Chapter 13: Assessment

TALOS

The morning air carries the scent of ash from last night's fires; not the comfortable smoke of hearth fires, but the acrid burn of secrets and futures going up in flames. From the practice yard, I watch a murder of ravens circle the palace towers, their harsh cries echoing off ancient stone. They've been gathering since dawn, more with each passing hour, as if drawn by some invisible signal only they can sense.

Ravens see all truths, the old saying goes. Today, I wonder what truths they're witnessing that the rest of us are too blind to see.

The practice yard feels different this morning. Not just because of yesterday's inventory, though watching Imperial functionaries catalogue our weapons with the precision of undertakers measuring for coffins left its mark. They recorded every blade down to the ceremonial daggers that couldn't cut butter, their ledgers neat as gravediggers' rows. What they didn't record were the gaps in our defenses they were mapping, or the fact that some of us were mapping them in return.

Sixty-two weapons "requisitioned for maintenance." Twenty-three guards "reassigned for cultural sensitivity training." Four servants "relocated to positions better suited to their skills.

The arithmetic of occupation. Subtract capabilities, multiply surveillance, divide loyalties until nothing remains that could threaten their perfect order. I've seen it before, in smaller conflicts along the borders, but never with such systematic precision.

I test the balance of a practice sword that somehow escaped yesterday's inventory, its weight familiar yet different now that every blade in the palace has been catalogued by foreign eyes. The morning training forms come automatically - muscle memory from decades of service - but my mind keeps circling back to conversations half-heard, orders that didn't quite make sense, and the growing certainty that nothing in this palace is what it seems.

A raven lands on the weapons rack beside me, its dark eyes reflecting my own lined face. For a moment, we regard each other, two old soldiers who've seen too much. The bird's head tilts, studying me with an intelligence that makes my skin prickle. Then it caws once, sharp and warning, before taking flight toward the eastern tower where King Aldrich keeps his private study.

Strange. The ravens usually avoid that tower entirely. I've noticed their patterns over the months. They gather on the walls, the guard towers, even the kitchens. But never the king's tower. Never where Aldrich conducts his private business with Imperial handlers.

Until today.

"Still thinking like a soldier, I see."

The voice carries winter in its consonants, mountain stone in its cadence. I don't turn immediately; a test of sorts, to see if the speaker will reveal impatience. But Kestrel simply waits, patient as snowfall, until I complete my form and lower the blade.

"Lord Kestrel." I nod, taking in the northern diplomat's appearance. He's dressed for movement today, practical clothes instead of court finery, soft boots instead of formal shoes. The kind of attire worn by someone expecting to need mobility at short notice. "You're up early for a diplomat."

"Sleep comes hard when you're listening for the sound of foundations cracking." He moves into the yard with the fluid grace of someone who's spent a lifetime fighting on uncertain ground. Everything about his bearing has changed since yesterday. Gone is the careful neutrality of a diplomatic guest. What approaches me now is something rawer, more honest - a warrior assessing battlefield conditions.

"Thinking like a soldier is what's kept me alive this long," I reply, noting how he positions himself where he can observe both the palace approaches and my face simultaneously. A fighter's instinct, automatic as breathing. "Though I'm beginning to wonder if thinking like a resistance fighter might serve better."

"Ah." His pale eyes, ice-blue in the morning light, show something that might be approval. "That depends entirely on whether you're ready to accept what resistance actually costs. And whether you understand that some battles can't be won through military thinking alone."

He moves to the weapons rack, fingers ghosting over hilts with the unconscious evaluation of someone who knows steel intimately. When he selects a practice blade, it's with the same casual precision I use; weight, balance, reach all assessed in a heartbeat.

"You've used our swords before," I observe. "Not in the northern style."

"Many teachers, many styles." He tests the blade's balance with economical movements. "The north taught me patience. The eastern campaigns taught me adaptability. But it was the fall of Veridian that taught me the most valuable lesson of all."

"Which was?"

"That sometimes the greatest enemy isn't the one holding the sword; it's the one holding the keys to your assumptions." He begins working through forms, and I recognize influences from half a dozen schools of combat. This is someone who's learned to fight in situations where a single style could be predicted, countered, defeated.

Above us, more ravens gather on the tower battlements, their numbers unusual even for Ravencrest. One drops a black feather that spirals down between us; an omen, if you believe the superstitions. Kestrel catches it mid-fall, a gesture so smooth it seems choreographed.

"The Raven Queen," he says quietly, studying the feather, "understood that sometimes salvation requires embracing damnation. She let her enemies believe they'd broken her while she gathered the strength to break them. These birds" - he gestures to the growing conspiracy above - "they remember. They always gather when deception runs deepest."

"You know our legends well for a northerner."

"I make it my business to know the stories people tell themselves about power and sacrifice." He tucks the feather into his belt, a gesture oddly intimate, as if keeping a lover's token. "In Veridian, they told stories about the Golden Prince who would return to save them. They waited for him while their city burned. Never realized their salvation was already there, wearing the face of a merchant who smuggled children out in grain carts."

