The morning sun of the New Wighthelm pocket dimension filtered through the crystal windows of the dining hall, casting a warm, golden glow over a breakfast table that was usually a place of quiet reflection. Today, however, the air was filled with a boisterous energy that centered entirely on my father.

  Duke Kaelen Wight, the grim Shield of the Kingdom, the man who had faced down dungeon hordes and dragon fire with a stoic scowl, was currently laughing so hard he was in danger of choking on his coffee. Spread out before him on the weirwood table were a dozen different newspapers, acquired through Patricia’s extensive smuggling network from every corner of the continent.

  The headlines were a riot of sensationalism, printed in bold, accusatory ink.

  "The Golden Phoenix Grounded? Five-Year-Old Scion Demands Apology!" read the Sylvanheim Gazette, their schadenfreude practically dripping from the page.

  "Brother-Sister Duo Humiliates Hegemony: Prince Ignis Brought to His Knees by Toddler!" screamed the Iron Hills Daily.

  "The Lion Cub Roars: Cinderfall Heir Bested in Garden Dispute!"

  My father wiped a tear of mirth from his eye, slapping the table. "By the ancestors, Alarion, look at this one from the Valerius Trade Journal. 'Is the Hegemony’s Armor Made of Tin? Small Child Says Yes.'" He shook his head, beaming. "I have fought wars against that boy's father, engaged in decades of political maneuvering, and I never achieved a victory half as devastating as Lyra did in five minutes with a flower crown."

  It was a public relations nightmare for Cinderfall. Prince Ignis, already reeling from the loss of his knights and the destruction of his reputation, had managed to step on the only landmine worse than a tactical nuke: public ridicule. To be feared is one thing; to be laughed at is the death knell for a tyrant.

  The subject of these international headlines sat next to me, utterly oblivious to her fame. Lyra was currently engaged in a sulky war of attrition with her breakfast. The confiscation of her crayons had hit her hard. Without her "blueprints," she had resorted to arranging her steamed broccoli into a defensive formation against her mashed potatoes.

  "It's a tactical encircle-mint," she mumbled, aggressively stabbing a floret. "The green soldiers are blocking the path of the mushy mountain. And then... BOOM." She smashed the potato mound with her spoon, sending white splatter across her plate.

  I reached over and flicked her forehead gently. "Not all problems can be solved with violence, my little cricket. Sometimes you have to eat the enemy."

  "But they taste like green," she complained, rubbing her forehead.

  My mother, for once, didn't chide her for playing with her food. She was too busy reading a society column from the Lumina Herald with a satisfied smirk. "Look, dear. Even the Imperium is mocking him. They say his 'lack of chivalry toward the noble house of Wight is a stain on the honor of kings.' Both our children are famous."

  I took a sip of my coffee, my eyes scanning the less sensational, more telling articles buried in the back pages of the Cinderfall Gazette. While the front page was damage control about the Prince's "diplomatic misunderstanding," the financial section painted a picture of a kingdom teetering on the brink of collapse.

  King Theron had shot himself in the foot, and the wound was festering.

  In his desperate bid to regain military might after the Icarus strike, he had instituted mass conscription. It was a brute-force solution to a nuanced problem. He had emptied the villages and the fields, dragging every able-bodied man into the legions. But soldiers don't plow fields. Soldiers don't harvest grain. Soldiers don't man the trade caravans.

  "They've increased taxation again," I noted, pointing to a small, dry article about grain levies. "A fixed amount, not a percentage. That's suicide."

  My father stopped laughing, his strategist’s mind engaging. He leaned over to look. "Fixed tax? In a harvest year threatened by labor shortages? They'll starve the peasantry."

  "Exactly," I said. "The families left behind—the women, the children, the elderly—are being forced to work the fields to make up for the lost labor, but they can't meet the quotas. And since the tax is fixed, the crown takes everything they grow just to feed the army. The people are left with nothing."

  I read further. The conscripts weren't even being paid. The crown was claiming that their training, equipment, and daily rations constituted their wage. It was slavery with extra steps.

  I saw the map of the Hegemony in my mind, as a system under stress. The cracks were visible. A nation rotting from the inside out. I didn't need to fire another Icarus missile. I just needed to let them starve, or perhaps... give them a nudge.

  "If we funneled resources to the resistance groups," I mused aloud, "start a few fires in the right granaries, drop pamphlets instead of bombs... we could incite a revolution. When our army marches through their lands, the people might not see us as invaders. They might see us as liberators bringing bread."

  Our morning strategy session was interrupted by the soft chime of a personal alert from my comm-bead. An attendant’s voice filtered through.

  "My Lord, we have a situation at the Blue Mist Lake gate. The external communications module has been activated. You have a visitor."

  "Tes, who is it?"

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  [Analyzing visual feed... It appears to be the Scion of House Black, Nyxia.]

  I stood up, wiping my mouth. "I have to take this. Father, Mother, excuse me."

  I walked briskly to my private workshop to answer the call. The module installed in front of the Blue Dragon territory was essentially a high-tech mailbox I’d planted next to the gate. It stood out like a sore thumb against the ancient stone and natural beauty of the valley—a sleek, black monolith of metal and glass, guarded eternally by two very confused Azure Dragons.

  I tapped the console on my desk, bringing up the video feed.

  The image was comical. Two massive dragons were peering intently at the metal object, their snouts inches from the lens, their breath fogging up the glass. One of them tapped it tentatively with a claw, clearly wondering if it was edible. Behind them, Nyxia stood awkwardly, looking at the device with a mixture of suspicion and bafflement. It was obvious the dragons had pointed her to it when she asked for me, likely with a vague "talk to the shiny box" instruction.

