The heavy oak doors of the throne room loomed before Korrin and Valtor like old wardens. Torchlight flickered across the cold stone walls as the brothers waited outside.

Korrin paced in tight, erratic circles, his broad shoulders hunched forward. Beads of perspiration glistened on his forehead, clinging to his unkempt hair. He wiped his face with a rough motion and muttered under his breath.

Valtor sat casually against the wall, a small deck of cards flipping effortlessly between his nimble fingers as he observed his older brother’s restless movements.

“Do you ever stop moving?”

“You’re making me dizzy just watching you.”

Korrin shot him a hard look, his hands clenching into fists. “Unlike you, I take this seriously. Father’s summons isn’t something to sit around and mock.”

“Mock? Me? I’m merely enjoying the show.”

Korrin’s scowl deepened, his face flushing as he wiped at his brow again. “At least I’m ready to face him. Not like you, sitting there with your little games. Tell me, Valtor, what will you do when the raiders from the foothills ride in? Charm them to death? Or perhaps you’ll distract them with your cards?”

Valtor leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. 

“Who soured your porridge this morning, brother? You know there’s a maid by the horse kennels with a smile that could soften stone. Go spend an hour with her. She’d put colour back in your face.”

Korrin opened his mouth to answer, but before he could respond, hurried footsteps echoed down the hall. A maid, no more than seventeen, rounded the corner carrying a stack of linens. Her head down, she didn’t see Korrin until it was too late. She collided with him, the linens spilling to the floor.

The girl stumbled back, her cheeks flushing as she dropped to her knees. “Forgive me, my lord,” she stammered, her voice trembling. “I didn’t see—”

Korrin looked down at her without offering a hand. 

“Watch where you’re going,” he said sharply.

Valtor was on his feet in an instant, his cards vanishing into a pocket. He dropped beside the girl. “Forgive my brother,” he said, offering her a hand. “He’s still learning how to walk among decent folk.”

The girl hesitated, then took his hand. Valtor pulled her gently to her feet. “There. All better. Now, run along before he starts practicing his scowl on you.”

She blushed furiously, murmuring her thanks before scurrying off down the hall, clutching the linens tightly.

“You coddle them. It’s no wonder they think you’re weak.”

Valtor studied Korrin for a moment.

“Well... that explains a great deal.”

Korrin frowned. “Explains what?”

“You were dropped as a babe. Straight onto your head, cracked your skull clean in two. It’s the only explanation.”

A reluctant laugh escaped Korrin before he lunged for his brother.

Valtor took a quick step back, laughing. “Easy! You’ll prove me right!”

Korrin caught only the edge of Valtor’s sleeve before the faint sound of footsteps echoed along the corridor. The Queen emerged from the shadows. Her dark gown swept the floor as she approached, her eyes taking in the scene before her.

“Boys. Is this how you greet your mother?”

Korrin tensed, standing straighter. “Mother,” he said, his voice cautious.

Valtor, however, smiled lazily and bowed his head. 

“Lady Elira. What brings you to this frigid hall?”

“You always did have a tongue too sharp for your own good, Valtor.”

“And you, too clever for mine,” he replied.

Korrin studied them both. “We were summoned to see Father. Is he not…?”

“You won’t be seeing him today,” Elira said, cutting him off. “Your father is brooding, and I have matters to discuss with him. Consider yourselves spared his temper.”

Korrin hesitated. “But—”

Valtor moved closer. “Ah, a reprieve. Or is it exile? Tell me, my lady, which lie shall we call it today?”

“A shame,” she said softly. “You could have been so much more under my wing.”

Valtor folded his arms. “Your beauty might have been worth it, but your tongue would have been poison.”

“Perhaps,” she said, brushing past him. “Try not to burn the castle down while I’m gone.”

As she swept through the great doors, Valtor turned to Korrin.

“See? Even she knows when to bow to reason.”

Korrin frowned. “You… you make no sense sometimes.”

Valtor clapped him on the shoulder. “And yet here I am, keeping us both out of trouble. You’re welcome.”

Korrin only shook his head, muttering something under his breath as they turned from the echoing hall. The heavy doors groaned shut behind them, the sound reverberating through the stone corridors like a fading heartbeat.

Beyond those doors, Tharok sat before the fire, his massive frame hunched slightly forward, eyes fixed on the dancing tongues of orange and gold. The warmth kissed his weathered face, yet no comfort reached him. 

