Magnus Veyron studied the war map under dim candlelight, his gaze tracing the river veins of the Western Marches. Red markers denoted loyal towns, gears for machine-fortified outposts, and black Xs for subdued zones. Riverrun's recent uprising was now but another cross.
One territory, however, remained unmarked.
Blackford.
It was not the largest duchy, nor the richest. But it held power of a different sort—ancestral influence, political sway, and above all, the Duchess herself.
Elara Blackford.
The only noble in the West who had neither bent the knee nor offered a treaty. She hadn't insulted him, hadn't plotted openly—but her silence was its own weapon. And her latest letter was laced with steel.
Do your machines dream of guilt, Magnus? Or do they only reflect their maker?
He let the parchment burn in the hearth, watching it curl and blacken. Then he turned to Tobias.
"Send a gift to Duchess Elara," he said calmly.
Tobias raised an eyebrow. "What sort of gift?"
Magnus smiled faintly. "The kind that bleeds."
I. Blackford's Watch
Blackford Keep was carved into the cliffs of the Northern Verge, its towers hunched like vultures over the sea. Cold winds curled through its parapets, carrying the scent of salt and stone.
Duchess Elara stood upon the highest balcony, her silver hair plaited beneath a black hood. At her side stood her master of arms, Sir Garren—tall, broad, and armored in obsidian plate.
"They will come," Garren said, scanning the mist below.
Elara nodded. "They always do."
She held Magnus's old letter in her glove, reading the fading ink for the tenth time. The man's machines might win wars, but it was his words that haunted her.
She had known him once—as a boy, a tinkerer, a guest at her court with coal-smudged fingers and unblinking eyes. He had kissed her ring with reverence. Now he sent iron beasts to raze cities.
And yet… there was a sliver of humanity buried under that molten ambition. Wasn't there?
A horn sounded at the gate.
"Who seeks Blackford?" the gatekeeper called.
The reply was chilling.
"A peace envoy from the Iron Vanguard."
II. The Caged Bird
The envoy was no noble, nor captain. It was a man in rags, bloodied and bruised, gagged with a cloth of silk. A parchment was pinned to his chest.
Garren tore it free and read aloud:
"A message of goodwill. He was your spy, Elara.
I send him back intact—as a courtesy. Next time, I send only pieces."
—M.V.
The man collapsed at Elara's feet.
She didn't flinch.
"Get him to the infirmary," she ordered. "And summon the scribes."
Garren looked at her. "You mean to reply?"
"Oh no," Elara said softly, "I mean to provoke."
III. A Dinner Invitation
Magnus received her invitation three days later.
It was perfumed with lilies, signed in ink and wax, and written in the same elegant script she'd used years ago:
"Dearest Lord-Regent,
If you intend to conquer my lands, you might as well dine with me first.
It is custom to greet one's executioner, after all.
Fondly,
Elara Blackford"
Tobias looked ready to tear the letter in half. "It's a trap."
"Of course it is," Magnus said, already selecting a coat. "But it's also an opening."
"She'll poison you."
"Then I shall eat slowly."
IV. Wolves at the Table
Blackford's grand hall was nothing like Emberhold's iron bastion. Here, the chandeliers were crystal, the hearths wide enough to walk into. The banners bore no cogs or swords—only a white raven on a field of dusk.
Elara greeted Magnus at the top of the stairs, clad in a dark gown with silver threading.
"You came alone," she said, almost surprised.
He bowed. "I left my monsters at home."
"Did you?"
They dined in a quiet room off the main hall, served by mute servants. The food was delicate: lamb in rose sauce, black truffles, spiced wine. Magnus ate carefully, letting her lead the conversation.
"You've built quite the empire," she said.
"I've replaced broken systems with efficient ones."
"You've replaced people with machines."
"Machines don't betray. They don't demand, they don't embezzle. They work."
"And yet, they follow you." She sipped her wine. "So perhaps they've inherited the worst trait of man."
Magnus paused. "You invited me to insult me?"
"I invited you to see if there's still a man behind the gears."
Their eyes locked.
"I want Blackford," Magnus said bluntly.
"And I want your head mounted on my gate," Elara said sweetly.
They both smiled.
V. A Dance Before War
After dinner, Elara led him to the ballroom. A string quartet played, and nobles whispered behind gloves. Magnus recognized a few from old court politics—lesser dukes, minor barons. All of them clinging to the old ways.
"Dance with me," she said.
"You're mocking me."
"I'm offering a moment of peace."
He took her hand. They danced.
She moved like a raven—graceful, sharp, unreadable. He was stiffer, more accustomed to marching than gliding, but he followed her lead.
"Why don't you stop?" she whispered.
"Stop what?"
"This… conquest. This march of steel."
He didn't answer. Not immediately.
Then he leaned in. "Because I was never meant to be a pawn. And because I remember what it felt like to starve while the nobles danced."
She flinched.
The music ended. The spell broke.
VI. The Dead Man's Mark
That night, Elara stood on her tower again. Alone.
A message hawk arrived—iron-tagged.
She opened the note. It was unsigned.
"I will take Blackford. But not through war.
Through you."
She let the message fall.
And in the shadows, far beneath the cliff… a cloaked figure watched.
The Dead Man.
Magnus's assassin.