The Seeker’s Wrath

P.S. Davis

About the Author

P.S. Davis is a physics teacher by day and a world-builder by night. The Seeker’s Wrath is his debut fantasy novel—the first in a sweeping series set in the world of Teloshka, a land of two continents and scattered isles teetering on the edge of fire and fracture. With a background in science and a lifelong love of storytelling, Davis brings realism, grit, and a slow-burning grandeur to his fantasy worlds.

He is currently working on The Essence Wars, a follow-up series set in the same world, alongside a science fiction satire titled The Frog Paradox. When he’s not teaching or writing, he’s probably somewhere with too many tabs open, a neglected cup of rooibos cooling beside a half-exploded kitchen experiment.

Copyright ©

The Seeker’s Wrath

Copyright © 2025 by P. S. Davis

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations used in critical reviews or as permitted by copyright law.

This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Self-Published Digital Edition, 2025

First Edition

For inquiries, visit:

www.psdavisbooks.com

Print ISBN: Printed On Demand

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my beautiful Inga, who patiently endures my excitement over characters that aren’t real, at least not here, on Earth. And to my mother, who gave me the gift I carry in my head. You never stopped me from wandering through wild and imaginative places. Thank you.​

“A man does not claim faith with his words, nor does he command loyalty with his name. Trust is earned in the silence between orders—where men follow not out of fear, but because they have seen and judged him worthy.”

Scifarmor Skilpis

Aurenvia Tollitch

The Eastern Union

1

The rain hadn’t relented in hours. It came in thick sheets over the Shinlet Range, drenching forty-one men, four women, and a single boar trudging through the jungle. Boots sank deep in the mud, roots clawing at every step. Tangled undergrowth made each movement a fight against the land itself. Water streamed from the canopy above, dripping down their armor. The storm pressed against their backs like a weight, sinking into their bones.

The night had drowned beneath the summer storm. There was no moon to be seen, nor any stars above. The sky was sealed in shadow and rain, and the slow, relentless churn of boots through the mud dragged on without pause.

Captain Marcius Saylong adjusted his grip on his sword hilt, the rain trailing off his sharp, angular features. He was lean, built for endurance rather than brute force, his graying hair plastered to his forehead. At thirty-nine, he felt the weight of every campaign in his bones, but his mind remained sharper than ever. He had spent enough years navigating the Order’s politics to know what that really meant.

On paper, eleven regions stood united as the Order, yet peace was fragile. War still simmered unseen, bleeding along the coasts, thriving in shadows and gold. Yet, piracy endured.

They moved silently along the prominent ridge, the jungle shielding them from view. Below, the bay stretched out; the beach glistening beneath the storm, and beyond it stood the fortress, its wooden walls barely visible through the squall, its watchfires burning low in their sheltered braziers. Saylong steadied his breath, his eyes locked on the stronghold as he crouched at the ridgeline.

The Order had pressured regions to dismantle pirate enclaves, but whether by denial or neglect. This one still stood: entrenched, defiant.

The waters beneath it remained lawless, ruled by those who took what they pleased, feeding on the complacency of both East and West.

Rysna Rawno crouched beside Saylong, rain sluicing from the thick pelt draped over his shoulders. The chieftain of Scharr said nothing. Not yet. His axe rested across one knee, the blade scarred, the haft worn smooth by war. He had come farther south than any of his kin in a hundred years, but the cold hadn’t left him. It clung to more than his cloak; it sank into his blood. His village had burned in silence. Thirty gone. His daughter among them. Kalltor had left their bones in the ash and vanished into the sea. Now he hid behind a wall of sharpened stakes. Rysna flexed his fingers once around the axe. He didn’t blink or flinch. Where others bent to the jungle and heat, he remained as he always had. He stood unshaken, shaped by the strength of the North.

The first reports had come months ago, brought by southern traders who passed near the coast and spoke of tents, timber huts, and a scattering of raiders. Saylong had gone alone to see for himself. It had looked containable then, just a nest of thieves, a spark waiting to die in the wind, not a fire poised to spread.

He’d returned north to rally the response. Rysna had answered first. The blood price still hung over him.

Now, crouched above the bay, Saylong saw nothing of what he’d once scouted. The palisade stood high and reinforced, its outer stakes angled like teeth, glistening wet beneath the stormlight. Watchfires burned behind the walls, their glow casting long, flickering shadows across the timber. Two towers flanked the gate, each platform manned, each movement precise. The guards didn’t rush, nor did they shout. Their rhythm was cold and measured, disciplined in a way that unsettled him. This wasn’t a den, at least not anymore. It was a fortress now, and it hadn’t been there long.

Saylong clenched his jaw and rolled his shoulders, though the tension sat deeper than muscle. Months ago, it had been a scavenger den of crude timber, loose patrols, nothing the forty-five of them couldn’t break and burn. Not now. What had risen in its place was something else entirely. Fortified. Organized. Fast. The sheer speed of it gnawed at him, stirring questions that hadn’t yet formed answers.

‘They weren’t this dug in last time,’ he said, voice low, steady.

Rysna rose beside him, arms folded tight across his chest. Rain sluiced from his cloak in heavy streams, soaking the worn leather beneath, but he made no move to shield from it. He stood like a carved stone, immovable, grim, as though the downpour itself would yield before he did. His gaze remained fixed on the fortress, not with caution or fear, but with something colder: contempt.

‘They built themselves a cage,’ Rysna said, voice thick with disdain. ‘Hiding behind barricades, sharpening their little blades, thinking that makes them warriors.’ He exhaled sharply, nostrils flaring. ‘I smell piss in their blood. If we crack that gate, they’ll scatter like snow hares.’

Saylong didn’t answer. His gaze stayed fixed on the movements inside, watching the rhythm of the patrols, the way the guards changed without word or signal. No shouting. No confusion. Just silence and order.

This wasn’t some wild gang thrown together by desperation. It was a force, measured, controlled, and trained. Someone had built this discipline into them and shaped it with purpose.

Hunters had chased him along the coast, but he always slipped the net. Kalltor Dalke never raided like the others. He occupied. He didn’t burn what he took; he cut it apart, piece by piece.

‘How many do you see?’ Rysna asked.

‘Five,’ Saylong murmured. ‘Gifted.’

‘We’ve five of our own.’

Saylong didn’t nod. ‘I can’t see their footmen. Could be twenty more. Could be two hundred. We’re not facing a gang—we’re facing something dug in.’

He was a Seeker, one of the few born with the gift to sense the power that stirred in others. It was like a second pulse at the back of his mind, faint and persistent. The presence of the gifted revealed itself like an icy fire: first a flicker, then a growing flare as he moved nearer. Tonight, he counted five. None of them burned with the sharp intensity he associated with someone as seasoned as Kalltor.

Still, the danger was there. Those inside the keep weren’t seasoned or fully trained. The colors he sensed were raw, the kind of power that had yet to be shaped. They were flickers in the dark, faint but unpredictable. And even flickers could still kill.

Among their own force, he felt four. The fifth stood just behind, low to the ground, thick with muscle and fury: Gurrlan.

The boar moved with a hunter’s tread, his shoulders broad, his tusks dulled by blood. He was more than beast—he was bonded. A Lumineer. Gifted by Tvaris in the same breath as men. With a single exhale, he could drown a line of soldiers in a choking fog, then charge in through the blindness to finish what the smoke had begun.

Jarlstow, his handler, stood beside him. Hairless from fire, not age. His gift burned on the surface; he is a living torch. His skin was blackened, seared, and tough as bark. He wore no sigil or mark of rank. The fire that danced on his skin was all the emblem he needed. When lit, he could tear through enemy lines like a falling star, brief in appearance and devastating in effect.

Saylong didn’t like fire-gifted individuals because they were too unpredictable and too self-sacrificing. However, Jarlstow had control, and tonight that control would become fire on their blade.

He shifted behind the ridge and exhaled slowly, the weight of it settling deep. There were five gifted below, a garrison he couldn’t count, four ships anchored in the bay, and sharpened stakes lining every stretch of wall. The storm brewing in his bones had nothing to do with rain; it waited beneath them, coiled and certain, a warning drawn clear in every instinct he had.

They weren’t ready for this. They knew nothing of the fort’s numbers, and worse, they weren’t even certain that Kalltor Dalke, the Death Marcher, was inside. Killing him in open battle would cement Saylong’s command, proving his worth in a way no political favor ever could. It would be his victory to claim, his mark to leave upon the Order. But there were too many uncertainties, and Saylong did not gamble with his men’s lives.

Kalltor was highly gifted, and Saylong’s abilities as a Seeker allowed him to sense others like him, their presence shining through the dark in vivid streaks of violet, like an aurora he could both feel and see.

The stronger the gift, the brighter the glow, the most powerful leaving behind deep, lingering traces in his vision. But as he studied the fortification, he saw no such light. There were five gifted individuals among the ranks, their presence faint, wavering. None of them carried the weight of Kalltor Dalke.

Another way had to be found. Charging the walls now meant death. That fortress was built for one purpose alone: defense. From their watchtowers, archers and crossbowmen would rain death on any force foolish enough to storm the gates. Even if they breached the gate, the defenders would draw them into confined kill zones. Those narrow spaces had been shaped to trap intruders and cut them down before they ever reached the inner yard. And if Kalltor wasn’t inside, the cost would mean nothing. Too many would die to justify the risk.

The only sign of Kalltor’s presence was Mor ò Thail; his ship, the March of Death. Three other vessels lay moored beside it in the bay, their hulls dark against the stormlit water. The flagship alone marked his proximity. If they could seize Mor ò Thail, it would cripple his movement, forcing him into a defensive position. The others could be torched as they escaped, weakening his force and leaving him exposed to a future assault.

Rysna had no patience for strategy.

The chieftain wanted blood, and he wanted it tonight. He cared nothing for stealing ships or diminishing Kalltor’s power. He wanted the pirate’s head, and his warriors were ready to die for that cause. Saylong knew that if Rysna gave the order, his men would follow. And they would die. Rysna was fearless, relentless, and filled with the rage that made him a legend among his people, but it was also the kind of rage that could bring ruin. Saylong understood vengeance and the need to see justice done with steel. But he knew the cost of losing men to a battle not yet ready to be fought.

Without knowing what awaited inside, Saylong wouldn’t risk their lives. He needed these Northmen alive, not only as warriors, but as the future rulers of Teloshka’s North. This was to be the foundation of that alliance, the moment where the North could rise to power and claim what it rightfully deserved.

Rysna shifted beside him, impatient. His fingers flexed around the haft of his axe. ‘Then why wait? If we force them onto the beach and out of their fort, we can take them.’

Saylong didn’t look away from the stronghold. ‘If we storm the walls now, we lose everything. If we draw them out, they’ll outnumber us three to one at least. Those aren’t the odds I can play with.’

Rysna exhaled sharply, his breath audible even through the storm. ‘So we let them sit there?’

‘No,’ Saylong murmured. ‘We cut their legs out from under them first.’

His gaze shifted to the bay. The Mor ò Thail sat heavy in the water, anchored beside three other vessels. Those ships would be ablaze before the pirates could react if they moved silently. If Kalltor was inside the fort, he would have no escape. If he wasn’t, they would have taken everything from him before he even knew a fight had begun.

‘We take the ships,’ Saylong said. ‘Lucarion will send a larger force to take the fort itself. We isolate Kalltor, and we cripple him before he can recover.’

Rysna’s jaw tightened, but he nodded once. Saylong saw the frustration in his stance and knew Rysna wanted to crush the enemy tonight. Yet the longer he stood at Saylong’s side, the more he understood there was more to war than fire and steel.

‘They won’t recover from this,’ Saylong said.

Rysna’s smirk was grim. ‘Then let’s begin.’

As the forty-five warriors moved down the steep slopes, they regrouped behind boulders and thick trees, staying out of sight from the watchmen above. Saylong had ensured their approach remained unseen, with every step precise and every movement carefully measured. Even with their numbers, they had used stealth to the fullest.

He studied the shoreline. Rowboats lay scattered along the water’s edge. One, half-hidden in shadow, would be easiest to steal unnoticed.

Jagged cliffs hid the bay from the Sea of Thewthyri, shielding it from passing ships. Only those who strayed too close, such as the traders who had spotted it, would have seen what lay beyond the rocks. No fleet would see this place, not from a distance. If they waited until tomorrow, Kalltor and his men might already be gone, their ships pushing out into the open waters, beyond reach.

This was their only chance. And under Saylong’s command, the ships would burn tonight.

Before giving the order, he turned, checking every face in the darkness. Every warrior watching, every soldier ready, every position known. Only moments remained before the plan commenced. Within the hour, they would set Kalltor Dalke’s ships ablaze, and they would kill or ruin Kalltor himself.

He exhaled slowly, steadying himself before giving the order. There was no turning back.

The gate shuddered, just enough to be noticed. A muted thump followed, barely rising above the patter of rain. The wooden doors cracked open just slightly, and a wave of drunken laughter rolled through the storm. It came from deep within the fort, layered voices slurring together, sharp and jeering. Then, from the narrow gap in the gate, three figures were shoved onto the sand.

They stumbled forward, slipping as they tried to regain their footing. Naked. Barefoot. Their bodies were slick from the downpour.

Saylong watched as three women, already battered and bruised, were cast out from the fort. At first, they hesitated, clinging to some false hope of reprieve, but the men behind the gate shut it on them. There was nowhere to go except toward the beach. Their heads turned wildly, searching for any escape. In the darkness and rain, it was no simple task. For these women, it was impossible.

Then a crossbow bolt struck the sand between them.

They screamed, their voices barely cutting through the deluge and the echo of jeering from the walls above.

The wet sand swallowed their feet deeply; each step was slower than it should have been, and each movement dragged them toward their preordained fate.

Above them, on the wall walk, the other pirates had taken aim.

Rysna shifted forward, weight low, axe drawn close. His stance was taut, shoulders set to strike.

Saylong caught his arm, his grip unyielding. ‘Not now.’

The first bolt snapped past one of the women’s heads; a deliberate miss, the kind that came from practiced hands, not hesitation. It wasn’t an attempt to kill, only toying with them.

The three women broke apart, scattering in different directions, desperate to avoid becoming easy targets. Fear was heavier than adrenaline, and the sand fought every step.

Another bolt sliced the air. One woman dropped, a cry tearing through the storm as she collapsed onto one knee. The shaft had buried deep in her calf, a shot both deliberate and precise. It wasn’t meant to kill; it was meant to wound, to ignite fear and send it rippling through the others.

Laughter swelled from the walls above.

The other two had gained nearly 150 yards between them and the fort, but Saylong already knew it wasn’t enough.

More bolts followed, each landing just shy of flesh, thudding into the sand at their feet or cracking past them and disappearing into the night. The pirates were humiliating them, toying with them like a predator padding its injured prey.

At that distance, such accuracy should have been near impossible. Even on a clear day, striking moving targets from that range required practiced skill. Yet not one missed. They had played this game before.

Two more bolts whistled through the gale in perfect synchrony. Both women stumbled forward, crashing into the sand as though swallowed by it.

The final bolt struck true, burying itself between the shoulder blades of the woman who had first fallen. She was still clawing at the sand, still dragging herself forward after the shot to her calf. The force hit like a hammer. Her body convulsed once, then went still.

Roars of celebration behind the battlements drowned out the rain.

Tension thickened around Saylong’s unit, suffocating, laced with revulsion. The pirates laughed, their voices cutting through the storm as they mocked the dead and reveled in cruelty.

​2

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​Kalltor Dalke sat at the head of the long table, watching his men drink as the storm battered the fortress walls. The roar of laughter, the slap of dice, the clatter of tankards all blurred beneath the words being murmured in his ear. His expression did not shift, but the words lingered, stitching themselves into his thoughts long after the messenger had vanished back into the revelry.

The deluge had swept in an hour ago in relentless waves with no sign of abating. The plan was in motion, his revenge near at hand. There was still one complication, and it required immediate action. A small regiment of soldiers and warriors was approaching from the northeast, and they were not to be underestimated. They were led by an ambitious Seeker and a warrior chieftain of the northern tribes. They were two men with vastly different strengths but the same relentless intent. For Kalltor, this was a minor setback. It was nothing he hadn’t already anticipated. It was just another ripple in a storm he meant to command.

He slammed his hands down on the table with enough force to rattle the goblets and hush the room.

‘Bloodsworn!’ he bellowed, voice cutting through the laughter like a drawn blade. The room fell silent, leaving only the hammering rain and the wind howling against the feasting hall.

‘Where is he?’ Kalltor roared, his deep, booming shout cutting through the stillness. ‘Bring me Volnaire—now.’

There was a pause that hung too long, dragging silence into something tight and unnatural. Then a voice broke through, thin and uncertain.

‘He’s taking a piss over the slaves.’

Muted laughter flickered through the hall, uneasy and brief. Kalltor’s frown deepened into something dangerous. His gaze snapped to the man who had spoken, and he gave a stare like steel drawn across stone.

‘Then fetch him, you worthless cur,’ he said, voice low, edged with quiet menace. ‘Or I’ll make sure you’re pissing blood before the night is through.’

The man scattered quickly, shoving a wench from his lap as he hurried through the hall, disappearing into the storm. The noise resumed, rolling back in waves of laughter, the slap of dice, the scrape of tankards, and beneath it all, the relentless hammering of rain against timber and stone.

Kalltor barely registered the sound, his thoughts fixed on the prize he could almost taste. This wasn’t unexpected, though it reeked of risk, and certainly not the kind he liked to take. He had waited too long for this. He had waited too long for the whereabouts of his quarry, and too long to see his revenge sail under his own flag. The night, for all its storm and fury, meant nothing now that his quarry lay within reach. Only one task remained before they could leave this place behind.

There was movement at the hall’s entrance as a shadow slipped through the firelight. A figure stepped in, unhurried, the kind of man who never needed to rush. Even among killers, he drew their attention. Water streamed from the heavy folds of his leather armor, pooling at his boots. His sword rested at his hip, untouched. He did not need to draw steel to own the room.

Radek ‘Bloodsworn’ Volnaire.

He moved through the hall with unhurried ease, the crowd parting instinctively as he passed. There was no need for words or commands; Volnaire simply approached Kalltor’s table and halted, silent and waiting.

Kalltor let him wait. He lifted his pewter ale mug and drank slowly, then dragged the back of his hand across his beard. Volnaire remained still. He did not wait out of submission, but from certainty. Kalltor would speak when he was ready, and until then, there was nothing else to say.

And Volnaire did, watching him with that same dark amusement. A quiet understanding passed between them, one shaped by blood, by battles, and by years. To anyone else, it might have looked like a challenge. But this was not a standoff, and it was not a struggle for dominance. It was respect.

Kalltor let the silence hang a moment longer before speaking, voice low and laced with derision: ‘Good piss, was it?’

Volnaire smirked. ‘Aye. Shame the bitch choked before she could finish the job.’

Low, knowing laughter stirred from those nearest, just enough to cut the tension without shattering it. Beyond the table, the hall remained wild with drink and dice, the storm drowning all but its own fury. Kalltor set down his mug and finally met Volnaire’s gaze.

‘We move tonight.’

Volnaire’s grin widened. He had been waiting for this moment, and the fire in his eyes said he was ready.

‘What do you need from me?’

Kalltor leaned forward, forearms on the table. ‘We take only what we need. No dead weight. No slaves.’ His voice dropped lower, sharpening at the edges. ‘You want more, Volnaire? You’ll have to take them yourself.’

Volnaire exhaled a quiet chuckle. ‘Then I suppose the next village I burn should consider itself lucky.’

The laughter at the table faded beneath Kalltor’s voice. ‘Once the beach is cleared, we load the ships. You and I on the Mor ò Thail. Yord, Pailon, and Wernal take the others. We sail north.’

Volnaire spat onto the floorboards. ‘The Lucarions and those northern rats at our bay?’

Kalltor’s eyes gleamed. ‘I need fifty men in the tunnels. When the time is right, you hold the beach. If I don’t make it—’

‘The piss you won’t!’ Volnaire cut in.

Kalltor’s grin was slow. Dangerous. ‘Volnaire. If I don’t make it, you finish what we started. Do you understand me, or do I need to carve it into your flesh?’ He let the words linger, then added, ‘Not that it would make a difference, you sack of leather.’

He slapped Volnaire’s arm, heavy with camaraderie. Volnaire just smiled.

‘We have two hours. If the Seeker reaches the beach, he doesn’t leave it.’

Volnaire gave a sharp nod.

