Seralyth's voice carried evenly across the Dawn-Hall as she listed the things Veyra could offer: timber from the Luminar Woods, dwarven craft from Brenn's forges, enchanted trinkets unearthed from the Vale. She leaned forward slightly, her tone persuasive but never desperate.

Rovan listened, chin resting on his hand, the faintest grin tugging at his weathered face. When she finished, he chuckled.

"I've no need for baubles or crafts, my queen. My vaults are full enough, and my ships take more than any trinket could fetch. What I want is simple. Coin. Gold always sings sweeter than iron."

Seralyth inclined her head, unruffled. "We have more coin than food, true, but this trade must be sustainable, not bled dry in a single season."

Rovan tapped the table with his black cutlass, the dull ring of metal echoing through the chamber. His grin widened. "Fair. Sustainable, as you say. But there's one more thing."

The queen's eyes narrowed ever so slightly. "And that is?"

Rovan leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. "If we are to be trade partners... that near enough makes us friends." He spoke the last word like a jest, but his gaze carried weight.

Rovan's gaze wandered from Seralyth's eyes to the gleam at her throat. His grin deepened.

"I see the necklace you wear, Queen of the Dawn. Pretty enough, aye, but I can feel its weight. That's no mere ornament. I'd wager I can spot an artifact from a mile away."

The queen's jaw tightened, her hand brushing the table instead of the necklace, her silence betraying her concern.

Rovan chuckled low in his chest. "Easy now, I've no intention of plucking it from your neck. But you should know..." he leaned forward, his voice lowering to a conspiratorial rasp, "I've taken up a new hobby, collecting artifacts."

At that, he drew his cutlass, black as a storm-tossed midnight, and set it upon the luminescent table. The metal drank in the glow, swallowing it whole, and a faint hum of power rippled through the hall.

"I've only the one, for now," Rovan admitted with a wolfish smirk. "But she's a beauty."

The Saltblood Court sat alongside their king, silent but watchful, eyes gleaming with pride at the weapon's display. Across from them, the Dawn Court shifted uneasily, the presence of two artifacts in one room heavy with implication.

Rovan leaned back in his chair, black cutlass still resting across the glowing table.

"I know Veyra hides many artifacts," he said smoothly, his voice laced with confidence. "Falrion's shadow lingers in your soil. But Tharos? Tharos has none. So let's make it plain, any artifact uncovered within your borders comes to me."

Lyra turned and looked at Seralyth.

Seralyth's eyes narrowed, her hand brushing the wood of the table. "The power of an artifact can be enormous, beautiful, but deadly. I do not treat them lightly, Pirate King. Giving them away freely is not possible."

Lyra's unrest eased. 

Rovan's grin soured. "Then we're at an impasse. No artifacts, no deal."

The Dawn Hall grew heavy with silence. The queen pondered a moment, her mind racing. Finally, she spoke.

"We continue trade for food and coin until Veyra is self-sufficient again. Instead of claiming every future artifact, Tharos will receive the next one uncovered, then no more."

Before Lyra could object, Rovan slammed his hand on the table. "Deal!" he barked, his grin snapping back.

The terms were set: Veyra would receive food, Tharos would be paid in gold, and the next artifact discovered in the Dawnlands would belong to the Salt King, no matter its power.

"Jax," Rovan called, glancing down the table at his first mate, "settle the coin with the pup." He gestured toward Caren with a mocking tilt of his head.

The pirate king rose, and at once both courts and the queen stood with him. Seralyth, her voice measured though the sting of concession lingered.

"We thank you, King Rovan. Will you stay a while as our guest?"

"No," Rovan replied with a shrug, adjusting his coat. "I've matters to attend to in Tharos. My ship is my home, not your stone walls." He turned toward the queen, his jovial mask slipping as his gaze locked onto hers, hard, unblinking.

"When an artifact is found... it's mine. Do not breach this agreement. My crows will be watching."

Seralyth's voice was steady, her hand unconsciously brushing the Necklace of Dawn. "You have my word."

The king's grin returned as swiftly as it had gone. "And that's good enough for me," he said cheerily, sweeping off his hat in an exaggerated bow. "And now I bid you farewell!"

