, equally irrelevant—not worth the parchment to send him a letter.

  So for these reasons—and one more—the Empire was more than happy to let Lord Bckthorne rule his forgotten corner of the realm without interference. As long as Xenia paid its taxes and caused no problems, no one cared what he did.

  Until now.

  Azaerin drew a steadying breath. At st, he broke the wax seal and unfolded the letter inside, the parchment crackling softly as he began to read.

  From the Office of the High Chamberin On Behalf of Her Imperial Majesty

  To Lord Azaerin Bckthorne of Xenia, Holder of the Southern Bordernds, Warden of the Pale Coast, Defender of the Shrouded Vale,

  By decree of Her Imperial Majesty Selene Aurelia, Sovereign of the Aelirian Empire, you are hereby invited to attend the Debut of Her Highness, Crown Princess Elise, to be held in the capital city of Soreia on the 15th day of Bloomtide.

  All Lords and Ladies of noble standing are called to bear witness to Her Highness’s formal presentation before the Throne of Stars, and to renew their oaths of loyalty before the Court.

  In accordance with protocol, travel arrangements have been initiated. A formal escort will arrive within ten days of this letter to ensure your safe passage to the Imperial Court.

  May the Light of the Empire guide your steps.

  —Signed in the Hand of Her Imperial Majesty, Selene Aurelia Empress of Aeliria, Lady of the Everfme_

  [Imperial Seal in crimson wax, flecked with gold]

  At the mention of the Princess, an image flickered in Azaerin’s mind—an auburn-haired girl ughing as she twirled barefoot through the pace gardens, sun-dappled and carefree. For a fleeting moment, a smile threatened the corner of his mouth.

  But it vanished the instant his eyes fell on a particur line:

  “Your presence is formally and explicitly required.”

  He let out a groan, folded the letter with deliberate annoyance, and handed it wordlessly to Marcus.

  Marcus took the letter—almost too quickly—and began reading it aloud, savoring each line like a rare vintage. When he was finished, he gnced over the top of the parchment, clearly enjoying himself.

  “My, my. An invitation to the Imperial capital. Seems you're moving up in the world, eh, my Lord?”

  “Oh, please, Marcus,” Azaerin groaned. “I'm being invited out of necessity. I'm surprised they even spelled my name right. Gods, what a pain. How long is this circus supposed to st, anyway?”

  “Seven days.”

  “Seven days!?”

  “Yes,” Marcus said calmly. “Seven days of feasting, dancing, tournaments, and courtly spectacles—beginning with the Debut on the first night. We must begin preparations at once, my Lord.”

  He gave Azaerin a once-over, lips twitching with amusement. “Starting with a new set of court attire.”

  “Why? I’ll just wear my old ones.”

  “Your old ones?”

  “Yes. Problem?”

  “Well, for one, they’re eight years out of fashion.”

  “As if I care.”

  “And secondly,” Marcus added with a dry smile, “I think you’ll agree you’ve rather outgrown them.”

  Azaerin couldn't argue with that.

  Eight years had seen him grow into his frame—tall, lean, and strong, standing a full six-foot-two. A lifetime of swordsmanship had honed his body into something wiry and precise, though it remained mostly hidden beneath the comfortably casual clothes he favored as Lord of Xenia.

  “Fine, Marcus,” Azaerin said with a sigh. “We’ll see what the tailor shops have to offer.”

  “I’m afraid that simply won’t do, my Lord,” Marcus replied, his tone turning sharply disapproving. “You represent all of Xenia. Off-the-rack clothing is out of the question. Whatever you wear must be custom made.”

  “A whole set of custom clothing in ten days?” Azaerin frowned. “Such a rush order will cost a fortune. And I haven’t even decided if I’m going.”

  “Well, luckily for us, you’re a very wealthy Lord,” Marcus replied, unfazed. “And even if you don’t go, you could stand to retire half the things in your closet. I’ll see to it some tailors are summoned this afternoon.”

  Azaerin groaned in defeat. “Very well. Wait—don’t I have a meeting with Lady Raewyn this afternoon?”

  “Perfect,” Marcus said, without missing a beat. “I’m sure she won’t mind joining you for your fitting. In fact, her dy’s eye for fashion may be exactly what we need.”

  Azaerin groaned again. “Oh, I’m sure she’ll jump at the chance. That elven woman will have me in a loincloth and leaves for her own amusement.”

  Marcus turned away, as if suddenly interested in the weapons hanging on the wall but still could not hide the way his shoulders shook with suppressed ughter.

  Azaerin narrowed his eyes. “Gd someone can find humour in this situation.”

  “Forgive me, my Lord,” Marcus said, regaining his composure. “If you'll excuse me, I’ll go see to your preparations.”

  Azaerin gave a dismissive wave, and Marcus bowed before turning to leave. At the door, he gnced back.

  “You know, my Lord... this could end up being a good thing. I do hope you decide to go—just to see how you shake things up in the capital.”

  With that, he was gone—his voice already echoing down the hall as he began issuing crisp, efficient orders.

  Azaerin stood from his chair and stepped onto the balcony, hoping the cold air might clear the tangle of thoughts in his mind. Below, the courtyard was alive with motion—knights training with sword and shield, servants ferrying crates, stablehands wrangling restless horses.

  He considered Marcus’ parting words. The man did have a talent for spinning disaster into opportunity. Perhaps the capital had changed in his absence.

  Probably not.

  Azaerin stared out toward the distant mountains, the wind tugging lightly at his cloak. Behind him, the cnging of steel on steel rang up from the courtyard like a war drum.

  “Gods help me,” he muttered.