Chapter 10: Blood Warning

CASSIAN

The great hall glitters like a jewel box in the candlelight, but something feels wrong beneath the surface pageantry. From my position at the high table, I watch the careful choreography of imperial conquest disguised as celebration; nobles raising goblets filled with wine purchased with imperial loans, merchants wearing fine clothes bought with imperial contracts, servants moving with the practiced efficiency of people who know their livelihoods depend on pleasing their new masters.

Twelve years in Asterion should have taught me to see this as victory. Instead, I find myself cataloguing the subtle signs of a kingdom in chains.

Princess Melianthe sits beside me, resplendent in midnight blue silk that somehow manages to look both defiant and diplomatic. The imperial diamonds at her throat catch the light like captured stars; beautiful, expensive, and unmistakably marking her as claimed property. To the casual observer, she's the picture of royal composure, gracious, serene, utterly in control. But I've learned to read the almost imperceptible signs of tension in the set of her shoulders, the way her fingers press just slightly too firmly against her wine goblet.

Outside the tall windows, I catch glimpses of ravens perched along the stone ledges, more than usual for this time of evening. They seem restless, shifting and ruffling their feathers in a way that speaks of agitation. In Asterion, we'd learned to read such signs as omens of coming storms.

Our earlier conversations had revealed unexpected depths beneath her polished exterior, but watching her now, I realize how young she truly is. Eighteen years old and bearing the weight of a kingdom's future, navigating political waters that would challenge someone twice her age.

"Magnificent evening," I murmur, leaning closer so our conversation won't carry. Around us, the feast continues its careful pantomime of celebration, but I'm increasingly aware of undercurrents I can't quite identify.

"Is it?" Her voice carries that note of irony I've come to recognize, the sound of someone maintaining perfect diplomatic courtesy while feeling trapped. "I confess I find crowds like this rather... overwhelming sometimes. Though the ravens seem more disturbed than usual tonight."

I follow her glance toward the windows, where the black birds have begun to gather in greater numbers. Their harsh cries pierce the evening air with increasing frequency, as if they're trying to warn of something the humans inside cannot see.

"Ravens are sacred in Ravencrest," she continues quietly. "The old stories say they see truths that mortals miss. That they can recognize deception even when it wears a crown." Her fingers touch the imperial sapphires at her throat unconsciously. "My nurse used to tell me about the first Raven Queen, who saved the kingdom through careful lies when honest battle would have meant destruction."

There's something vulnerable in her admission that doesn't match the careful political analysis I've come to expect from her. She seems younger tonight, more genuinely uncertain beneath the royal mask, yet also more aware of the ancient weight her bloodline carries.

"The attention can be difficult," I agree, though my own discomfort comes from recognizing how this gathering serves imperial interests rather than Ravencrest's. Every conversation being observed, every reaction catalogued, every subtle expression of dissent noted for future reference.

Count the imperial functionaries scattered throughout the hall, I think but don't say. Notice how they're positioned to overhear conversations at every major noble cluster. Observe how Ambassador Cordelia's smile never wavers, but her eyes track every interaction like a predator evaluating prey.

The clinical precision of imperial intelligence gathering disturbs me more than any open military display could. This isn't conquest, it's dissection. Every gathering like this provides another layer of information about who can be trusted, who might resist, who needs to be managed.

"Tell me," I say carefully, "what do you see when you look out at your people?"

She follows my gaze across the assembled crowd, her expression growing thoughtful. "I see faces I've known my entire life wearing expressions I don't entirely recognize. Lord Dunmore drinks more than he used to. Lady Caldwell’s smiles don't reach her eyes. The merchants cluster together like they're sharing secrets they can't speak aloud." She pauses, watching a raven settle on the windowsill with unusual boldness. "Even the ravens act differently since... since everything changed."

Her observations are sharp but lack the tactical precision of someone who understands imperial methodology. She sees the effects without recognizing the systematic nature of what's causing them. There's an innocence in her analysis that my upbringing in Asterion has long since burned out of me.

