HAREM: WARLOCK OF THE SOUTH

The council chamber still smelled of charred parchment and iron-blood tang, a scent that clung to Ryon's lungs like smoke from a fire that refused to die. He had left the chamber hours ago—left behind the prying eyes, the veiled threats, the taste of bitter politics—and yet every step through the moonlit corridors of the Keep felt as though he were still there, still locked in that suffocating circle of authority. The torchlight along the stone walls flickered in restless patterns, as if the flames themselves sensed the unease buried in his chest.

Outside, the wind clawed through the courtyard, scattering ash from the braziers into the night air. He paused by the eastern archway, looking out toward the black stretch of the southern mountains. Somewhere beyond them, the old battlefields still whispered with the ghosts of wars the council swore had been "necessary." He had believed that once. Not anymore.

Every word exchanged in that chamber had been a blade. The council's demands were clear: his allegiance, his silence, and his surrender. But surrender was something Ryon had never learned. Even as the political net tightened around him, there was something in his blood—wild, unyielding—that refused to be tamed.

Footsteps echoed in the dark. Not hurried. Not hesitant. Measured. Deliberate.

"You linger too long after the vultures have eaten," a voice murmured from the shadows.

From the gloom beneath the arch, Kaelen emerged—tall, broad-shouldered, the dim light catching the sharp edge of his jaw. His eyes, as always, carried the weight of unspoken battles.

"I'm making sure they haven't poisoned the air before I breathe it again," Ryon replied, voice low.

Kaelen gave a humorless smirk. "If they could, they would. What you said in there… you've drawn blood. They won't forget."

"They can remember me however they want," Ryon said, his gaze fixed on the mountains. "But I won't be their pawn."

Silence stretched between them, heavy as the night. Kaelen stepped closer. "Then we move now. Before they decide how to cut you down."

Ryon turned to him fully. "We can't just move. Not yet. The council is watching every path out of the Keep. And the North… the North is waiting for us to make a mistake."

The mention of the North stirred a flicker of old rage in Kaelen's eyes. "You think waiting will save us?"

"I think charging blindly will kill us."

The tension was a blade drawn between them—sharpened by years of brotherhood, dulled by nothing.

From behind, the faintest sound—a shift of cloth, the scrape of leather—caught Ryon's ear. His hand went instinctively to the hilt at his hip.

"Show yourself," he called into the darkness.

A figure stepped forward from the far end of the corridor, pale in the torchlight. Not an assassin. Not a soldier.

Elira.

Her hair was unbound, shadow spilling through the strands. Her eyes were a quiet storm. "They're already moving against you, Ryon," she said without preamble. "The vote was just the beginning. By sunrise, they'll have the writ signed."

Kaelen's jaw tightened. "Then it's now or never."

Ryon's mind raced. A writ meant chains—whether in the form of exile, imprisonment, or execution, it didn't matter. It would cut him off from everything.

"What else?" Ryon asked.

Elira hesitated, and that hesitation told him more than her words. "They've sent riders north."

The implication was as cold as the night air. The North didn't need an excuse to act—but now, the council had given them one.

For a long moment, Ryon didn't speak. He felt the weight of every oath he'd taken, every face he'd sworn to protect. His pulse was steady. His decision was made before he even realized it.

"We leave tonight," he said finally.

Kaelen's eyes flickered with grim satisfaction. Elira's expression was unreadable.

But the Keep was no simple fortress to slip away from. The lower gates would be barred. The watchmen would be alert after the council session. And the paths beyond the walls… those were no less dangerous than the halls within.

Still, the choice was made.

They moved in silence, threading through the quieter wings of the Keep, avoiding the light where they could. The sound of distant voices and clinking armor filtered through the walls—the night watch making their rounds.

As they passed the old archives, Ryon's gaze drifted to the ancient banners hanging from the high ceiling. Once, these had been symbols of unity, stitched with the crests of the allied houses. Now they were relics, faded reminders of a time when honor outweighed politics.

The memory of the council's faces burned in his mind—the smug satisfaction, the thinly veiled threats, the tightening of the noose.

Not this time.

Not ever again.

When they reached the lower hall, a sudden noise froze them in place—the metallic ring of a spear haft striking stone. Two guards emerged from a side passage, their armor catching the torchlight.

"Lord Ryon," one of them said, tone almost casual but edged with warning. "Out for a walk?"

Kaelen's hand inched toward his sword. Ryon stepped forward before steel could flash. "The air in my chamber was… stifling. I thought a walk might keep me alive long enough to see another dawn."

The guards exchanged glances, clearly aware of more than they were saying. "The council has requested you remain within your quarters until further notice," the taller one said.

Ryon's lips curved into something that might have been a smile if it weren't so cold. "Then perhaps you should escort me back. We wouldn't want me wandering into the wrong room."

The guards hesitated. It was enough.

Elira moved first—fast, silent. Her dagger caught the torchlight an instant before it slid between the taller guard's armor plates. Kaelen caught the second guard by the throat, dragging him into the shadows before the man could cry out.

The corridor fell silent again, save for the echo of their breathing.

There was no going back now.

They dragged the bodies into an alcove, covering them with an old tapestry. Ryon didn't look at their faces—he couldn't afford to.

Beyond the final archway, the outer wall loomed against the starlit sky. The gatehouse was to the left, the postern door to the right. The latter was less guarded, but the path beyond it wound down into the old quarry—a place where sound carried too far and shadows played tricks on the eyes.

They went right.

Each step down the narrow stair felt like a drumbeat. The cold bit deeper, the air sharper. When they reached the postern, Kaelen pulled the iron latch free. The door groaned open, spilling them into the dark beyond the walls.

The wind hit them like a living thing, tearing at cloaks and hair. The Keep's towers loomed behind them, their torches now distant points of gold.

Ahead, the road forked—west toward the river crossing, east toward the foothills. Both paths had their dangers.

"East," Ryon said.

They didn't question him.

The night stretched before them, vast and uncertain. Every mile they put between themselves and the council was borrowed time. And Ryon knew—time was the one currency he could never spend twice.

They would be hunted.

They would be outnumbered.

But they would not be broken.

Not while he still breathed.