Page 4 of Of Iron and Moonlight

His eyes, grey but warm, lifted as they entered. “Lemierre,” Wolmer greeted, addressing Duncan by the name of his lands. “Captain.”

“Your Majesty.” Duncan and Isander bowed.

Wolmer motioned to a chair near his desk. “Sit with me, son. Hear a few petitions. It will be good for you to listen, as your father once did. Then we shall speak.”

Duncan inclined his head and lowered his tall frame into the chair. Isander took his place behind him and rested a hand, by habit, near his sword. It was uncommon for a lord to keep a bodyguard within the palace, but after last spring’s tragedy, the court had been understanding of Lemierre’s added precaution.

“Next petitioner,” the herald called.

A gaunt farmer shuffled in, dark eyes fixed on the stone floor. “Majesty… Your Grace. I come from a small village outside Netherreach. Duskmere. I’ve traveled far to stand here. People are vanishin’. They’ll not be runaways. No tracks. No blood. Only silence.” Calloused hands twisted a battered hat as he bowed low. “The folk are afraid. Please… send soldiers. Or a Moonwarden. I fear the land be cursed by the moons.”

Wolmer’s brows knit. “This is not the first I have heard of such disappearances. Reports from Kryovarre speak of the same. You were right to come.” He turned to Gleister, whose quill was already poised. “Two soldiers. Discreetly. Let no rumor or panic spread.”

Gleister nodded, brown eyes intent as he set the order down. The farmer bowed until his forehead nearly touched the floor. Fear and relief warred in his expression as he was escorted out.

The room fell quiet while Wolmer scribbled notes, and Isander felt unease stir. He’d heard about the disappearances along Kryovarre’s northwestern reaches. That they were becoming more frequent, and spreading to Duskmere, troubled him more than he cared to admit.

Instinct drew him upright when the smaller door of the family wing opened and closed. Violet, green, and amber shimmered from the heavy folds of a Moonwarden’s vestments.

Firrigan derVaelclair, Wolmer’s younger brother, slithered toward a chair by the window. He settled into it with the same instinctive precision he used at court: close enough to catch every word and weigh every silence, far enough removed that one might forget he was there until he chose otherwise.

Isander’s stomach tightened, but he forced himself into a controlled bow. Memories of the Vael Citadel broke loose. Firrigan had been only a Moongazer then, stationed at the temple on the isles during Isander’s years of service. His robes had been plain, but none of the young soldiers ever mistook a summons to his chambers for a simple invitation. And Isander had received those invitations all too often.

Since then, Firrigan had risen within the Sanctum, now presiding over Vaelstrom and the palace temple. A crescented coronet rested above his brow, marking his elevated rank. He appeared older, almost fragile. But his grey eyes held the same menacing gleam Isander had spent years trying, and failing, to forget.

Wolmer scarcely appeared to notice the Moonwarden, who slipped in and out of court with increasing frequency. Duncan inclined his head but did not rise. Their equal rank did not require it, and Isander knew Duncan would never offer Firrigan more respect than necessity demanded.

“Next petitioner,” the herald called, and the main study door opened again.

Chapter 2

Isander

Wolmer’s study was no gallery of an emperor’s conquests. It was, instead, a working room. Dispatches lay scattered in neat disorder. Maps lined the cork walls. Shelves bowed beneath books, no doubt dense with his careful annotations.

Yet amid the tools of governance were subtler markers of the man himself, easily missed unless one knew the tells of refined, expensive taste. Wolmer did not parade his wealth, but he valued quality and the exotic, and Isander often thought him more historian than emperor. Curiosities from across Oraith were displayed with deliberate care, as though the study itself were a curated museum.

The remarkably petite woman who stepped inside next might have belonged among the curiosities. Isander had seen rare irises traced with violet, softened with green, or touched by amber—but nothing like this. Hers were a vivid blue, bright as a high summer sky. The boy in her arms bore the same impossible shade.

Behind them came a broad man with a debt collector’s sneer and the air of someone who believed his presence deserved thanks. “Lyssara owes me a great debt,” he declared, offering only a perfunctory bow. “I caught her fleeing this morning with her spawn. Now I demand she be separated from the child until she repays what is owed.”

“Your Majesty,” Lyssara pleaded, her voice shaking, the accent oddly unfamiliar. Ash-blond hair fell untidily across her pale face, despair etched deep in her expression—enough that Isander nearly lost sight of his own unease. “The debt is false, twisted in his ledger. Though I pay, it never shrinks, only rises. Please do not take my son from me.”

Wolmer raised a hand, plainly troubled. “Separating mother and child is not justice. Surely we can find a compromise.”

“I have tried, Your Majesty!” Thick fists flailed. “The woman refuses to see sense. If debts go unpaid, what prevents chaos? Trust in lending will vanish, and stability will unravel!”

“Perhaps…” Firrigan spoke at last. The sound sent a chill through Isander. “Perhaps the boy might remain here in the palace. Our temple maintains an orphanage. He would be safe there, tended by the moons’ servants. I would personally see to his keeping.”

The chill flared into anger in Isander’s chest. His mouth opened. One word—only one—would have been enough to stall it. Yet, as it had fifteen years ago, his tongue failed him.

Duncan shifted in his seat as if to intervene, but even a duke’s authority was limited in this. Given credibility by the Sanctum, Firrigan’s influence ran deep through the noble ranks, and his counsel was ever close to Wolmer’s ear. To challenge him was to gamble with ruin.

Still, Isander wished Duncan would do something to persuade the emperor.

He did not.

“Gleister,” Wolmer said at last, wariness giving way to resignation. “Take the child as my brother suggests. The mother may visit until the creditor declares himself satisfied.”