Just talking

King Mordred Adalhart I sat at the far end of his study, looking out through an opened window. A scroll lay on the table beside him, momentarily forgotten as the fair-haired man gazed southward. The scroll, held down by iron clamps on its either side so as to remain straight, was covered in a clean, elegant script. It was the handwriting of someone practical, someone who wouldn’t tolerate any nonsense in those around him. Mordred didn't know when he had begun to make such judgments from mere handwriting. Perhaps the duties of a King were beginning to change him.

They never had paid too much attention to the man, that self-styled governor of Singal. The Shadow, they called him. Even his best agents had failed to uncoved his – or, indeed, her – identity, and if the Eventides knew anything, they wouldn’t tell. They had undoubtedly conducted their own investigations. This simple act of defiance to his kingly authority would once have awoken in Mordred a fiery fighting spirit, unmatched in the entire Kingdom. Now it only seemed to flare his temper. The Orders were an important part of Pendor, but he didn’t have to like the influence and secrets they were allowed to keep.

Mordred sighed, returning his attention to the scroll. It was trimmed with gold – clearly of the finest quality, if not more. Scrolls like this were meticulously crafted by master practitioners. It would not be hard to track down its origin. The scroll had been delivered to his chambers by a frantic Griffin knight, who had apparently received it from a Knight of the Eventide - who, as the Griffin told him - had received it from an apothecary. Where this "apothecary" received it from, the knight could only guess. One thing was clear, however. The Eventides had verified the veracity of this document. It was, beyond a doubt, authentic.

And so he read it again, carefully and line by line. Few things had ever been able to make him afraid. These letters, however, struck an inexplicable, looming dread into the depths of his heart.

“To King Mordred Adalhart I, the Rightful Ruler of Pendor”

I am the Shadow of Singal. We have not met in person, but we may have spoken indirectly before. I am writing to you in anticipation of a grave event. Pendor – and perhaps the entire world – is in ‘S’erious danger.

I apologize for ‘N’ot being able to write more clearly. I propose ‘A’ meeting. Your Eventides will ‘K’now where to contact m’E’.

I know that you may think of disregarding this message as a sham. Who is this Shadow, who so self-importantly demands my attention and resources? But I am self-important because I must. I am not one of the fools who participate in the cult of self-adoration.

One last thing. I have received a warning. You will soon reunite with old allies.

Do.

Not.

Trust them.

I will be listening.

May you read this carefully,

S

The letter was overtly melodramatic, but something in how the Shadow had worded it made an impression on the king. Something in it made him believe that it had, indeed, come from this elusive figure. Moreover, he was baffled by its contents. World-threatening events? Old allies that he could not trust? Mordred looked out the window again, his eyes drifting eastward. He felt an anticipation rising up in the pit of his stomach.

His eyes returned to the scroll. He’d marked out a few letters earlier that stood out from the rest. They’d been written differently than the rest, though subtly – only someone who had read the letter several times over could have seen it. They formed a pattern.

S
N
A
K
E

The King of Pendor tapped the letters hesitantly. Then, apparently having come to a decision, he rose and walked up to the door.

“Sir?” one of the Griffin squires asked, a fellow with an angular face and – strangely – white hair.

“Send for Sir Darlion,” Mordred said to the squire.

The squire saluted and made as if to leave, but lurched to a stop when Mordred hesitated.  He looked up hesitantly.

“After you’re done, go to Sir Kamos. He is to send word and call every Knight of the Griffin back to the capital.” The squire looked up pointedly, a question in his eyes. The older guard - a full knight - growled. "Get going, boy!" The squire drew up into a full salute and ran off.

"An energetic lad," Mordred commented idly.

"A troublesome one," the knight - Wulfbart - grunted. "The boy can never hold his tongue or his eyes. Gets him in trouble."

"A keen mind, then. Train him well."

The guard saluted. "Yes, your Highness."

"Dismissed."

Mordred returned to his chambers, waving away an attendant carrying refreshments. He sat down before the scroll. To think.