‘You know what needs doing. Get the sentries in place. Arm the men. Slit the throats of anything we’re leaving behind.’

It was merely a beat that had passed before the Bloodsworn smiled. ‘Aye, Captain.’

Kalltor swept his gaze down the hall, slow, deliberate. Words weren’t needed. The men understood. Fifty chosen men caught the signal, rising as one without a word. One by one, they abandoned their drinks, their women, their games. Dice tumbled to the floor, tankards tipped and spilled, the revelry dissolving into something heavier. One after another, they rose.

He walked between them without a word. The air parted around him, reverence and fear woven into his presence. A man who had mastered death did not need to demand respect. It was given.

At the threshold, he paused beneath the lintel, the stormlight catching in his wet hair as rain carved lines down his face. He lifted his gaze, the shadows of his features unreadable in the storm’s half-light. No man could say what thoughts churned behind those eyes, and none dared to ask.

They watched him step into the downpour, disappearing into the storm like a wraith.

Back inside, Volnaire rose with quiet purpose, the storm’s echo still clinging to his cloak.

The Bloodsworn climbed onto the table, slow and measured. He did not demand silence. He took it. His hand closed around the morning star where it had rested beside him, lifting it deliberately. He did not raise it as a weapon, but as a scepter of command.

From the seated men and the gathered throng, the chant rose. It began low, a murmured rhythm, and slowly swelled into a war cry that filled the hall.

“Vor-gan su-plem! Vor-gan su-plem! Mor-ó-thail! Mor-ó-thail!”

The chant built steadily, growing louder and fiercer until it crashed through the hall like a storm of its own.

Volnaire let them roar. Let them feel it in their bones. Then he lifted the iron-headed weapon high above his head. It caught the firelight, glinting with wicked edges, and when it came down crashing into the table below, the room plunged into silence.

A single breath passed. Then another.

A nervous laugh broke the silence. It was shrill and uncertain, the kind of sound that had no place in a room like this. It came from one of the women, a flicker of misplaced reaction. Perhaps it was disbelief. Perhaps it was some desperate, fragile hope that the night would not end the way she feared.

It was a mistake.

A fist snapped her head sideways before she could even draw breath. A sickening crunch echoed through the hall as her jaw shattered, teeth snapping loose like dice scattered across the floor. She collapsed in a heap, her body slack, her breath ragged and wet against the ground.

No one moved. No one dared look.

The silence that followed wasn’t shocked or startled. It wasn’t pity. It was the weight of a room that had seen this before, that knew the rules. She was nothing. A whimper in the void. A mistake corrected.

The Bloodsworn surveyed the room, his dark eyes sweeping across killers, raiders, and the damned. They held his gaze. No one flinched. No one dared.

‘Tonight we sail,’ he said, voice like steel rasped over stone.

Silence held. But the look in the men had changed into raw desperation, tempered into something sharper, something hungry. It was the anticipation of battle, and it had taken hold of them completely.

Volnaire was not finished.

‘But first, we deal with rule breakers.’

Volnaire paced along the length of the table, his morning star dragging at his side, its iron teeth scraping deep grooves into the wood. The sound was slow and deliberate, like a blade being sharpened before a kill. He met their gazes one by one, the weight of his stare pressing down like a boot on the throat. No man dared look away. No man dared breathe too deep. The Bloodsworn did not demand silence. He was silence. The kind that came before a slaughter.

‘We secure the beach. We kill the slaves. We take only what we need to damn our enemies to Tvaris. If any man is caught taking anything that does not serve our purpose, he joins the slaves.’

A murmur of understanding rippled through the hall. No one questioned. No one would dare.

‘There is no room for your pity tonight. There is only room for your undying commitment to the cause.’ His voice deepened, steady and commanded. ‘Tonight, we carve our names into the bones of history. And when this is done, those of you who survive will sail with me. You will command with me. You will rule the seas with me.’

Across the hall, Yord, Pailon, and Wernal were captains in their own right, though each one served beneath the Bloodsworn. They were the first to slam their fists to their chests. It was a single beat of iron discipline. The others followed. Louder. Fiercer. A roar that swallowed the hall.

The men knew what they fought for now.

The women knew, too.

It began with a breath, a shift in weight, a step, then another. Each movement was slow, measured, and soundless. They edged toward the hall’s boundary, where the rain bled into darkness, where escape still felt possible. Ghostlike and fragile with hope, they clung to the illusion that the storm might swallow them first. It did not.

A hand shot out, wrenching one back by her hair. Another was shoved against a table, her breath vanishing in a gasp. The third let out the barest whimper before rough fingers closed over her mouth.

The Bloodsworn’s gaze found them. Cold. Unforgiving. Final.

They had heard him. They knew what men like this did to loose ends.

‘Tonight, this beach burns.’

He let the words settle, slow and deep, like a dagger slipping between ribs. ‘And you will burn it on my command.’

His voice swept through the hall, edged with iron, steady and unrelenting.

‘I want sentries on watch. Keep your eyes to the northeast. No one moves until the signal. Keep three of the slaves. Those three.’

He lifted the morning star, the iron head hanging heavy in his grip, and leveled it toward the women who had dared to slip toward the edge of the hall.

They didn’t get the chance to beg.

Hands seized them, rough and unyielding. They twisted, thrashed, their muffled screams swallowed by the roar of the storm. The captors met their resistance with brutal efficiency, lashing their wrists tight and wrenching their bodies to their knees. The more they struggled, the tighter their captors clenched their hands.

It didn’t matter. They had already been chosen.

‘Arm yourselves. Hold your positions. And when the time comes—’

The weapon slammed down, sinking deep into the wood once again. The tables shuddered. The air itself seemed to rattle.

‘Let. Rage. Rule.’

A final roar erupted from the hall, voices raised in savage anticipation.

Volnaire let them have it. Let them feel it. Then he spoke again, louder this time.

‘Let. Rage. Rule.’

He wrenched the heavy weapon free. Splintered wood snapped as he lifted it, letting it hang loose at his side for only a breath.

Then he moved.

Volnaire walked along the length of the table, dragging the spiked iron head behind him, its teeth carving more grooves deep into the wood. The hall had roared, but now the sound was retreating, fading into the storm outside.

He stopped above one of the women, still standing among the men. She had been silent through it all, her head low, her body small, shrinking into the space between them. She had not tried to run. Maybe she had thought stillness would spare her.

The men beside her shifted as Volnaire approached. One of them caught her by the shoulder, pushing her forward until her hands slapped against the table. Her legs buckled, but she didn’t fall. She was held there, forced into place. The breath in her throat turned sharp, shallow.

The morning star lifted, the weight of it shifting in Volnaire’s grip. He did not hesitate.

The swing came swift, deliberate, and final.

The impact sent a sickening crack through the hall, bone giving way beneath iron. Blood sprayed across the wood, splattering the hands that had held her down. Her body sagged between them, head split open, skull fractured wide beneath the force of the blow. Neither man flinched. Neither spoke.

Volnaire studied his work, breath slow and steady as he let the weight of his weapon fall back to his side.

The room remained still, save for the storm beyond. He turned back toward the men, his voice carrying over the silence. The brutal iron swung down again, sinking deep into the wood. The impact rattled the long tables, the sound tearing through the hall like a crack of thunder. A roar erupted from the men, raw and uncontained.

Outside, storm winds muffled the noise, but fists pounded, chants rose, and the brutality kept building. It remained clearly audible through the wet air. It reached the armory, where Kalltor and fifty of his best strapped on armor and checked their weapons.

The news of the Lucarion soldiers and their northern allies hadn’t fazed him. He had known they were coming long before the storm broke. They built the tunnels early in the fort’s construction, carving them deep into the earth as a contingency. The passages were designed to strike an invading force from behind if they reached the walls and became trapped in the open.

Now, they would serve an even greater purpose. They would not only give his men the advantage. They would deliver an ambush.

The tunnels swallowed them, damp air clinging to their skin, the scent of wet stone thick in their lungs. Carved for war, built for slaughter, they stretched beneath the battlefield like the roots of something ancient, something patient.

As they moved deeper, the pathways split, branching off into separate arteries, each leading small groups of men toward their designated exits. Someone had mapped the routes long before the fort’s construction began. Now, they would serve their ultimate purpose.

The storm above muffled the world, a perfect shroud over what lay beneath. The men crouched in clusters of four and five, their breathing slow and steady. There were no whispered orders and no last-minute signals. Only the sound of water dripping from the tunnel ceilings and the distant lashing of rain against the hidden trapdoors above.

Kalltor lifted his head slightly, eyes narrowing as he peered through a thin break in the earth. The targets were coming, but they weren’t here yet. They would be soon enough. The Lucarions and their northern allies had no other way off the ridge. They would be forced onto the beach, funneled toward the only ground they could take. That was when the trap would spring.

Above, the night raged on, wind tearing through the trees, rain masking every shift of movement. Below, the pirates waited, silent and still as the grave.

There was nothing left to do now. Only wait.

Volnaire had replaced the sentries on watch, their movements now sharp with purpose. Behind the walls, the fort had shifted from revelry to preparation. The men armed themselves, securing weapons and tightening armor. Outwardly, nothing changed. They carried on as if nothing was amiss, as if no eyes were watching them from the ridge beyond the jungle.

The hall, once filled with men and laughter, had emptied. It had become something else now. A graveyard of the unwanted. Slaves and women who no longer served a purpose lay strewn across the floor, their bodies twisted where they had fallen, their blood thick in the storm-chilled air. Their screams had been swallowed by the weather, the wind taking them before they could ever carry beyond the walls. The executions had been swift and brutal.

The ones still waiting their turn did not fight. There was nowhere to run. They watched in silence as the friends, family, and lovers they had once shared cages with were butchered without hesitation.

Volnaire stood at the base of the battlement, watching the sentries above. Their discipline and control were evident. Their signals were subtle: small flicks of a wrist, a shift in stance, a barely perceptible nod. To an outsider, they looked like nothing more than routine movements. But Volnaire knew the code. They were being watched.

Far beyond the walls, movement stirred on the ridge. The jungle masked the enemy well, but it wasn’t enough. Without the tunnels, this would have been a weakness. Now, it was an advantage.

Volnaire exhaled slowly, letting the tension settle beneath his skin. Patience was a weapon, one he wielded as well as any blade. Patience could also be a mask, hiding the insatiable fury that lived just beneath the surface.

He had been blessed by Tvaris. His body was unlike that of any ordinary man. His skin, fluid yet dense, refused to be pierced easily. Even if something found its way through, his organs would harden and protect themselves long enough to withstand the blow.

Once, an arrow had struck him square in the chest, its tip aimed for his heart. He had felt the sting of metal as it broke flesh. It was sharp, precise, and clean. Yet his body refused to let it bury deeper. His heart had gone still. It did not stop, but waited. A breath later, it had resumed its beat, steady as ever, as if death had passed him over. His skin, though torn, had moved like liquid, slowing the blood and keeping him upright.

He was hard to kill, though not impossible.

So he had learned to fight. His gift had never been properly trained, never honed under the hands of an Aurenvian instructor, never tempered by the Order’s teachings. Volnaire had never belonged to doctrine. Never been bent by discipline. He had chosen his own path. The pirate gangs had accepted him, not for what they understood, but because they didn’t need to understand. They couldn’t train gifted, but they knew how to forge a killer. And Volnaire had become the finest among them.

A flicker from the sentry tower above caught his attention. A new signal. The group beyond the walls was moving now, slow and careful, trying to stay unseen. It would still be some time before they reached the beach.

Volnaire smiled to himself. They thought they were the hunters. They had no idea.

Almost an hour passed. A fresh signal from the sentries confirmed it. A second from the tunnel messenger sealed it. Volnaire gave the nod.

Three men stepped forward without hesitation, jeering as they seized the women and dragged them upright. Hands gripped hair, wrists, and arms, anything that would force them into compliance. The gags came off with a wet snap of cloth and rope, torn loose without care for skin or struggle. One woman cried out as the binding was ripped from her jaw, her lip splitting against her teeth. Then the garments followed. The men did not unfasten them. They tore them apart. Sleeves split down the arms, collars were yanked open, and the fabric gave way beneath hands that moved with force, not intent. No part of it was slow. Nothing was spared.

Laughter swelled, crude and sharpened by cruelty. It came not from revelry, but from certainty. These were not men celebrating. They were preparing. They knew what they were about to do, and they welcomed it.

The prisoners did not scream. They folded inward, clutching their arms across their chests, trembling beneath the weight of the stares. Shoulders hunched. Knees bent. Breath came in shallow bursts. But there was no escape left in them. Only the stunned stillness of those who understood exactly what had begun.

The gate slid open, just wide enough as they were shoved through, one by one, vanishing into the rain. Behind the walls, the laughter swelled. The men watched and mocked. They played their games and pretended not to hear what followed.

The first bolt struck. Then the second.

By the time the sport grew dull, the game had ended. The women lay still in the sand, and the silence that followed was heavier than any rain.

Moments later, Kalltor moved.

The Seeker watched from the beach, cloaked in the shadows, unaware he was being watched in return. The darkness offered no shield. Just steps away, the hidden trapdoor waited, the path through which his enemies would strike.

Kalltor lay hidden beneath the beach. He was silent and still, gone from the world. His chest did not rise. His pulse did not stir. No warmth touched his skin. For long moments, he existed outside the bounds of life. He was stripped of instinct, beyond sensation. He was not unconscious, nor asleep. He waited.

His body no longer responded the way others did. Pain had long since become irrelevant. Blood loss only mattered when the body collapsed, and wounds offered no warning. They simply accumulated until death finally claimed him. There was no signal. No scream. Only silence.

His condition had never been trained, never mastered. It was a gift that denied control, a curse that came without warning. Somewhere within, he understood the edge it gave him. And he knew the cost.

And now, the wait was over. The trapdoor edged upward, barely more than a whisper of movement. Just enough for Kalltor to rise through the dark.

The Seeker didn’t turn. Not yet.

But then he saw the violet haze blooming from the ground behind him.

3

––––––––

Although the rain had ceased, the clouds lingered over the beach. Light crept through cracks, thin and weak, reaching for the land below like bony fingers. The fort smoldered in ruin, small fires still burning in defiance of the storm that had passed. The bay was empty. The ships were gone. All that remained were the dead.

Although the body had long since gone cold, Saylong stirred beneath its weight, breath shallow and mind slow to return. The body pressed heavily on him, its warmth long since fled. At first, he didn’t recognize the man or even how he had ended up beneath him. His mind waded through a fog of half-formed thoughts, reality slipping in pieces, sharp and disjointed. The night had swallowed him. Now, daylight pressed in, dragging him toward its aftermath.

Grimacing, he pushed the pirate off him and struggled upright. The battlefield lay in ruin around him, silent and lifeless. He tried to make sense of it. How had this happened?

His gaze landed on a smoldering body some twenty yards away. He knew that armor, recognized the scorched, blackened steel meant to contain the very fire it had once wielded. Jarlstow. The sight of him sparked something in Saylong’s mind. He remembered now. Jarlstow had lit himself aflame, charging the enemy like a living inferno. He wasn’t alone. The Northmen had locked shields, bracing for the storm, only for the storm to engulf them. The raiders came from every direction, surrounding them and severing any hope of retreat. Their wall of iron had become a cage.

Jarlstow had made his stand early, his flaming charge cutting through the first wave of pirates. Saylong could still picture it: the fury, the defiance. Beyond that, he remembered nothing. He didn’t know how it had ended for him.

He stood slowly, testing his limbs. No major wounds. Just exhaustion. How had he survived?

A few feet away, Gurrlan lay still, his massive frame unmoving. Saylong’s heart clenched for a moment. Then came a faint breath, a twitch of his ear. Thank Tvaris, he was alive. Maybe unconscious, or perhaps playing dead. The Lumineer boar had done it in the past.

Gurrlan was no ordinary beast. Saylong had seen war hounds and battle-bred stallions, but nothing like him. The Lumineer boar was a creature of raw muscle and iron will, thick with coarse black fur that bristled like storm-charged brambles. His tusks, curved and sharpened by age, served not only as weapons but also as symbols, scarred and worn from countless battles. A beast made for war.

Even now, sprawled in the bloodstained dirt, Gurrlan’s chest rose and fell, slow but steady. Saylong had no doubt. When he woke, he would fight again. That was what he did.

He scanned the battlefield for survivors. Nothing.

He turned toward the cliffs, his mind clawing through the chaos. Buried in the haze of memory, the tunnels broke open from the ground, and from them, men rose like ghosts, sudden and real. They had surrounded them in seconds. He saw it now, clear as day.

Saylong was no master swordsman. He was a strategist. He battled using available resources. The memories returned in pieces: a wiry thief lunging at him, reckless and wild. Saylong had struck him down easily.

There, sprawled amidst the dead, lay Rysna. The blood had clotted thick in his beard, stiffening the warrior’s face into a mask of final defiance. Saylong’s throat tightened as he approached. The sight of the fallen chieftain sent a single tear rolling down his face. A warrior’s death. He knelt beside him, the weight of the moment pressing against his chest.

He had seen Rysna fight Kalltor. The memory struck like a hammer to the ribs. Kalltor had been there. No one had seen him until it was too late. Saylong now understood why. The Light was his ability, and it had hidden him. Kalltor had buried himself beneath the ground, masking his life essence. No Seeker could have sensed him, not while he wielded Tvaris’ gift.

And when he rose, it had been with relentless fury.

Kalltor in battle was beyond reason. His attacks came in a frenzy that could not be dulled, his defense nearly impenetrable. Saylong had seen warriors stand against great odds before, but no one could have been prepared for him.

Behind him, Gurrlan stirred. A grunt, a heavy breath.

Saylong inhaled sharply. The sleeper. He understood now. The chaos had consumed them all, and somewhere in the fight, Saylong had gone down. He had fallen only after killing the man who had struck him. The body that had pinned him was the one who had nearly ended him.

And Gurrlan. Saylong exhaled slowly. The boar fell at the same time. Nothing else could have knocked him out so cleanly. Only a sleeper’s touch could have done it.

The beach became the battleground. He remembered the gates swinging open, the raiders pouring in, the gifted warriors rushing to meet them.

Fraydorf the “Dead-Hand” had fought valiantly. Saylong could still see the trail of devastation he had carved through the enemy, the way he dropped six, maybe seven pirates in rapid succession, numbing limbs with a single touch and leaving them helpless before he finished them off. But even he had fallen, buried beneath the weight of steel and bodies.

A sound stirred behind the silence, subtle at first, almost too soft to hear over the waves crashing on the shore. Saylong turned, sword instinctively drawn, breath held.

Then came the scream. Not pain. Not fear. It was anguish sharpened into fury, and it hit like a blade through the heart of the beach.

He saw her then, rising from the bodies, bloodied and wild, hair tangled with salt and grit, her eyes burning with a fury that seemed carved from something deeper than grief.

It was Deyra Fjornskara.

She was the daughter of a Northman who had fought at Rysna’s side. Tall, golden-haired, with piercing blue eyes like the frozen lakes of the North. Even in battle, she had possessed an undeniable beauty, one that was striking and untamed. There was fire in her gaze, sharp as the edge of her axe. He had seen her wield it with precision, fighting with everything she had.

He remembered her duel. A pirate, a giant of a man, wielding a morning star. She had stood against him. The crushing blow must have felled her, leaving her for dead. Saylong knew who she had faced. It was Volnaire, as infamous as Kalltor himself.

She stood now, shaking. She screamed again.

Behind them, Gurrlan moved through the bodies, sniffing and searching. Saylong instantly recognized who the boar sought.

The moment the boar found Jarlstow’s burned corpse, he lay down beside it, motionless. Mourning. The bond between Lumineer and master was absolute.

Saylong watched, silent. He had never bonded with a Lumineer. He never desired them, viewing them burdensome, not a blessing. Yet the agony in Gurrlan’s body told him what he already knew.

The boar was a lost soul now.

‘What the fuck happened?’ Deyra’s voice cut through the silence like a blade. ‘How did they know we were here? How?’

Saylong hesitated.

‘I don’t know.’

It wasn’t untrue. Not fully. But deep down, he had already considered the only explanation: someone had known they were coming. Someone close. This wasn’t the time to voice that thought. Not here. Not to her.

‘We need answers, too. We still need to get back to Lucarion. I have people who need to know this happened.’ His eyes swept the ruined beach. ‘We aren’t safe here.’

‘We will not leave until my warriors receive the death they deserve,’ Deyra said firmly, her voice filled with determination despite its rawness.

