Lord of the Foresaken

Dawn crept through the narrow window of Reed’s temporary quarters, casting sickly yellow light across the chamber. The Tournament officials had relocated him overnight—a gesture they claimed was for his protection, though the additional wards and guards suggested otherwise. Reed sat on the edge of his bed, fingers steepled beneath his chin, watching as the light slowly revealed the sparse furnishings.

They’d separated him from Shia. Her absence left an uncomfortable void in his awareness, like a phantom limb. The void-touched assassin had become more than a tool; she was now intrinsically linked to whatever dark game played out around them. Without her, Reed felt exposed.

A soft knock interrupted his contemplation. Marcus entered, carrying a tray laden with bread, fruit, and a steaming pot of tea. His face bore the pallor of sleeplessness, but his eyes remained sharp.

"Eat, my lord," he said, setting the tray down. "The game intensifies today."

Reed raised an eyebrow. "News travels quickly."

"Like blood in water," Marcus confirmed, pouring tea with practiced precision. The steam curled upward in patterns that seemed deliberately obscure the words he spoke next. "Your display of legal knowledge yesterday has... intrigued certain parties."

Reed took the cup, inhaling the familiar aroma of blackleaf—an expensive blend favored by the upper nobility. Someone had gone to considerable expense for a prisoner’s breakfast.

"The rumors have spread, then." It wasn’t a question.

Marcus gave a tight smile. "Three messengers arrived before dawn. Lords and Ladies who previously wouldn’t have acknowledged your existence now seek private audiences."

Reed tore a piece of bread, noting the quality of its crust—another subtle message. "They smell opportunity in chaos."

"Or they fear what’s coming." Marcus lowered his voice. "The void manifestation has frightened many. Ancient prophecies long dismissed as superstition suddenly seem uncomfortably relevant."