The castle square was packed.

  Guards ringed the perimeter—Garanwyn soldiers in crisp formation, Eldmere’s own standing among them with the stiff posture of men who knew they were being watched. Dignitaries occupied cushioned benches near the platform, silk and wool layered carefully for display. Beyond them, the crowd pressed close, bodies packed shoulder to shoulder, craning for a view.

  A pale length of ray cloth marked the King’s Way from the palace doors to the ceremonial platform.

  Behind the platform, a servant in palace livery moved through his final checks. Banners aligned. Podium centered. Cloth smooth and clean.

  Movement caught his eye.

  A dog trotted onto the ray cloth.

  She moved with quiet purpose. No hesitation. No curiosity. Just a steady pace along the marked path.

  She paused three times. Precisely.

  Then she stepped off the cloth and vanished into the crowd near the vendor stalls.

  The servant’s stomach dropped.

  He stared at the interruption in the pale fabric. At the palace doors beginning to open. At the trumpeters already raising their instruments.

  Under King Cocky, he would have spoken. Would have called someone. The king and his advisor Benjamin had listened. Mistakes could be fixed.

  But Helmut was back.

  And Helmut had brought the King of Garanwyn.

  Rumor said Jorvan punished minor mistakes harshly. Publicly. For sport.

  The servant looked at the cloth again, sweat started beading on his face, his scalp and his armpits stung.

  He wanted to act. Wanted to do the right thing.

  But all choices led to the same end.

  He turned back to the banners and adjusted one with meticulous care. If he did his job well enough, this moment would not exist.

  A guard passed too close. The servant flinched before he could stop himself, hands tightening on the edge of the banner.

  The trumpets blared.

  ***

  Jorvan emerged first.

  Gold and crimson caught the light as he stepped onto the ray cloth, smiling broadly, already waving as though the crowd belonged to him.

  His boot came down.

  He didn’t notice.

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  He took another step, confidence unbroken, grin fixed firmly in place.

  The herald near the podium wrinkled his nose. Something was wrong. He glanced around, careful not to look directly at the King.

  Jorvan reached the platform, still waving.

  “TREMENDOUS day for Eldmere!” he called. “The BEST day! We’re going to make Eldmere exceptional again—”

  Behind him, Helmut stepped out of the palace doors, smiling widely, basking in familiar luxury.

  Valgarr followed.

  White and gold robes pristine, he descended with measured grace, eyes forward, expression serene.

  Both avoided the marked path without comment.

  In the front rows, nobles shifted subtly. A perfumed handkerchief appeared. Someone coughed. Another pressed their lips together too tightly.

  Jorvan’s smile faltered.

  He sniffed. Once. Then again.

  What was that smell?

  “Citizens!” he continued, voice straining slightly. “We come to offer—”

  He paused. “—to offer GENEROUS assistance in your time of—of—”

  An aide leaned in, face pale.

  “Your Highness,” he whispered. “Your boot.”

  Jorvan frowned. Looked down.

  Saw nothing.

  The aide gestured.

  Jorvan looked down.

  Then he saw the marks behind him.

  Brown stamped the pale fabric. Each shift of weight left another mark.

  His face flushed.

  High above the square, a small girl perched on the ledge of a nearby building squinted down at the path. Rubbed her eyes. Looked again.

  “Oh,” she breathed.

  Her gaze tracked to the shadowed edge of the square, near the stalls.

  A black dog sat there, watching the platform.

  The girl’s eyes widened.

  “THERE’S POO ON THE CLOTH!” she shouted. “THE KING STEPPED IN POO!”

  A hissed voice rose from below. “Philippa! Get down! Be quiet!”

  Too late.

  The square froze.

  Every head turned.

  The nobles stared straight ahead, faces rigid. One man bent over abruptly, pretending to cough as his shoulders shook. A child giggled before a hand clamped over his mouth.

  Jorvan laughed too loudly.

  “This is—this is TREMENDOUSLY unfortunate!” he announced. “But we’re going to continue! Because this is IMPORTANT! This liberation—this TREMENDOUS liberation—”

  The smell followed him as he shifted his weight.

  “—is the BEST thing that will ever happen to Eldmere! We bring the BEST resources! The BEST soldiers! Nobody helps like I help! Believe me!”

  On the platform, Helmut’s smile strained.

  Valgarr’s did not change at all.

  Only his eyes adjusted.

  Jorvan stepped back from the podium.

  Squelch.

  An aide stood nearby with a bucket of water and a cloth, staring resolutely into the middle distance.

  Jorvan’s expression promised retribution.

  ***

  In a hayloft behind the Good For What Ales Ya tavern, Seren heard the noise.

  She could hear Jorvan’s voice, but the rhythm was wrong. The applause that should have followed… didn’t.

  She shifted in the hay, peering through a gap in the boards. All she could see was the roofline of the keep and the top of the platform.

  Whatever was happening, it wasn’t triumph.

  ***

  The girl was still grinning when she noticed the dog again.

  The dog looked up at her.

  Their eyes met.

  The dog’s tail wagged once.

  Just once.

  Then she turned and trotted away, entirely satisfied.

  The girl’s grin spread wider.