Saylong met her gaze. There was no arguing with her. The North honored their dead. They did not leave them for scavengers, nor did they abandon them to rot in foreign soil. To leave the fallen here would be a betrayal deeper than the ambush itself.

The beach was littered with bodies, pirates and Northmen alike, but Deyra focused only on her own. She moved among them, her steps careful, placed with quiet purpose. With each fallen warrior she knelt beside, her hands pressed against their cold skin, her lips moving in silent prayer. The wind carried her whispers, words spoken in the old tongue of her people, a call to Tvaris to take them, to guide them through the darkness, to carve their names into the bones of history.

Saylong helped where he could, gathering the bodies of the Northmen together. The Lucarions lay scattered, their armor dented, their weapons snapped or missing. Saylong lacked time for grieving. He had his own duty to uphold.

Deyra worked tirelessly. She cleaned the faces of the dead, smoothing dirt and blood from their brows with the tattered edge of her cloak. She placed weapons in their hands: swords, axes—whatever they had wielded in life, they would carry into the next. She murmured their names as she moved, not just their given names but their deeds, their victories.

‘Varn, who took the head of a warlord at the Black Shores. Eivor, who never fled, not once. Rysna...’ Her voice wavered at his name, her breath catching.

Rysna, the chieftain. The warrior. The last of his line.

She hesitated, then removed her belt knife and placed it upon his chest, the blade resting over his heart. ‘You led us into battle. You deserve a warrior’s send-off.’

Gurrlan had not moved from Jarlstow’s side. The great boar lay beside his master, nudging at his lifeless form, grunting softly as if willing him to wake. Saylong watched, feeling a strange weight settle in his chest.

Deyra turned to him. ‘Don’t leave your people here, either. Let me give them the death they deserve.’

Saylong nodded. He had no argument. He had seen the tenderness in the way she cared for her own.

Jarlstow was the last they carried to the pyre. As they reached for his body, Gurrlan stirred, then rose unsteadily. His breath came heavy, his massive form shadowing the fallen warrior. When the hands pulled Jarlstow away, the Lumineer let out a deep, resonant sound. Not quite a growl, not quite a wail. A sound of loss beyond words.

Driven by instinct, he tried to follow, his snout nudging at the body that no longer breathed. The weight of exhaustion made him stumble. He stopped. Watched.

Deyra knelt beside him, resting a hand against his thick hide. She whispered something, soft words, old words, words meant for comfort. It wasn’t clear if the boar understood; his breathing slowed, his massive frame shuddering with something that wasn’t quite resignation, but acceptance.

He did not try to stop them again. Instead, he simply lowered himself to the ground, curling into the space where Jarlstow had lain, as if he could still feel him there.

They gathered wood from all around: broken spear shafts, shattered shields, driftwood swept in by the tide, anything that would burn. The ruined fort gave up more to the pyres, its blackened remnants repurposed for the fallen.

They worked for hours, hauling the dead, building the pyres, honoring the fallen. The effort drained them, sweat clinging thick beneath a sun now high and merciless. Heat swelled along the beach, the air heavy with humidity, the storm’s passing leaving only suffocating stillness in its wake.

When all was ready, Deyra drew a flint from her pouch and struck it against steel. Sparks danced, brief, bright, defiant. One caught. A flicker in the gloom. Then the flame took hold. One by one, the pyres awakened. Fire curled around limbs and cloth, consuming the dead in silence and light. The scent of smoke filled the air, thick and acrid, mixing with the salt of the sea. The flames crackled, reaching high, licking at the sky like they were calling out to Tvaris himself.

Deyra stood rigid, her hands clenched at her sides, her eyes unblinking. Saylong saw the grief in the hard set of her jaw, in the way her fingers twitched, as if she wanted to scream but refused to give in to the weakness of it.

Gurrlan stood beside Deyra, searching the flames for his fallen master. The fire that had once shielded him now devoured him. He did not move. Did not grunt. Did not make a sound. He only watched.

The glow cast his massive frame in shadow, the firelight flickering along the bristled contours of his hide.

Saylong had never seen an animal grieve. Not like this.

Deyra whispered one final prayer as the fire crackled and roared.

They had honored both Northmen and Lucarions, warriors who had fought side by side, their spirits sent to Tvaris not as lost souls, but as kin.

Only when the flames sank to embers and the sky dimmed to dusk did she finally turn to Saylong. Her voice was raw with grief.

‘Now,’ she said. ‘Now we go.’

The trio trekked through the dark jungle, ascending towards their previous vantage point overlooking the fortress. Gurrlan padded alongside them, his snout buried in the undergrowth, sniffing aimlessly. He was still grieving, his steps slower and heavier. He remained near Saylong and Deyra, seemingly recognizing his current place.

Deyra broke the silence first. ‘My father deserved more than that,’ she said, her voice taut with anger. ‘He knew the risk. But they knew we were coming. How is that possible?’

Saylong exhaled. The battle, burying the dead, and the weight of his failure wore him thin. What he had already learned about Deyra was that she was relentless. She wouldn’t let this go.

For a moment, she said nothing. But Saylong knew her type. Silence wasn’t surrender. It was patience. She would push when she was ready. And she would not stop until she had her answer.

They walked another mile before she finally spoke, her steps sharper, frustration bleeding into each stride. ‘That thing with the morning star. I cut through him. I felt the blade go in. He still struck back.’

Saylong glanced at her. ‘He’s a shifter. His body reacts like water to force. You’d have to stab him repeatedly in the same place, over and over, before it would do actual damage.’

Deyra huffed. ‘You need the gifted in battle. We only need strength. Tvaris doesn’t gift us.’

‘Tvaris does gift you,’ Saylong replied. ‘It’s just rarer. You, Deyra, have a gift. I can see it in you.’

She scoffed, silent, walking ahead as the jungle thickened around them. Saylong let the silence stretch. He knew she would circle back to it.

The ground became uneven, the path more treacherous. Eventually, they stopped, setting up a makeshift camp in a small clearing where the canopy was dense enough to keep the ground dry. The air was thick with moisture, at least they had shelter. There was little to eat beyond what Saylong could identify, just a few berries, mushrooms, and roots. They made do.

It wasn’t until the fire had burned low that Deyra spoke again.

‘What do you mean you see a gift in me?’

Saylong kept his gaze fixed on the flames. ‘I see the gifted. Colors surround them. You have one. I don’t know what it is yet. I saw it earlier, though. It isn’t strong—but maybe that’s because you haven’t tapped into it.’

Deyra frowned, looking down at her hands as if expecting something to happen.

Saylong studied her. She should have known by now. Most gifted discovered their abilities in childhood, and for a woman in her twenties to be unaware of her own was rare. Unless it was subtle, present all along, never tested, never pushed.

‘How did you fall last night?’ he asked.

Deyra’s fingers curled into her palms. ‘I was struck.’

‘Where?’

She touched her shoulder, the base of her neck.

‘Let me see.’

Hesitant, she shifted, pulling the cloak from her shoulders and tilting forward so the firelight illuminated her back. Saylong’s eyes narrowed. The injury remained, though less severe than expected. Such a wound would be fatal to most others.

He exhaled. ‘You’re a healer.’

She straightened instantly. ‘What?’

Saylong gestured to her shoulder. ‘That wound. It should have shattered your collarbone—yet it didn’t. You should be fevered from pain, barely standing. And yet, here you are. Walking. Barely stiff.’

Deyra’s face was unreadable. She pulled her cloak back over her shoulders, wrapping it tightly around herself. ‘That doesn’t mean anything.’

‘It does. It means you heal faster than others. It doesn’t make you invincible, though deeper wounds will close quicker. Illness won’t linger. You probably haven’t been sick a day in your life.’

She was silent for a long moment before she finally spoke.

‘If you could see it, why didn’t you tell me before?’

Saylong shook his head. ‘I assumed you knew. It’s your body, after all. I had no idea you didn’t.’

Deyra’s gaze remained fixed, dark and unreadable. ‘Then why didn’t you see Kalltor?’

The question hit deeper than he expected. Saylong stiffened, the silence stretching between them as the fire cracked and hissed. He knew what she was asking. Knew the answer, and the weight it carried. He had made a mistake, one that had cost lives.

‘Because he can hide,’ he said quietly. ‘He can make himself nothing. No breath, no heartbeat. No presence at all. When he does it, it’s like he’s gone from the world. That’s how he waited for us. That’s how I missed him.’

Deyra didn’t respond, but he saw the tension in her eyes, the fury barely held in check, the storm not yet spent.

They had walked straight into a trap.

It wasn’t accidental; both understood this.

By the next morning, the humidity had not relented, and the trek forward hadn’t gotten any easier. The jungle had only given way to steeper inclines. Once this section was behind them, they could walk the next three days closer to the coast. But it had been this way on the march south too, rugged land with no actual paths or tracks. For Gurrlan, though, it was easy. This was his native ground. Saylong remembered hearing that the boar had been found in the hills south of Lucarion.

Hunting parties often went out with seekers or new recruits to locate suitable animals for Lumineers, and from what Saylong knew, Gurrlan had been alone as a piglet when they found him. Birds of prey had stalked him, waiting for him to weaken before they struck. Yet, he hadn’t been defenseless. When the hunting party found him, they found a dozen dead birds scattered around him; he had knocked them from the sky as they dove to kill him. Even then, he had fought like something twice his size. And yet, he had latched onto Jarlstow without hesitation, choosing him over all others.

Saylong knew Gurrlan had been lucky. Most orphaned creatures didn’t survive, and predators often took even the survivors for food. Maybe it was luck that he had stumbled upon Jarlstow when he did. It must have been luck that he had survived on the beach. Even unconscious, he could still have produced a toxic gas; perhaps that was what had saved him from the pirates, keeping them from taking him as food.

Deyra’s voice broke his thoughts. ‘How do you Southerners stand this heat?’

Saylong gave a rare smile. ‘We don’t. We just wait for winter, and then it’s perfect.’

Deyra scoffed. ‘You’ve never seen a real winter.’

She spoke of the north, of the frozen tundras, the long nights, the ice-bound rivers that didn’t thaw until midsummer. Saylong listened, though he already knew. He had spent seasons in the north. That was where his fascination with their survival had grown.

‘Your name, Fjornskara. It means Ice-Born, doesn’t it?’ he asked.

‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘It means Winter-Marked. I was born in a dark winter in Jordvann, though it was not me that was marked by the cold. It was my father, Beyrek’s ancestors, who built their homes in the shadow of an everlasting winter. They were the ones marked by the fjorn.’

Silence settled between them as they climbed another ridge, then descended the slope beyond it.

Then Deyra spoke again, her voice quieter now. ‘You were brave to try to unite the Northmen. They deserve less, still you tried. When Kalltor came to Madita, no one was ready. No village wanted to be next. We knew Aurenvia Tollitch would not come to protect us. We knew we were alone. Then you came.

It was like Tvaris himself had answered our prayers. Rysna saw something in you. He told us to follow you at all costs, that you would bring us out of the dark age and into the age of the Golden Sun.’

Saylong momentarily felt an unfamiliar emotion; it resembled pride. Rysna had believed in him.

‘I see it,’ Saylong said, his voice steady. ‘The North isn’t just a place where people survive the cold. It’s a place where they can grow, adapt, become stronger. That can only happen if you stand together. You must be united as one.’

Deyra’s jaw tightened. ‘They’ll come again. The pirates. Without Rysna, without my father, without the others, we’re too spread out. Our own feuds have kept us apart when we should have been building an army to defend the North.’

Saylong listened, though his mind had turned elsewhere. The ambush still gnawed at him. Someone had wanted this to happen. Someone had made sure they were walking into a slaughter.

Had it been personal? Or was someone protecting the pirates? And why?

The pieces didn’t fit. The pirates had been left alone for too long, their numbers growing, their ships unchecked. If it was a setup, it had to come from someone with power, someone with influence over the region. Othmar Becsain, the Earl of Roydne, immediately sprang to mind. He had long been rumored to sympathize with the pirates, turning a blind eye when it suited him. But at the same time, he worked with the Order, pushing to eradicate piracy in his own waters.

Unless... that had only ever been a game.

Roydne was a land that thrived on coin. It was ruled by trade, wealth, and leverage. If the pirates had paid the right price, perhaps Becsain hadn’t protected them; he had simply chosen to ignore them.

And yet, that alone wouldn’t explain an ambush this precise.

Saylong exhaled, glancing at Deyra. She was still lost in her own thoughts, speaking of uniting the North, of the battles still to come. He let her words pass over him, his mind still caught on the deeper question.

Who had led them into this?

The question still lingered. Not who had struck them down. But who had opened the gate.

4

––––––––

By the fourth day, the storms had finally relented, leaving the sky clear over the jagged spines of the Shinlet Range. Sunlight slanted through the thinning clouds, but the land was still heavy with the weight of what had come before.

She and Gurrlan had formed an unexpected bond. The boar followed her like a shadow, responding to her touch in ways Saylong hadn’t anticipated. She fussed over him, offering the choicest scraps of whatever meager game they had caught, running her fingers through his thick fur as if losing herself in the act. The bond formed remarkably quickly, giving Saylong hope that Deyra’s gift could be brought forward.

They had stopped for food, yet she showed little interest in speaking. Crouched beside Gurrlan, she absently scratched his neck while he nuzzled against her. Saylong watched in silence. He understood. She needed something to tether herself to, something other than the ghosts trailing behind them.

She finally broke the silence. ‘What’s your plan with me once we reach Lucarion?’ She tore a bite from the scrub turkey’s breast, chewing like she meant to destroy it. She fed another chunk to Gurrlan, who took it carefully from her fingers. ‘How can I go back to the North like this?’

Saylong exhaled slowly, gauging her tone. Not a question. A challenge.

‘You’re not alone in this,’ he said. ‘I’ll come with you.’

She scoffed, shaking her head. ‘To do what? I don’t care about your politics and your pretty castles. I care about killing Kalltor. Killing Volnaire. That’s it. That’s all I want.’

Venom sharpened her voice, though an edge of something else lingered—grief, desperation, or something she hadn’t yet named.

Saylong leaned forward, clasping his hands between his knees. ‘You want to make the North strong? Then it’s not just about revenge. It’s about securing them a future. That means strategy. That means patience.’

She finally turned to look at him, her dark eyes flaring with something unreadable. For a moment, Saylong saw the fire that could make her a leader. Still raw. Untamed. It needed shaping.

‘We need allies,’ he continued. ‘First, we find Lord-Governor Jakren Dubaris. He can help us.’

Deyra narrowed her eyes, shifting back against the trunk of a withered tree. Gurrlan grunted beside her, sensing her unease.

‘I’m not trusting you—or your white-robed priests who tell you where to go and when to wipe your asses. It was them, wasn’t it? They killed my father. They killed Rysna.’

Saylong didn’t answer right away. Too many suspicions, too few answers. He held her stare, seeing the raw fury behind it.

‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘Not yet. But we’ll find out. And when we do, Kalltor and Volnaire won’t walk away from it.’

The conversation soured enough for his liking. He let silence take the rest of the journey.

By late afternoon, the road began its slow descent, winding through the foothills toward Lucarion. The land softened ahead, the jagged ridges giving way to gentler slopes where villages and outlying towns nestled in the valley below. To the east, the coastline stretched toward the horizon, merchant vessels crowding the bays, their sails stark white against the deepening blue. The port never rested, a constant hub of activity feeding goods inland to the capital, Lenne, and the northern reaches of Cassarish.

Then, at last, Lucarion itself emerged from the hills. Built atop the highest rise, the city spread across the slopes in layers, its terracotta and deep-wine buildings glowing in the golden light. To the east, the fertile fields of Brayre’s Farm stretched toward the horizon, their bounty sustaining not only Lucarion but also the broader Aurenvian heartlands.

Market terraces bustled with life as Saylong stepped forward, voices rising from the crowd like birds in a stirred canopy. Tiled roofs shimmered in the slanting light, catching hues of rust and gold as if the sun itself were bleeding out over Lucarion. The scent of roasting meat and spiced cider drifted from the city’s main avenue, blending with the briny air from the coast. Somewhere, a blacksmith’s hammer rang out in steady rhythm, lost beneath the distant echo of ship bells.

Lucarion had changed in his absence. Yet it endured.

After all these years, it was still home.

Even with night settling over the heart of Lucarion, the city pulsed with life. Markets bustled beneath the warm summer air, their lanterns casting golden light over crowded stalls. Cider vendors called out to passing patrons, eager to fill their cups, while tavern-goers, well into their drinks, let the night fuel their disputes. The Lucarion Guard moved between them, stepping in when revelry turned to brawling. They were watchful, methodical, and always present.

Gurrlan walked among them, a familiar sight to those who had once known him as Jarlstow’s shadow. He had patrolled these streets before, his hulking form a reassuring presence to the people of Lucarion. Yet now, without his master, the city’s rhythm felt off-kilter. He moved with the same weight, the same purpose, though the space beside him was no longer empty. A northerner walked in Jarlstow’s place, an unfamiliar figure in a city that once knew him well.

Whether the people saw it or not, Gurrlan must have known. The streets he had once guarded were not the same without Jarlstow.

They approached the Copper Hall, a towering structure of deep ochre stone, its surface flecked with copper that caught the lantern light like embers beneath the night sky. Pigments drawn from the very hills surrounding Lucarion gave the building its distinct, burnished glow. It stood as a monument to the city’s wealth and permanence. Broad marble steps led to the entrance, where four guards stood, their polished breastplates reflecting the torchlight.

As Saylong reached the top, the guards stiffened, hands resting on the hilts of their swords. One stepped forward, a veteran by the look of his graying stubble and hardened gaze.

‘Not with that dirty creature, you’re not.’ His voice carried the casual disdain reserved for those who didn’t belong.

Saylong glanced at Gurrlan, prepared to defend him, but the guard scoffed first.

‘Nah, not the beast. The northern scum.’

His head tilted toward Deyra, spat the words as if they left a foul taste in his mouth. Saylong felt his pulse tighten. Before he could react, Deyra did.

She strode forward, closing the space between her and the guard in an instant. Saylong reached to stop her, but she was already past him, moving with a calm that couldn’t be broken. Nothing about her faltered. Gurrlan’s hackles rose, a low rumble deep in his throat, but he held back, sensing the silent tension thickening between them.

The other three guards remained at their posts, shifting uneasily but making no move to interfere. The entrance to the Copper Hall was theirs to protect, not the pride of a man who had failed to hold his tongue.

Deyra stopped nose to nose with the guard, her breath even, her voice steady. ‘You sit here, guarding a pretty hall so you can feed your family.’

Then, without warning, she grabbed at his codpiece. His entire body tensed at once, an instinctive fear flashing across his face. He went for his sword, but her proximity stifled his movement. The hilt was trapped at his side, his balance suddenly precarious.

Deyra shifted her weight and stepped into him, her shoulder brushing his chest. The contact was slight, deliberate, just enough to tilt his balance. His boots scraped against the marble, armor clinking as he staggered backward.

With nowhere to go, the weight shift sent him backward onto the top of the marble landing, his armor clanking as he landed hard. The grand entrance to the Copper Hall framed him now, not as its defender, but as a man made small before a woman who had never even drawn a blade.

Deyra looked down at him, her voice quiet but absolute.

‘We will be entering your hall.’

Saylong exhaled slowly, shaking his head. Embarrassed, yet unable to argue. She had never reached for a weapon. And yet, the guard had never been in control. The man could do nothing but watch as the three strode past him and into the grand corridors of the Copper Hall.

Inside, the halls stretched wide and near-empty, the late hour leaving only a handful of officials working through the night. Their hurried steps echoed in the dim corridors, parchment in hand, their whispered discussions slipping through half-open doors.

The Dubaris residence lay in the eastern wing, a lavishly adorned hall with a heavy-set entrance, flanked by guards who eyed the newcomers warily. Gurrlan’s hooves clattered against the mosaic marble floor, his weight struggling for purchase on the polished stone.

A fountain trickled softly in the grand atrium before the residence, its waters collecting in a wide, shallow basin. Gurrlan wasted no time lowering his head, lapping greedily, while Deyra knelt to fill her canteen. Saylong said nothing, only watching. It was as if those two had always belonged together.

He stepped forward, murmuring to one of the guards. The man hesitated before nodding and slipping inside. Moments later, the door reopened, and Jakren Dubaris emerged.

Copper-tinged robes draped over his broad frame, the golden tassels at his cuffs catching the dim candlelight. His expression darkened the moment he laid eyes on them: the northern warrior with an axe slung across her back, the boar drinking from his fountain, and Marcius Saylong still clad in leather armor, sword at his side.

