Chapter 17: What the Crown Calls Peace

Zoran held a narrow ribbon of dragonfire above the ancestral hearth, easing it into the other flames without disturbing their shape.

The First Flame renewed the household wards, and he intended to finish the rite without giving his father anything to correct.

His parents stood across from him in the private hearth chamber. Both had already contributed their fire. Zoran's would complete the renewal.

He had learned the rite young. His father had taught him precision first, then how to make it look effortless. That second lesson had taken considerably longer.

The flames rose in a balanced arc. Zoran adjusted the flow with practiced ease, feeling his dragon's familiar pressure beneath his skin. At Moonveil, people sometimes mistook control for arrogance. Here, no one needed an explanation. He knew what was expected of him, and he was good at it.

Then he remembered Theo Monroe lifting the edge of his patrol cloak.

The warlock had complained about the cold, only to invite Zoran beneath the cloak without being asked. Their shoulders had touched while they studied the boundary marker. Theo had kept talking as though the closeness meant nothing.

Earlier that night, Theo had asked if they were partners now. Zoran had answered with a joke. He still wasn't sure why the question stayed with him.

His father's fire burned steadily beside his own. Zoran had always taken pride in matching his father's control. Theo would probably watch the entire rite and ask whether perfect symmetry actually made the wards any stronger.

Zoran could almost hear the question in that irritatingly reasonable tone. He was already thinking of an answer.

Ridiculous. Monroe wasn't even there.

His flame dipped, and Zoran corrected it before the joined fire lost its symmetry. His dragon remained alert, more interested in the memory of Theo beside him than the duty in front of them.

Just his luck. Even a family tradition had to compete with one difficult warlock.

Across the hearth, his father looked up. The King had taught him to notice the smallest flaw in a flame. There was no chance he'd missed that one.

He said nothing, only inclined his head as the rite ended. Zoran returned the gesture, annoyed by how relieved he felt.

He had completed his duty. His father had noticed the hesitation. Explaining the mistake would be easy enough. Explaining what had caused it was another matter.

Dinner was quieter than the hearth chamber. Zoran took his place opposite his father, relieved to exchange the formal rite for a family meal. His mother passed him the bread just as he reached for it.

“You're eating like Moonveil has forgotten to feed its students,” she said.

“It hasn't. Most of them simply insist on talking through meals.”

“Anyone in particular?”

“Several.”

His father hid a smile behind his glass. At home, Zoran could almost forget that the King spent his days settling disputes between people who wanted his authority but resented having to ask for it. Here, he was simply enjoying his wife's teasing.

As they ate, his father mentioned the werewolf council's request for a greater role in decisions affecting multiple species. Zoran had heard similar arguments at Moonveil. More representation sounded reasonable. So did the concern that several councils might waste time arguing over who was responsible during a crisis.

“Shared authority sounds noble until responsibility fractures,” his father said. “When a decision fails, who answers for it?”

Zoran had asked similar questions himself. That was the point of his training. One day, he'd have to answer for decisions like these.

“Consultation isn't surrendering authority,” he said.

“No.” His father gave a small nod. “Listening matters. But peace survives because someone is willing to make the final decision.”

Zoran understood the argument. He wasn't certain it settled the question.

His mother reached for her glass. “Speaking of Moonveil, I heard a warlock gave you a difficult match.”

He should have known that story would reach her.

“He did.”

His father regarded him. “You sound impressed.”

“He earned it.” Theo had anticipated moves that more experienced opponents missed. Zoran remembered the opening Theo had chosen not to take, too. That still bothered him, but it didn't erase the warlock's skill.

“Good,” his father said. “You'll need people willing to challenge you.”

His father's approval pleased him more than he cared to admit.

Zoran reached for his glass, and his sleeve slipped back, revealing the fading burn on his forearm. Tessa, the woman from the Midnight Thistle, had treated it with cool fingers and an irritatingly familiar sense of humor.

He remembered her hand around his wrist, then Theo standing across from him in the combat arena, making him work for every advantage.

They were two different people, and both occupied far more of his thoughts than they had any right to. He took a sip. At least the Crown's disputes came with records he could examine.

“Father, how closely does the Crown supervise offices that use delegated clearance?”

His father lowered his glass. “That depends on the office.”

“The Clockkeeper Administration, for example.”

“What about it?”

“An old ward flagged a student at Moonveil. The Clockkeepers authorized a review of his identity records using Crown clearance.” Zoran left Theo's name out of it. The warlock had enough people questioning him.

“Was the review improper?”

“I don't know. The authorization didn't name the person who approved it, and I couldn't confirm whether anyone had opened the records.”

“Then those are the questions to ask.” His father didn't sound offended. “Delegated authority exists because the Crown cannot oversee every routine decision. But that doesn't excuse missing information.”

Zoran had expected him to defend the office. Instead, his father had given him a reasonable answer. It was one of the reasons Zoran trusted his judgment.

“The Clockkeepers also maintain historical archives,” his father continued. “A record can be genuine and still mislead someone who doesn't understand when or why it was written.”

“Context matters more than fragments,” Zoran said. He'd heard that argument all his life.

“Exactly.”

“Who decides the context?”

His father studied him for a moment. “The people responsible for what happens when those fragments are misunderstood.”

Once, that would have satisfied Zoran. But he remembered Fen's class, the two conflicting accounts of Aileen and Kael's deaths, and Theo asking why the dragon version deserved more trust.

“What happens when two records disagree?”

“They're examined. Sometimes one is superseded. Not every surviving record retains active authority.”

That sounded reasonable for an old order or a law that had been replaced. No one would want an outdated decree enforced simply because a copy survived. But history was different.

“Can something be removed from the public account without being destroyed?”

“Yes,” his father said without hesitation. “Some truths must be kept, but that doesn't mean they should guide our decisions today.”

Zoran looked at him. A preserved truth was still a truth. Why should anyone decide it no longer mattered? His father leaned back in his chair, calm as ever.

“Ashencrofts inherit more than a crown, Zoran.” He met Zoran's gaze. “We inherit the burden of knowing which doors stay closed.”