The commander directed Ren to Lord Tyke's private chambers, not the audience hall. Inside, the fort was as silent as the courtyard. A guard informed him that they had turned the audience hall into a storage room years ago, since people only rarely visited the northern front. That should have been Ren's first hint.

Lord Tyke was nothing like Ren remembered him.

As he stepped into the lord's chambers, Ren's boot bumped an empty bottle, which rolled across the floor. The room was a mess. Clothes and armour were tossed on the floor, papers strewn on the table, the bed unmade. The room clearly hadn't seen servants in a long time.

Lord Tyke sat in an armchair by the desk. He looked up from his book as Ren entered, surprise flitting over his features. “Is that really you? My sister's bastard? No one sent word that you'd be joining us.” He waved Ren closer.

“Hello, Uncle.”

Judging by Lord Tyke's physique, it had been a while since he'd last had to fight in the defence of Stag's Run. He had grown soft. The taut muscles Ren remembered from his childhood were long gone, and his chin was covered in chicken grease that he apparently hadn't bothered to wipe off his face after his breakfast.

None of that mattered, Ren told himself. The capabilities of a king didn't rely on the appearance of his body or his chambers.

“I'm assuming you haven't gotten word from Aleria,” Ren said, taking a seat at the desk opposite his uncle, who poured him a cup of wine. Ren took a sip, then clasped his hands under the table, trying his best to ignore the nervousness that crept under his skin.

“Go on,” Lord Tyke said.

There was no easy way to say it. Ren stole a steadying breath. “The king and my brother, the crown prince, are dead.”

Lord Tyke's expression froze, then warped into disbelief, followed by shock. “What are you saying, boy?” he spluttered, and almost knocked over his wine cup.

“They were assassinated a week ago, on my brother's birthday, by the king of Skarlan, who was in attendance.”

Relief filled Ren, relief at finally being able to tell these things to someone who could help, who could take the crushing responsibility off his shoulders. He wasn't a general, or a leader, or a king in the making. He was just a fortunate boy born into royalty.

“The king of Skarlan.” Lord Tyke spoke slowly, gripping his wine cup until his knuckles turned white. Ren saw his chest expand before he raised the cup to his lips and drained the contents, then refilled it to the brim.

“He currently holds the throne of Frayne with Prince Thais as his hostage.”

“What does he want?” Lord Tyke asked, rubbing a hand over his mouth.