"Do you think they're happy?" she asks quietly. "About the betrothal, the alliance, all of it?"

The question reveals everything about the impossible position she's in. She genuinely cares about her people's welfare but lacks the education to understand how imperial control actually works. She's trying to navigate a game whose rules no one has explained to her.

"I think," I say carefully, "that they want what's best for Ravencrest. The challenge is that different people have different ideas about what that might be."

Before she can respond, the ravens outside suddenly erupt into harsh, discordant cries; not their usual evening calls but sharp warnings that cut through the hall's polished conversation like knives. Several guests glance toward the windows uneasily, their faces reflecting an ancestral understanding that such sounds rarely mean good fortune.

At the high table, King Aldrich goes very still. His wine goblet freezes halfway to his lips, and for a moment his carefully controlled expression slips to reveal something that looks almost like... recognition? Fear? His eyes dart toward the windows where the ravens are now shrieking in earnest, then sweep the crowd with sudden urgency.

The change in him is subtle but unmistakable to anyone watching closely. This isn't the reaction of a man hearing random bird calls; this is someone who understands a warning when he hears it.

Trumpets sound from the gallery above, cutting through the raven cries, and King Aldrich rises from his throne with movements that seem slightly too quick, slightly too tense for mere ceremony. The hall falls silent with practiced precision, hundreds of people who've learned to respond to royal cues without conscious thought.

"My friends," his voice carries clearly through the hushed space, though I notice a tightness that wasn't there earlier, "eighteen years ago, Ravencrest was blessed with a daughter whose grace and wisdom have brought honor to our kingdom. Tonight, as Princess Melianthe comes of age, we celebrate not just her birthday but the bright future she represents for our realm."

The applause that follows sounds genuinely enthusiastic, though I notice how many faces maintain carefully neutral expressions. These people have learned to perform enthusiasm while harboring private doubts, a skill that speaks to years of practice in navigating treacherous political waters.

But the ravens outside have grown even more agitated, their cries now forming an almost continuous cacophony. King Aldrich's eyes keep darting toward the windows, and his knuckles are white where they grip the back of his chair.

"Let us watch as she makes her birthday wish," the king continues, his voice steady despite the tension in his posture, "and pray that the gods grant her heart's desire."

Melianthe rises with fluid grace, accepting the ornate silver cake knife a servant presents on a silk cushion. The blade gleams in the candlelight, its edge sharp enough to cut silk and its handle worked with intricate engravings that speak of ceremonial importance. As she takes it, her movements carry the slight stiffness of someone performing under scrutiny.

The cake is a masterwork of the baker's art. Three tiers of what appears to be honey cake decorated with spun sugar work that resembles delicate lace, crowned with fresh flowers that match the blue and gold of Ravencrest's colors. Eighteen small candles ring the top tier, their flames adding to the overall glow that makes the entire creation seem to shimmer with inner light.

"Make a wish, Princess!" someone calls from the crowd, and scattered laughter follows.

She pauses at the edge of the table, knife held correctly for the ceremonial first cut, her expression serene and focused. There's something almost meditative about her concentration, as if this simple ceremony provides a moment of peace amid the political complexities surrounding her.

Outside, the ravens fall suddenly, unnaturally silent, a quiet that seems more ominous than their earlier warnings.

"I wish," she says clearly, her voice carrying to every corner of the hall, "for the wisdom to serve my people well, and the strength to protect what matters most."

The words are diplomatic enough to pass imperial scrutiny while carrying undertones that resonate with deeper meaning. But as she leans forward to make the first cut, I notice movement in the crowd that sets every alarm bell in my head ringing.

A young man near the eastern wall. Dressed in the fine clothes of minor nobility but moving with sudden, urgent purpose. His hand reaches inside his doublet in a motion that sends ice through my veins, and his eyes are fixed on Melianthe with an intensity that speaks of deadly intent.