A soft hand rested on his shoulder, the touch light as a whisper. Tharok did not look up, his attention held by the fire. The Queen’s fingers lingered for a moment before she withdrew, gliding to his side with the grace of a predator.

“Was it worth it?” she asked.

Tharok did not answer. He watched the flames twist and curl, finding shapes within them that no one else could see.

Undeterred, the Queen continued. “The Eastern farmlands are thriving. Their production this summer surpasses even our most optimistic expectations.”

Tharok’s reply came soft but firm.

“King Ostrick was wise to hand over the land. He knew that a battle between us would serve neither his people nor ours.”

Her amusement thinned. “You always see the board before anyone else.”

“Ronan has done well in the North. His success against the tribes is being celebrated in the courts.”

Tharok’s eyes remained fixed on the flames. They seemed to dance more wildly now, their chaotic movements reflecting something unspoken. He tilted his head slightly, as though listening to a voice only he could hear.

The Queen frowned, stepping closer. 

“Why this obsession with the Mountains? They are small, forgotten tribes, not worth our attention. King Ostrick still holds power to the East. Shouldn’t that be—”

“The Mountains,” Tharok said suddenly,  “are unlike anywhere else.” 

He leaned back slightly. “It is the only place too wild to conquer and too dangerous to explore. Many summers ago, there were tales of tribes that spoke in no human tongue. Everything they touched turned to ash.”

“Children’s stories,” she said dismissively. 

“Old fears to keep little ones from wandering too far. Surely you don’t believe—”

“You grow older,” Tharok interrupted, “and you think you know better. You think the tales are just that—tales. Until the whispers return. Until the shadows move where they should not.”

The Queen opened her mouth to reply but stopped. Tharok’s focus on the flames intensified, his body tensing as if bracing for a blow. The crackling fire grew louder in the silence.

She was about to dismiss his words when the faintest sound reached her ears. A whisper, too faint to discern yet sharp enough to make her freeze. Her breath caught as the word seemed to weave itself into the air:

**Jaguar.**

The Queen’s skin prickled, and a chill ran down her spine. She watched as Tharok’s expression hardened, his lips barely moving as he uttered, “He’s here.”

Her pulse raced, though she didn’t know whether it was from fear or disbelief.

“Enough of this.”

She tore the curtain aside. Light flooded the room.

“All this smoke and darkness play tricks on the mind.”

Tharok didn’t move. He sat back in his chair, his massive hands resting on the arms.

The Queen glanced over her shoulder, her composure slowly returning. She smoothed her gown, forcing herself to smile. 

“You let the shadows speak too loudly, my king. Perhaps it is time to focus on the light.”

But Tharok said nothing. 

The Queen turned and left the chamber, her footsteps quick and purposeful.

Tharok remained by the fire, his trembling hand tightening into a fist. The whispers had returned. And this time, they carried a name he could not ignore.

Jaguar.

 

---

 

The great hall had fallen silent. Its torches burned low, their light guttering against the stone. Tharok still sat where the Queen had left him, watching the flames die while his thoughts wandered elsewhere.

Valtor entered the hall, his footsteps light against the stone floor.

Tharok’s lips curled into a faint smile as his son approached. “You two have the same smell,” he said, his voice rumbling like distant thunder.

Valtor stopped beside him. 

“She would be pleased to hear that.”

Tharok finally turned his head, his eyes meeting his son’s. “Every time, it gets heavier on my bones.”

Valtor slid into the seat beside him, leaning back with his usual casual grace. “Has the lion lost its mane?”

Tharok chuckled. “It’s good to see you, boy.”

“Tell me news,” Tharok said, leaning back in his chair and reaching for a tankard of ale. The firelight played across the scarred planes of his face, making him seem both mortal and larger than life.

Valtor hesitated for a moment before speaking. 

“She’s got her claws deep into him.” 

Tharok sighed and set the tankard down with a dull thud. “Ronan,” he muttered, more to himself than to Valtor.

Valtor leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice. “Should we remove her?”

Tharok took a long sip of ale, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“I wish your mother were still here.”

“But this is where we find ourselves.”

He turned the tankard slowly in his hand, studying the dark ale within.

“Elira needs this throne as much as we need her.”

