Page 30 of Steel Heart Iron Claws

It isn’t my first time in the capital city, but as I ride through Old Coros, I find myself studying everything with new intensity. It’s famed throughout the seven kingdoms as the pinnacle of human achievement. The streets are laid out in a precise grid. Canals with stone embankments transport riverboats from one portion of town to another. Even Hekkelveld Castle’s five towers are named for human virtues—Honor, Wisdom, Faith, Mercy, and Charity.

Sure, the presence of the gods is felt here. Mostly in pubs named “The Fae Charmer” or “Popelin’s Lark,” and in the Red Churches devoted to the ten godly orders.

Still, the lion’s share of the statues gracing crossroadsare of human heroes, not gods. During King Joruun’s peaceful days, with the fae deep in their subterranean sleep, it didn’t matter.

But everything’s changed now that Iyre is awake.

I find myself pressing my fingers against the pain blooming in my left temple before I let my hand fall.

I hope like hell Rian knows what he’s doing.

Ferra, riding a few horses behind me, clicks her tongue as she murmurs to Folke, “I miss Duren’s Sin Streets already.”

“Old Coros has a legal vices district, too, my jewel,” Folke replies, his voice light with amusement.

“It’s hardly the same.” Ferra's sigh carries a note of longing. “In Duren, you could be who you really are. Even in the filth, there was a sense of freedom. But in Old Coros, you always have to pretend.”

“Being yourself is a luxury few can afford anywhere,” Folke counters.

The theme of their conversation pricks my ears. I’ve always considered myself an open book, never hiding behind masks like Rian or other politicians. But here, listening to their words, a troubling thought creeps in. Maybe I am pretending. A true king forced to act the part of a soldier, playing a role like everyone else.

The realization settles uncomfortably in my chest.

“Besides,” Folke chides good-naturedly. “No one plays pretend quite as well as you.”

Ferra’s reply is quick, defensive. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Folke strokes the back of his hand down her cheek. “It was only a reference to your godkiss. You can change your face as easily as a new set of clothes. Thriving in Old Corosshould be child’s play to you.”

Ferra’s voice snaps with annoyance. “Shifting appearances isn’t as carefree as you think. It’s a curse to always have to change. To never show your true face. You think it’s a gift, but it’s a prison.”

Folke chuckles. “And how many prisons have you been in, my jewel?”

Ferra yanks on her horse’s reins. “One, if you count being withyou.” She spurs her horse forward, passing me, and riding ahead to flank Suri’s carriage.

A trumpet blares, making me jump.

Ahead, the limestone towers of Hekkelveld Castle rise above the buildings.

Soft exclamations sound throughout the travel party. It doesn’t matter how often a person sees Hekkelveld Castle—each time, it’s as though for the first.

Old Coros may be an homage to humankind’s achievements, but in those castle walls, the presence of the gods can’t be denied.

Like all ancient fae castles, it’s laid out in a five-pointed star pattern. Sorsha Hall is the same. Likewise, Drahallen Hall in Volkany is well known to have been Immortal Vale’s primary residence and the seat of the fae court.

Correspondingly, Hekkelveld Castle was originally built to honor Immortal Meric, God of Justice and Punishment, during the First Return.

However, in the two thousand years since then, the original fae style has been covered up by human additions. The carvings of Meric’s knot symbol are worn away, visible only in the castle’s ancient foundation. The sections where the fae stonework meets newer human additions are largely obscured by greenery. Meric’soriginal maze, used to punish criminals, is now a carefully manicured garden.

A welcome party awaits us on the front steps. The banners here are notably not Valvere gold in color. They’re gray, emblazed with silver ravens, and the message is clear: It doesn’t matter where Rian came from—now, he is a servant of Old Coros.

I can’t help but smirk to see the downturned corners of Rian’s mouth, as though he just ate undercooked cod. Gods help the King’s Council if they think they can tame Rian Valvere into wearing gray.

A white-haired man in slate-colored robes announces, “Your Grace, Rising King Rian, future regent of the great kingdom of Astagnon, it is with profound honor that the King’s Council welcomes you today!”

I stifle a yawn, noting the nine other equally white-haired men, their faces a blur of indistinguishable wrinkles. It seems that the members of the King’s Council aren’t so far away from joining Old Joruun in the grave.

The spokesperson continues, “Though untested and new to the burdens of leadership, we recognize the unique tools at your disposal to forge a path through tumultuous times ahead. With your rare assets, you stand poised to lead Astagnon through its challenges. May your reign be marked by unwavering success. Long live Rising King Rian!”

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