‘Do the guards of the Copper Hall do nothing these days?’ Jakren’s voice was sharp, clipped. ‘Why are you in here, armed, and with that boar? And—who is she?’

Saylong barely opened his mouth before Deyra answered for herself.

She stepped forward, her chin high, her voice steady. ‘When the time comes and the storm has passed, they will all know my name.’ Her words carried an old cadence, something carved in ice and wind. ‘I am Deyra Fjornskara. It will not be me marked by winter. It will be your lands.’

Dubaris stood frozen, caught between disbelief and irritation at the way Deyra had stepped forward so brazenly. Saylong moved quickly, cutting in before the tension could spiral further.

‘The guards at the door recognized me and Gurrlan. They knew we were no threat. Perhaps your concerns would be better directed at the one with gray in his beard, stationed at your grand entrance. He looked far too comfortable for a man on duty.’

Deyra let out a rare smile, sharp and fleeting.

Dubaris exhaled through his nose, straightening the folds of his robe. ‘And the others? You took fifteen of my best, Marcius. Where are they?’

Saylong met his gaze. ‘Can we speak inside? We need to talk.’

Dubaris’ eyes flicked toward Deyra, considering, then conceding. The boar, however, was another matter. His lips pressed thin, the decision weighing between personal distaste and diplomacy.

Saylong saw it clearly in her stance, in the way her shoulders squared and her gaze never wavered. Deyra was not someone who backed down. The same fire that had carried her through the Copper Hall’s entrance still burned in her stance. If this became a contest of will, Dubaris would find no easy ground.

He glanced at Deyra.

‘Perhaps you’ll stay here and enjoy the offerings of Bauthor’s Fountain,’ Saylong offered smoothly. ‘Lord Governor Dubaris will have his attendants bring you a platter of fresh honeyed dates, roasted almonds, and the finest smoked venison from Braye’s Farm. A meal fit for... well, the governor.’

Dubaris exhaled sharply, as if the decision itself pained him. His nod was slow, controlled, a formality rather than agreement. This was his domain, his authority, and yet here they were, tracking in dirt and northern defiance alike.

Deyra frowned, though she held her tongue. Politics was neither her interest nor her skill, but she knew when a battle had reached its best outcome. It was more than she expected. And for now, it would do.

Saylong followed the governor into the residence, stepping into the solar, a chamber of quiet luxury. Dubaris moved through the space with familiarity, lighting several lanterns that cast a warm glow over the deerskin-clad furniture and darkwood tables inlaid with intricate carvings. Every surface gleamed with wealth: ornaments of gold and silver, artifacts from distant lands, and fragile glass decanters filled with aged spirits. A room meant for entertaining, not for warriors. And certainly not for Gurrlan.

Dubaris gestured toward a chair. ‘Sit. Make yourself comfortable.’

Saylong obliged, though comfort was the last thing on his mind. The governor disappeared into an adjoining room, his voice carrying as he spoke to a servant. Moments later, he returned, setting down a platter of cold cuts, aged cheeses, and dark red wine.

Saylong, though hungry from the journey, remained poised. The night’s revelations weighed heavier than his need for food.

‘What do you know of the land we were sent into?’ he asked.

Dubaris took a sip of wine before answering. ‘Nothing. It’s no-man’s-land. Roydne claims it within their borders, but it’s uninhabitable. Perfect ground for a pirate stronghold. And? What of it? Is it eradicated?’

‘It is gone, yes. But to where, I do not know.’

Dubaris lowered his cup, studying Saylong with wary eyes. ‘What do you mean gone, Marcius? You scouted it yourself.’

‘I mean, they knew we were coming.’

The governor’s brow furrowed. Confusion flickered before turning to something colder.

‘What do you mean they knew you were coming? How?’

Saylong recounted everything—the ambush, the night on the beach, the brutality of it. The reality settled like stone in Dubaris’ gut.

The governor exhaled sharply. ‘You know, Fraydorf was my wife’s cousin. I would never have sent him if I thought it would end this way.’ His voice turned taut. Accusatory. ‘Marcius, I trusted you. I trusted you with my family. You have let me down.’

Saylong felt the weight of it settle like iron in his gut. The words hit harder than he expected. He thought he had made peace with the losses. But the ache in his chest said otherwise. He forced his shoulders to stay square, swallowing the bitter taste creeping up his throat.

‘Why were we only given fifteen Lucarion soldiers, Jakren? You knew who we were up against.’

Dubaris stiffened, then shook his head. ‘It’s Lord Paramount Chalm in Haithe. This wasn’t my doing. The Parade of the Order and the councils in Lenne dictate Lucarion’s military movements. We only follow orders here. They gave the command. Fifteen soldiers, no more. I even signed the order myself.’ He hesitated, then sighed. ‘I was told you had warriors of the North. That was all I needed to hear.’

Saylong leaned forward, voice grave. ‘We need to send word to Haithe that Kalltor and the Mor ò Thail are still loose. If we don’t rein them in, they will run rampant. Someone in Haithe is backing them.’

Dubaris’ expression darkened. His fingers tapped once against the armrest.

‘Who?’

Saylong met his gaze. ‘I don’t know yet. But I intend to find out.’

◇ ◇ ◇

Astra and Nyx, the moons of Teloshka, hung above the black waters, their waning glow swallowed between shifting clouds. The Mor ò Thail sliced through the waves, its sails snapping violently in the wind. Kalltor stood at the helm, watching the darkness ahead. He was not guessing, not hoping, but knowing.

Tolgeen saw everything.

Perched at the prow, the second mate barely needed the moonlight. His gift made the night irrelevant. Even in the absence of both moons, he could see as if the sun still reigned over the sky. Kalltor had seen it before, the way Tolgeen’s eyes flickered, catching details no ordinary man could.

Twenty years aboard a pirate vessel had hardened him, his past as distant as the homeland he barely remembered. He had been taken from Khartrim, a boy snatched in a raid. Not for his gift. Not for his value. Simply for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. That alone had sealed his fate. That was decades ago. Now, he belonged to the sea, to the hunt, to the Mor ò Thail. And tonight, his vision would guide them straight to their quarry.

While the Armekalia fleet followed its doctrine, anchoring in bays overnight and waiting for the safety of first light, Kalltor sailed through the dark. He did not wait. He did not hesitate. He used the gifted; he pushed forward.

They had already rounded the Armekalia Peninsula, and now the Mor ò Thail was heading northward, slipping toward the ships he had once commanded. These were the same ships that had obeyed his will, carried his flag, and now they were his quarry.

Beyond the peninsula, Armekalia’s warships prepared to intercept eastern merchant vessels, a constant game between the Union and the West. These ships rarely posed an outright threat, but they were bait, provocations, and tactical testing grounds. They drifted into western waters, measuring response times, learning Aurenvian patterns, always watching.

This time, Admiral Norrbeck Sartise had taken the challenge personally. His vessel and three others had been commissioned to meet the eastern ships in the deep waters between Keis’s Castle and the Kingdom of Elanwyn.

Elanwyn, the jewel of the East, the kingdom that had long overstated its own importance. The Eastern Union had no true need for it, no reverence for its culture or its people. They kept it only for the Herastium Fields, for the resource that made the East powerful. And even then, Elanwyn could barely defend its own lands.

Kalltor exhaled slowly, eyes locked on the black horizon. He could feel his quarry drawing closer. Could almost taste it. A bitter tang coiled at the back of his throat, not from the salt air, not from the night’s damp chill, but from the thing that had hollowed him, the thing that would never leave until Sartise was dead.

Only then would he be free. Only then would Tvaris take its due.

5

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By midday, the summer sun turned the sea to silver. The Mor ò Thail cut through the waves alone, its sister vessels left far behind. Kalltor had planned for this. Every movement, every shadow on the water. The Armekalia fleet was ahead, moving steadily, unaware that their hunter had already chosen his prey. By nightfall, they would be deep in the open sea, isolated from the safety of their coasts, their ports, their allies. There would be nowhere to run.

And when darkness fell, they would be nothing but beacons in the midnight waters. Easy marks. Kalltor would strike fast and vanish, leaving only silence.

There were no merchant ships. Only four naval vessels remained, alone on the open sea, sailing under the command of Admiral Sartise. Years had passed since the day Kalltor was left to drift, and now the moment had come. He would savor the strike, not as triumph, but as reckoning. He would hit the weakest first, snap the chain, and leave Sartise exposed in the vast waters of Thewthyri.

Volnaire stood next to him, impassive, giving no inch to the satisfaction he was feeling. Only a mission and a promise stood between him and the Mor ò Thail. His to command, his to rule the seas.

The crew had been cut to thirty. The Thail ran lighter for speed, its blackened hull slicing the waves like a blade. Kalltor swore they needed no more. The murmurs weren’t about the risk. They were about him. What he was. What he’d become.

“He was left to die in the waters near Realm,” someone had whispered.

Another claimed Sartise had been the one to leave him there. Others swore they knew the truth: that Kalltor had led the Armekalian vanguard when they first sighted a fleet of Razebreakers, fast new warships out of the Eastern Union. Following Armekalian naval protocol, Kalltor’s crew moved to engage, but Sartise had already broken formation and withdrawn, leaving Kalltor stranded against impossible odds. It was brutal and swift. His ship was sunk, his men drowned, and Kalltor was left clinging to the wreckage, abandoned to the mercy of the sea.

Kalltor’s body had refused to die. It couldn’t.

For over two lunar months, he had floated, kept alive by his gift, yet he had been left in such agony that Tvaris must have turned his face from him. Pain had been his only companion, ceaseless, indescribable. When he finally washed ashore on the Island of Gor, barely a shadow of the man he had been, it was pirates who had found him. Gorian pirates. They had nursed him back to health and offered him work if he chose it, passage home if he desired it.

He rose with no name and no home, only vengeance. The Gorians gave him a blade, and he carved his place among them while his family in Armekalia mourned.

Mika had once ruled with fire, but age had dulled his flame. The Thail drifted, not just across the water, but away from purpose. That was when the whispers among the men began.

The challenge had been inevitable. The Gorian rules were simple: no gifts could be used, and the captain chose the weapon. Kalltor would have to make his move on Mika’s terms.

And when the time came, there had been no hesitation.

As the sun dipped behind the horizon, bleeding its last light into the sea, Volnaire returned to the helm beside Kalltor. Below deck, Tolgeen stirred for his night position. The Armekalia fleet would soon switch to night protocol, shifting to a scattered formation with lanterns flickering like phantom stars across the waves. It would be Tolgeen’s task to track them in the dark, to keep their ghostly network intact.

Volnaire’s gaze drifted over the waters before he turned to Kalltor, a quiet smirk curling at the edge of his mouth.

‘Make ‘em piss blood the way you did Mika.’ His voice was low, just enough for Kalltor to hear. ‘They feared you then. They fear you more now.’

Kalltor’s face betrayed nothing. His mind was already turning, the past folding into the present, carrying him back to the fight that had set everything in motion.

‘The broadsword was his choice,’ Volnaire muttered, half-amused. ‘He didn’t have to take it. Should’ve known better. Tvaris’ eyes, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man turn green like he did when you picked those daggers.’

The fight had been his from the moment Mika raised that slab of iron. Yet Kalltor had known he had to control himself, to fight as a man, not as a force beyond them. The crew had already respected him, though their awe had come because of his gift, not in spite of it. The daggers had been a choice, not a necessity. A message. A spectacle.

Volnaire’s voice cut through the memory.

‘What are you going to do when you finally stare Sartise in the eyes?’

He gave a low, dark laugh. ‘Make him shit his codpiece?’

Kalltor turned, his hollow gaze giving nothing.

‘I’ll make him beg for each life he took that day. Each one. Seventy-three souls stolen from their families. From their sons and daughters. From their farms and market stalls. He will pay in pain for each of them.’

The duel with Mika had already become legend among the crew, a spectacle like none before it. Mika came at him in broad strokes, each one meant to cleave, to break, to end it quickly. He had been strong, still fit, but age slowed the breath, dulled the reflexes. Kalltor had let him swing, let him tire, let him waste himself. It had been a dance, one man chasing death, the other stepping just out of reach.

Mika had believed in power. Power alone. Kalltor had learned long ago that power without control was as useless as a broken sword.

Volnaire’s voice was softer now, weighted with something deeper than amusement.

‘You’ll get your chance in two days. This is inevitable. We’ve never been this close. The deal you made is paying now. It pays for what we built and lost. From here, we grow. From here, we take what is ours. What should be ours.’

Kalltor exhaled, his jaw tight.

‘I’ll take just the life I’m owed,’ he said, his voice quieter, colder. ‘Seventy-three times, if I can.’

He let the silence settle, let the sea murmur between them before he spoke again.

‘Mika didn’t deserve what I gave him,’ he admitted. ‘He deserved a hero’s death, not the one I handed him. That was for vanity, not vengeance. He was a spectacle for the crew. I wish I’d warned him against the broadsword.’

Volnaire stared at Kalltor in the darkening haze of dusk.

‘He got what he deserved,’ Volnaire argued. ‘He had killed recklessly too. He had lost his vision. He served no more for us, only for himself. The direction he took would have led us to starve on that island. You freed us. Gave us hope. You gave us the leader we needed. I will never stop begging you to reconsider after this.’

Kalltor smiled, knowing the respect Volnaire had given was genuine.

‘The Thail will be yours, my brother,’ Kalltor said. ‘No one could lead them more than you could. No one could ever challenge you.’

‘Would you have?’ Volnaire asked, not knowing if he was ready for the answer.

Kalltor smirked and set a hand on his shoulder.

‘You’d have made a bigger spectacle than Mika. Perhaps my vanity would have been secured then instead.’

Mika’s arms had been failing him for minutes. Each desperate swing sapped what little strength remained. Kalltor had let him burn, watching him unravel one labored motion at a time. Yet the duel had not gone untouched.

A loyalist surged from the crowd, shoving Kalltor forward in a reckless act of allegiance. It gave Mika his chance. Victory momentarily belonged to him. Yet he hesitated.

That pause should’ve stopped it immediately. Weakness had never touched him, nor was he a coward. His hesitation stemmed from ingrained traditions, surpassing mere fear. He fought with honor, even when honor led to death.

But Kalltor’s fury did not know honor.

Kalltor spun toward the traitor, his eyes momentarily void of life, drained by the force rising within him. A dagger plunged into the man’s shoulder, driving downward through flesh and bone toward the base of the neck. The traitor staggered, but Kalltor was already there, the second blade slicing deep into his gut and tearing upward toward the diaphragm. Gurgling, thrashing to fall, the man struggled against the blades, but Kalltor held him pinned upright, unmoving. Only when the life had gone out of him did Kalltor release the weight, letting the body crumple into the blood-soaked dirt.

Kalltor stood over the body, the dagger already torn free, blood painting his fists. He screamed down at the corpse, a sound of pure defiance, raw and unchained. Then he turned on the others, raising his blood-soaked daggers high, his arms slick to the elbows. Another scream ripped from him, a challenge hurled into their faces, meant to terrify and break them. A promise screamed into the void.

He stepped clear of the corpse, gaze sweeping the ring of onlookers, daring another to try. None did.

With the threat silenced, he turned back to Mika. The man had been given mercy. He had wasted it.

Kalltor adjusted his grip on the daggers and moved forward, no longer bound by patience.

The crew were preparing the Thail for war now, a precaution that had set them all on edge. They knew their roles. This wouldn’t be the only night they attacked the fleet. It would stretch over two nights, two ambushes, and if the Armekalia fleet was ready, if they retaliated, the Thail would be ready at all costs.

Volnaire shouted orders down from the helm. Kalltor remained steady, just as he had when he faced Mika. Even in that crowd, as they circled like vultures, it had been clear that Volnaire wanted Kalltor to win. He maintained order among the men that day, a task he continues. The crew feared him as much as they respected him. Yet Volnaire had been loyal to Mika. He never desired leadership’s weight. That had changed when Kalltor arrived. Volnaire had hinted at it, pushed for it, and when the moment came, had ensured Kalltor would not be denied.

The daggers gleamed under the torches. No more dirty tricks from the crowd. They had learned their lesson. Mika had gained back some strength in the brief reprieve; however, it was fleeting, dying in him as quickly as it had returned. He tried to strike.

Kalltor saw it before it came.

Mika’s movements were precise, even well-placed, though predictable. His reach was longer, though he wasn’t a duelist. The broadsword was meant to keep Kalltor at bay, and the daggers had been an insult. Mika had expected swords, something respectable, something noble. He had wanted a duel. Instead, Kalltor had given him a lesson.

The broadsword swung. Again. Again. Each time, it missed.

Kalltor slipped past, a ghost in the fray, his daggers carving red lines across Mika’s ribs. Mika staggered, dragging his sword like a dying limb, too slow, too late. He knew it. Kalltor knew it.

Then he made his last mistake.

He swung for Kalltor’s neck. The movement was desperate, the footing all wrong. Kalltor leaned back just enough, spun, and drove his dagger clean into Mika’s gut.

Mika recoiled with a sharp gasp, blood soaking through his tunic and streaking down his thigh in thick, sluggish rivers. Though he still clutched the broadsword, his grip had loosened, his knuckles pale and his wrists trembling with the effort to stay upright.

He tried to push Kalltor back. Tried to draw breath. But Kalltor had already shifted away, silent and controlled, circling with the precision of a killer who knew the fight was already won. Mika was finished. The wound in his side had punctured something vital; the blood loss was swift, unstoppable. His own body, once a fortress, had turned against him. His knees faltered, his weight sagging with every desperate breath.

Kalltor did not wait for death to take him. He stepped forward and delivered it. In a blur of motion, he drove both daggers home. One pierced deep into Mika’s chest while the other tore up through the stomach wall. Mika’s body jolted, the air caught in his throat. He collapsed to his knees, eyes wide, breath rattling against the blood pooling in his mouth.

Still, Kalltor did not release him. He reached forward, gripped Mika’s chin, and lifted it with a brutal calm. Their eyes met, one filled with fading defiance, the other with merciless finality. There would be no lingering agony.

The final dagger thrust came without hesitation, slicing clean through the neck. The blade severed the spine with surgical efficiency, and Mika’s body dropped in a heap, lifeless, crumpled beneath the storm-washed sky.

For one long moment, nothing moved. Then came the eruption, a wave of cheering and stomping, the savage roar of a crew released from tension.

Kalltor barely registered the sound. It was distant, meaningless. He had claimed his first mark. The long road of vengeance had begun. The dusk turned to night, and the Mor ò Thail hammered through the waves. They were merely hours from contact, the first wound that would remind Sartise death was marching for him. Tonight, the trailing vessel would fall, and the message would be sent. Kalltor let Tolgeen guide them now, knowing any glimmer of lantern light on the horizon would betray the Armekalian fleet.

Kalltor stood at the prow, his gaze locked on the black horizon where the sea devoured the last traces of sky. The Mor ò Thail surged forward, its hull knifing through the waves, the wind whipping through the rigging like whispered warnings. Beneath him, the ship’s figurehead jutted forward, a monstrous wyrm with its skeletal maw frozen in an eternal snarl. Spines lined its neck, some broken, others jagged as a butcher’s blade, gleaming faintly under Astra’s dull glow. Shadows clung to the intricate layers of iron plating bolted over its wooden bones, its hollow eye sockets staring into the abyss ahead.

It was not silence. It was only the illusion of it. The lie that nothing moved in the dark.

The night after Mika had fallen, Kalltor had felt solemn, neither joyous nor content. The crew had drunk and danced around the fire, laughing, shouting, spilling blood. They had executed slaves, tortured others, carving their pleasures into flesh. He had wanted none of it. He let the men take what they needed for their own souls. He had been fed by something else, something colder.

Then—a clank.

The illusion shattered.

The rusted chains draped around the wyrm’s throat rattled against the wind, a sharp clash against the night’s hush. It jolted through the ship, a reminder that no predator moved unheard.

Volnaire turned sharply, his voice low but edged like a blade.

‘Secure those chains,’ he ordered. ‘No noise. Nothing that gives us away.’

The crew did not hesitate. A pair of deckhands moved swiftly, binding the chains in thick cloth, strangling the sound before it could betray them.

Kalltor did not turn. He did not need to. The past had been silenced once more. The Thail pressed forward. Relentless. Unforgiving. Closing in. It was now the stillness that gave rise to the power he held as he returned to the helm. The Thail carved through the waves, unseen in the dark, its presence felt only in the moments before it struck.

