Wolf Princess Sold to the Dragon King

Sub-level four smelled like wet stone and regret.

Kael descended the stairs with the mage, six soldiers, and two elders who had insisted on supervising. The insistence had involved Cassia physically blocking the stairwell until Kael agreed to their presence. He agreed in the way a man agrees to a bee sting: by acknowledging it was happening and choosing to stop swatting.

The ward nexus was a chamber roughly the size of the throne room above, carved from the Keep’s original foundation stone. Dark sigils covered the walls in concentric circles, pulsing with the same violet-black energy that had sealed the Keep. At the center, five anchor stones the size of a man’s head sat on obsidian pedestals, each one thrumming with a low, sour vibration that made Kael’s teeth itch.

”Lovely.” He studied the array. ”Brennan’s work. You can tell because the alignment is off by three degrees and the containment sigils are copied from a textbook he clearly skimmed.”

Brennan crossed his arms. ”I installed them under contract. The design brief was ’big and fast.’ There was no mention of structural load calculations because Draven said, and I am quoting, ’it’s a castle, it’ll hold.’”

”A castle.” Kael repeated the words the way a man repeats something a child has said that is both wrong and impressive in its wrongness. ”He put military-grade ward anchors into a three-thousand-year-old foundation without load calculations because ’it’s a castle.’”

”Yes.”

”And you went along with this.”

”I was being paid.”

”Were you being paid well?”

”I was being paid.”

Kael took that as a no.

Behind them, Cassia had positioned herself on a stone ledge that ran along the wall. She sat with her arms crossed, the shield propped beside her, watching the proceedings with the expression of a woman at a play she had been forced to attend and intended to review harshly.

Varro stood with his hands clasped behind his back, which was his version of combat readiness.

”First anchor. Northwest corner.” Kael pointed at two of the soldiers. ”Pull it from the pedestal. Do not touch the sigils on its surface. Lift from the base.”

They moved to the pedestal. The first one grabbed the anchor stone with both hands. It didn’t move.

”It’s fused,” the soldier grunted.

”It’s warded. Obviously.” Kael walked to the pedestal, pressed two fingers against the base, and channeled a thin thread of dark magic into the seam. The ward cracked with an audible snap. The stone loosened. ”Now pull.”

They pulled with the enthusiasm of men being paid double to do manual labor they did not understand. It was still the best job they’d had this week.

The anchor came free with a grinding noise that shook the dust from the ceiling.

The Keep groaned above them. The sound traveled through the stone in a low, shuddering wave that made every person in the chamber look up.

”That’s one. Four to go. The Keep will settle after each removal, which will sound alarming and feel worse, but the structural integrity improves with every anchor that comes out.” He turned to the soldiers. ”Think of it as pulling thorns from a body that’s been poisoned. Each one hurts on the way out and heals after.”

”How do you know this?” Cassia asked from her ledge.

”Because I’ve installed these before.” Kael met her eyes without apology. ”And I’ve dismantled them before. The difference between me and Draven is that I read the manual.”

Varro looked at Cassia. Cassia looked at Varro. The shared glance communicated an entire council session in under a second.

”Second anchor. Northeast.” Kael pointed. ”Same procedure. Wait for my counterspell before you pull.”

He moved to the second pedestal, cracked the ward, and stepped back.

The soldiers pulled. The second anchor came free. The Keep groaned again, louder this time, and a thin crack ran across the ceiling from one wall to the other.

”That crack was already there,” Kael said, without looking up.

”It was not,” Drystan replied.

”It was structurally. The anchor was holding it closed artificially. The crack is the building returning to its natural state, which is old and slightly damaged. You’re welcome.”

”For the crack.”

”For the honesty. Third anchor. Southeast.”

Cassia’s mouth opened. Kael held up one finger without turning around. Her mouth closed. The finger’s winning streak from the throne room had followed them underground.

The third removal went smoothly by the standards of this evening, which meant nothing exploded and nobody died.

The fourth had a temper.

When Kael cracked the ward on the fourth pedestal, the sigils on the surrounding walls flared bright enough to cast shadows. The two soldiers stumbled back. The anchor stone vibrated on its pedestal, rattling against the obsidian with a sound that climbed in pitch until it rang in their teeth.

”Don’t touch it.” Kael held one palm toward the stone, channeling dark magic in a steady, controlled flow that looked, to the untrained eye, like smoke being poured from his hand into a jar. The vibration slowed. The sigils dimmed. The ringing stopped.

”Draven linked this one to the Keep’s central heating system.” He said it the way a doctor says the tumor is attached to the artery. ”If I pull it without rerouting the energy, the floors above us lose their heat and the pipes in the upper Keep burst. Which, given it’s winter, would be inconvenient.”

”Inconvenient,” Cassia repeated.

”For the four hundred people who just evacuated into corridors that would flood with ice water. Yes. Inconvenient.”

He spent four minutes rerouting the energy. The elders watched in silence. The soldiers watched in confusion. Brennan watched with the interest of a mage learning something from a rival and planning to charge more for it next time.

The fourth anchor came free. The Keep settled with a groan that was gentler than the previous three.

”Last one. Center.” Kael walked to the final pedestal. He studied the anchor for a full ten seconds, which was, by his standards, an eternity of hesitation.

”Problem?” Varro asked.

”Brennan booby-trapped the last one.” Kael’s voice was flat.

Brennan raised a finger. ”Standard practice for final anchors. Prevents unauthorized removal. You’re welcome.”

”I will kill you,” Kael said, without inflection. ”After this. With my hands.”

Kael stared at him long enough that Brennan shifted his weight. Then Kael turned to the anchor and addressed the room like Brennan had stopped existing.

”If I crack this ward incorrectly, it detonates. The explosion would take out sub-level four and everything directly above it, which, if I recall the Keep’s layout correctly, is the throne room.”

”You recall correctly,” Varro confirmed.

”Then everyone who isn’t me or him,” Kael gestured to Brennan, ”should leave this chamber and move to the stairwell. Not because I expect to fail. But because the ceiling might disagree.”

The soldiers filed out without argument. They had been on the winning side for exactly forty minutes and were committed to keeping the streak alive.

The elders did not move.

Cassia adjusted her position on the ledge. ”I’ll stay.”

Varro clasped his hands behind his back. ”As will I.”

Kael looked at two elders. Then at the booby-trapped anchor. Then back at the two elders who had decided to stay in a room that might explode because leaving would have been undignified.

”You people are insane.” He turned to the mage. ”On my count. Three. Two.”

He did not say one. The ward cracked on two because Kael Ashenvale did not wait for things he had already decided to do.