Valtor leaned back, absorbing his father’s words.

“Beauty is a curse, isn’t it? It blinds even the sharpest minds. Thankfully, it seems to have missed me entirely.”

Tharok laughed. “A curse indeed,” he said, shaking his head. “Though I’d wager it doesn’t miss you as often as you claim.”

The laughter faded, leaving a comfortable silence between them. Tharok took another sip of ale before setting the tankard down. His expression darkened slightly as he turned back to the fire. “Have you heard the name Jaguar?”

“I’ve heard whispers,” Valtor admitted. “Why?”

Tharok didn’t answer immediately. He stared into the flames as if they held the secrets he sought.

“You’re dismissed.”

Valtor frowned, his eyes studying his father. He could see the tension in the older man’s frame, the way his hand rested on the arm of the chair as if to steady himself against unseen forces.

“Father…” he began, but Tharok raised a hand, silencing him.

Valtor stood slowly, with a quiet nod he turned and made his way out of the great hall.

As the heavy doors closed behind him, Valtor paused in the corridor.

The hall behind him remained silent, while beyond the chamber doors the castle stirred to life. The steady clink of armour grew louder along the corridor as General Maldrek approached the war room.

As he entered, the conversation died almost at once.

Generals stood around the great wooden table, some still bearing the dust of the road upon their cloaks, others with fresh bandages beneath their armour. Maps covered the table between them, held flat beneath daggers, stones and carved wooden markers.

Maldrek paid none of them any mind.

He approached the table and looked down at the map.

“Report.”

The thin general standing to his right glanced around at the other men. When none seemed willing to speak, he gave a helpless shrug.

Maldrek slowly raised his head.

His eyes moved from one weary face to another.

Then he smiled.

“Let me guess. You all want a tankard of ale and a warm woman’s bosom to bury yourselves in.”

The room broke into laughter.

Several of the generals nodded eagerly.

“And a hot meal,” added an older man with a hawkish face.

Maldrek chuckled beneath his breath.

“Of course you do, Paul. I’ve tasted your wife’s cooking. I’d fill my belly before going home as well.”

Paul’s mouth fell open.

The room erupted.

Even some of the older generals laughed as Paul stared at Maldrek in disbelief.

“You miserable old bastard,” Paul said.

Maldrek chuckled. “We can’t blame the chicken. Poor thing was dead on arrival.”

The laughter grew louder, Paul shaking his head as Maldrek raised both hands.

“Enough, enough.” His grin remained. “Before you lot drink Orrakhan dry, there’s one thing left.”

The laughter slowly faded.

Maldrek looked down at the map again.

“One thing before I give you leave.”

The mood in the room changed.

“Do we need more men?”

Silence answered him.

The generals lowered their eyes.

One by one, they nodded.

“The left flank,” Paul said at last. “We lost too many.”

Maldrek’s gaze moved to the far side of the table.

An empty place stood among them.

Before it rested a small wooden marker bearing the crest of General Sedric.

No man stood behind it.

Maldrek stared at the marker for a long moment.

“Aye.”

His voice had lost its humour.

“It never gets easier.”

No one answered.

There was nothing to say.

Maldrek straightened and looked upon the men gathered around him. Men he had fought beside for years. Some grey and scarred, others not yet old enough to carry the lines war would eventually carve into their faces.

“Tonight, you’ve earned it.”

A few heads lifted.

“Wherever the road takes you tonight—whether it be to a tavern, a warm bed, or some poor woman foolish enough to have you—you take this victory with you.”

A few smiles returned.

“And you drink.”

Someone thumped a fist against the table.

Maldrek raised his voice. “You drink for the men who came home.”

Another fist struck the wood.

“And you drink for those who did not.”

This time every man answered.

“Aye.”

The word rolled through the chamber.

Maldrek nodded.

“Now get out of my sight before I remember why I summoned you.”

The generals laughed again, already beginning to turn from the table.

Maldrek remained.

He bent over the map and reached towards the empty place where Sedric should have stood.

His fingers closed around the fallen general’s marker.

For a moment, he simply held it.

Then he removed it from the map.

The door creaked open.

Maldrek’s hand froze mid-motion.

A slow smile spread across his face as he looked up to see Ronan stepping into the room.

“My prince.”

Maldrek straightened, setting the marker aside as he stepped forward to greet him.

