Chapter 2
once there had been warmth and cheer in Eureka’s high halls, now there lingered a brittle silence. Gavin’s armored boots struck sharply against the stone floor, the echoes marching with him like ghostly companions.
He passed attendants who once greeted him with nods and quiet respect. Now they lowered their heads, shifting aside without a word. The fear that clung to the outer villages had found root even here, in the King’s stronghold.
A young girl—barely more than fifteen summers—stood near a pedestal vase, arranging crimson roses. Her fingers trembled, and a single flower slipped from her grasp, landing silently on the marble floor.
Gavin paused beside her. “Good evening, child. Why do your hands shake so?”
She looked up at him, wide-eyed, her voice barely a whisper. “It is the Doom-Spreader, my lord. His voice… it carries past the borders. His minions whisper ruin to those who will listen. Some say even within Eureka… he finds ears.”
Gavin’s jaw tightened. The lie had slithered past the gates, no longer content to fester in Magadonia.
He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, the weight of his gauntlet firm but kind. “Take heart. Fear is his favorite servant. But it is truth he dreads most. So long as truth stands, he cannot prevail.”
A flicker of hope returned to the girl’s face. Gavin inclined his head and moved on.
The chamber prepared for Sir Gavin lay in the eastern wing of the keep. Modest in its grandeur, it bore the touch of royal hospitality: a carved oak bed, a washstand with polished brass fittings, a desk topped with parchment, and thick drapes of midnight blue shielding the tall window.
His armor came off in ritual silence—pauldron by pauldron, greave by greave—each piece placed with care on the rack beside the door. The sword he leaned reverently against the wall, blade sheathed but still humming with purpose.
A folded parchment lay on the desk, sealed with the imprint of a rose. Gavin broke the wax and read:
Sir Gavin,
You are to meet us in the Rose Garden at the sixth hour this evening. There we shall speak of Karoline the Lie Dispenser and arm you with the knowledge you must wield against her spells.
Rest until then. Take time to cleanse and renew yourself, for the road ahead will demand all your strength.
— Barak and Michelle
He smiled faintly. The Rose Garden. A place of vines and whispers, where even the fountains seemed to speak wisely. It was a fitting venue for truth’s counsel.
Two silent attendants entered at his summons, drawing hot water into a wide brass tub. Lavender oil bloomed in the steam. Gavin slipped into the bath and closed his eyes. Muscles, sore from days on the road, relaxed under the rising heat.
But his mind refused stillness.
He saw again the trembling girl in the corridor. The stable boy whispering of unrest. The King, aged and bent but burning with resolve. The people of the land grew weary. Their trust frayed. Even truth, when left unaired, could wither.
And ahead: Karoline Leaveitout—the newest voice of Maga’s contempt. Her tongue was a dagger of dismissal. Her poison? Scorn. Not fiery lies, but the icy kind that freezes reason and mocks accountability. She was dangerous not because she shouted falsehoods, but because she rolled her eyes at truth itself.
Gavin clenched a wet fist beneath the surface. “Lies are not broken by anger,” he murmured. “They are shattered by light.”
When the water cooled, he rose, dried himself, and dressed in a tunic of forest green and brown—not his armor, but the colors of the earth he swore to protect. Tonight was not for battle. Tonight was for sharpening the mind.
Talon returned from his evening flight, wings slicing the dusk. He landed on the window’s ledge with a soft rustle, feathers settling, gaze fixed outward. Gavin walked over and stood beside him, looking out at Eureka as it bathed in the amber glow of twilight.
From his window he saw the winding streets, the domes and steeples lit by the dying sun. Figures moved like insects far below—some quickly, some hesitantly. Some carried torches. Others clutched their cloaks tighter, as if shielding themselves from more than the wind.
“Yes,” Gavin said softly to his hawk, “the land trembles. But tremble is not fall.”
He turned from the window, hands steady as he reached for the parchment once more. Sixth bell was near. The Rose Garden awaited.
He took one last deep breath, nodded to Talon, and stepped toward the door. The next chapter of truth was about to begin.
The heavy doors of the King’s chamber groaned shut behind Sir Gavin, sealing away maps, murmurs, and memory. The corridor outside—long and flanked by stone—breathed differently now. Torches flickered behind blue and gold banners, but their flames danced nervously, casting uneven shadows across the walls. Where
The Corridor of Shadows