Training kicks in before conscious thought. Years of Asterion's academies, countless hours studying threat assessment and personal protection, muscle memory built through endless repetition. I'm moving before I fully understand why, rising from my chair and stepping toward Melianthe just as she begins to lower the knife toward the elaborate cake.

"Death to the Empire's whore!" The shout rings across the hall like a bell tolling doom, and suddenly the elegantly dressed figure is sprinting forward, a curved dagger gleaming in his raised fist. "Death to the false ravens who sold our kingdom! My father died defending the throne room! You sold us all!"

The words hit like physical blows, each syllable dripping with hatred and fanatical conviction. This isn't an imperial assassin; this is someone from Melianthe's own kingdom, someone who was there that night six years ago when the palace ran red with blood.

From the high table, King Aldrich reacts with shocking speed and precision. His chair crashes backward as he lunges toward the stairs, not with the reflexes of a ceremonial monarch but with the trained responses of someone intimately familiar with violence. For a heartbeat, his mask slips completely, and beneath it I glimpse something that looks like tactical awareness, like someone who's been expecting exactly this kind of attack.

But he's too far away. We all are.

The crowd erupts into screams and chaos as nobles scramble to get out of the assassin's path, but their panic only creates more confusion, more obstacles for the guards trying to respond. I see Sir Talos fighting through the press of bodies, his weathered face grim with professional focus, but he's too far away to intercept the attack in time.

But Melianthe's instincts prove as sharp as my own. Perhaps she'd caught the same wrongness in the assassin's behavior, or perhaps Sir Talos's combat training has honed her awareness beyond what anyone expected. Either way, she reacts with lightning speed that saves her life.

Instead of freezing in shock or stumbling backward in panic, she pivots smoothly on her heel, bringing the ceremonial cake knife up in a defensive arc that catches the assassin's blade with a ringing clash of steel on steel. The impact sends vibrations through both weapons, but her grip remains sure as she flows into what I recognize as a classic defensive sequence; someone has taught her very well indeed.

"Traitor!" the assassin snarls, pressing his attack with desperate ferocity. "You sold your people for imperial gold, but I won't let you birth their spawn! The true ravens weep for what you've become!"

I'm already in motion, closing the distance between us with trained efficiency. My own blade - a court sword worn for ceremonial purposes but kept properly sharp - slides free of its sheath with barely a whisper. The familiar weight in my hand brings clarity to the chaos erupting around us, reducing the complexity of the moment to the simple mathematics of reach, timing, and technique.

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"No!" The assassin's cry carries equal measures of fury and despair as he realizes his primary plan has failed. But instead of retreating or seeking escape, he presses his attack with suicidal determination. "I saw my father die in this very hall! Bastian Westbrook remembers! The ravens remember!"

The surname hits like a physical blow. Westbrook; one of the old guard families, bloodline stretching back to the first kings of Ravencrest. His father would have been Henrik Westbrook, one of King Everett's personal guard, one of the men who'd died defending the throne room when Aldrich's forces broke through.

Bastian would have been maybe eight years old that night, just the right age to be traumatized by watching his father cut down before his eyes. Six years of grief and hatred have twisted that memory into this moment of desperate vengeance, corrupted by the belief that the sacred ravens themselves have been betrayed.

My sword takes him in the shoulder, angling downward to sever the tendons that control his weapon arm. He screams - pain and fury and devastating frustration - as his dagger tumbles from suddenly nerveless fingers. The sound is purely human, stripped of pretense or performance, the cry of a man watching his desperate gamble fail before his eyes.

"The ravens know the truth!" he gasps, blood streaming down his arm. "They see through every lie, every false loyalty! Even if you silence me, they remember what this kingdom used to be!"

But even wounded, he's still dangerous. His off hand reaches for what appears to be a backup weapon, some hidden blade that could still complete his mission if he can bring it to bear.

Melianthe doesn't give him the chance. Moving with precision that surprises us both, she steps inside his guard and drives the cake knife upward, finding the gap below his ribs with deadly accuracy. The ornate blade, designed for ceremony but sharp enough for its grim purpose, slides home with barely a whisper.

