King Aldric sat upon the high seat of Blackmere with his hands folded over the pommel of his sword.

The throne room was cold, though three braziers burned along the walls. The tapestries—woven with scenes of conquest and subjugation—hung heavy and still. Outside, somewhere beyond the stone and iron, the wind howled against the battlements like a distant, persistent accusation.

Aldric did not look at the doors.

“Bring him,” he said.

The chamberlain bowed and gestured. The doors opened, and the first messenger entered at a near-run, boots skidding slightly on the polished stone before he caught himself and dropped to one knee.

“Speak,” Aldric said.

The messenger swallowed. “Your Majesty. The eastern watch reports that the bridge at Greywater has been… compromised.”

Aldric raised an eyebrow. “Define compromised.”

“It is… no longer present, sire.”

A silence followed, thick and careful.

“No longer present,” Aldric repeated.

“Yes, sire. The enemy dismantled it during the night. Beam by beam.”

“They dismantled a fortified stone bridge.”

“Yes, sire.”

“With tools.”

“Yes, sire.”

Aldric leaned back slightly. “How long did this take them?”

“…Several hours.”

“And no one stopped them.”

“They worked very quietly.”

Aldric closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again. “Of course they did.”

He waved a hand. “Send riders. Build a crossing. This is inconvenient, not catastrophic.”

The messenger exhaled in visible relief and scrambled out of the hall.

Aldric turned to his general. “They are probing us. Testing our patience.”

The general nodded gravely. “As one does.”

The doors opened again.

The second messenger did not run. He walked with the careful, deliberate steps of a man who knew his news would not improve the day.

He knelt.

“Your Majesty,” he said. “The western granaries have been… opened.”

Aldric frowned. “Opened by whom?”

“…The enemy, sire.”

“And?”

“They did not take the grain.”

Aldric paused. “They opened the granaries and did not take the grain.”

“No, sire. They… redistributed it.”

Aldric stared at him.

“To whom.”

“The surrounding villages.”

The general cleared his throat. “That is… irregular.”

“They left ledgers,” the messenger continued. “Properly tallied. Each village signed.”

Aldric slowly leaned forward. “They stole my grain, fed my people, and kept records.”

“Yes, sire.”

Another silence.

Aldric rubbed his temple. “Are the villagers… grateful.”

“Yes, sire.”

“Of course they are.”

He gestured. “Dismissed.”

The second messenger fled as though pursued.

Aldric stood. He descended the steps of the dais, boots echoing sharply in the hall.

“They are not fighting us,” he said. “They are humiliating us.”

The doors opened again.

The third messenger limped.

This was immediately concerning.

He collapsed to one knee, breathing hard. “Your Majesty… the southern cavalry detachment…”

Aldric did not sit back down. “Dead?”

“No, sire.”

“Defeated?”

“No, sire.”

“Then speak plainly.”

“They surrendered.”

Aldric stared at him.

“…To whom.”

“To a merchant convoy.”

Aldric’s voice dropped. “Merchants.”

“Yes, sire. The enemy had… contracted them.”

The general’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. “Contracted them for what.”

“To block the road. With carts.”

Aldric laughed once. It was a short, sharp sound, like a blade striking stone.

“My knights laid down their swords because of wagons.”

“They were very well positioned, sire.”

Aldric turned slowly toward the ceiling, as if asking it for mercy.

The doors opened again.

The fourth messenger did not kneel.

He simply stood there, pale, holding something wrapped in cloth.

“Your Majesty,” he said. “They returned this.”

He unwrapped it.

Aldric recognized the banner immediately. His banner. The black hawk of Blackmere, embroidered in silver thread.

It had been mended.

“Why,” Aldric asked carefully, “has my battle standard been repaired.”

“They said it was torn during the skirmish, sire. They apologized.”

Aldric took the banner from him.

“They apologized.”

“Yes, sire. They also asked that next time we use heavier stitching.”

The king looked at the cloth in his hands. At the careful, almost loving repair.

Something in his jaw tightened.

“Leave us,” he said.

The messenger did not argue.

When the doors closed, Aldric stood alone in the vast throne room, banner draped over his arm like an accusation.

“They are not conquering my kingdom,” he said quietly.

The general did not answer.

“They are correcting it.”

A long pause.

“At dawn,” Aldric continued, “send word. I will meet their king.”

The general hesitated. “To negotiate, sire?”

Aldric looked toward the doors.

“No,” he said.
“To ask him how he’s doing this to me.”