“Heathen nonsense,” muttered Lady Marest.

Lord Akadra ignored the interruption. “And now every shadowthorn with a claim on the Imperial throne is looking to prove themselves in battle.”

Viktor’s lip twitched in distaste. Shadowthorn. An old insult, born from the myth that the Hadari had crawled forth from Fellhallow’s rich, Dark-tainted soil. That they were not given life by the heavenly sisters Lumestra and Ashana, but by twisted, root-woven Jack. Too many of the older generation, prophesying a day when the Republic would be forcibly absorbed into the Empire, took shelter in strange prejudice. Viktor, though a patriot, considered himself pragmatic enough to recognise that the history between the two realms was complicated at best.

“So let them batter at one another,” sniffed Lady Marest.

“I doubt they’ll oblige,” said Viktor’s father. “We’re a much more tempting target. Fifty years we held Ceredic at the border. What better way to prove worthiness of his throne than by doing what he could not?”

“This isn’t conjecture, is it?”

Malachi’s words echoed Viktor’s own reading of the situation. His father was a pragmatist. Guesswork he derided as sloppy; chance as a fit companion only for the gambler, or the fool. For him to offer up a hypothetical future was as uncharacteristic as for him to utter a word of praise.

“I wish it were.” Lord Tarev gave his beard an absent-minded tug. Viktor wondered if his dear daughter had yet informed him of her recent humiliation. “Their armies are marching on the shire lands.”

“So soon?” asked Malachi.

“Ceredic’s been a long time dying,” Lady Kiradin said. “If only our champion had finished the job at the Ravonn six months ago. Wounds and ambition alike wouldn’t have had chance to fester. If he’d died promptly, his son would be emperor and that would be that. As it is, all Ceredic’s done by lingering is give a pretender the chance to gather his forces and stake his own claim.”

“Nothing would have changed,” said Malachi. “We’d simply have faced this same situation all the sooner.”

Lady Kiradin sniffed. “We’ll never know, will we?”

Viktor bit his tongue. Near three hundred soldiers had perished getting him close enough to Ceredic’s bodyguard to strike him down. For their sacrifice to be so simply dismissed . . .

His temper quickened even as the room lost its warmth. The shadow in his soul uncoiled, seeking egress. Malachi shot him a concerned look. With an effort, Viktor brought his temper under control, and offered Malachi a slow nod. Lady Kiradin turned away, a sly smile at the corner of her mouth.

“How bad is it?” asked Malachi, scrambling to change the subject.

“They’re marching in their thousands.” Lord Tarev rose and tapped at the map. “Maggad’s spears are thick on the Ravonn’s eastern bank. We’re expecting his blow to fall at Krasta.”

“Maggad? Ceredic’s warleader?”