Chapter 15: Haxenzeit

Far to the north.

Hagen stood outside the heavy oak door, staring at the mirror mounted on the opposite wall. The glass was old, its surface faintly warped, but it showed him clearly enough.

His hair was the problem.

He leaned closer, tilting his head. The roots were showing again. Pale gold creeping out from beneath the vivid red. Another week, maybe two, and someone would notice. A servant. A visiting lord. A sharp-eyed officer who knew what Hexenzeit red was supposed to look like and what it wasn’t.

His father would be furious.

Hagen’s jaw tightened at the word. Father. It still sat wrong in his mouth. Roderich von Hexenzeit had adopted him years ago, shortly after the fiasco with Kaspar. The arrangement had been practical, not sentimental. Roderich needed an heir who could perform. Hagen needed a name that opened doors.

What they had was not a father-son bond.

It was closer to master and apprentice. On bad days, master and servant.

Hagen smoothed the front of his coat and adjusted the documents pressed against his chest. The parchment was heavy, sealed with wax, carrying intelligence from the southern expedition. He’d read it twice already. Memorized the relevant details. Prepared his delivery the way Roderich had taught him.

He glanced at the mirror one last time.

Red hair. Sharp features. The right posture, clothes, and expression.

Perfect.

Or close enough.

There had been a time, years ago, when Hagen had felt something like pity for Kaspar. The real son.

The pity hadn’t lasted.

It couldn’t, not when Hagen watched Kaspar fumble and fail and retreat further into books and obscure research while the family’s reputation bled out around him. Not when Roderich’s attention shifted, from the son who couldn’t deliver to the orphan who could.

Kaspar had been given everything. Nine cores. A legendary name. The full weight of a noble house behind him.

He’d done nothing with it.

Hagen had been given a bottle of hair dye and a set of expectations that would crush most men.

He’d risen.

The pity had curdled into something harder. Not hatred. More like the quiet certainty that the world sorted people into where they belonged, and Kaspar belonged exactly where he’d ended up.

Somewhere far away.

“Enter.”

The command came through the oak.

Hagen straightened his spine, tucked the documents under his arm, and pushed through the door.

The planning room was larger than it needed to be.

Roderich’s office occupied the entire north wing of the upper floor. Maps covered three of the four walls, pinned and layered so thickly that the stone beneath was invisible. Every campaign routes, territorial boundaries and supply lines were drawn.

A long table dominated the center, surrounded by chairs that were occupied by men Hagen recognized.

Military officers. High-ranking ones.

Hagen knew some by name, others only by reputation. Generals who commanded divisions. Strategists who had shaped Silberwald’s borders through decades of careful, ruthless calculation. Men whose signatures on a document could move ten thousand soldiers or condemn a city to siege.

Roderich von Hexenzeit stood rather than sat.

He was tall. Everything about him was vertical and severe. His hair was the deep red of the Hexenzeit bloodline, threaded now with iron gray at the temples. His face was carved from angles: sharp cheekbones, a jaw that could have been used to split wood, eyes the color of cooling embers.

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Duke of the North. Minister of War for the Kingdom of Silberwald.

He controlled the magical military apparatus of the realm. Every troop movement, every fortification, every alliance and betrayal that involved armed men passed through his hands before it passed through anyone else’s.

“The king’s health continues to decline,” Roderich announced without preamble.

“A succession dispute among the princes and princesses is inevitable,” he continued. “It is no longer a question of if, but when.”

“I need to know who’s the winning horse,” Roderich said. “Who we support. Who the magical army places on the throne.”

The officers responded.

One by one, they offered assessments. Alliances dissected. The strengths and weaknesses of each royal candidate laid out like cuts of meat on a butcher’s block.

Hagen stood near the door, documents in hand, and waited.

His eyes drifted, as they always did in these meetings, to the corner of the room.

She sat apart from the others.

Ameriz von Hexenzeit occupied a chair against the far wall as if she had been placed there by someone who wanted her present but not participating. Her posture was perfect. Her hands rested in her lap, fingers laced.

Her hair was long and fell in deep blue-black waves. Her eyes were the same shade, a blue so dark it bordered on violet, and they watched the room with an expression that gave nothing away.

Cold.

That was the word Hagen always came back to when watching her.

Hagen had the distinct impression that she hated him.

He didn’t blame her.

She had borne two sons. Kaspar, the firstborn. And Alrik, the younger, too young for Roderich to notice.

Two sons of her own blood.