Chapter 132 The Ripples of Eastwatch
Chapter 132 The Ripples of Eastwatch
The House of Eastwatch
In the cold and dark, the winder wind swept in from the lake through the shutters of Lord Varlen’s study, cool and persistent, making the lamp flames shudder beside his desk. Messy piles of papers covered the surface—levy counts, trade ledgers, all the dull arithmetic that came with being a lord. The ink was dry, but Varlen read anyway, jaw tight, as if staring hard enough might change the numbers.
The door opened behind him. He didn’t bother to look up. “No more bad news tonight,” he said, sounding more tired than commanding. “Whatever it is, we’ll handle it tomorrow.”
But Ser Edris Valemar, his cousin and most trusted friend, hesitated in the doorway, face shadowed. “My lord,” he said, voice low, “this can’t wait. It’s news from Litus Solis.”
The name hit like a stone. The background noise—the scribes, the servants—just dropped away. Even the lamps seemed to burn less steady. Varlen let out a slow breath and waved the others out. “Leave us.”
Once the room was empty, Edris stepped forward and set a sealed packet on the desk. The wax bore Lord Eldric’s crest—a single tower.
Varlen reached for his desk knife, then paused. “Pour me something strong,” he muttered, eyes still on the seal. “And send for the steward. I may need him to tell me which flying rat brought this.”
Edris got to work in silence while Varlen broke the seal. The pages inside were thick, the handwriting precise—Avalon’s scribes, no doubt. Varlen read, his eyes narrowing, then widening, then turning hard as stone. When he finally tossed the letters down, his voice was cold and low.
“Ten years,” he said. “We’ve been tied to this for ten years.”
He leaned back, fighting to keep his anger in check. “And now—Lord Eldric, with all his noble courtesy—” he spat the word, “—sends me Joral, who’s right at the heart of it.”
The steward slipped in, answering the summons. “My lord,” he began, bowing.
Varlen’s stare pinned the man. “Tell me, Steward,” his voice heavy, “what do you know of this plot?”
The steward paled, mouth working, but no words came out. Edris looked just as shaken. They didn’t answer, but they didn’t have to. Varlen could see the confusion all over their faces.
He took a slow, steady breath, swallowing his disgust. “So it seems like for most of a decade, someone’s been skimming the King’s levy—coin, grain, whatever was meant from Avalon’s coffers. That’s where it started. But the real crime…” He looked up, eyes cold, “…the real crime is against the Throne itself.”
His fist slammed the desk, sharp and final. “And the house that was boasting of its role,” he hit the desk again, the sound echoing, “—is ours. Eastwatch.”
He stood, tall and rigid, his anger barely contained. “Whoever this Joral is, he’s got to be some minor cousin—one of those distant, mindless, half-bloods, off chasing glory, dragging our name through the mud. Yet Eldric, with all his so-called nobility, sends him here. Alive. Unharmed.”
Varlen’s mouth curled in a bitter half-snarl. “So I get to judge my own kin. It would have been better to hang him with the rest!”
He let his fingers rest on the open report, ink smudging the tips. “Judgment,” he muttered. “As if I am not already damned.”
The steward frowned. “If it’s young Joral, my lord… you do know him. He’s been trading with the Crown Prince’s eldest for six years now. Built up quite a fortune, from what I hear.”
Varlen’s head snapped up. “A fortune?”
He gestured at the ledgers. “Bring me his tax records—all of them. If I’ve got to bear this stain, I’ll squeeze every coin out of it—his holdings, his ships, whatever he’s got stashed. He can pay for me for our family’s disgrace in coin, if not in honor.”
Edris poured the brandy at last, the glass trembling a little. “What now, my lord?”
Varlen downed it in one swallow. “You’ll go to the Magus,” he said, words clipped. “Find out what a Lawweaver is. Something’s happened in Litus Solis—doesn’t sound like any inquest or court I know.”
Edris nodded. “And the south?”
A trace of a smile twisted Varlen’s mouth. “They will be busy with the chaos, that’s good for us. Pirates will go after easier targets while they rebuild. Let the south drown in their own mess for a while; Eastwatch will breathe.”
He leaned on the desk, staring down at the crushed tower seal. “Still,” he said softly, almost to himself, “I won’t let my house be branded as thieves. Not again.”
Inside, Lord Varlen changed the conversation's direction and started to plan—not for justice, but for survival.
