Chapter 22 · The High Lord's Tax

"You're late with the tribute, little king."

The messenger didn't wait for an invitation. He stepped through the threshold of the makeshift hall, his boots clicking against the cold stone with a precision that felt like a countdown. He wasn't alone. Four armored guards trailed him, their presence thickening the air with a heavy, suffocating pressure that made the lungs ache.

Jace didn't stand up. He leaned back in the salvaged throne, one arm draped over the side, eyes narrowed. "I don't remember signing any contract with the High Lords. Who told you I was a king?"

"The Deep tells me everything," the messenger sneered. He stopped ten feet away, his cloak shimmering like oil on water. He looked Jace up and down—taking in the worn boots, the scarred knuckles, the raw hunger in his gaze. "And right now, it says you're squatting on a piece of land that doesn't belong to you. The High Lord doesn't like squatters. He likes taxes."

Lira stepped forward, her hand instinctively reaching for the Anchor-tool at her hip. "This is our territory. We bled for these walls. You can't just walk in here and demand—