6

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The night pressed in, suffocating, swallowing the Mor ò Thail in its depths. The sea stretched in all directions, vast and unknowable, the horizon erased in shadow. Above, Astra’s glow was muted behind drifting cloud cover, offering no aid to those who relied on sight alone.

Kalltor stared into the black, but there was nothing to see, only endless dark, thick as oil. His world was reduced to motion and sound. The Thail’s hull sliced through the waves, the steady rhythm of water against wood his only constant. The salt-heavy air clung to his skin, the scent of brine and damp timber filling his lungs.

Then came a single tap against the helm’s deck, a quiet signal from Tolgeen, careful and near silent, meant to guide without giving them away.

Kalltor didn’t hesitate. His hands flexed against the wheel, fingers adjusting their grip. He felt the Thail’s response immediately, a shift beneath his boots, a tilt, a subtle resistance as the rudder bit into the current. The fleet was ahead. Not in his vision, but in Tolgeen’s.

Tolgeen would guide the hunt. Kalltor would deliver the kill.

The Armekalians were using a scattered signaling protocol, lanterns flashing in erratic bursts to avoid detection. They always accounted for night spotters, took precautions against those rare few who could see in the dark. But true night vision was uncommon, and the greater risk wasn’t discovery. It was collision.

No fleet could afford to sail blind. Not even theirs.

Yet they sailed slow, their formation cautious. Against the Thail’s speed, they were all targets. But tonight, only one ship would fall. It was never about destruction. It had always been about the message. A strike from the ghost of the oceans. A warning. Then, the Thail would vanish before they could react.

Kalltor had perfected this hunt, striking naval units from both the East and the West. The only difference now was that this fleet carried an admiral.

The Thail’s crew remained in absolute silence. Kalltor had trained them for this. They had come to piracy as free men, undisciplined, unshaped. He had turned them into killers. Not wild dogs tearing at the scraps, but men who could stand against the Armekalian navy and win.

Another tap came, this time a double, followed by a slower third. The Thail responded with a subtle shift, barely perceptible, a silent lurch beneath Kalltor’s boots. Above them, the mast gave a faint creak as the pressure realigned. Volnaire glanced sideways, but Kalltor offered no reaction. The sound wasn’t enough to give them away. Not yet.

The sea pressed close around them, vast and silent, as if listening for the smallest sound. Darkness weighed on the water, unmoving and watchful. The air grew tighter, heavier with each breath. Not one man moved. Not a whisper passed between them. Even the sails seemed to hold their breath.

Kalltor’s hands gripped the wheel with quiet precision. He was blind now, navigating by feel and trust alone. Every inch depended on Tolgeen, and Tolgeen would not fail.

A new signal. The tap came, clear and decisive, guiding them forward. The hunt was underway again. He was sending them to the southernmost ship in the fleet. It was not the admiral’s vessel, but one of the flanking boats.

The Armekalians were slow in the water now. If they had a night spotter like Tolgeen, the hunt would be over. They would become the hunted. The crew knew this risk. As much as they trusted Kalltor, this could be their last attack.

Right now, neither of the two nearest Armekalian ships had shown any signs of breaking form.

A flicker on the horizon broke the dark, small at first, then two more, pulsing in rhythm. Lantern signals flashed between ships, a coded language of light that gave away their position, and Tolgeen was reading every flicker.

They betrayed the Armekalian positions. Now, Kalltor could see them. But Tolgeen would still provide the signals for direction.

Astra and Nyx weren’t bright enough to deceive the Thail. The ghost on the water continued to hunt.

Volnaire gave the nod to the skotar, the weapons masters handling the ballistae. They silently took their positions.

The Halicern was a ship Kalltor knew well, a slow armored vessel, more durable but less agile than the Mor ò Thail. It was not an easy target. Tolgeen kept signaling. The Thail responded with each subtle shift, the silent language between them rehearsed, precise, without hesitation. Kalltor trusted Tolgeen now as much as he trusted Volnaire. They needed to bring the Thail in close, remain unseen.

Any captain would feel their heart pounding in their chest. But Kalltor remained still. Calm. Steady. Nothing about him suggested he had anything but control.

A single pilot light betrayed the Halicern’s position, a faint, flickering glow suspended in the black like a heartbeat lost in a storm. One of the Thail’s skotar stepped forward and raised his crossbow, the motion silent, precise. The man had once been a sentry on the fort, trained in hitting his mark without error. Now, in the lull between waves, he took aim.

The string released with a soft snap.

Across the water, metal kissed metal with a sharp tink, and the pilot light vanished.

No alarm followed. Only an indistinct murmur stirred from the Halicern’s deck, half-formed voices rising, uncertain. Whatever they had heard, it wasn’t enough to break the dark. Not yet.

A grappling line shot out, silent and swift, cutting through the void. It was a delicate, near-impossible shot, timed between wave crests, aimed with no margin for error. The clank of metal rang out, and the Halicern’s rudder jerked. A small shift. Barely perceptible. Yet, it was enough. The ship began to drift southward, the rudder locked off-center. The Thail released the line, leaving it lodged in place. The Halicern was now moving off course, veering, undetected.

The Thail sped up again, maneuvering toward the south side stern of the Halicern, still unseen. Deckhands stirred uneasily on the Halicern, voices rising in uncertain bursts. Their ship had listed slightly, and the helm wasn’t responding, leaving the crew scrambling for control. A new pilot light flared to life, struck by flint. Just as the first had been snuffed out, this one flickered briefly before it, too, was extinguished. A second crossbow bolt found its mark, and the man who had attempted to relight the flame slumped forward, lifeless. A cry of surprise broke the silence, followed by hurried movement. The first signs of alarm rippled through the crew.

Shouts rose from the Halicern’s deck as Kalltor’s vessel was finally spotted. Urgent, scattered calls bled into the wind, no longer hiding the panic that had taken hold.

A loud metallic bell rang out, its jarring clang echoing across the water toward the Thail like a desperate signal. A breath later, a second bell followed, faster, sharper. The warning was clear.

In response, the Thail surged.

Crossbow bolts rained down on the Halicern, tearing into the deck, finding their marks in flesh and timber alike. No fire. Just chaos. Bolt after bolt sliced the night, carving through unsuspecting men. Screams filled the dark.

The Thail surged forward, prow angling toward the Halicern’s side. Two anchor-headed ballistae fired from the prow, the iron tips punching deep into the hull, splintering wood, biting into the ship’s ribs. The Thail turned east, angling broadside. A second volley of crossbow fire, rapid and relentless, punched through men before they could reload their own weapons.

Volnaire gave the nod, and the skotar moved without hesitation. One by one, they lit the next wave.

The first volley of flaming bolts arced through the night like streaks of vengeful light. They struck the Halicern’s sails, buried in the deck, set fire to the rigging. A second volley followed, then a third, without pause, without mercy. Flames spread in uneven waves, clawing up the tarred ropes, leaping to the masts as the fire found eager fuel. In moments, the ship had become a beacon in the black, its towering mast transformed into a pyre.

The Thail veered hard to the south, sails snapping open to catch the wind. She turned sharply, vanishing once more into the dark. Behind them, the Halicern burned, its silhouette folding into fire and smoke. The other ships, including the admiral’s, had only just turned. It was already too late. There was nothing left to chase.

No cheer rose from the Thail’s deck. The crew held their silence, grim, resolved, focused. This was not the time for victory cries.

When the mast of the Halicern cracked and fell into the sea with a hiss of steam and splintered timber, the moment was shared in silence. Every man aboard had wanted to roar.

None did.

They remained shadows on the sea.

By daybreak, the Thail drifted once more, her silhouette still veiled by early mist. The stillness returned, and murmurs rippled across the deck. The attack had been a success.

And tonight, they would be expected.

The Mor ò Thail would not disappoint.

7

––––––––

Day broke over the northern Sea of Thewthyri, casting its pale light over the three remaining Armekalian vessels. The waves rolled steady beneath them, to Admiral Sartise, the waters felt treacherous, uncertain. They were nearing the midpoint between Keis’s Castle and Kater Peak, still beyond the reach of Eastern Union waters, yet no comfort came with the dawn. The sea stretched around them, open and unchallenged, except Sartise felt anything but safe.

He stood rigid on the quarterdeck, a figure of unshaken command, his broad shoulders wrapped in a deep-blue sagum, fastened at the collarbone with a bronze pin shaped like a ship’s prow. Beneath it, his laminar cuirass of layered bands of reinforced leather and iron bore the marks of years at sea. The salt had eaten into the edges, dulling what had once gleamed. His arms, still strong despite fifty-nine years, rested behind his back, fingers interlocked in thought. Once dark as the tides, his hair had turned to silver streaked with iron, cropped short to keep the wind from seizing it. A map of war and time, his face bore deep lines cut into his brow, one cheek scarred from a skirmish at sea decades ago. And those eyes, cold and unrelenting, surveyed the horizon with calculation.

He was not the kind of man to let bitterness shape him, though the sting of last night’s failure still pressed against his ribs. A captain could rage over a lost ship. A lesser man could curse and lament the enemy’s cunning. Sartise was not a man who indulged in failure. He studied it, dissected it, and made sure it never happened again.

There had still been no sighting of the Eastern Union vessels that had supposedly strayed into western waters. Sartise was beginning to wonder if it was the pirates that had been reported, or if any vessels had been spotted at all.

He had realized too late what was happening. The enemy had struck without hesitation, without mercy. And now the captains of the two surviving Halicerns, too proud to admit they had been caught off guard, stood before him, convinced they would be ready if the Mor ò Thail returned.

It was a dangerous game. There would be no reinforcements. No other fleet to come to their aid.

The pirates would come again, that much was certain.

But when?

If they struck tonight, it would be bold, yet expected. But if they waited, if they dragged the hunt over days, the remaining ships could slip away, and the chance to finish the fleet would vanish with them.

Captain Wolst hovered over the map, his gloved finger drawing a steady line toward the east, more confident than he sounded. ‘We will be waiting for them tonight if they return,’ he said, his tone thick with forced confidence.

Sartise barely looked at him. Wolst was posturing. He was trying to win favor, to reassure himself. The truth was written in the wreckage they had left behind. They had lost a good ship last night. One of the fastest, cleanest ambushes Sartise had ever witnessed.

‘Tonight,’ his fists slammed against the charts in front of him.

‘That’s exactly what he wants you to think. He wants you to think you’re prepared. You fucking fool. You’re already playing his game. He’ll hunt you down. He’ll cut you like a hung deer. Never underestimate him.’

Wolst swallowed hard. He had overstepped. His confidence had carried him too far, and now he needed to regain composure.

‘Kalltor knows we’d abandon Armekalian protocols to hunt him down. He knows we’d track him. He knows we’re aware he has a night spotter, and we chose to go without one.’

Ulritch, the second captain, said nothing. He was slightly older than Wolst, had been in the navy longer, but his silence wasn’t from experience. It was from grief. His brother had captained the lost vessel, and the weight of it showed in his eyes.

‘He’s playing us,’ Sartise said, his voice steadying. ‘He expects us to change course. He knows we’d only head back to Keis’s Castle—it’s the closest port, we’re only two days out.’

Ulritch’s gaze lingered on the map. His fingers traced the stretch of ocean, calculating, considering. The idea had already begun forming in his mind before he spoke.

‘Head east,’ he murmured, too quiet for the others to hear at first. ‘Head east.’ He repeated, louder, with more confidence.

Sartise frowned. He saw it immediately. Ulritch was right. It was the one move Kalltor wouldn’t expect. Further toward enemy territory. It was reckless, but also their best chance. If they were lucky, they’d find Eastern Union warships in these waters. The Easterners would sooner chase pirates than an Armekalian fleet of only three vessels.

Sartise’s lips pressed into a thin line. ‘We light the ships tonight, and the next, and the next,’ he said. ‘We don’t tighten formation. We hold loosely. He’ll try to pick one of us off, but if we make it obvious where we are, we might make it obvious to the Eastern Union too.’

Ulritch’s expression shifted. He already knew what Sartise was about to say. The Suthrael, his ship and his command, was bait. A flaming trap. If the Mor ò Thail struck, Ulritch would give him the illusion of victory, draw Kalltor in, let him take the fight. And then, at the perfect moment, the Suthrael would turn into a battering ram, prow set to collide in a blaze of fire and ruin.

Throughout the day, the crew of the Suthrael, under Captain Ulritch’s command, doused the decks in oil, ensuring every board would burn hot and fast. Anything of value, including supplies, weapons, and ammunition, was transferred to the Varkellon, Sartise’s flagship, where the admiral oversaw every detail of the preparations. Meanwhile, Captain Wolst readied the Drenzaris for combat, reinforcing its defenses and ensuring every weapon was primed for the inevitable fight.

The Varkellon led the formation, its course shifting due east toward the very waters that could doom them all. Sartise knew the risk. Sailing toward the Eastern Union was a gamble, but lingering here, waiting to be picked off like prey, was certain death. Kalltor would anticipate that they’d break from protocol, that they’d try to turn back toward the safety of Keis’s Castle.

So Sartise did the opposite.

Kalltor would follow, that much was certain. But if the pirates committed to the chase, they’d be sailing headlong toward forces that even they might not be prepared to face. The Eastern Union was always watching, always waiting for an excuse to strike. Sartise would rather take his chances with them than with Kalltor in the dark.

And if the Union arrived in time?

Then, for one night, enemies could become allies.

Dusk crept over the sea, swallowing the last vestiges of daylight. The wind shifted, carrying the salt-thick scent of open water and the distant hush of rolling waves. The sky, once clear, darkened as scattered stars began to flicker through wisps of cloud, their light barely enough to cut through the deepening gloom.

Aboard the fleet, the final preparations were made. Every lantern was lit, not for comfort, but for strategy. There would be no mistaking their whereabouts. Concealment was meaningless now. Either they would be seen by the Eastern Union and investigated, or Kalltor would take the bait and attack.

Sartise stood at the helm of the Varkellon, his fingers curling against the wood. Kalltor would come, of that he was certain. The only question was how much the bastard had guessed.

Either way, Sartise would be ready.

Minutes turned to hours, and the fleet crawled forward, forced to slow as the night swallowed them whole. The waters were unfamiliar, the dark stretching endlessly in all directions, and without the safety of a known strategic formation, their vulnerability was stark. Any vessel trailing them would see it, how their movements lacked confidence, how their course wavered slightly, as if searching for something unseen. The only hope was that Kalltor saw uncertainty rather than bait.

They had never planned to venture this far east, not with four ships, and even less so now, with only three remaining. Yet the course was set, and the only way out was forward. Sartise had played himself into a corner, turning his own complacency into a weapon against him. Within Aurenvian waters, the fleet had strength, security. Here, in the unknown, there was no safety. Not for them, not even for Kalltor. The Eastern Union did not tolerate intrusions. If they were sighted, there would be no chance to explain, no room to retreat.

By midnight, the strain wore heavy on the crews. The men were restless, their exhaustion sharpening into unease. No sign of Kalltor. The water stretched endless and still, no shifting silhouettes, no unnatural disturbances against the starlit waves. Only the steady lap of the sea, unbroken, relentless.

Some watchmen had to be reminded of their duty, their focus slipping in the stillness. The sharp scent of oil hung in the air, thick and clinging, carried on the wind from the Suthrael. It bled into the salt spray, a lingering presence that seeped into everything.

Ulritch and his chosen men stood ready, eyes sweeping the black horizon, hands poised at the rigging. Every breath was measured, every movement restrained. If the moment came, the Suthrael would burn fast, taking Kalltor with it. The waiting was suffocating.

By the early hours of the morning, fatigue was impossible to ignore. Watches were rotated, weary crewmen slipping below deck for restless sleep while others took their place. The sky was beginning to shift, the first traces of pale blue breaking through the night’s grasp. Across the fleet, the captains took stock, and the tension in their shoulders eased just enough to be seen.

Perhaps Kalltor had never intended to return. Perhaps last night’s attack had been nothing more than a moment of opportunity, not part of a greater strategy.

Sartise knew better.

If he turned back now, the ambush would be waiting for him. He could feel it, an inevitability as sharp as a blade against his throat. But neither could he keep sailing east. The further they strayed, the deeper the risk, the closer they drifted toward the enemy’s grasp.

The first rays of the sun bled across the horizon, thin streaks of gold through lingering cloud. Sartise exhaled. There was no relief in it.

Kalltor wasn’t coming. Not like this. Not during the day.

Signals were sent to the other vessels for course correction. Nor-nor-west. Forget the merchant hunt. Forget the trap. Keis’s Castle was the only safe harbor now.

Kalltor had overstepped, had revealed himself too soon. Or perhaps, Sartise thought grimly, he was simply more patient than they had given him credit for.

The three ships slowed, adjusting their course northward. Sartise, worn from the night’s tension, left the helm to his navigator and made his way below deck. He had barely settled into his quarters, a modest alcove behind the officer’s station, barely large enough for a cot and desk, when the sharp cry of a spotter shattered the morning stillness.

‘Sail!’

The bells on the Varkellon rang out in alarm.

‘South-east!’ the spotter bellowed. ‘Sails, south-east!’

Sartise jolted upright. South-east? That was the least likely direction Kalltor could attack from. If he had somehow managed to flank them in the night, he would have needed an unprecedented amount of speed. It wasn’t possible.

He reached the helm in seconds, shoving the navigator aside and gripping the wheel himself.

‘How many?’ Sartise barked.

Murmurs passed between the crew as the watch relayed their signals. Moments stretched before the answer came.

‘Three, my lord.’

Three?

‘Is it the Thail?’

‘No, my lord. I think it’s... Razebreakers.’

The East. The Eastern Union.

Three Razebreakers this far out meant one of two things: either an escort headed toward the northern Kingdom of Elanwyn or reconnaissance. No fleet of warships. If they were scouting, they had already seen the Armekalian fleet.

Sartise’s jaw tightened. The Razebreakers could outrun them effortlessly. If they wanted a chase, there was no hope of catching them. But three ships wouldn’t risk engaging alone, not against Halicerns.

‘Break formation,’ he ordered. ‘Hold position.’

Crewmen glanced at each other uneasily.

‘Fly the flag of truce,’ Sartise commanded.

Eyes flickered with doubt, fear.

He looked past them, toward the horizon, watching as the foreign sails shifted in the wind.

‘Our enemies,’ he slurred, ‘are also Kalltor’s enemies.’

The Varkellon sailed alone toward the Razebreakers. The three Eastern ships tightened formation, yet no sign of a truce flag appeared. The navigator, standing beside Sartise, glanced at him uneasily. Three Halicerns against three Razebreakers was a fair fight, but only if they had the full fleet behind them. Alone? Even with Sartise’s experience, it was a dangerous challenge. Worse, if the East saw no reason for diplomacy, they might seize the moment. If they chose to attack, they could outrun the Varkellon and cut off the other two Halicerns before they reached safety.

‘My lord. They’re holding formation and moving toward us. This is not a sign of peace,’ the navigator said, voice tight.

Sartise’s jaw clenched. He saw it too. Yet he couldn’t let the chance slip away, not if the East had any interest in striking a deal. They wanted Kalltor dead just as much as the West did. The Razebreakers weren’t just holding formation now; they were adjusting, shifting their positions into an attack pattern.

‘My lord. We need to turn now. We won’t get another chance.’

Sartise exhaled slowly, the weight of the moment settling over him. They had been wrong. The East wasn’t here to talk. No other course remained but to return to the fleet and keep to the plan. The Razebreakers wouldn’t pursue, not this far out.

‘Prepare to come about! Bring us north, full sail!’ Sartise barked.

The crew braced as the Varkellon lurched into a hard turn, the deck listing sharply. Loose rigging snapped. Barrels slid across the deck, crashing into the bulwarks. Several men lost their footing, skidding toward the gunwales before catching themselves. The ship groaned as the rudder bit into the water, fighting against the shift. Then she steadied, and the sails filled once more.

The Razebreakers held their course, they kept coming.

‘What are they doing?’ His voice was low, but edged with unease.

‘They won’t reach us before we regroup with the Suthrael and Drenzaris. They should break off before then,’ the navigator assured him.

Ahead, the two Armekalian ships came alive. They had been holding position, waiting, but now, suddenly, they were moving. Their course shifted northward, side by side, moving away.

Sartise’s gut twisted.

He narrowed his eyes. ‘Where the hell are they going?’

A shout from the prow.

‘Sail!’

A rush of movement. Sartise squinted, eyes narrowing against the horizon.

Then, he saw it.