Bastian staggers, shock replacing fury in his eyes as he looks down. Blood blooms across his fine doublet like a dark flower, and he falls to his knees with a wet, rattling gasp.

"Father..." he whispers, and there's something heartbreaking about the word. "The ravens... will remember us both..."

Then he collapses forward, his body going still as blood pools beneath him on the marble floor.

For a moment, the hall is frozen in horrified silence. Even the ravens outside have gone quiet, as if Bastian’s death has somehow released them from whatever compulsion drove their earlier warning.

From across the hall, King Aldrich stares at the scene with an expression I can't entirely read. Relief, certainly, that his daughter is safe. But there's something else, something that looks almost like recognition, as if Bastian’s words about ravens and truth and memory have struck deeper than anyone might expect.

Then the screaming starts in earnest; ladies fainting, men shouting orders, servants scattering like startled birds. But through it all, I see Melianthe standing motionless, staring down at the man she's just killed, the bloodied cake knife still gripped in her white-knuckled hand.

Her face has gone pale as parchment, her breathing rapid and shallow. The composed princess who'd been making diplomatic conversation moments ago has vanished, replaced by an eighteen-year-old girl who's just taken her first life.

"Guards!" King Aldrich's voice cuts through the chaos like a whip crack, his tone carrying absolute authority despite the circumstances. The chaos dies to silence. "Secure the hall! No one moves without permission!"

The royal guard responds with trained efficiency, but I notice how many of them look shaken by what they've witnessed. This wasn't an external threat they could unite against - this was one of their own people, someone who shared their blood and history, someone driven to murder by the same night that changed all their lives.

Sir Talos appears at Melianthe's side as if materializing from shadows, his sword drawn and his eyes scanning for additional threats. But when he sees Bastian’s body, his weathered face goes pale.

"Bastian Westbrook,” he confirms grimly. “We knew he’d be trouble.”

"Are you hurt?" I ask Melianthe urgently, moving to her side while maintaining awareness of our surroundings. Her gown shows no signs of blood, but shock can mask injuries, and Bastian might have managed to wound her despite her skilled defense.

She doesn't answer. She's staring down at Bastian’s body with an expression I can't read; not horror exactly, but something deeper and more complicated. Her breathing is coming in short, sharp gasps, and the knife trembles in her grip.

"Princess?" I touch her arm gently, and she flinches away from the contact as if burned.

"He was... he was just a child," she whispers, her voice barely audible above the continuing chaos. "That night, when Father... he was just a child, and I..." She looks up at me with eyes full of devastating understanding. "He called me a false raven, Cassian. What if he was right? What if I am everything he said I was?"

The words trail off as the full weight of what's happened crashes over her. This isn't just her first kill, it's the son of a man who died defending the crown her father now wears. The symmetry is devastating, the kind of moral complexity that can break someone who thinks too deeply about consequences.

"You defended yourself," I say firmly, recognizing the shock setting in. "You had no choice."

But she's not hearing me. Her eyes have gone distant, unfocused, and I realize she's reliving that night, seeing it now through the eyes of an eight-year-old boy watching his father die to defend a king who was already lost.

"I killed him," she says, louder now, and several nearby nobles turn to stare. "I killed Henrik Westbrook’s son. I killed a child who watched his father die."

"He was no child tonight," Sir Talos says grimly, kneeling beside Bastian’s body. "He was a trained killer who would have murdered you if you'd hesitated even a moment. Look at his blade; this isn't some kitchen knife grabbed in desperation. This is a weapon designed for assassination."

"But he was only eight," Melianthe insists, and there's something breaking in her voice. "He was eight years old, and he watched his father die defending the throne, and now I... I..." She looks around wildly at the chaos surrounding us. "The ravens were trying to warn us. They knew. They always know."

She sways on her feet, and I catch her arm to steady her. The knife finally falls from her nerveless fingers, clattering on the marble with a sound that seems unnaturally loud in the sudden quiet that has fallen over our immediate area.