…
House of Galeden Vale
Strangely, a courier showed up before supper, dripping with rain, clutching the sealed packet. Wax unbroken, the mark of someone official—or someone who liked to pretend. Either way, nobody trusted couriers these days. Lady Maerise strolled into the dining room, packet in hand, already feeling the trouble it carried. Her husband and brother noticed her face and stood up before she even said a word.
She cracked the seal and skimmed the message, candlelight flickering over her features. When she finished, she set the parchment down by her plate. “Someone’s been skimming the King’s levy in Avalon,” she said, voice flat. “They caught a few, and the noble leader got shipped up north to Eastwatch. His own family gets to deal with him.”
Her brother scowled. “If the King’s gold vanishes and Avalon bleeds, the Crown’s going to hunt for the thief.”
Maerise managed a thin smile—not friendly, more like she was already planning the next move. “Then we’d better make sure nobody thinks we’re anywhere near the knife.”
She turned to the steward who waited at the edge of the room. “Go over our accounts tonight. Every ledger, every tithe. If the Crown starts sniffing around, Galeden Vale must be spotless—honest with money, generous with our dues.”
Her husband still looked confused, brow furrowed. “And what if Avalon fails to meet its duty?”
Maerise’s eyes sharpened, and she said, “We must show the king we meet our own obligations,” she said. “If the South stumbles, it stumbles alone. You are the lord of Galeden Vale, not Avalon.”
Her brother nodded, already on her wavelength. “The Crown likes those who keep its coffers full.”
“Exactly,” Maerise replied, unreadable. “Let’s make sure they remember who pays when others don’t.”
Outside, the wind changed direction. The wind, which now carried in it a hint of something sour and uncertain, marked that the balance in the Marches was starting to tilt.
…
Windwatch
By evening, the storm was continuing down from the north, tearing across the plains between Windwatch and the distant shine of the river. Banners whipped in the wind, edges soaked. Beyond the eastern walls, the mountains of Valley Run hunched in the dark, thirty miles of stone under a bruised sky.
Lady Seryn stood by the fire in her council chamber, holding a dispatch from Eastwatch. Her gloved hands shook—just a little. The flames caught the steel in her eyes.
“So,” she muttered, reading again. “Avalon’s wounded. And the cut came from inside.”
The letter said almost nothing, and that was the problem. Somebody had stolen the levy, something was rotten in the Steward’s house, and Lord Eldric was moving south to clean up—but nobody said how bad the damage was, or who was still in charge. The silences in the message were as dangerous as anything it spelled out.
Her old steward stood close by. “They hardly say what’s been lost,” he said.
“Exactly,” Seryn replied. “Not just missing, but concealed. When the south goes silent, it’s because there is something behind it.”
She watched out the window, rain striking against the glass. “Avalon’s the balance of the south. It keeps the Midlands in check. If it bends or snaps, Windwatch is next.”
Her brother Ser Thalen entered from the side room, his cloak dripping. “You've heard,” he said, eyeing the letter. “Eldric's on the move. Court says Avalon's rotten. Some blame sorcery, some blame money. Does not matter. Weakness is weakness.
“And weakness draws wolves,” Seryn said.
Thalen edged closer to the hearth. “Do we stand with Avalon, or do we wait?”
Seryn didn’t move from the window. “Neither. We get ready. Our roads feed their trade; our taxes ride their ships; our safety depends on their strength. If Avalon falls apart, the Marches will turn on themselves. Windwatch will be stranded between the mountains and the river.”
She tossed the letter aside and called to her steward. “Double patrols along the river road. Quietly send riders east. I want eyes on every tax caravan, and every minister unknown to southern lands.”
Thalen's frown deepened. "You think the rot has spread as far as here?"
Seryn's reply was quiet, hard as flint: "I think it would be a dangerous kind of trusting to accept Avalon's word as the whole truth. It's time we began to see for ourselves."
The steward hesitated at the doorway and ventured, "And the priests of the Veils, my lady?
She glanced at him—no surprise in her eyes. “Bring them to the hall at first light,” she said. “Let everyone see for themselves. If the Veils want to test us, let them. We won’t flinch. Faith can rally people just as well as any wall.”
Once she gave her directives and the chamber emptied, she tarried by the hearth, training to claim her thoughts. She pressed her fingers against her temples. A small stack of parchment sat on the table behind her, seals already broken, every word still ringing in her mind.
“Sweet Veils,” she whispered into the quiet, her voice almost buried by the wind. “If Avalon falls, what will hold the Marches together? Who keeps the balance vs the southern dukes who find their greed?”