A shape emerging in the morning light. Low, dark, cutting through the water like a blade. A shadow where no shadow should be.

‘It’s the Thail!’ The cry from the prow split the air.

For a split second, hope flickered in Sartise’s chest. If the Razebreakers followed, if they pursued Kalltor instead, this could turn. If they could force the Mor ò Thail into a direct fight, if the East engaged...

Maybe.

Maybe they could turn this disaster into victory.

‘Make this work to our advantage. We outnumber him—three Halicerns against one. We can take him. The Eastern Razebreakers are at our back; let them do what they do best. Force him into their path, and they’ll finish the job for us.

Today, Kalltor dies. Today, the Mor ò Thail sinks to the depths of the Sea of Thewthyri.’

They pressed forward, the Varkellon holding her course toward the two Halicerns, which had now shifted into defensive positions, shielding the Suthrael.

Sartise exhaled, the words slipping out, more a plea than a command. ‘Hold him there. Hold him there. Do not let him slip behind you, Wolst.’

The Suthrael’s decks were still thick with oil, her skeleton crew struggling to keep her from becoming a death trap. She was armed, but undermanned, her sails trimmed to keep her within the formation. If even a single spark caught, she’d go up before she ever reached the fight.

The key was control. Wolst and Ulritch had to hold the line. If they held, the Razebreakers wouldn’t be needed. But if the Halicerns faltered, if they failed to keep Kalltor contained, then the Easterners might become the only thing standing between them and the abyss.

For long, grinding minutes, Sartise watched the Halicerns twist and lurch, locked in a battle of inches. The clash was unfolding too far ahead, too far for him to command, too far for his voice to reach Wolst over the din of wind and war.

He saw the flicker of the Thail’s sails, its silhouette cutting sharp against the horizon, and his gut twisted as Kalltor outmaneuvered the Drenzaris. Wolst was losing ground. The Suthrael listed awkwardly behind them, caught between holding its position and trying to keep fire from devouring her decks. Buckets sloshed against the oil-slicked planks, too little water, too few men, too much to be done. Ulritch was buying time. Time was slipping fast.

Sartise looked over his shoulder. The Razebreakers had not deviated. Their formation held, sleek and relentless, their prows slicing forward like knives. When he had first sighted them, they had been a half-hour behind. Now, they were closing the gap. The Varkellon felt heavier beneath his boots, weighted with the extra crew and weapons stripped from the Suthrael. They had thought to strengthen their numbers, but now, watching the battle ahead unfold, Sartise wondered if he had only delayed the inevitable.

The Thail broke into full view, and Wolst’s Drenzaris swung broadside, locking into a deadly standoff. Arrows streaked through the air between them, thin black lines against the dully lit sky. The distance was still wide, it wouldn’t stay that way. Neither had the upper hand, but Kalltor wasn’t fighting for an upper hand. He was driving them south, forcing Wolst to tack away or risk losing his wind entirely.

Sartise let out a slow, measured breath, sharp at the edges, controlled only by force of will.

‘Wolst, you fool.’

The Suthrael lagged behind, feinting defensive maneuvers, but its speed was spent. Too few crew, too few weapons. The only advantage left was an illusion, and Kalltor must have known it.

Sartise clenched his jaw, the muscles aching from the force of it.

There was still time. If the Razebreakers committed, if the Thail could be forced just a little further east, if they could hold him long enough... He clenched the rail.

There was nothing he could do.

Not from here.

Not against this.

And the Suthrael was doomed.

At his command.

His own trap had turned against him, and now, all he could do was watch as Kalltor tore between his remaining fleet.

A breath of hope flared in Sartise’s chest. He could still salvage this, if nothing else, the Drenzaris and the Varkellon. If the Razebreakers pushed forward, if Kalltor turned too late—

Then, before his eyes, Ulritch made his first mistake.

Perhaps it was the thin crew, perhaps the wind had shifted, but the Suthrael lurched awkwardly westward, its course faltering. The deck swayed, the sails sagging as she lost her wind, dragging sluggishly in the water. For a single, damning moment, she was exposed, blocking the Drenzaris and leaving a gaping hole in the formation. Sartise’s gut twisted.

It was unraveling too fast. Ulritch must have been trying to regain the wind, instead, he had sailed straight into it, killing his own momentum. Any ground the Suthrael had gained from her defensive maneuver was gone, and now—now—the Thail was already moving.

Prow-first, blistering fast, a black shape cutting through the water, closing in on the stricken Suthrael like a blade seeking flesh. The Drenzaris was trapped, forced to slow at the flank. Helpless. A handful of desperate arrows loosed from the Suthrael. They fell short. Useless.

Ulritch tried to swing broadside, even knowing his decks weren’t ready. It didn’t matter. Kalltor had already read the maneuver. Planned for it.

Several bright flashes rained from the Mor ò Thail in a hail of fire onto the Suthrael. The Thail moved, veering at an angle, not to strike the kill but to move past, fast and direct, straight for the Varkellon.

Sartise gripped the helm until his knuckles went white as the first flames took hold of the Suthrael’s deck.

It was burning.

Not as a weapon. Not in pursuit of victory.

As a beacon of failure.

The trap had turned against them, and now the Thail was slipping past, moving fast, cutting straight for the Varkellon. And Sartise could only watch as his own plan unraveled into ruin.

Through the shimmering haze of heat rising from the burning Suthrael, the Drenzaris emerged. In the distance, figures leapt from the inferno, their bodies vanishing into the black water below. Kalltor was no longer hunting. He had done his damage. Now he was running southwest, slipping away before the Razebreakers could close the gap.

Sartise had a choice.

He could turn back, pull the survivors from the wreck, regroup, limp home to Keis’s Castle with nothing except shame and loss.

Or—

He could finish what he started.

Pride clenched like iron in his chest as he turned his gaze toward the Razebreakers. They had altered course, pursuing the Thail. Kalltor was finally fleeing. He might be able to outmaneuver them, but Sartise was in position to cut him off and force him toward the Drenzaris, as long as he didn’t stop for the survivors still floundering in the waters near the burning Suthrael.

His grip tightened.

The decision had already been made.

Signals were sent. The Drenzaris fell into formation.

Forget the Suthrael.

Forget Ulritch.

The Thail was the only goal now.

And Sartise would not let him escape. Not this time.

The Varkellon heaved as she turned west, aiming to cut off the Thail. The Razebreakers were closing in fast. If Kalltor didn’t turn now, he would be trapped between them. The Drenzaris had already taken the cue, slipping around the burning Suthrael, leaving Ulritch and his crew to their fate.

Kalltor had to see it. Had to know he had no choice. He executed a hard northwest tack, a desperate maneuver to break free before the Varkellon and Drenzaris pinched him between their hulls. But the shift cost him speed.

The Thail faltered. The wind lightened.

Sartise’s gut twisted as he saw it.

The Drenzaris slid into position, slipping into the Thail’s wake and stealing the wind from her sails. Kalltor’s ship lurched as the gusts were drained, her momentum bleeding away. He was struggling. For the first time in this chase, he looked truly vulnerable.

The hope that had lingered in Sartise’s chest solidified into certainty.

The Razebreakers had closed within a few hundred yards of the Varkellon, their sharp hulls slicing through the waves like hounds in pursuit of prey. Pride swelled in Sartise’s chest. The East and the West were aligned. Their old grudges meant nothing compared to the greater hunt.

But then—

A voice beside him. Uneasy.

‘My lord...’ The navigator’s voice faltered. ‘We need to call off the attack. Now. Forget the Thail.’

Disdain curled Sartise’s lip.

‘What?’

‘My lord... look.’

The closest Razebreaker bore down, its crew a wall of steel and snarling faces. No Eastern banners. No Union insignia. Just blades drawn and voices rising over the wind.

“Vor-gan su-plem! Vor-gan su-plem!”  The chant carried over the spray, rising, deafening. “Mor-ó-thail! Mor-ó-thail!”

Sartise’s breath caught.

The trap had snapped shut.

The Thail pivoted, tacking hard past the Drenzaris and slipping back into clean air, her sails snapping taut as she surged forward, charging straight for the Varkellon. Wolst saw only a cornered beast, a ship with nowhere left to run. He wouldn’t steal Sartise’s kill; he would hold his line, ready to close in for the final blow.

Two of the Razebreakers peeled away, carving through the churning sea, driving straight for the Drenzaris. Last among them, the closest veered hard into Sartise’s line, closing fast, cutting off his escape.

The Varkellon was too heavy and too slow. Extra crew and the weight of weapons taken from the Suthrael had been meant to give them an edge, but instead, it had made them sluggish.

Sartise’s men manned the ballistae, adjusting their aim, bracing against the swell. The target was clear: the Razebreaker closing from the west.

They thought they had the advantage. Five ships against one. The numbers were theirs.

Except Kalltor had never been alone.

Sartise felt his breath hitch as his hands clenched the wheel. He had led them into this, welcomed it. He had turned toward the Razebreakers, trusted them to be the enemy of his enemy. He had even flown the flag of truce. When they hadn’t yielded, he should have realized. That was the moment to turn away.

His hands clenched white against the wheel, his stomach twisting with something bitter, something he had never felt before. It wasn’t just defeat. It was humiliation.

There had never been an Eastern threat. The Razebreakers had never been chasing Kalltor. Sartise had been played, drawn out, and led straight into the jaws of a waiting trap.

The Varkellon heaved as Sartise turned her hard east, the Razebreaker looming in pursuit, just as the Thail tore down from the north, closing fast. The Drenzaris, still giving chase, faltered. Its crew must have seen what Sartise now understood too late. The other two Razebreakers weren’t hunting Kalltor. They were closing in on Wolst.

The order was given. The ballistae fired, iron-tipped bolts soaring through the air before slamming into the Razebreaker’s deck, ripping through planks and biting into the hull. But it did not slow. The ship pressed forward, relentless.

A weighted line snapped across the gap, its iron head striking the Varkellon’s rudder chains with a sharp clang. The rope tangled, jerking the ship sideways, dragging resistance into the water.

The Varkellon shuddered beneath Sartise’s boots as momentum drained from her sails. Her wheel turned sluggishly beneath his hands, the rudder fouled and unresponsive.

From the north, Kalltor’s Thail angled in, prow slicing clean through the wake. From the south, the Razebreaker, Yord’s no doubt, was closing fast. Sartise was boxed in. The Drenzaris had no clear line to assist, her course tangled as she fought to break free from the two Razebreakers pressing her into battle.

Crossbow bolts rained from all sides. More ropes fired, ballista bolts meant for boarding, their iron hooks biting deep into the Varkellon’s hull. Sartise’s men scrambled to cut them free, hacking at the thick, barbed lines.

The ship lurched, the enemy closing.

It was no longer a naval battle. It was a boarding.

The first men from Yord’s Razebreaker leapt across, cheering, howling as they landed, blades flashing. Kalltor’s men followed moments later, flooding the Varkellon’s deck in a brutal, crashing tide.

Screams drowned the wind as steel clashed, the smell of blood thick in the air. Kalltor and Volnaire boarded together. Kalltor had one goal. He cut through the fray, his boots slick with blood, shouldering past bodies locked in desperate combat. He could already see Sartise at the helm. The admiral had known, even before the first man fell, what fate awaited him.

The navigator moved first, stepping between Kalltor and his admiral, blade raised. Kalltor cut him down in a single stroke. Behind him, Volnaire turned back the rush of men, his sword a blur, carving a path to ensure no one reached Sartise.

Kalltor drove forward, sword pressing against Sartise’s chest, the tip tilting toward his throat.

‘Save your men, you cowardly fuck.’ His voice was a low rasp, raw with fury. ‘Call a stop. Now.’

Sartise’s throat bobbed. He had no defense. He reached for the bell.

The sharp clang rang hollow through the chaos. Metal scraped against metal, weapons lowering, men hesitating. The Armekalians held their ground, their grips still firm on their swords, but the pirates surrounded them, waiting.

‘Stop!’ Sartise barked. ‘It’s over!’

A murmur ran through the Varkellon’s deck, the sounds of combat thinning into uneasy silence. Across the water, the Drenzaris had struck her colors. A white flag snapped against the wind.

Volnaire stepped forward, a coil of rope in hand. Sartise was marched down the deck, his boots dragging, until he was bound to the mainmast, arms wrenched tight against the rough wood.

Then, Volnaire turned to the Armekalians still holding their positions, his voice cutting through the heavy silence.

‘Men of Armekalia! You have a choice. Throw down your weapons and join us. Live. Serve the Thail, and you will be free. No navy to command you. No officers to abandon you. You will have riches, women, and ale!’

A roar of approval surged from the pirates.

‘Throw down your weapons!’

And one by one, the blades hit the deck.

8

––––––––

Gurrlan paced the length of his pen, his hooves grinding deep furrows into the damp straw. His thick hide rippled, the coarse black bristles rising as he snorted, nostrils flaring. He could still catch the scent of Deyra on the air, faint, lingering, slipping further from him. For days, she had been at his side, a steady presence that soothed his war-born instincts. Now she was gone.

The other beasts of the stables, prized destriers and palfreys, sleek and pampered, remained unbothered, content in the luxury of their masters’ wealth. They were bred for parades and ceremony, gifts for the lords and arbiters who flaunted their status like a divine right. Gurrlan was not one of them. He was a creature of war. His instincts warned him of absences, of shifts in the air. And something in the air felt wrong.

Leaving the stables behind, where Gurrlan paced in uneasy solitude, Saylong and Deyra moved through the stone-clad corridors toward the halls of power, stepping into a battlefield where words struck sharper than steel.

The great hall of Haithe loomed before them, its carved oak doors stretching wide, swallowing them whole. They had come to speak, to recount the ambush in Roydne, to make the Order listen, to force them to understand that somewhere within their ranks, a mouth whispered secrets to the wrong ears. Saylong wasn’t here to point fingers. Not yet. He wanted answers. And if the Order failed to give them, he would find them himself.

Deyra regretted coming the moment she stepped inside.

She should have been riding north, toward home. Her father had burned on the shores of Roydne, sent to Tvaris in flame and smoke. So had Rysna. A war-chieftain, a leader, a warrior who had put his faith in this damned alliance. Jakren Dubaris had promised to send word north of the fallen from Lucarion. Whether it would ever reach was another matter. Who knew if the North would even care? She needed to be there. Needed to stand before the chieftains herself and demand they bring the North to Haithe. Demand they claim their seat.

Instead, she had spent ten long days walking with Saylong from Lucarion to Haithe, the journey stretching beneath the weight of his vision. She despised politics, yet with every mile, with every fire they sat beside, she found herself listening. Not because she wanted to, but because his words carried something she had never heard from a Southerner before. He didn’t speak of the North as a land to be tamed or conquered. He spoke of it as though it held the key to everything.

And somehow, by the end of those days, she had begun to see it, too.

Lucarion had spat on her. Haithe was no different. She felt their gazes before she even looked up, envoys, lesser lords, men who made no effort to hide their disdain. They whispered as she passed, eyes flicking over her furs, her armor, the way she stood too proud, too fierce. She didn’t belong. And they made sure she knew it.

Saylong didn’t need to see it to know it was there. He had warned her. Unlike the others, he had treated her with respect.

For a Southerner, he was a good man. And more than that, he saw the North as something greater than a land of warbands and frost. He saw them as people, people who deserved to stand among the Order.

Deyra exhaled sharply, shifting the weight of her axe against her shoulder.

‘You’re not going to make me stand outside the halls and feed me scraps of deer again, are you?’ she muttered.

A rare smile flickered across Saylong’s face. ‘Tell me you didn’t like that deer.’

She let the silence stretch just a little too long.

‘It was the best thing I’ve ever eaten,’ she admitted, reluctant. ‘I have never tasted anything like it.’

Saylong’s brow lifted. ‘In all your years in the North, nothing better?’

She smirked, shaking her head. ‘You ever had sherpgrop?’

Saylong hesitated. ‘I’m not sure.’ He had learned much of the North’s tongue, but their dialects were a tangle of shifting phrases and layered meanings.

Deyra laughed, the sound low, almost to herself. ‘You’d know if you had. Pit-roasted boar.’ Then, as an afterthought, quieter, ‘Not that I think I could eat boar again now.’

Her hand brushed absently against her hip, where Gurrlan had once pressed close. The warmth of him, the way he grunted when she spoke, the strange way he had chosen her without her even realizing.

Saylong studied her, nodding once. ‘Maybe you should try sherpgrop with deer.’

She snorted. ‘Blasphemy.’

Saylong only shrugged.

‘The pit is fired high and hot,’ she continued, half explained, half lost in memory. ‘Smothered in steathite rock, heated until the air warps with it. Then the boar is lowered in, covered in the leaves of the summer ferns, buried beneath the stones. We leave it until the sun sinks low into the horizon. The smell...’ She closed her eyes for just a moment. ‘It’s only done at the longest day, when the night never darkens.’

Saylong listened. Every word she spoke, he tucked away. He did that with every scrap of culture, every glimpse into the North. Because he understood what no one else in the Order did, understanding was power.

The more he understood, the more he could make them see.

The more he made them see, the closer he came to forging something new.

And for that to happen, the Order had to listen.

This was no easy feat.

Saylong paced outside the closed doors of the Order’s chamber, his boots striking a steady rhythm against the stone. He wasn’t nervous. Standing before the most powerful figures in Teloshka meant little to him. What mattered was that one of them had sent him to die.

They had known he was in Roydne. Knew he was there to eliminate the pirate threat, to carve a place for the North within the Order. And yet, someone in that chamber had betrayed him, hoping he wouldn’t return. They had miscalculated. Now, he had to make their failure his advantage.

Word had already reached the Order. A report had been sent from Lucarion shortly after Saylong and Deyra arrived, informing them of the mission’s failure. The why—the how—that was still unknown to most of them.

Captains rarely spoke before the Order. Their role was to fight, not to dictate policy. Yet the lords of Lucarion’s capital, Lenne, had made it clear that Saylong’s voice deserved to be heard. It was Allturna Vehzar, Lenne’s Master of Arms and envoy to the Order, who had pushed for his presence, calling for him to recount the events of that night.

Saylong stopped pacing for a moment, exhaling slowly, running through the words he would use and the faces he would meet.

Deyra, watching him, shook her head.

‘You’ll tire yourself before you even speak.’

He barely heard her. His mind was locked in a battle of its own, maneuvering through the words he would wield, the calculated glances, the weight of every pause.

‘Yes. You’re right,’ he said suddenly, more to himself than to her. ‘This battlefield demands precision. No wasted strikes.’

Deyra frowned at the analogy, watching him as though he were trying to summon a gazrul from the stones beneath them.

The great doors groaned open. A robed attendant stepped aside, gesturing them in.

Saylong and Deyra entered a chamber that rose with towering height, the ceiling lost to intricate carvings and gilded recesses where candlelight flickered against white chalk roses spiraling across the walls. At its center stood a table of dark oak, long enough to seat eleven regional envoys. The carvings along its edges were impossibly detailed, each sigil, each motif, woven into the legacy of Aurenvia Tollitch itself. At the head of the table, Lord Paramount Chalm sat, his expression unreadable but already weary of their presence.

‘This is Captain Marcius Saylong of Lucarion.’

Allturna Vehzar rose to his feet, motioning to Saylong with a measured bow. He was tall, his dark hair streaked with gray, framing a face that was striking in its confidence, sharp-featured, clean-shaven, and composed. His green eyes carried the quiet assurance of a man accustomed to power, his movements deliberate, effortless. Dressed in Lenne’s regal blue, trimmed with copper, he stood with the easy poise of one who knew the weight his words carried.

The robed attendant closed the doors behind them.

No chairs had been placed for them. The empty space before the table was palpable, as if the air itself refused to acknowledge their presence. They stood, uninvited, the silence heavy with the message that rang louder than any words: you are not one of us.

Some envoys did not bother turning, keeping their backs to him, uninterested or too arrogant to care. Others gave half-hearted glances, shifting slightly in their seats to acknowledge him just enough before returning to their thoughts.

Allturna continued, his voice smooth, yet firm with authority.

‘He brings with him an envoy of the North. He will explain what many of you fail to see, that the pirates we dismiss as common raiders are more than an inconvenience. They are untethered men, governed only by their own lust for blood and ruin. They do not steal simply to live; they burn simply because they can. And they have crept too close to the Order’s lands, too close to the heart of Lenne’s reach.’

His arm extended toward Saylong once more, a final gesture before he lowered himself into his seat.

Saylong felt Deyra tense beside him. She did not belong here, and they all wanted her to know it. But it wasn’t discomfort that weighed on her; it was contempt, thick and suffocating, settling deep in her chest.