The sound of metal on stone seems to break whatever spell had held the hall in stunned silence. Suddenly everyone is moving at once - nobles pushing toward exits, servants scurrying to clean up broken dishes and spilled wine, guards trying to maintain some semblance of order while processing the enormity of what's just occurred.

But through the chaos, I notice something that makes my blood run cold. Ambassador Cordelia stands at the far end of the hall, her white silk somehow still immaculate despite the mayhem, and she's not looking shocked or frightened. She's looking... satisfied. As if tonight's tragedy has gone exactly according to some plan I'm not privy to.

Near the windows, the ravens begin to disperse, their harsh cries fading into the night. But one remains perched on the sill, its black eye fixed on King Aldrich with what seems like accusatory intelligence. The king notices the bird and goes very still, his face cycling through expressions too quick to read.

"Princess," I say urgently, recognizing that Melianthe's public breakdown could have serious political consequences. "We need to get you somewhere private."

"I need..." She looks around wildly, as if seeing the hall full of staring faces for the first time. "I need... I can't... there's so much blood..."

And there is. Bastian’s blood has spread in a dark pool around his body, soaking into the expensive carpet and reflecting the candlelight like a mirror made of horror. The same floor where his father had bled out defending a king who couldn't save himself.

"Get her out of here," Sir Talos says quietly, his eyes meeting mine with grim understanding. "Now, before this gets worse."

He's right. Melianthe is on the verge of collapse, and the assembled nobles are watching her every reaction with the kind of avid attention that will turn tonight's events into tomorrow's gossip. If she breaks down publicly, it will be seen as either guilt or weakness, neither of which she can afford.

But before I can guide her away, fresh commotion erupts near the main entrance. New guards pour into the hall, but these wear imperial colors, not Ravencrest blue and silver. Ambassador Cordelia appears behind them, moving with purpose that suggests this intervention was planned long before the first blade was drawn.

"Secure the area!" she commands with authority that sends ice through my veins. "His Imperial Majesty cannot allow such violence against his honored allies!"

My blood turns to ice as I understand what's happening. This isn't imperial assistance. This is imperial opportunity. Bastian’s desperate attack has provided the perfect excuse for exactly what the empire has been maneuvering toward.

"No," Melianthe breathes, and I see understanding dawn in her shocked eyes. "No, they can't... this was just one person, one angry boy..."

But it's too late. Imperial troops are already taking positions throughout the hall, their presence transforming what had been Ravencrest's sovereign space into something else entirely. Whether Bastian acted alone or with conspirators doesn't matter now. The empire has the justification it needs.

King Aldrich watches the imperial intervention with a carefully controlled expression, but I catch something in his eyes; not surprise exactly, but a kind of grim calculation, as if he's weighing options that the rest of us can't see. His reaction is far too measured for a man watching his sovereignty evaporate in real time.

"Princess Melianthe!" Cordelia's voice cuts through the diminishing chaos with razor precision. "Thank the gods you're safe! Such terrible violence! Clearly local security is insufficient for protecting such important guests. His Imperial Majesty will insist on providing proper protection going forward."

The words are diplomatic, but their meaning is crystal clear. Imperial troops won't be leaving. Tonight's attack - whether planned or spontaneous - has provided justification for permanent military presence in Ravencrest's capital.

Bastian’s broken body seems to mock his sacrifice. His desperate attempt to strike a blow for Ravencrest's independence has instead handed the empire exactly what it wanted most. Even in death, he's become a tool for the very forces he'd tried to resist.

"I killed him for nothing," Melianthe whispers, and the devastating accuracy of her assessment hits harder than any scream could. "He died for nothing, and I killed him for nothing, and now they get everything they wanted anyway."

The single raven still perched on the windowsill lets out one final, mournful cry before spreading its wings and disappearing into the night. The sound seems to follow it, accusation and warning and grief all woven together in a voice that speaks of ancient loyalties and deeper truths than any human politics can encompass.

