Korr-Va and his five Clawguard had been riding hard for days.

  Their horses were large and lean. They pushed along narrow roads and half-forgotten paths that cut through the outer territories of the Clawborn Dynasty. Rest was taken only when necessary. Sleep came in short, shallow stretches beside cold fires or none at all. The pace was deliberate. Exhaustion was part of the message.

  They had been charged with increasing tribute across the surrounding regions. Not inspecting. Not correcting failures. Increasing.

  Their predecessor had already been raising the numbers, steadily and without pause. Month by month, the quotas had crept upward, squeezing more stone from thin ground, more grain from tired fields, more ore from veins that resisted the blade. It had worked for a time. The reports showed compliance. The shipments had continued.

  But now there was a shortfall.

  The cause did not matter to Korr-Va. Only the result did.

  Orders from the citadel had been clear. Whatever was missing would be recovered from those who could not refuse. Villages that had once met their tribute comfortably would be pushed beyond comfort. Beyond safety. Beyond survival, if necessary.

  Korr-Va rode at the front, his posture rigid in the saddle, his attention fixed forward. The crossed claw marks on his chest were fresh and deliberate, cut to signify authority granted, not earned through time. They marked him as the voice of authority itself, not a servant to rules.

  Behind him, the Clawguard rode in silence. They did not question the task. They did not discuss numbers. Their role was not to measure, but to ensure that whatever Korr-Va demanded would be delivered.

  The land ahead opened into another stretch of settlements, scattered and vulnerable. Places that still believed obedience was protection.

  That belief would be corrected.

  ***

  The six Clawguard rode into the citadel at speed.

  Hooves struck stone with a thunderous impact, echoing off walls and towers, announcing their presence long before the riders themselves came into view.

  Iron doors stood open just long enough.

  The Clawguard passed beneath the outer gate in a rush of noise and motion, horses snorting and stamping as they crossed from open air into stone shadow.

  Inside the outer wall, the streets reacted instantly.

  Citizens stepped aside without being told. Carts were dragged out of the way. Conversations died mid-breath. People pressed themselves against walls and doorways, heads bowed, eyes lowered. No one challenged the pace. No one questioned the urgency. The Clawguard did not slow for them.

  They galloped straight through the lower streets, armor clattering, weapons shifting at their sides. The sound of their passage rippled outward, shutters closing, doors pulling shut as the riders thundered past. Even those who did not look knew who it was by the weight of the noise alone.

  The road narrowed as it climbed, stone giving way to darker rock as the inner gates of the main keep loomed ahead. Guards at the checkpoint moved quickly, hauling the gates open without ceremony. Iron bars were hauled aside. Locks were thrown open. A sharp salute was given, fists struck to armor in disciplined unison. There was no demand for identification. The markings on Korr-Va’s chest were enough.

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  The Clawguard surged through the inner gate and into the heart of the citadel, the sound of their arrival swallowed at last by the mountain itself.

  Inside the inner yard, the Clawguard reined in their mounts. The horses were tied to iron rings set deep into the stone, their flanks heaving, foam clinging to bridles and bits. A pair of stablehands approached cautiously, keeping their movements small and respectful as they took the reins and began the work of cooling the animals down.

  Korr-Va dismounted, adjusted his armor, then turned toward the broad stairway carved directly into the mountain’s face. The steps were wide and shallow, designed for processions of large bodies. He climbed the stairs alone.

  His pace was steady. The sounds of the yard faded behind him, replaced by the enclosed hush of the inner corridors. Torches burned along the walls.

  At the top of the stairs, the Great Hall entrance stood open.

  Waiting just beyond the threshold was Octavia’s advisor, Tal-Vesh.

  He stood with hands folded, posture composed, mask plain and unadorned. The advisor did not bow. Korr-Va did not slow. They regarded one another in silence, authority meeting authority, no pretense.

  “You have returned quickly,” Tal-Vesh said at last.

  Korr-Va nodded in acknowledgment.

  “Quotas have been raised,” he replied.

  Tal-Vesh turned, gesturing toward the depths of the hall.

  “The Empress will hear your report.”

  Korr-Va followed, his footsteps echoing forward into the heart of Clawbourne Citadel.

  Tal-Vesh led Korr-Va into the Great Meeting Room.

  The black council table dominated the center of the room.

  Stone shifted softly behind them as another presence entered the room. Empress Octavia stepped into the light, her crimson robes and mask absorbing it. She moved to her place at the head of the table and stopped.

  Korr-Va and Tal-Vesh bowed deeply.

  “What news do you bring of the outer realm?” she asked.

  Korr-Va straightened, his posture rigid. He chose his words carefully, shaping them with effort. English was the tongue of sophistication, reserved for the citadel and its rulers. The common tongue belonged outside these walls.

  “Decree was delivered,” Korr-Va said, his accent thickening the words despite his care. “The increase was… clear.”

  Octavia turned her head slightly toward Tal-Vesh.

  “Will this meet the shortfall of resources?”

  Tal-Vesh did not hesitate. “Yes,” he replied. “If the villages meet the new tribute level.”

  Octavia’s gaze returned to Korr-Va.

  “You have done well,” she said. “Now ensure the new tribute levels are met.”

  Korr-Va bowed again, deeper this time. He stepped backward, never turning his back to the Empress, retreating until the shadow of the doorway swallowed him. Only then did he turn and march out of the Great Meeting Room.

  The doors closed softly but heavily behind him.

  Her attention shifted back to the table, to the work that remained.

  “What say you of the mines?” she asked.

  Tal-Vesh straightened slightly. “Production continues as ordered,” he said. “The additional shift rotation has been challenging to maintain.”

  Octavia turned her head.

  The motion was small. The effect was not.

  Tal-Vesh felt it immediately. The weight of her attention pressed down on him, sharp and unyielding. His gaze faltered and dropped a fraction, his shoulders tightening before he could stop himself.

  “But issues will be overcome,” he added quickly. “Of course.”

  He lifted his eyes again, forcing himself to meet Octavia’s piercing stare. The firelight glinted along the edge of her mask, revealing nothing of what lay beneath.

  “And where is he?” Octavia asked.

  Tal-Vesh’s throat tightened. “Edrin Kavos has been delayed.”

  The word seemed to linger in the air.

  “Delayed?” Octavia repeated.

  Tal-Vesh looked away again despite himself, his head dipping as if under a physical weight. The silence stretched, cold and deliberate, filling the chamber as the mountain listened.

  Nothing in the citadel moved.

  Tal-Vesh understood, with absolute clarity, that delay was not an answer the Empress would accept lightly.

  Octavia’s gaze did not waver.

  “We need answers about what he has been involved in,” she said.

  Tal-Vesh inclined his head. “Reports of portal activity are most troubling. As the authority on portals, Kavos should be here to answer to you and report his findings. You have given him much, Empress, and his delays are disrespectful.”

  Octavia’s fingers rested against the edge of the table, still and deliberate.

  “Why are they being opened?” she asked. “What is being brought through?”

  Tal-Vesh hesitated, then spoke carefully. “And why have they not been approved by your grace prior to their activation?”

  For a long moment, Octavia said nothing.

  Then her voice came,“Indeed.”

  Something hardened behind the smooth lines of her mask. The firelight dimmed as if retreating from the thought forming in her silence.