None of these men and women had ever drawn a blade in true battle. None had bled in the mud, felt the weight of armor cut into exhausted limbs, or burned their dead to send their souls to Tvaris. The only things they had ever defended were their own words.

Saylong had warned her. Do not let them get in your head. Do not give them that power.

He turned his attention to Chalm.

The Lord Paramount, already fatigued by the proceedings, gave the briefest nod, his unspoken command clear.

Get on with it.

He took a deep breath and began.

Saylong stepped forward, the weight of half the table’s stares pressing against him. Five sat with their backs turned, remaining unwilling to acknowledge him. The others faced him, some meeting his gaze, others casting only brief, disinterested glances. At the head of the table, Lord Paramount Chalm watched him, impatiently.

He let the silence linger a moment longer. Let them feel it. Let them wonder if he was about to waste their time.

Then he spoke.

‘We were betrayed.’

The words landed like a blade drawn in the dark, unseen, unspoken, yet undeniable. A ripple of movement stirred across the table.

From the far end, Erastus turned.

The oldest man in the Order, his beard trailing past his chest, shifted in his seat, his movements slow, deliberate. His head tilted just slightly, and his sharp, weathered eyes locked onto Saylong’s.

Saylong met his gaze without hesitation. He knew exactly who Erastus was. Everyone did. The longest-serving member of the Order, a relic of more battles than most men dared name. He never spoke unless his words had already reshaped the battlefield before they were uttered. Master of spies.

And he was listening now.

Something in his gaze flickered, some unspoken acknowledgment, an understanding, perhaps, that Saylong was not here to posture or play politics. That the words we were betrayed were not embellishment, but truth.

For the first time that evening, Erastus was paying attention.

And if a man like Erastus was listening, then the rest of the Order should have been terrified.

Saylong now felt the power in his hands and this fueled him. ‘Not by swords. Not by ships. Not by a force greater than our own. We were betrayed by knowledge. By information passed to those who should never have had it.’

He took a slow step forward.

‘Forty-five of us crossed into Roydne, hunting the pirates who have plagued our coasts for too long. The mission was sanctioned. Strategically planned. Every man and woman under my command knew what lay ahead. We expected resistance. We expected an encampment. We expected a fight.

What we did not expect, what no one could have expected, was a fortified stronghold, fully supplied and manned, waiting for us. Nor an ambush so precise, so calculated, that they might as well have set the torches on our camp before we arrived.’

Another shift in the room. A few more exchanged glances. Others, still unmoving.

‘The enemy was waiting for us. They knew we were coming. They knew the path we would take. They were prepared for our plan before we had even drawn our first breath in their territory. That kind of certainty does not come from chance. It does not come from good scouting. It comes from someone, somewhere, who told them exactly what they needed to hear.’

Saylong let the words settle. A few more heads turned toward him, their movements slow, measured, not yet defensive, but wary. The weight of his words lingered in the air, teetering on the edge of accusation.

‘And so, the question we must ask ourselves is not just who knew of this mission, but how many hands it passed through before it found its way to the pirates.’

He turned his head slightly, taking in the room.

‘Roydne has long since buried its dealings with piracy. It has been a generation since the Roydne-Aurenvia Tollitch Pact was signed, since those who ruled claimed they would break all ties with the brigands they once shielded. That was an agreement made in good faith. A faith that today, I must question.’

A few at the table bristled. Good.

Eyes shifted toward Sherptarl of Roydne. No words were spoken. The glance alone said enough. They all knew where his loyalties lay, coin before treaty, profit before principle. Yet Roydne remained one of the West’s greatest assets. Its wealth had funded wars, built fleets, and ensured the prosperity of those seated at this very table. To accuse Roydne outright would demand evidence. And evidence had not been presented.

Sherptarl scoffed, his chair scraping against the floor as he shifted.

‘This is preposterous!’ His voice cut through the room, sharp with offense. He gestured wildly toward Allturna. ‘Who let this nanny in here to speak? You, Allturna? I will not sit here and be slandered by some—’

‘Enough.’

Lord Paramount Chalm’s voice, flat and unyielding, silenced him.

Sherptarl clenched his jaw but fell silent, his lips pressed into a thin line.

Saylong inclined his head. ‘Thank you, my lord.’ He turned back to the room, his tone even, unwavering. ‘You misheard me. I am not here to accuse. I am here to warn. If our movements are known before they are made, then the Order is no longer secure within itself. The Order cannot wage war when its enemies already hold its battle plans. It cannot govern when the very walls of this chamber have ears that speak to those beyond our borders. And we cannot—cannot—ignore this.’

He let the weight of his words settle.

Sherptarl’s knuckles had gone white against the armrest of his chair.

Saylong shifted his weight, his voice measured.

‘I do not need to know the name of the one who spoke. I need to know who knew. Who was told. Who passed on the knowledge of our movement before it ever reached my hands. The leak is among us. Find them, or we all bleed for it.’

He let the last words hang in the air, a slow, deliberate silence following in their wake.

Then, without waiting for permission, Saylong stepped back, clasped his hands behind his back, and met Lord Paramount Chalm’s gaze.

The first murmurs began at the table. A low, shifting unease.

‘Have this man removed at once,’ Sherptarl snapped, his voice sharp with indignation.

Chalm exhaled, slow, tired, before giving the slightest nod.

‘It’s fine. We’ll leave,’ Saylong said, his tone calm, measured.

‘Good,’ Sherptarl sneered. ‘And take that filthy mutt with you.’

The words barely left his mouth before Deyra lunged.

She had no blade, no axe, only her fists and the raw fury burning in her blood. Saylong barely caught her in time, his hands clamping around her arm as she wrenched forward, teeth bared, eyes blazing with hatred.

‘You gutless dog!’ she spat, fighting against Saylong’s grip. ‘Your land is nothing but rot and ruin, a breeding ground for pirates and the filth you pretend doesn’t exist! You sit here—you—judging me, when your own gutters run thick with the scum you refuse to burn!’

Saylong tightened his grip, trying to shove her toward the doors. She twisted violently, breath ragged, voice raw.

‘You let them fester! You let them thrive! And now we clean your mess with our dead, our warriors, our fathers! Next time, do the slaughtering yourself, or keep your cursed mouth shut!’

‘Get her out!’ Sherptarl barked, his face twisted with rage.

Saylong, jaw tight, forced her back, his grip unrelenting.

‘Deyra. Out. Now.’

Saylong’s voice was low, commanded, yet she could hear the restraint in it, holding her back as much as himself from a fight that would stain them both. His grip tightened on her arm, firm at first, then unyielding.

Still, her glare never left Sherptarl, her breath ragged, her chest rising and falling with the weight of words still burning on her tongue.

Saylong shoved her through the doors before she could spit another.

The heavy oak slammed shut behind them.

‘What did I tell you?!’ Saylong’s voice, sharp with frustration, cut through the dim corridor. His boots struck the stone hard as they walked, her pace still seething, shoulders tense with fury. ‘I told you not to let them get into your head.’

She didn’t slow.

‘They wanted that. They want any excuse to deny you a seat. Don’t undo what I have spent my life—’

She spun on him.

‘Your life?’ Her voice was a hiss, barely human through the storm of rage clawing free. ‘You have done nothing for us! You sent us to slaughter! You killed my father! You destroyed my world!’

The words struck. Harder than a blade.

Saylong’s breath stilled, his jaw locking for just a moment before he spoke, quieter now.

‘Deyra.’

His voice no longer held command, only something heavier, something raw. ‘You know that’s not true. You know we need to find who did this.’

Her nostrils flared, fists tightening at her sides.

‘Tomorrow,’ he continued, ‘we leave for the North. I will come with you. We will avenge your father, Rysna, and all those who fell. Don’t let it be for nothing.’

She stared at him, searching his face for something: weakness, doubt, a crack in his resolve.

She found none.

With a sharp breath, she turned, her boots striking hard against the stone as she stormed down the corridor.

Saylong exhaled slowly, watching her disappear into the shadows ahead.

There was nothing more he could do.

A voice, low and amused, broke the silence behind him.

‘Women, aye?’

Saylong didn’t turn immediately. He knew the voice.

‘You caused quite the stir in there. We all had to leave while Chalm talked with Sherptarl.’

Allturna Vehzar.

Saylong shifted his weight, forcing a tired smile, though his mind still lingered on the absence beside him. For all her fury, Deyra had believed in what he was doing. Without her, that certainty felt farther away, as if the ground beneath it had thinned. ‘She’s fiery,’ Allturna continued. ‘I can see why you went into battle with her.’

Saylong said nothing.

Allturna took a slow step past him, pausing just long enough to lower his voice. ‘Come by my residence tonight. We’ll talk. Are you really heading north tomorrow?’

Saylong nodded. ‘If I find her again.’

Allturna chuckled. ‘For tonight, then, you’ll be a guest at the Vehzar estate. There will be people there you’ll want to meet. I suggest you arrive just before sundown.’

Without another word, he strode off, his steps unhurried, his presence lingering even as he disappeared down the corridor.

‘Where?’ Saylong asked.

Allturna didn’t stop.

‘We have residence in the central quarters,’ Allturna called over his shoulder. ‘You can’t miss it.’

And then he was gone.

Saylong searched the city for Deyra. There was no sign of her. He had hoped her temper had not driven her to something reckless. Her weapons were locked in the Lord’s armory, and Gurrlan was still in the stables. She wouldn’t leave without him. That much he was certain of.

There was nothing more he could do now.

His meeting with Allturna was now the most pressing matter.

The central quarters were more fortress than residence, walled off from the world with thick stone and iron. Saylong arrived to find the entrance sealed by towering gates, their intricate design betraying the sheer weight behind them. Beyond the threshold, guards stood like statues: silent, armored, unmoving. Each one was a wall of muscle and steel, their hands resting idly on the pommels of their swords. These were not ordinary watchmen; these were killers, the kind who did not ask questions before drawing steel.

Yet it was the sentries patrolling the wall walk that made his breath still.

They moved with purpose, their steps measured, scanning the streets below with the same predatory stillness he had seen once before on the pirate stronghold’s battlements. Waiting for the signal. Watching for weakness. Ready to strike.

His mind pulled him back. The way the pirates had loomed in the shadows before the ambush, crossbows raised, fingers resting lightly on the triggers, knowing they had all the time in the world to play with their prey. The three women, running. The bolts that came after. The silence that followed.

Saylong exhaled slowly, pressing the memory down. This was not that night.

Yet standing before these walls, before these silent wardens of power, it felt the same.

‘Saylong?’

A woman’s voice cut through his memory.

He turned.

She stood poised beneath the arch of a garden entrance, tall and graceful, her dark hair swept back in intricate twists. She had aged well, carrying a beauty that had settled into her features with time, her presence refined, commanding without effort.

‘You don’t remember me, do you?’

Saylong frowned, sifting through distant memories. Then he realized.

‘Dubaris... Fiota Dubaris.’

Her smile widened. ‘By Tvaris himself, you do remember.’

He exhaled in disbelief, studying her. ‘Fiota? It’s been—gods, twenty years?’

She laughed, a little sheepish, brushing her fingers over the embroidery of her sleeves. Her attire was lavish, richer than he had ever expected to see her in. The regal blue and copper threads of Lenne gleamed under the lantern lights.

‘You married Lewisear of Armekalia, didn’t you?’ he said.

‘That I did.’ She tilted her head, amused.

‘And now you walk like a lady of the court,’ Saylong smirked.

‘And you look like a man who hasn’t had a proper meal in years.’

He chuckled, shaking his head.

She motioned toward the central quarters. ‘Are you trying to get in there?’

‘Yes. Allturna wanted me to meet him at his residence.’

She raised a brow, then smiled knowingly. ‘What a coincidence. Lewisear and I will be there too.’

Saylong glanced at her again, studying her. ‘You must have been ten when I last saw you.’

‘Probably,’ she mused. ‘Times have changed. I have changed. You—well, I hear you’ve been in the wars.’

He only smiled.

Flanked by two Armekalian Palites, the personal guards of noble families, she led him to the gates. The moment they reached the entrance, the guards stepped aside, barely giving Saylong a second glance as they opened the heavy doors for them.

Only now did Saylong realize she was no longer just Jakren’s youngest daughter. She had become Lady of Armekalia, a symbol of the tightening grip between Lenne and the East Coast cities.

Lewisear was the son of Armekalia’s envoy to the Order, poised to replace his father within the decade. Yet Lewisear himself had little interest in governance; war and glory held his heart far more than policy ever would.

Saylong had barely noticed the weight of the Palites at Fiota’s sides until now. Armekalia was a nation built on naval dominance, and their nobility did not travel unguarded.

Inside the central quarters, the world was different. Lavish summer gardens stretched before them, woven with intricate pathways, canopies of green draping overhead. The scent of ripened fruit clung to the warm air, citrus and honey blending with the faint perfume of blooming roses. Birds flitted between the trees, undisturbed by the weight of politics beyond the walls.

It was as if war did not exist here.

As if the filth and ruin of Haithe’s lower districts had never been more than a distant story.

This was not the world of soldiers. This was the world of those who sent them to die.

From the corner of his eye, Saylong spotted Lord Paramount Chalm, standing in the grass beside a marble fountain. But it wasn’t him who caught his attention. It was the girl at his side.

She couldn’t have been over thirteen, her auburn hair neatly braided, her hand held gently in Chalm’s own as they walked together, speaking in low, calm voices. She laughed, and Chalm smiled, nodding as he spoke, as though the world beyond these walls was untouched by cruelty.

Heavily armed guards lingered in the distance, stationed discreetly behind hedgerows and stone pillars, watching, waiting. Even here, he was the most protected man in Teloshka.

‘That is Chalm’s granddaughter,’ Fiota said, following his gaze. ‘His absolute pride and joy. You can watch them together here every night. She’s stunning, isn’t she?’

Saylong didn’t answer at first. He watched as the most powerful man in the West walked with his granddaughter as though he were simply a doting grandfather and not the ruler of a land built on war.

‘Yes,’ he said finally. ‘Stunning.’

The central quarters sprawled like a city of its own, a world within walls. Saylong and Fiota passed through lush gardens and cobbled streets, where even the air seemed softer, untouched by the weight of the world beyond. He was dressed well enough, and he knew he had every right to be here, yet the feeling remained, as if he were walking through a dream he was never meant to enter.

They emerged into another vast courtyard, where long banquet tables had been joined beneath the dying light of the sun. At least twenty, perhaps twenty-five, lords and ladies filled the space, their voices weaving together in an elegant hum of conversation. Fruits and wines crowded the tables, their colors vibrant beneath the flickering lanterns strung between the trees. Servants moved seamlessly, refilling pewter goblets, their hands steady, their presence invisible.

‘There he is,’ Fiota beamed, squeezing Saylong’s hand as she pulled him toward a man standing at the head of one table. ‘My Lewisear.’

Saylong had met enough men in his lifetime to recognize power before it was spoken.

Lewisear was tall, dark-skinned, his long black hair framing sharp features that could have belonged to a king if fate had willed it. He was dressed in ceremonial Armekalian navy and silver, the weight of his station unmistakable.

His attention had been locked on another guest, a man Saylong didn’t recognize at first. But the sigil embroidered into his cloak told him all he needed to know. He was the Warden of Alrece.

Fiota, unconcerned, interrupted their conversation without hesitation.

‘Darling, this is my father’s friend, Marcius Saylong of Lucarion.’

Lewisear turned, his dark eyes settling on Saylong with sharp curiosity.

‘Ah, Saylong,’ he said, his voice deep, resonant. ‘Good you could make it. I have heard much about you.’

There was no formality in his handshake. Only firm, practiced confidence.

‘I must hear of these pirates myself. I will do all I can to bring the Armekalian Fleet against them. You, of course, already know of Kalltor. He is a black mark upon Armekalia. We will do what we can for you and—who is it?’ His brow lifted slightly. ‘Madita?’

Saylong met his gaze evenly.

‘Not just Madita,’ Saylong replied. ‘All the North.’

A bell rang through the courtyard. Conversation tapered off, and guests instinctively began moving to their seats.

From the estate villa, Allturna emerged, his presence alone enough to command the gathering. With a peaceful gesture, he beckoned the guests to take their places.

Lewisear and Fiota moved toward the head of the table, where Erastus of Talill, his long, unmistakable beard draping over his chest, had already settled. Beside him, Lewisear’s father, Mortas Lexx, envoy of Armekalia, sat in quiet contemplation. Saylong recognized others, envoys and nobles whose faces carried weight in the Order, their presence significant even if their words had yet to be spoken.

Allturna and his wife, Merjhan, took their seats at the head. The moment they did, the last murmurs of conversation faded, replaced by the quiet clatter of guests adjusting into place.

Saylong was still standing.

He scanned the table. Every seat was taken.

His gaze flicked to Fiota, who raised an eyebrow and gave him a pointed look, urging him to hasten.

Then Allturna smirked. He leaned back in his chair, amusement flickering in his green eyes as he lifted a hand toward the only empty seat remaining, just to his left near the head of the table.

Saylong hesitated for half a breath before making his way forward. The awkwardness of it settled deep, his steps measured. He had to walk behind Allturna to reach his seat, feeling the eyes of half the table lingering on him.

‘I wasn’t sure if you’d bring a guest tonight,’ Allturna mused, watching him from the corner of his eye. ‘I left one seat open. If your friend had come, she would have had plenty of room. A seat would have been provided.’

The words were smooth, yet the meaning was clear. Saylong took his place without responding.

The meal was extravagant, spread lavishly over silver and fine-cut wooden platters. The table was lined with delicacies that included ripe summer fruits, thick cuts of roasted game, spiced barley, and wines rich enough to taste like coin itself.

For the most part, the talk was light, harmless chatter and laughter woven into the performative rhythm of a noble gathering. Wives were present. Husbands were present. The weight of politics hung just out of reach, unspoken but never absent.

Saylong found himself seated next to Lady Gray of Jolda and her husband. She was an envoy, a voice of rising power in the far western regions, deeply pious, deeply devout. She had barely acknowledged his presence.

Across from him sat Mortas Lexx, Lewisear’s father, a man whose face carried the same quiet authority as his son. He met Saylong’s gaze briefly, a glance, an assessment, nothing more. His wife, however, seemed far more inclined toward conversation, asking Saylong of his upbringing, his service, his gift.

As the evening deepened, Allturna joined in, along with his wife, Merjhan, who had the serene beauty of a woman who had never had to fight for a place in the world. Saylong relaxed into the rhythm of conversation, the tension in his shoulders easing.

This was power.

Not in steel, nor in battle, but in the subtle weight of presence. A place at the table. A voice among them. He tasted it now, and gods, he liked it.

The night stretched on, wine flowed freely, and eventually, the gathering broke into smaller circles, voices murmuring over the glow of lantern light.

Saylong found himself led aside, a goblet of wine in hand, moving into a quieter corner of the gardens, where a small circle had already formed.

He heard Erastus first, his voice rasping, stammering over politics, deep in discussion.

Allturna placed a hand on Saylong’s shoulder and pulled him into the conversation.

Saylong recognized them all.

Erastus. Mortas Lexx. And Lady Gray, her expression already soured as she turned to regard him.

Allturna, standing at his side, gave a subtle reintroduction.

‘What do we need him here for?’ Lady Gray’s voice was flat, unimpressed. ‘He had his chance in front of the Lord Paramount today.’

The proper conversation had begun.

9

––––––––

Saylong woke early. The sun had barely risen, a pale smear against the skyline. He still hadn’t found Deyra. Instead, he had spent the night alone in an inn close to the stables, his thoughts too restless to allow for much sleep. If she had left without him, she had left without her weapons. They were still in the armory. Perhaps even Gurrlan was alone. He didn’t want to leave Gurrlan behind. If she had gone north, he could still catch up. A Korvan warhorse and a sturdy chariot would be swift enough, and Gurrlan could nestle into it without slowing them down.

The conversation from the garden mingled with his morning thoughts, unsettling in its implications. Lord Paramount Chalm was slipping, drifting further from his duties, as though the Order no longer concerned him. Allturna had already begun securing support for his claim, but it was not yet enough. Erastus. Mortas. Lady Gray. Three out of eight votes. More were needed.

Pushing the thought aside, he made his way toward the stables. The guards let him pass without question, as if they had expected him. He moved through the rows of stalls, the scent of straw and sweat thick in the air. He would find Gurrlan first and worry about transport after.