  I activated the two-way holographic interface.

  At the gate, the flat surface of the monolith shimmered. A perfect, three-dimensional projection of my head and shoulders materialized in the air above it.

  Nyxia jumped back, her hand flying to the hilt of a dagger she wasn't wearing. She stared at the hologram, then let out a long, exasperated breath.

  "Wight," she hissed, regaining her composure. "Why must you make everything so difficult? It's a communication orb. You have one, I have one. We could have just spoken through that. Why is this thing... flat? And why are you blue?"

  She poked a finger through my holographic cheek, frowning as it passed through the light. She was used to crystal balls that distorted faces into fish-eye caricatures. My technology, creating a rectangular window into another place, was alien to her.

  "Mine is far superior," I stated as a matter of fact. "Higher fidelity, encryption that actually works, and it doesn't make people look like they're trapped in a fishbowl. What do you want, Nyxia?"

  She crossed her arms, seemingly accepting that my arrogance extended to my furniture. "I have a problem, and since you are the cause of it, you are going to help me solve it."

  "I cause many problems for many people," I replied dryly. "Be specific."

  "The Dwarves," she said, the word heavy with annoyance. "The ambassador from Khaz'Modan has been creating a ruckus in my office since dawn. Apparently, they built a high-powered telescope on the northern peaks."

  I raised an eyebrow. Clever dwarves.

  "They spotted your fleet," she continued. "Or rather, they spotted the unnatural storm cloaking it. They realized what was inside. Now they are demanding, Alarion, that you allow them aboard. They want to inspect the vessel."

  "No," I replied instantly. "Absolutely not."

  "I told them that," Nyxia sighed, rubbing her temples. "I told them you were reclusive, paranoid, and likely to shoot them if they got too close. But they are persistent. They know you have technology that makes their weapons look like toys. They are the arms dealers of the world, Alarion. They won't stop."

  "Let them look," I said dismissively. "My security protocols are absolute. If they try to fly a gryphon near The Aegis, the automated turrets will turn it into mist before they can say 'hammer'."

  "Wight, listen to me," Nyxia’s voice softened, losing its edge of irritation. "I know what you're thinking. You think you don't need anyone. But would it change your mind if I told you the head of the envoy is Master Aldric?"

  I paused. The name cut through my defensiveness. Aldric. The dwarf who had taught me the basics of the forge when I was just a boy with big ideas. The man who had helped me forge the Mark I armor, who had spat his ale across the room when I ignited the first Plasma Katana. My mentor.

  Nyxia saw the hesitation in my expression. "Look, Alarion... the dwarves are desperate too. The Hegemony has cut off their trade routes. They are starving for resources just as much as anyone. And Aldric... he speaks of you with pride. He's the King's cousin, you know. He has influence."

  She stepped closer to the sensor, her expression earnest. "You can't honestly believe you can build an entire new world order on your own. You have the mind, yes. But you need hands. You need craftsmen. And the dwarves of Khaz'Modan are the best there are. Imagine what you could build if you had their forges allied with yours."

  I suppressed a smile. She was trying to manipulate me with logic, unaware that my production lines were automated. My machines built themselves. But she had a point about alliances. The dwarves controlled the raw materials of the north. And seeing Aldric again... that had value beyond strategy.

  "And," Nyxia continued, her voice dropping lower, glancing around to ensure the dragons weren't eavesdropping, "I think this would be a good opportunity for... family reunions."

  I narrowed my eyes. "Explain."

  "My father," she said. "Duke Morpheus Black. He is currently in Dragon Valley on 'official business' for the Hegemony. If I were to escort a diplomatic envoy of dwarves to your ship... my father could easily slip in among the entourage."

  She looked at me, her eyes pleading. "He needs to know, Alarion. He needs to know that Kaelen is alive. He has been protecting your memory in the capital, playing the loyal dog while plotting in the shadows. But he is losing hope. If he could speak to your father... if the two great houses could finally ally in truth..."

  It was a bold play. Sneaking the Spymaster of the enemy kingdom onto my flagship. But Morpheus Black and my father had a history, a rivalry built on mutual respect. If we were going to overthrow the Hegemony, we needed House Black.

  "Can Dragon Valley accommodate this?" I asked. "Does the neutrality pact allow for secret meetings on warships?"

  "I would personally be part of the tour," Nyxia assured me. "As Deputy Steward, my presence guarantees neutrality. The dwarves won't blab—they want your secrets too much to risk offending you. And my father... he is the master of shadows. No one will know he was ever there."

  "And Dragon Valley will provide the transport?"

  "Naturally. One of our diplomatic airships."

  I drummed my fingers on the desk, weighing the risks. It was dangerous. But staying isolated was dangerous too.

  "How long do you need to set it up?"

  "Tomorrow morning," Nyxia said, relief flooding her face. "Bring a blip to the edge of the neutrality zone. We will meet you there," I said.

  "I'll pass it along. See you tomorrow," Nyxia ended the discussion.

  The connection is cut. The hologram vanished.

  I sat back in my chair, exhaling slowly. This was going to be interesting. I got to show off to my old mentor, and my father got to conspire with his oldest frenemy.

  I tapped my comms. "Tes, prepare the reception bay. We have guests coming. And have the Mark III-B units clean up the main hangar. I want it to be impressive."

  [Acknowledged, Master. Should I hide the Mark-M MECHs?]

  "No," I said, a grin spreading across my face. "Polish them. Let the dwarves see exactly what they're dealing with."