"Come," I say gently, slipping my arm around her waist to support her weight. "Let's get you somewhere quiet."

She doesn't resist as I guide her toward the side exit, her movements mechanical and unsteady. Behind us, I can hear King Aldrich beginning the process of managing the political fallout, his voice calm and authoritative as he coordinates with imperial officials who are no longer guests but occupiers.

"I should have found another way," she whispers as we reach the corridor. "There should have been another way."

"There wasn't," I tell her firmly. "He chose violence. He forced your hand."

"But he was right," she says, stopping suddenly and turning to face me with wild eyes. "Don't you see? He was right about everything. I am marrying an imperial prince. I am... I was going to..." Her voice breaks. "His father died to prevent exactly what I'm doing. And the ravens... the ravens see everything, remember everything. They know what we really are."

The accusation hangs between us like a blade, challenging not just her choices but mine as well. Is she right? Are we both complicit in the slow strangulation of everything Bastian’s father died to protect?

"You're not betraying anything," I say carefully. "You're trying to save what can be saved in an impossible situation."

"Am I? Or am I just telling myself that to make collaboration feel like resistance?" Tears stream down her face now, cutting tracks through the blood spatter on her cheeks. "How do I look at myself in the mirror knowing that boy died believing I was a traitor? How do I live with the ravens watching, knowing they see through every lie I tell myself?"

Before I can answer, Sir Talos appears in the corridor, his expression grim with more than just the night's immediate tragedy. "Your Highness," he says quietly, "we need to move. There are... complications."

"What kind of complications?" I ask, though I suspect I already know.

"The kind that make tonight look like the beginning rather than the end." His weathered face is grave with professional concern. "Imperial forces are establishing permanent positions throughout the palace. King Aldrich is being consulted about security arrangements. And there are questions being raised about Princess Melianthe's emotional stability following the incident."

The words hit like hammer blows. Melianthe's public trauma, her visible shock at killing Bastian, her broken words about collaboration and betrayal… all of it is being weaponized to justify exactly what the Empire wanted from the beginning.

"They're saying I'm unfit," she says dully, understanding immediately. "Emotionally compromised. Too traumatized by the violence to make rational decisions about the kingdom's welfare."

"The suggestion has been made," Sir Talos confirms grimly, "that perhaps... additional guidance might be necessary during this difficult time."

Additional guidance. Imperial oversight. The slow transformation of a kingdom into a protectorate, justified by concern for a traumatized princess who needs help making decisions.

"Clever," Melianthe says, and there's bitter admiration in her voice. "Use my shock against me. Turn my humanity into evidence of weakness. Make my guilt over killing Bastian proof that I can't be trusted with Ravencrest's future. Even make the ravens' warnings seem like madness rather than truth."

She's right, but the analysis does nothing to help with the immediate crisis. Imperial troops are in the palace, her father's authority is being circumscribed, and her own emotional state is being used to justify exactly the kind of intervention the empire has been engineering from the beginning.

"What do we do?" I ask, though I'm not sure I want to know the answer.

Melianthe straightens slowly, wiping the tears from her face with hands that still shake from shock and adrenaline. When she speaks, her voice carries new steel beneath the exhaustion.

"We survive tonight. We endure whatever questions they ask, whatever arrangements they propose. We let them think they've won completely." She looks directly at me, and I see something fierce burning behind the trauma. "And then we figure out how to build something worth preserving from the pieces they've left us."

"That could take years," I point out.

"Then we'd better get started." She pauses, listening to the distant sound of imperial troops moving through the palace corridors. "Bastian was wrong about one thing. I'm not a false raven. I'm learning to be what the kingdom needs me to be, even if that means embracing the deception he died trying to expose."

"And what if that makes you exactly what he said you were?"

She looks at me with eyes that have aged years in the space of an hour. "Then I'll live with the ravens' judgment, and hope that someday they'll understand the difference between betrayal and survival."