The wind rose again, a deep moan through the valley, setting the old glass panes trembling in their frames. Lady Seryn looked toward the storm-dark horizon—toward the distant line where Avalon lay unseen beyond the river—and for the first time in many years, she felt the weight of her house’s isolation.
She straightened her shoulders, eyes narrowing. “If they are bleeding,” she said softly, “we will not be the next to fall.”
Then, more quietly, to herself: “Not Windwatch. Not while I stand.”
…
Culterrax
By the time night settled in, the storm hit Culterrax. Wind slipped in through the tower’s arrow-slits shutters, making the chamber sigh. Inside, the fire was almost out, tossing shadows everywhere. The richly ornate table was askew with manuscripts and documents, some bearing the seal of Eastwatch and others in a rushed and hurried hand. Lady Eryndel had pulled them together herself, calling in favors from spies, merchants, anyone who’d trade secrets for gold or a clever smile.
Verrant stood close by, still half in his armor from the patrol. He leaned over the table, eyes moving across the messy handwriting. Finally, he spoke, voice rough, like gravel. “So. Someone’s been stealing from the royal levy. Ten years running, and Eastwatch is stuck in the middle of it.”
Eryndel did not look up. Her eyes traced the reports one by one, her mind thinking many steps ahead. “These accounts contradict each other,” she murmured. “Eastwatch’s version speaks of discovery and outrage. The others…”—she tapped a finger on a parchment scrawled in haste—“speak of complicity.”
He frowned. “And which do you believe?”
“Both,” she said simply. “Which is what makes it dangerous.” She turned from the table. “Send word to the Magi Collegium. I want every line of correspondence with Avalon reviewed—every sealed channel, every encoded exchange. If the King’s levy can be stolen from under his nose, then Culterrax is no safer.”
Verrant watched her in the firelight, his expression dark. “You think sorcery was involved?”
Eryndel’s smile was thin and humorless. “If it was, I want to know how. And if it wasn’t, I want to know why the Magi allowed it to happen.”
He poured wine, slow and deliberate. “And what of Eastwatch? If they fall, we lose our sea road. Every barrel of trade passes through their gates.”
“Yes,” she said quietly, accepting the cup. “If Eastwatch burns, we’re cut off from the southern ports. If that happens, our warehouses will fill, but our coffers will empty.” She sipped the wine once, her gaze distant. “We must send word of solidarity to their court—but carefully worded. We can not be seen defending a traitor.”
Verrant tilted his head. “You sound almost sympathetic.”
Her eyes flicked to him, cool as river ice. “No, just pragmatic, my lord. Eastwatch’s ruin would be ours by spring. And besides…”—her tone softened, just a fraction—“I find it interesting that the reports mention the Crown Prince’s eldest son. He has a habit of meddling in matters that do not concern him.”
Verrant’s brows lifted. “You think he’s involved?”
“I think he’s curious,” she said. “And curiosity in princes is rarely harmless.”
He grunted. “So what do we do?”
Eryndel returned to the table, smoothing one of the creased parchments beneath her hand. “We watch. We listen. And we ensure that when the King begins to count the loyal houses, he finds Culterrax already standing at attention.”
Verrant raised his cup in silence. “And if the counting goes ill?”
Outside, the wind was picking up, shaking the tower’s shutters. Lady Eryndel slowly organized the reports, occasionally setting her seal on each one. “Inform the Magus to start at dawn,” she said, voice low. Lord Verrant nodded and slipped away to pass his wife. “Eastwatch, you are blessed with a large family, but too many are fools,” she whispered, almost as if she was speaking to the stones themselves. “You’re our path to the sea. If you fall, I hope you don’t take us with you.”
…
Avalon
The City of Avalon basked in false serenity that afternoon, its high windows awash in golden light that glinted off marble floors and polished brass. It was a warmth that lied— Minister Halvern knew it. Beneath that calm, the city trembled.
He sat at his desk beneath the great mural of the Veils, the newly arrived report spread before him. His lips twitched—not in anger, but in a quiet, guilty pleasure. “Careless,” he murmured. “And so very useful.”
Though the words articulated a tale of disaster, for Avalon, Halvern was already dreaming of opportunity. The theft of the King’s levy, the whispers of betrayal tied to Eastwatch, the scandal blossoming from Avalon’s own steward—it was all there, written in sharp, efficient lines.
He leaned back in his chair, fingertips pressed together, eyes half-lidded in thought. The Lord of Avalon has gone south. The house shaken. The lady—Seraphine—left to hold the walls alone.