The words carry weight beyond casual observation. I fall into complementary movements with my blade, and we begin an unspoken dance - not sparring exactly, but something more like a conversation conducted in steel and silence. He moves well, better than most court-trained nobles I've faced. But there's something else in his style, a bone-deep weariness that speaks of too many last stands, too many strategic retreats.

"Speaking from experience?" I ask as our blades whisper past each other.

"Three kingdoms, five resistance movements, two complete operational collapses." His blade cuts through sequences that would challenge most trained soldiers, but there's no showing off in it, just brutal efficiency born of necessity. "Enough to understand that Empire intelligence operates on principles most resistance groups never recognize until it's too late."

"Which principles?"

"Patience. Systematic penetration. The understanding that conquered people will collaborate far more readily than they'll admit." He transitions into defensive patterns, and I notice he favors his left side slightly; an old injury, well-compensated but never fully healed. "They don't just buy information, Talos. They buy souls. One compromise at a time."

A raven's cry interrupts our dance of blades. Not the usual harsh caw, but something almost like a lament. I glance up to see dozens of them now, perched along every available surface. What catches my attention is their orientation: all facing the same direction, toward the throne room, but with their heads tilted as if listening to something we can't hear.

"Unusual behavior," I note, lowering my sword.

"Not if you know what to look for." Kestrel sets aside his practice blade, and I notice the slight tremor in his hand; fatigue or something deeper. He moves to the stone bench where someone has carved words in the old script: "Truth endures when lies crumble."

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

He traces the carving with one finger, a gesture that seems unconsciously reverent. "Beautiful work. Recent?"

"Hard to say." I join him on the bench, maintaining a careful distance; close enough for quiet conversation, far enough to show respect for whatever ghosts he carries. "Could be weeks old, could be years. The stone here plays tricks with time."

"Like everything else in occupied kingdoms." His voice carries something I haven't heard before, not just professional assessment but personal pain. "Tell me, Talos… have you noticed patterns in how information flows through the palace?"

The question seems like a change of subject, but I've learned to recognize when someone is circling toward a difficult truth. "What kind of patterns?"

"The Raven's messages, for instance. Remarkably accurate intelligence. Always timely. Always containing details that suggest intimate knowledge of Imperial planning."

I think back through months of resistance communications, looking for patterns I might have missed. "The timing is curious. Often shortly after council meetings. Sometimes containing information discussed nowhere else."

"And what does that suggest to you?"

"That the Raven has a source highly placed in the palace." I pause, working through implications. "Someone with access to restricted discussions. Someone the Empire trusts enough to include in sensitive planning."

"Or someone they believe they've broken thoroughly enough to be harmless." Kestrel's smile holds no warmth. "In Veridian, the merchant who saved those children? He was also the one selling war goods to the Empire. Spent three years being reviled as a traitor while secretly undermining every order he was given to implement."

"That's a dangerous game."

"The most dangerous. Because it requires accepting that everyone you're trying to save will hate you for it. Requires performing your betrayal so convincingly that even those you love most believe it." He turns to study my face, and I see depths in those pale eyes that speak of personal experience. "Could you do that, Talos? Could you let Princess Melianthe believe you were her enemy if it meant keeping her safe?"

The question hits harder than any blade. "I... don't know."

"Honest answer." He looks back toward the ravens, who remain unnaturally still. "I knew someone once, a commander in the eastern campaigns. Good man. Principled. When his city fell, he had two choices: die heroically and let his people be scattered to the wind, or live shamefully and use his position to protect what remained. He chose shame."

"What happened to him?"

"His own people stoned him to death in the market square." Kestrel's voice remains steady, but I catch the micro-tremor that betrays deeper emotion. "When the liberation finally came, the mob didn't stop to ask questions. They just saw the man who'd opened their gates, who'd implemented Imperial law, who'd grown fat while they starved."

The morning air suddenly feels colder.

"The records proving it were destroyed in the fighting. His resistance contacts had died keeping their secrets. All that remained was the appearance of betrayal." He rolls his shoulder, the same side where I noticed the favoring. "I tried to stop them. Tried to explain. This…” he touches his shoulder - "was their response to defending a known collaborator."

"You knew him well?"

"Well enough." His jaw tightens. "Well enough to have heard the whispers while I sat in their tavern. Even resistance fighters rarely suspect a drunk. Wine makes men foolish, loose-tongued. Who guards their words around someone supposedly deep in their cups?"

"You think someone here is playing a similar game," I say. Not a question.

"I think the ravens know more than we do." He stands, and I notice how he moves; always keeping his back protected, always maintaining sight lines. Habits born of surviving betrayal. "I think patterns exist for those willing to see them. And I think some truths are too dangerous to speak aloud until the moment is exactly right."

"You mentioned wine," I say slowly. "His Majesty's drinking has worsened these past months. The servants whisper about it. Empty bottles in his study, the smell of spirits during morning councils."

"A weak man drowning his guilt?" Kestrel suggests. "Or something else entirely? In my experience, drunks make poor conspirators but excellent cover stories. Nobody questions the fool who can barely stand."

"You're suggesting-" I begin, then stop. Because the implications sprawl in too many directions.

