Bruce sat at his desk in the war room, a hand on his chin, deep in thought. The neighboring empire had been flaunting their military prowess for months, their dragon riders doing combat exercises in plain view near the border.

His advisors and council doubted that anything would come of it. Though the empire's forces far outnumbered the kingdom's, their borders were vast, and a sudden declaration of war would likely strain their supply lines. Besides, their dragon riders were powerful but scarce, as the time and resources needed to train the beasts were massive, and the dragons themselves were a dwindling species. It would be foolish to risk a war without the means to replenish their ranks.

But Bruce had the feeling they were missing something. His old mentor, Sir Alfred, had taught Bruce that gut feelings happen for a reason, and that finding that reason was vital to a wise leader. He drummed his fingers on the mahogany. "Call the Knight-General," he told a servant.

Moments later, the Knight-General, head of the Royal Guard, responsible for Bruce's personal safety and his closest confidant, walked into the room, armor clinking against the carpeted floor. The king dismissed the others, and when they were alone, Bruce's shoulders sagged slightly.

"You came to this kingdom as a ward," Bruce said, his tone low and unusually soft. The knight's status as a foreigner had been a point of contention when he'd chosen the next Knight-General after Sir Alfred's retirement, and some in court and within the knights' ranks were still doubtful. "I have absolute faith in your loyalty. But I need your unbiased opinion as a native of the empire. Do you think your people could be preparing for a war with us?"

He almost regretted his choice of words—"your people." Such an othering way to put it. The Knight-General had been nothing but true since arriving at the palace when they were both young teenagers, and was the person Bruce held closest to his walled-off heart. But he couldn't afford to be sentimental. Not now.