With that, the Salt King and his court strode from the hall, boots echoing against the stone, leaving only Jax behind to finalize the details with Caren and the Dawn Court.

Zerik descended into the Beast Pits, the air thick with the stench of blood and wet fur. Below, Maltherion stood before his pens, tossing shrieking goblins one by one into the cages. Inside, hulking rabid werewolves, locked in their cursed wolf-forms, tore into the prey, snarling and snapping, ripping limbs apart and fighting over scraps still slick with life.

"My lord," Zerik hissed, his serpentine tongue curling on the words. "The wraiths have spoken. The Shade Wyrms, they cursed Thyra. It is confirmed."

Maltherion froze mid-motion, a goblin squirming in his grip. Slowly, with no more effort than wringing cloth, he clenched his hand and crushed the creature, its spine snapping as its body went limp. Blood dripped between his fingers.

The Shadow King turned, his burning eyes locking onto Zerik. "Leave me."

Zerik bowed low, backing away into the gloom.

From the darkness of the pit's corner, a figure melted out of the shadows, featureless, silent, its form little more than black smoke given shape. Maltherion did not look at it as he spoke.

"Summon Sera."

The shadow-creature gave no reply. It simply dripped away, dissolving back into the dark.

The shadow-creature seeped through the walls of Carveth Hollow, black mist pooling across the flagstones of the training court where Lady Sera watched her Veilborn assassins. They fought with speed and silence, blades flashing as they vied for her gaze. Sera's eyes lingered on each movement, weighing who among them might rise to replace Thyra.

The shadow hissed into form, its voice a guttural snarl that echoed like iron scraping stone:

"Maltherion."

Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the creature disappeared back into the gloom.

Sera's face betrayed nothing, but her mind sharpened like a blade. With a flick of her hand she beckoned a thrall.

"Prepare Nyx," she commanded, her voice smooth as velvet, cold as ice.

The servant bowed and scurried off, for all in Carveth Hollow knew the name of Nyx, the colossal tarantula Sera rode into war. Its fangs dripped with venom strong enough to melt steel, its chitin black as midnight.

Without hesitation, Sera turned her gaze back to her assassins, the trials already forgotten. "Continue," she said softly, though her thoughts were already on Vaelith.

She would ride to Maltherion at once.

The doors of the Dread Citadel of Vaelith groaned open as Sera entered, the sound echoing through the cavernous hall. Maltherion sat upon his throne of bone and obsidian, his towering form rigid with fury, his burning gaze fixed on her.

"My lord," Sera said, her voice calm but deliberate.

"It is confirmed," Maltherion thundered. "The Shade Wyrms cursed Thyra. I dispatched my wretches to drag them here, they should arrive any moment."

Sera's eyes narrowed slightly. "Then allow me the honour of ending them, my lord."

"You may," Maltherion growled, his massive hands gripping the throne's armrests.

The doors swung open again, and a pack of wretches scuttled in, hunched and gasping. But no captives followed. Maltherion's gaze darkened. "Where are they?" His voice cracked the air like a whip.

The wretch leader bowed so low his face nearly scraped the stone. "My lord... she was not there. Many of her trinkets and grimoires were missing. She has fled, we believe."

Maltherion roared, tearing a skull from his throne and hurling it past the wretch leader's head. It shattered against the floor with a violent crack.

"Find her!" His bellow shook the chamber, the torches sputtering in its wake. The wretches bolted in terror, scattering into the dark.

Sera stepped forward, composed, though her voice carried an edge. "Then I will find her personally."

Maltherion leaned forward, the fire in his eyes burning hotter. "See that you do.

Far from the Dread Citadel of Vaelith, in the depths of Draven's endless swamps, the Shade Wyrms whispered and slithered among themselves. Their crystal orb, slick with shadowed light, had shown them the fall of Bragga the Corpsemother. Her foul laughter silenced, her horde scattered.

The Wyrms hissed in unison, voices weaving like tangled threads.

"Her mire is masterlessss now..." one croaked.

"A corpse without a crown..." whispered another.

"Then it shall be ours, yesss... our den, our veil, our new womb of power."