"I'm suggesting that patterns exist everywhere. Imperial officers who develop inconvenient consciences. Resistance leaders who know things they shouldn't. Kings who make choices that seem like weakness but result in curious gaps in Imperial control." He meets my eyes directly. "Tell me, has it occurred to you that someone inside the occupation government might have turned? Someone with access to every Imperial directive, every security protocol? Cordelia for example. She has access to all the same information as the Raven."

"That would be..." I pause, working through the implications. "Incredibly dangerous. The Empire doesn't forgive that kind of betrayal."

"No, they don't." His smile holds bitter knowledge. "Which is why such a person would need to be very careful. Very clever. Perhaps even appear to be something else entirely; a drunk, a fool, a broken puppet dancing to Imperial strings."

Another raven calls, this one from directly above us. When I look up, I see it perched on the practice yard's highest point, a black silhouette against the morning sky.

"You should know," Kestrel says quietly, "that I've developed a deep respect for Princess Melianthe. She reminds me of another young woman I knew once; brilliant, passionate, terrible at chess but learning quickly. The kind of person who could change the world if given the chance."

"She's stronger than she knows."

"Yes. But strength alone isn't enough. She'll need wisdom, patience, and above all, the ability to forgive the unforgivable when the time comes." He pauses, then adds with careful emphasis, "The ability to understand that sometimes the greatest love is the kind that accepts hatred as its price."

Before I can respond, the sound of approaching footsteps draws our attention. Princess Melianthe appears at the yard's entrance, dressed for training in practical clothes that speak of someone prepared for violence. But everything about her bearing has changed since yesterday. Gone is any trace of uncertainty, replaced by someone harder and infinitely more dangerous.

Behind her, a trail of ravens follows, hopping from perch to perch as if escorting her. One lands on her shoulder for a moment, cawing softly before rejoining its fellows. She doesn't flinch, as if such attention from the birds has become commonplace.

"Sir Talos," she says as she reaches us, her voice carrying new steel. "Lord Kestrel. We need to discuss immediate changes to our operational security."

I catch Kestrel's eye for a moment, seeing my own recognition reflected there. Whatever has happened since yesterday, it's pushed her further along the path to becoming what circumstances demand. The question is whether she's moving toward salvation or tragedy, and whether those are even different destinations anymore.

"What sort of changes?" I ask, though the answer is written in the hardness around her eyes.

"The kind that require accepting uncomfortable truths about people we've trusted." She pauses, and a shadow crosses her face. "Including the possibility that not everyone working against the Empire is working together. The Raven's latest message suggested complications I hadn't anticipated."

Kestrel shifts slightly, so subtle most would miss it, but I've learned to read the language of old wounds. "What sort of complications?"

"Prince Cassian." Her voice hardens around his name. "I have reason to believe he's not what he seems. That his interest in me serves a purpose beyond a mere marriage agreement." She looks directly at me. "Sir Talos, you've observed him. What's your assessment?"

I choose my words carefully. "He asks the right questions. Shows interest in local customs that seems genuine but could be intelligence gathering. His combat training exceeds what you'd expect from diplomatic preparation."

"A spy, then." She says it flatly, as if confirming something she'd already decided. "Using personal attachment as cover for intelligence work. The Raven's message warned of honey-tongued serpents in our midst."

"Perhaps we should continue this conversation somewhere more private," Kestrel suggests. "The walls here have too many eyes, and some truths deserve better than public display."

Melianthe nods, but her attention catches on something; the carved words on the bench, now visible in the morning light. She moves closer, tracing the letters with growing recognition. "This is my mother's hand," she breathes. "She used to practice calligraphy in the old script. But when..."

"Your Highness?" I prompt gently when she trails off.

"She died when I was fourteen. Just after..." She straightens, the moment of vulnerability locked away. "It doesn't matter. Lord Kestrel is right. We should move inside."

But as she turns to lead us away, I notice Kestrel carefully pocketing the raven feather he's been holding. A small gesture, but one that speaks volumes. He knows more than he's saying, carries secrets that weight his shoulders like armor made of sorrow.

The ravens watch us leave, their dark eyes holding judgment or blessing, I can't tell which. But one thing is certain: we're all dancing on the edge of revelations that will reshape everything we think we know about loyalty, betrayal, and the price of love in times of war.

As we follow Melianthe toward the palace, Kestrel falls into step beside me. "Tell me, Talos," he says quietly, pitched for my ears alone. "Do you ever wonder if the stories we tell ourselves about heroes and villains might be more complicated than we'd like to believe?"

"Every day," I admit. "Especially here."

"Good." His smile holds something almost like warmth this time. "That means you might survive what's coming. And perhaps, if we're very lucky and very careful, we might even help her survive it too."

The morning sun climbs higher, casting short shadows that seem to twist into the shapes of secrets. Behind us, the ravens take flight in a great wheeling cloud, their cries echoing off stone walls that have heard too many confessions, witnessed too many betrayals, and might yet see a few revelations more.

Six years, I think. Six years of deception and carefully maintained facades. How many of us are wearing masks? And what happens when they finally fall?

Only the ravens know, and they're keeping their counsel for now.