CH942 · Rewrite
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Chapter 942: Only a Mortal

Two days later.

The palace of the City of Glow.

“You’re leaving today?” Horford Quinn stood in the hall, watching Andrea cross the marble floor toward the outer doors. The feeling in his chest resisted simple naming. “Can’t you stay a little longer? Otto and the others would welcome the time.”

“I’ve been away from Neverwinter too long. There are people waiting.” Andrea said it plainly, without apology. “Today is the day the Kingdom of Dawn changes hands. Otto and Oro are heirs of great families — they shouldn’t be spending these hours on banquets. We’re friends. Seeing each other once is enough.”

She’s changed, Horford thought. She’s grown into herself.

“About the negotiations with Graycastle,” he said. “Do you have any counsel?”

“I know very little about governance. In Neverwinter, these matters aren’t handled by nobles but by common people who’ve passed certain examinations. For the specifics, speak to Hill Fawkes — he’s maintained contact with the Western Region throughout.” She paused. “If you want my only piece of advice: don’t repeat Appen’s mistake.”

Horford smiled, the expression wry and thin. “Continuing to resist Graycastle after personally witnessing what Roland Wimbledon is capable of — yes, that would be fairly stupid.”

“It isn’t only about that.” She shook her head. “The Battle of Divine Will concerns all of humanity. Every quarrel between us, every petty conflict, only speeds the end — for Graycastle and Dawn both. None of us survives alone. Keep that in mind when you weigh what’s good for your family.”

“Our best interest is to survive.”

“And our best hope of survival now lies entirely with His Majesty Roland.” She raised a hand in parting. “Maintain order in the Kingdom of Dawn. Cooperate with Graycastle. That is all I have.”

Earl Quinn nodded slowly. “I understand.”

Andrea turned.

“I—” He stopped her with his own voice before he had decided to.

“You don’t need to see me off.” She didn’t turn around. “There’s too much waiting for you today. And don’t concern yourself with my safety — the God’s Punishment Witches will escort me back to Neverwinter.”

“No.” The word came out more quietly than he’d intended. “I wanted to say — I’m sorry, Andrea. My dear daughter.”

When he said it, he felt something shift — some weight he’d carried so long he’d forgotten the shape of it, breaking loose. There was so much more. How sending her away had been, in part, to keep her alive. How much he’d regretted not speaking with his wife before acting. How, if he could choose again, he wouldn’t be so brutal about it. How the day Otto told him she was alive — what that had felt like, to learn she’d survived.

But Horford Quinn understood that the damage was done. Whatever he said now would sound like a man arranging an excuse into acceptable order. This was the price his choice had cost. She had grown into someone formidable, and he would not diminish himself in front of her.

He said nothing more. He closed his eyes.

“Well.” A pause. “I’ll be going.”

Her footsteps receded down the corridor — unhurried, measured — and faded to silence. The word he’d been waiting for, Father, did not come. Yet her voice, when it did come, had not carried the coldness of before. She had stopped calling him Lord Earl.

This is acceptable, he thought. It is only a temporary goodbye. Time heals. My decision cost me ten years. I will spend the same amount of time earning my way back.


Appen set down the map and looked out through the porthole.

This route was one of the primary commercial passages to Wavelight Port in the Kingdom of Wolfheart. Merchant vessels moved in both directions across the grey water. A fishing boat had drawn alongside earlier, its crew calling up to sell fresh catch and vegetables.

Once, a ship like this would have been a three-masted galleon flying the imperial colors, and any food he wanted would have arrived on a tray.

Those traitors. All of it their doing.

A week since they had stripped him of his throne, and still the memory played: his fateful return to the hall, the faces he’d trusted, the weapons still wet. Even if he could not touch the King of Graycastle, the three great families would not enjoy the city unpunished. He had considered carefully. His first destination would be the Thousand Blade Fort in the Kingdom of Wolfheart — close to the Dawn border, its lord rumored to carry Moya blood somewhere in his lineage. He would not be harsh. More importantly, the webs of obligation stretching between Wolfheart and Dawn nobility ran in every direction; should anyone need to invoke his name, they would know where to find him.

Those lords schemed against each other constantly, but they were practical men. Now that he was no longer ruling the City of Glow, his interests and theirs did not conflict.

His bloodline could still serve as currency.

Suppress the anger. Wait. When the moment comes, make them all pay dearly.

The thought steadied him. He felt it lift the grey fog of humiliation — or almost. He realized, distantly, that he was hungry. The fishing boat had docked moments ago; he’d heard the sounds of it. Fresh fruit would be welcome before the supply of coastal provisions thinned.

He shook the thin cord on the table — it ran through the wall to a bell in the outer cabin. His maid would come.

Nothing.

He shook it again.

Silence.

The urge to hurt someone surfaced with terrible immediacy. Even on a ship — even now — his attendants thought they could be negligent. He would make an example of her. The servants he’d brought needed to understand: wherever he was, as long as they were in his presence, they were in the palace.

Appen opened the cabin door.

No one.

Not the maids. Not the sailors. Not his guards. Not the slaves. The corridor stood empty and still. The only sound was the hull working against the sea.

Cold sweat crawled down the back of his neck.

Something is wrong.

He had not been abandoned — that was impossible. Even if the mercenaries and servants had broken and run, his family’s knights, trained from boyhood, would have stopped them. There would have been shouting. There would have been the noise of a dispute.

He turned to climb up through the hold to the deck. At least the sailors would be there. Surely—

The dagger appeared at his throat.

The woman holding it was ugly in the way a scar is ugly — a hardness that doesn’t apologize for itself — but her eyes were very bright. She was not one of his crew. He would have noticed a face like that.

An intruder.

“Who sent you?” His voice came out sharp, practiced. A king’s voice, still. “Do you know what you’re doing, you lowlife? I am the King of Dawn. The Moya family’s—”

He stopped speaking.

His throat had closed around a gush of warmth that wasn’t breath. The pain arrived a half-second behind the act — sharp, then spreading, then cold, cold, cold — and as he fell, he heard a voice above him, unhurried, almost gentle.

“Well. You are only a mortal after all.”

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