Ronan returned the smile and offered his hand. Maldrek grasped it firmly, their grip lingering a moment longer than formality required.

“General,” Ronan said, glancing around the room. “I see you’ve gathered your flock.”

Maldrek chuckled.

“And they’ve squawked enough for one morning.”

He turned towards the remaining generals.

“Will that be all, gentlemen?”

The generals exchanged glances, then nodded hurriedly, sensing that their presence was no longer required. One by one, they filed out of the room, their footsteps echoing down the stone corridor until only Maldrek and Ronan remained.

“It’s good to see you, boy. The room feels less heavy when you’re in it.”

Ronan chuckled, stepping closer to the war table. “And here I thought you thrived on the weight of it all.”

“Not all weight is equal,” Maldrek replied. He gestured toward the map spread across the heavy oak table. 

“Come. Let’s see how we can bend this kingdom to your will.”

“Maldrek,” Ronan began, “why was I sent to the mountain foothills to deal with a few wild tribes? It seemed… beneath my station.”

Maldrek didn’t look up immediately, his focus remaining on the map. “Your father’s decision.” His hand stilled, as if a distant memory had surfaced. He looked up at Ronan, a glint of curiosity sparking in his eyes. “That’s right. How was that battle? Did they put up a fight?”

“They weren’t soldiers,” Ronan said. “Nor warriors. They were men with wives and children. Half of them barely knew how to hold a blade.”

Maldrek watched him quietly.

“I told the men to drive them from the forest and burn the settlement. Their chief didn’t even have a weapon on him.”

Maldrek turned his head and spat upon the floor.

“Good riddance.”

Ronan gave him a look. “You have a callous heart, Maldrek.”

“Aye, and it’s kept beating this long.” Maldrek gave a small chuckle. “They fled because you outnumbered them. Had they had their way, my prince, you’d be lying dead beneath some tree with your throat cut.”

Ronan considered this for a moment, then slowly nodded.

His eyes wandered to the map between them.

“Tell me something, Maldrek.”

“What?”

“Of all the battles you’ve fought... which do you remember most?”

“Ah, it was years ago, during the siege of Vakar. We were outnumbered—”

“Three to one.”

Maldrek stopped as Tharok entered the room, resting a heavy hand upon the old general’s shoulder as he passed.

“And this stubborn bastard still wanted to charge them before sunrise.”

Maldrek laughed. “It worked.”

“Aye. Eventually.” Tharok looked at Ronan. “Their commander broke before his men did. Tripped over his own feet trying to flee and begged Maldrek for his life.”

“What was I supposed to do?” Maldrek said. “The poor fool had already surrendered to his own feet.” Ronan smiled faintly.

“So,” Tharok said after a long pause. “Was your battle as entertaining as ours?”

Ronan hesitated. His mind drifted back to the mountains. “Something strange did happen. After the chief fled, we were surrounded by a herd of wild apes. They followed us through the high trees until we reached the open lands.”

The room grew still. Maldrek’s jovial demeanour hardened, his fingers gripping the edge of the table. Tharok stood motionless, his piercing eyes fixed on the map as if weighing something unseen. He made no sound, but his posture shifted slightly, the tension in his shoulders speaking volumes.

“What do you know?” Ronan asked, glancing between the two men.

“There’s an old tale,” Maldrek began. “Of a child abandoned in the wilds. They say his mother left him to die, but he was taken in by the beasts of the forest—wild apes. They raised him, and he grew to run with the animals, to think like them. He conquered the untamable tribes of the North, forcing them to bow to him. They say his men called him… the Destroyer.”

Ronan drew a breath to protest, but Tharok’s sharp glance silenced him.

Maldrek smirked and gave Ronan a light slap on the arm. “Who knows? Perhaps they mistook you for one of their own.”

Tharok’s deep chuckle rumbled through the room.

The older men laughed again, their shared amusement only fueling Ronan’s irritation.

“I’m glad my campaign amuses you.”

Then he turned and strode out.

“Ronan!” Maldrek called after him, still chuckling. “Come back, boy! We’re only jesting.”

Maldrek’s laughter subsided, and he leaned against the table, his expression turning serious. 

“Could it be?” he asked. 

“I don’t know,” Tharok admitted. 

The two men stood in the flickering light, their shared unease lingering as the flames danced across their weathered faces.