The Mawfen Mire breathed and bubbled, the fetid swamp reeking of rot and death. No brute dared tread its depths without Bragga to command them. Now, in the absence of her hulking shadow, the Wyrms slithered toward its blackened heart, eager to twist her lair into their sanctuary.

"Maltherion searsss for us..." one hissed.

"He will not find usss here..." answered the other.

"Not in Bragga's bonesss. Not in her muck. We will wait, and when the time is right"

They stopped, their stitched abomination lumbering at their side, trailing stitched sinew and dripping rot into the swamp water.

"We will rissse again."

The Mawfen Mire swallowed their presence, hiding them in its choking fog, its hollow trees, its labyrinth of decay.

The Shade Wyrms had found their refuge. For now.

The negotiations had ended. Jax had left the Dawn Hall with little ceremony, and by now the pirate's towering flagship was drifting from Ironhaven Dock, its black sails swelling with the wind. From the high window of the hall, Seralyth watched it cut across the waters like a shadow of iron and gold.

Behind her, Lyra broke the silence, voice edged with unease.

"An artifact for food? My queen, that is no fair trade. You should not have agreed to so one-sided a bargain."

The rest of the court murmured their agreement, Brenn grumbling under his beard, Caren's usual charm muted, even Taron's stern face betraying doubt.

Seralyth turned to them, her eyes hard but steady.

"We had no choice. I will not see my people starve any longer."

She crossed the hall, stopping before Kael. His shoulders were broad with battle-weariness, his eyes sharp with suspicion still burning. She placed a hand briefly upon his arm.

"When our granaries are full and the people fed, I will invite all the beastkin to Dawnspire. We will hold a festival in your honour. Too long have your kin been treated as second-class. I will put it right."

For a moment, Kael said nothing. Then, with solemn grace, he sank to one knee and pressed his fist across his chest.

"Thank you, my queen."

Seralyth turned then to face the court as a whole. Her voice carried with the clarity of command.

"Set aside this trade for now. Food will come steadily enough to fill every table from the Argent Vale to the Luminar Woods. Hunger will no longer plague Veyra. The mines yield enough gold to cover the cost, and as for artifacts... they are rare beyond measure. Who can say if we shall ever uncover another? What matters most is our duty, that the people of Veyra are cared for. That is our charge, our role, and our honour."

The court fell silent, their doubts eased if not erased, a flicker of hope moved through them all.

Meanwhile in Draven, Skarthis stirred.

The colossal black dragon, Corvanyth's created mount from the days before the First and Last, shifted in the shadows of his lair. His scales were black as midnight steel, ridged and scarred by centuries of battle, his vast wings pressed against the cavern walls of the Serpent Hollow. When word reached him of Bragga's end, the Black Devourer was not surprised, the troll's recklessness was her curse, but fury burned in his chest all the same. Tribute would be less now, and that he would not abide.

Before the dragon now stood Alysra, the Hag-Witch of the Hollow Coven. She was a wretched sight, skin sagging in rot, hair clotted into wiry strands, and eyes burning faintly green, the only thing untouched by decay. Magic alone kept her upright, her frame held together like a corpse stitched by spells. Alysra had founded the Hollow Coven in the aftermath of the First and Last, raising witches and hags from the ruins of the Mire to serve her will.

She bowed low before the dragon, her voice dry and cracked.

"My lord... the Wyrms of Neyros. They hide in the Mawfen Mire. Like rats in filth, they scuttle and cower."

Skarthis shifted, his serpentine neck lowering so his fangs glinted in the faint firelight. His eyes burned, and smoke curled from his nostrils as he growled. His voice rumbled like grinding stone, his speech broken, harsh, more growled than spoken. He had lived since before memory, and though he understood the tongue of men, he never mastered it. Few dared correct him.

"Wyrms..." he rumbled. "Court... one less. Bragga... gone. Empty seat." His words came jagged, broken, but the meaning was clear. His wings shuddered, sending dust from the cavern ceiling. "Tell them. Come. Serpent Hollow."

Alysra's lips twisted into something between a smile and a grimace. She bowed lower, the stench of her rotting flesh filling the cavern.

"As you command, Black Devourer. I shall summon them."

With that, she turned, her crooked staff striking the stone floor as she crept from the lair, her mind already weaving how best to deliver Skarthis's command.

End of chapter five.