He could picture her perfectly: proud, weary, too devoted to duty to show the cracks. She would not seek aid willingly—but she would need it. And he, ever patient, would be there to offer it. Stability. Counsel. Oversight. The trappings of loyalty hiding the roots of ambition.
“Yes,” he whispered, allowing himself a thin smile. “They’ll call it assistance. And in time…” He imagined the old Steward’s empty chair across the chamber. “…perhaps even stewardship.”
He rose, straightening the folds of his dark ministerial robe, adjusting his cuffs with deliberate care. “Summon my scribe,” he said to the page waiting by the door. “A message to Lady Seraphine of Avalon.”
The boy bowed and hurried off.
Halvern turned once more to the window, watching sunlight slide down the Citadel’s white towers. The sound of the city drifted faintly upward—distant hammers, the cry of traders, the uneasy murmur of rumor taking flight.
“I would approach her and speak,” he said softly, more to himself, already knowing she would grasp at these words, “of trust, of governance… of how best to safeguard what remains.”
He let the words linger, tasting them.
Then, with a faint laugh that held no mirth at all, he added under his breath, “The South is in chaos. And in chaos, there is always room to rise.”
…
Prosperaterra
Minister Scaevinus read the packet by the broad windows of his study in the city, the lake spread below like a silver canvas. The city’s traffic moved in a slow organization of movement; within his chamber, the air felt suddenly too small for the temper rising inside him. He had pulled the papers from the correspondence box himself—official copies, hand-delivered returns, and whispers stitched into one thread—and the ink seemed to swim before his eyes.
Anyone just passing by would’ve thought he’d gotten bad news. People who actually knew him saw the real damage—his temples tight, his jaw grinding like he was chewing glass. He set the page down, then grabbed it again and ripped it clean in half, just like that.
“Joral,” he spat out, like the name tasted foul. “That pompous, greedy brat just wrecked twelve years of work.” The torn paper fluttered onto the desk, as useless now as forgotten secrets. All those thefts, the ledgers, the careful web of coins—years of counting, a dozen loyal hands—could all fall apart because one vain little cousin wanted attention.
If the boy got to the King and told his story, Scaevinus saw the end of everything—not just for him, but for the Crown Prince, who’d shared in their secret. “He never reaches the King,” he growled, and it wasn’t a wish. It was an order.
He called for his aide, making it clear he wouldn’t wait. “Move our men at Eastwatch now,” he said. “Disguise them. Traders, port clerks, fishermen—anyone who blends in. Find out when the ship from Litus Solis arrives, who commands her, what’s in her hold, and the name of every sailor.” His voice was sharp and cold, like someone already sizing up the knife.
Then, almost whispering, as if the name itself might summon a ghost, he added, “Have them find Frater Alborum, the white priest. We need to find where he disappeared to. If he was on that ship, why didn’t he prevent this or even warn us? And if he wasn’t, who made sure he stayed silent?”
Outside, Prosperaterra breathed in the afternoon; inside, Scaevinus bent his mind to the ugly arithmetic of concealment. He had work to do and no mercy to spare.
…
Seawatch Manor
The veranda at Seawatch Manor leaned out over the darkening sea, its balustrade salt-streaked and warm from the last of the day’s light. Captain Sareth stood there with the wind pressing her hair back, the serpent-scale tattoos spiralling down her arms and across her shoulders, catching the lantern glow like ink made of living shadow. A wineglass held relaxed in her hand; the curve of her exposed figure was lit by fire and sea-light in equal measure—more predator than ornament—her presence both invitation and warning.
The steward, damp from the messenger’s hurry, spread the packet on the low table and cleared his throat. He was a man practised in secrecy and in the avoidance of patronising glances; tonight, he failed at the latter. He stared a fraction too long at the captain’s topless silhouette before forcing his eyes back to the paper.
“According to our spies in Eastwatch,” he read, voice steadying as he found his duty, “everything has gone to ruin. Garran is dead. Joral was taken prisoner, tried, and convicted. The levy plunder was stopped—Lord Eldric saw to that and is sending Joral to Eastwatch for final judgment. Our losses are grievous: hundreds of our hands slain, hanged, ships seized. The south—” His words faltered as a glass assailed and broke against the wall, a single, crystalline chime that split the evening.
Sareth’s face changed in an instant: the merest thing in the line of a smile fell away, replaced by a feral, hard light. Her arm still extended where she had thrown the wineglass.
“That dog!” she said, her voice low and sharp, “cost me my silver.” She wasn’t complaining—she was passing sentence. Every word cut, her anger sharpened and salted from old wounds.
The steward’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “My lady, the report—” his voice shook. “Bodies. Burned decks. Deserters. If any of it’s true—”
“They’ll swing!” she cut him off, and the way she said it made him flinch and look away. She didn’t bother with polite faces anymore. Her eyes were hungry, lit up with something fierce. “Sound the drums! Ring the bells! Have every ship that can float ready tonight. Send word to every cutter hiding in the coves, every drunk with a blade in the taverns—drag them here if you have to.” She turned, and her body, smooth and firm, looked ready to snap. “We sail within the hour. We’ll cut off the ship with Joral before it gets to Eastwatch. If the King’s men get him first, we’re finished. But if we get him, he answers to me. He will find out the cost for betrayal!”
The steward moved with the quick, silent obedience of one who has weathered the captain’s storms before. He picked up the broken glass, didn’t say a word, and slipped away to start the chain of orders that would clear the harbor and pull men out of their bunks. Down by the water, the harbor woke up—a single bell rang out, then another joined in, and soon oars hit the water as boats began to push away from their docks.
Sareth paced the length of the balcony once, a coil of motion. Her tattoos seemed to ripple beneath the lamplight; the merest tightening of her fingers was like a promise. For all the glamour she could summon—the silks, the laughter, the sway of a practiced invitation—there was a coldness beneath it that did not feign. She was sea and edge. She was passion and power.
“Leave no berth unsearched,” she told the first mate who had appeared at the stair. “Bring me lists of every hand afloat. Offer coin—no questions, no promises, but pay. If they ask why, tell them the captain of Sea-Watch calls them to vengeance.”
As the man vanished into the manor’s bowels, Sareth lifted her face to the wind. Far out, beyond the harbor mouth, a gull wheeled and disappeared into the twilight. The sea heaved, patient and terrible, and the captain’s shadow fell long across the tiles—sleek, coiled, ready to strike.
…
Hollow March, Avalon
The chamber smelled faintly of rain and lavender wax. Beyond the arched windows, the marsh stretched violet and silver beneath the moon, still as a painting. Lady Anastara sat amid her cushions and embroidered tapestries, the soft murmur of her maidens fading as she took the sealed folio from the messenger’s trembling hands. The young woman bowed low, her lengthy hair dripping onto the tiled floor.
Anastara broke the seal with her nail, eyes skimming the first page, then slowing. She read once. Then again. A third time. By the fourth, the rhythm of her breathing had grown steady and precise—the pulse of calculation.
“Dark Tea,” she said at last, her voice mild. “And the letters from Lady Seraphine. All of them.”
Her maidens obeyed in quick, practiced silence. She spread the pages across the small inlaid table, their edges overlapping like scales. The handwriting varied—formal in one, hurried in another—and she read them line by line, the candlelight pooling in her dark eyes. When she looked up, the maid who had fetched the tea saw the irritation in her Ladyship's eyes and stepped back a pace.
“Something does not fit,” Anastara said softly, half to herself. “The timing… the tone… names that appear in one report and vanish in the next.” Her lips curved faintly. “This is not a recounting—it is orchestration.”
She set the teacup aside, untouched. “Fetch the magus,” she said. “I want to know what a Lawweaver is, and what power ties such words to Avalon? I have read this through twice, and it is no litany of misfortune. It smells of design—subtle, deliberate, almost elegant.”
Her steward hesitated in the doorway. “My lady—shall I send word to the harbor?”
“Do so,” she said. “Tell them the ship is to be made ready by dawn.”
When they had gone, the study fell quiet save for the whisper of the wind through gauze curtains. Anastara remained seated, gaze fixed on the shifting candle flame. “Ten years,” she murmured. “Ten years of quiet masks, and now the storm breaks.”
A faint smile flickered across her face—not out of happiness, but because she understood. She’d watched plenty of men strut around, thinking politics was just swords and banners. This was something else. This was strategy, quiet and careful, woven with silence and ink.
"Eldric and Seraphine," she murmured, letting the names linger on her tongue. "They’ve finally joined the game." She ran her fingers along the edge of the parchment, drawing invisible routes between Avalon and Hollow March. "But they don’t realize I’ve been at this far longer than they have."
Outside, the wind over the marshes sounded almost like waves crashing far away. The candlelight danced, and in its glow, Lady Anastara's eyes sparkled—the look of someone who just found an opponent actually worth her time.