At the enclosed pen, he paused. Peering over the wooden frame, he found her.

Deyra.

She lay curled in the hay, her breathing deep and even. Gurrlan lay beside her, just as still, his massive flank rising and falling in rhythm with hers. Saylong exhaled, relieved. At least she hadn’t left without him.

A voice sounded behind him.

‘Captain Saylong?’

He turned. A soldier stood just beyond the entrance, holding the reins of two black Korvan warhorses. Their coats gleamed in the morning light, powerful beasts bred for war. One was harnessed to a famed open war-chariot, its frame lined in gold, the deep blue and green of Lenne painted along its sides. The polished iron wheels caught the sun, casting fleeting glimmers across the stable walls.

The sound woke Deyra. Gurrlan grunted as he stirred, shaking off sleep with a low, snorting breath.

The soldier stepped forward. ‘Your horses are ready, sir.’

Saylong frowned. ‘Horses?’ He had dreamed of such transport, but he had never requested it.

The soldier inclined his head. ‘Yes, Lord Vehzar has gifted you these warhorses and chariot. You’re to take them north as a gesture of condolences. The chariot carries a Blade of Honor from Lenne. The North must receive it well, sir.’

Saylong glanced toward Deyra, who leaned over the pen door, blinking sleep from her eyes. Slowly, she unlatched it and stepped out, Gurrlan clambering upright beside her. Together, they emerged into the morning light, moving beside Saylong. She took in the sight of the horses and chariot. They were magnificent beasts, bred for war.

And then she huffed.

Not quite a refusal. Not quite acceptance.

Saylong approached the chariot and studied the gift. It was an exquisite piece of craftsmanship, designed not just for function, but for spectacle. The wheels were reinforced for rough terrain, the yoke built to bear heavy loads. The interior had been lined with iron for added stability, yet it remained light enough to be swift. Inside, he caught sight of a small cache of supplies, including bundled furs, a sealed cask, and sacks of provisions. This would be enough to last them days on the road. Nestled among them were his weapons, retrieved from the armory, along with their leather armor. A practical gift, if not a generous one.

Deyra ran a hand along the chariot’s frame, her lips pressing together. ‘They will do,’ she said at last. Then, quieter, her fingers tightening, ‘But they do not replace my father. They do not replace Rysna. This is nothing but your people’s groveling.’

Saylong smiled faintly.

‘Thank you,’ he said, turning to the soldier. ‘Send my regards to Lord Vehzar. He has been gracious in our presence. Tell him it won’t be forgotten.’

There was little more to discuss. Saylong took Telilus, the stallion without the chariot. Deyra took Mideas. Saylong pulled on his leather armor, adjusting the buckles as Deyra guided Gurrlan onto the chariot. The beast reluctantly clambered in, snorting at the unfamiliar ride.

At the head of the chariot, affixed to an iron sheath against the frame, rested the Blade of Honor. Saylong reached for it, running his fingers along the hilt. It was a delicately weighted instrument of death, beautifully balanced, its edge keen enough to whisper through the air. A blade meant not for battle, but for legacy.

Deyra barely spared it a glance. ‘One of the chieftains will take it,’ she muttered. ‘It means nothing to me.’

Saylong replaced the sword in its sheath.

Unfortunately, Gurrlan was too short to see over the chariot’s top gate, but it was only an inconvenience. He would match their speed, and for the first time in ten days, Deyra would be riding home.

The North awaited.

Their first hours on the road passed in silence. The Korvan warhorses moved at a steady pace, their heavy footfalls muffled by the well-worn path. Gurrlan resigned himself to the chariot, though his occasional grunts left little doubt of his displeasure.

By midday, they had followed the Shigh River northward, its waters carving a shimmering path through the land. Travelers stepped aside without hesitation, their eyes lingering on the towering warhorses and the gilded chariot as Saylong and Deyra rode past.

When they stopped to rest, Deyra finally broke the quiet.

‘So. You know what I did last night. What about you? Did you find out who sent us into that damned ambush?’

Her voice still carried traces of resentment, but the raw fury from before had settled into something colder, more measured.

Saylong gave a wry smile. ‘You know, if you don’t want them calling you names, sleeping in an inn would’ve been the wiser choice.’

Deyra snorted, running a hand down Gurrlan’s thick hide, slipping him a treat from the provisions that had been packed into the chariot.

Saylong’s smile faded as he exhaled. ‘But as it happens, I had a very interesting night.’

She barely looked at him.

‘Turns out my vision carries more weight in the Order than I thought.’ He scanned the road ahead before lowering his voice. ‘Allturna Vehzar is more than willing to strike a deal with the North. But Chalm... Chalm won’t budge.’

Deyra’s expression remained flat, unmoved.

Saylong read it instantly. She wasn’t impressed.

Still, he pressed on.

‘Armekalia has deployed their admiral and four Halicerns to hunt for Kalltor and the Mor ò Thail. They’re finishing reconnaissance and will move in to cut him off. If they take him alive, they’ll send him north, along with Volnaire.’

That caught her attention. A flicker in her eyes, sharp and alert.

‘And what does the North owe for such generosity?’ she asked, voice edged with suspicion. ‘We don’t take bribes, Saylong.’

Saylong nodded. ‘Allturna Vehzar is backing the North’s claim to the Order. He’ll push for it, so long as the North supports his claim. We need more votes to break Chalm’s hold. If the North stands behind Allturna, we gain a seat at the table.’

Deyra listened now. She was seeing it, even if she didn’t want to. Saylong’s vision, one she had dismissed so many times before, was taking form.

‘Sherptarl of Roydne is lost to us. That vote has sailed; he’s with Chalm. But Armekalia, Talill, and Jolda are with us.’

She exhaled through her nose, tossing another strip of dried meat to Gurrlan, who nuzzled her for more.

‘How many more?’

‘At least five. Zerthys is unlikely, but they’re in the North. They might sympathize. That leaves the Citadel of Jemyne, Hawn’s Keep, and Keis’s Castle.’

Deyra scoffed. It sounded easier than it was.

‘We march on Haithe,’ Saylong continued. ‘Three hundred strong. We prove the North is united. We prove they won’t war among themselves. If we bring men willing to join the Order, we turn the tide. With enough pressure, we get the votes. Chalm falls. Allturna takes his place. And the North is no longer an afterthought.’

For a moment, it almost seemed simple.

Deyra, however, was not so easily swayed. Her expression darkened.

‘At what cost?’ she murmured. ‘Do you think the North will celebrate being a pawn in your game? My father. Rysna. They died believing in that damned alliance. And now, here you are, grinning like it’s some grand opportunity.’

Saylong’s jaw tightened.

‘This isn’t a game,’ he said, his voice firm. ‘This is survival.’

She shook her head, turning away.

Saylong sighed, raking a hand through his hair. ‘We will get Kalltor. And Volnaire. Alive. They’ll be yours to do with as you see fit.’

She didn’t answer.

Saylong exhaled, quieter now. ‘But Chalm still holds the others. So, unless...’ He hesitated, his voice dropping lower. ‘Unless something happens to him, all we can do is hope they see reason before it’s too late.’

The words sat heavy between them.

Deyra said nothing. She didn’t need to. The thought hung between them, unspoken yet understood.

For four days, the road carried them beneath an ever-darkening sky, the northern chill creeping into the air. Saylong spoke often, filling the miles with the weight of his vision, speaking of alliances, strategies, and the shifting tides in Haithe. Some of it Deyra took in, but much of it she left where it belonged, in the halls of men and women who spoke of war but had never held the blade themselves.

By the time they reached Mermard’s Town, she had heard everything. And here, closer to the North, she felt the shift. The stiff, watchful gazes of the South had faded into nods of acknowledgment. The weight of scrutiny lifted from her shoulders.

They had spoken of strategy, of how to bring the northern tribes to the table, how to unite them in Madita. Grand ideas, but still only shadows on the horizon. There were still days ahead, and though she had grown weary of Saylong’s tireless ambition, something in her had settled.

She was no longer seething. No longer restless.

For the first time in weeks, she felt the edges of contentment. She finally felt like she was coming home—not just passing through, but truly returning.

◇ ◇ ◇

The Mor ò Thail inched into the fjord and anchored well out of sight. Volnaire captained the lead vessel, the other five trailing in its wake, slipping into the cove like shadows.

The Varkellon was Kalltor’s now. Its Armekalian crew had been sifted through the other ships, ensuring any whisper of insurrection was silenced before it began. But so far, there had been no signs of resistance. The Drenzaris bore its own reminder of the cost. Captain Wolst’s remains dangled from the prow, his body swaying gently with the tide. The crew, too, had been spared, provided they swore their loyalty. Tolgeen had taken command with a near-frenzied glee, overseeing repairs with the Armekalians laboring under the sharp gaze of their new masters.

Force had barely been necessary. Armekalia’s navy valued its own survival over the honor of its banners. A few brutal executions had been enough to ensure compliance. The pirates had grown. Not just in ships, but in men.

Under the fading light, the captains and a handful of crew rowed ashore. The sun sank low, but this far north, the night never truly fell.

The village was long abandoned. Simple wooden huts, once home to merchants and soldiers, stood hollow against the fjord’s edge. The West had claimed these lands when they first landed on Elanwyn’s shores, eager to control the trade of Plocetol, the liquid of the rare mushroom that had changed the way Teloshka waged war.

Plocetol forged Syllanian steel. The Herastium Plocedes, a Tripolistic mushroom, yielded a liquid that, when alloyed with other metals, created blades that were sharper, stronger, and lighter than any other known to man. The West had once bought it from the East. Then they had tried to take it by force. That had been the beginning of the Herastium Conflict, a bitter war that ended in the West’s defeat. Now, only the ghostly husks of their failed footholds remained, silent relics of an ambition that had burned away.

And now, those husks belonged to Kalltor.

The ships would be repaired. The wounded would heal. They would take what they needed and move before the East came hunting.

Sartise had been bound to the old light mast that once guided Western ships into the fjord. Blindfolded, tied tight, he had been left there since they came ashore. He would stay there until Kalltor was ready.

A group of men prepared to set off inland for more supplies, including women, ale, and whatever else they could take. The nearest village was two days away, but that didn’t stop them from volunteering.

Kalltor approached Sartise at last.

The bound man stiffened. Even blindfolded, he could sense him. The stench of the sea, the scent of blood, and the weight in the air were all known to Sartise as surely as death itself. Kalltor yanked the blindfold free. Twilight claimed Sartise’s face, his vision taking a moment to adjust.

He exhaled sharply.

‘Why don’t you just kill me?’

Kalltor smiled. A slow, humorless thing.

‘There’s time for that still.’

He broke off a piece of bread, shoving it toward Sartise’s mouth. He spat it out. Kalltor answered with water instead, tilting a canteen to his lips.

‘I survived on less,’ Kalltor murmured.

Sartise’s voice rasped. ‘Yes. But I am not a monster.’

A smirk curled beneath Kalltor’s beard.

‘No. You are. You’re more of a monster than I will ever be.’

He turned and walked away.

The waves rolled lazily against the pebbled shore. Kalltor walked the length of the water’s edge, his thoughts as restless as the tide. Volnaire’s footsteps crunched against the stones as he fell into stride beside him.

‘Two weeks at most,’ he said. ‘We’ll be ready.’

Kalltor nodded. His gaze remained on the fjord, on the black water stretching into the horizon. ‘Send word. They need to be ready. Or none of this works.’

Volnaire gave a slight nod before peeling away, heading back toward the glow of the firelit village. The scent of burning wood thickened in the air. The men were already drinking.

Kalltor settled down, alone. The fjord lapped gently at the shore, the rhythmic hush of the tide pulling at his mind, dragging his thoughts elsewhere.

Across the village, still bound to the mast, Sartise watched him.

He saw something in the way Kalltor’s head hung low, something distant, unreadable. For all his victory, for all his power, he looked hollow. His eyes drifted, unfocused, as if searching for something that refused to be found, and his breath came slow and shallow, like a man unmoored from the very purpose that had driven him.

And for all the hate Kalltor had built toward Sartise, he knew one thing for certain.

For this plan to work, Sartise needed to stay alive.

10

––––––––

Deyra was the first to see Rumani’s Forest, its tall pines and frost-hardy beech trees towering over the plains. Somewhere beyond the dense woodland lay Ruesviasie’s River, the crossing still a day’s ride. In the North, it was known as Fedelm’s River, named after the northern explorer who first unearthed its wealth in gold, precious metals, and crystals. Now, the veins upstream had thinned, their riches siphoned southward, funneled into the ever-hungry coffers of Aurenvia Tollitch.

Each mile dragged beneath them, stretched by unspoken debate. Saylong argued for the safer path further downstream toward Carrestine’s Crossing, where the bridge was wide, the road firm, and the water tame. The chariot was a burden, and he knew Mideas would struggle in uncertain terrain.

Deyra, however, was resolute. She had grown tired of the open road, the endless miles stretching ahead. At least now, the stares came with curiosity, not suspicion. Travelers admired the chariot, their gazes lingering on the gilded frame, the powerful warhorses, the strange sight of a boar nestled in its confines. She pressed for the forests northward, where the trees would shield them, where they could hunt, where she could breathe. The dried meats had grown scarce, thanks in part to Gurrlan, who had ripped into a leather pouch stored in the chariot and devoured a full day’s supply.

Saylong relented. She knew the land. By now, he knew when to trust her instincts.

That night, they camped just south of the forest beneath a sky dusted in stars, the scent of pine thick in the air. The fire crackled softly between them, casting long shadows, stirring half-forgotten memories. For a moment, there was peace.

Just before dawn, the horses jerked their heads and stamped the ground, snorting hard as tension rippled through their flanks. Saylong woke first, his hand on the hilt of his sword. Deyra stirred moments later, reaching for her axe before she had even fully registered the disturbance. But as they scanned the dark, there was nothing. The forest loomed silent, the silvered light of Nyx barely illuminating the treetops. Still, Deyra kept her sword close as she settled back down. Closer still was the battleaxe at her side.

Morning came early, with first light filtering through the pines as forest sounds stirred to life. They rode into the trees at a careful pace, the chariot wheels jostling over uneven ground. The road was narrower than Saylong had anticipated, rough with gnarled roots and stray stones. The Korvan warhorses handled it well enough. The chariot groaned under the strain, rattling with each dip and rise. Gurrlan voiced his displeasure with a deep grunt, shifting his weight, the frame of the chariot creaking beneath him.

Saylong sighed. ‘We should let him out to walk.’

Deyra leaned forward in the saddle, reaching for the reins to slow the horse. Her fingers brushed the leather.

The forest ahead was still. Too still.

A sudden hiss cut through the air. Not a cry. Not a warning. Just motion and speed. The arrow struck her high in the chest, slamming into the muscle near her collarbone and punching her sideways in the saddle. She cried out, one hand clutching the wound, the other scrabbling for the reins.

Blood was already running.

A second arrow whipped past her head and splintered against the trunk of a tree just ahead, shards of bark exploding into the air. The third missed. She didn’t see it. Only heard it sinking into the dirt behind her as her horse veered, skittish beneath her weight.

Mideas reared, a sharp cry slicing through the trees. The chariot jolted as he tried to bolt, its weight resisting the surge. Deyra’s grip on the embedded arrow held a moment too long, and the sudden tension tore her from the saddle, flinging her onto the rough ground.

Saylong reacted instantly, swinging off Telilus and smacking the stallion’s flank to send him into cover. His sword was half-drawn when an arm locked around his throat from behind.

The cold kiss of steel pressed against his neck.

Saylong twisted, slamming an elbow into his assailant’s ribs before the blade could bite. The grip loosened just enough. He wrenched free, turning his sword into an offensive stance just as the man lunged again.

A strangled, furious snort sounded from behind.

Gurrlan was trying to escape the chariot.

He thrashed inside the chariot, tusks slamming against the frame, hooves scrabbling for purchase. He was stuck. The rig had never been built for a beast his size.

Deyra had her own battle.

Three men approached through the trees, their swords drawn, their grins sharp with bloodlust.

She was down on one knee, her breath ragged. Her left hand gripped the sword. Her right hung limp at her side, the arrow still lodged deep in the muscle. The pain flared with every movement.

Her axe was too far. She couldn’t reach it.

They laughed. They taunted.

Saylong’s attacker recovered, lunging again. This time, Saylong met him with cold steel. The clash rang through the trees, metal striking metal in a furious burst. Saylong twisted his blade, slashing deep into the man’s forearm. His opponent reeled back, cursing, and stumbled into the trees.

Behind him, Gurrlan scrambled over the chariot, hooves skidding as he tumbled over the frame. He landed in a heap, shook himself off, and charged. He hit the ground in a tangle of limbs, scrambled upright, and charged.

The first attacker turned just in time to see death barreling toward him, but it was too late to react. Gurrlan’s tusk drove into his thigh, tearing through flesh and muscle in a single brutal thrust. The man shrieked as he went down, his blade slipping from his grasp.

Deyra seized the opening, but she was slow. The pain in her chest dragged at every movement, her right side clumsy and weak. The second man turned on her before she could strike.

Saylong was already moving.

He darted behind the chariot, moving swiftly past its frame and into the fray. He closed in as the third attacker faltered—then turned and fled into the forest like a coward.

The second man, still locked in combat with Deyra, sensed movement at his flank and turned, but too late. Saylong was already closing in. His eyes flicked between them, and in that instant, he saw the mistake. Outnumbered, he faltered, then turned and bolted, vanishing into the forest before either of them could land a final blow.

Gurrlan was still goring the first attacker. The man had stopped screaming. Blood pooled around his body, dark and thick against the forest floor.

Deyra staggered back, her balance faltering. Her knees buckled, and she crumpled to the ground, landing hard on her back. Her chest rose in shallow, uneven breaths, her head lolling to the side. Her face was pale, sweat slicking her brow. Blood seeped from the wound, a slow, steady trickle from where the arrow jutted just beneath her collarbone.

Saylong was beside her in an instant, dropping to one knee, pressing his palm flat against her uninjured shoulder to keep her still.

She barely noticed him.

Her gaze was fixed beyond him, unfocused, her lips slightly parted. A tremor passed through her fingers as they twitched at her side.

Saylong followed her gaze.

Gurrlan hadn’t stopped.

The man, or what remained of him, lay crumpled beneath the boar’s massive weight. Flesh hung in ragged strips where the tusks had gouged deep, his ribs exposed beneath the torn remnants of his tunic. Blood pooled around his mangled torso, his lifeless eyes staring upward in unseeing horror.

Gurrlan’s breath came in heavy bursts, each one steaming in the air, dense and unrelenting. He dug his hooves into the churned-up soil, his bristled back rising and falling as he loomed over the corpse. There was no hesitation in him, no flicker of restraint. Only the raw, unrelenting instinct to protect. Saylong had seen men die before. Had seen battlefields littered with the dead, with bodies left broken in the mud. This was pure horror.

A low, rumbling exhale pushed from Gurrlan’s snout, nostrils flaring as he lifted his head. His small black eyes found Saylong’s. For a moment, he only stood there, blood dripping from his tusks, his flanks heaving. Then, slowly, he approached and turned to Deyra. He nudged at her boot, his bloodied snout pressing against the worn leather.

Saylong snapped back to her, pressing harder against her shoulder. ‘Stay with me.’

Deyra’s breath hitched. Her fingers curled weakly against the dirt, then went still.

Saylong’s hands were already moving, reaching for the arrow. The wound was severe, deep enough that every second counted.

‘You’re going to be fine.’ He wasn’t sure if she heard him.

Her lashes fluttered. The unfocused look in her eyes hadn’t faded.

He wrapped his fingers around the shaft. Blood slicked the wood.

Deyra’s body tensed.

Saylong exhaled, steeling himself.

And pulled.

Several hours had passed. The two horses were tethered to the trees, their breaths steady, their ears flicking at the sounds of the forest. Saylong had built a fire, wrapping Deyra in furs, his hands moving with quiet efficiency. Gurrlan remained at her side, his massive body curled beside her, snout resting near her arm. He had already lost one master. He would not lose another.

Saylong knelt beside her, pressing a bundle of crushed fern roots to the wound. The blood had slowed, but not stopped. He grimaced at the sight, at the fragile rise and fall of her chest.

He leaned in close, his voice a whisper against her ear, a thread between waking and the dark.

‘The flesh is not the light. It carries it. The body is not the soul. It holds it. And the blood—your blood—does not leave this world alone. It carries you to Tvaris, to the Light, to the essence of what was and what will be. Your breath is not gone. Your essence is not spent. The light still stirs within you. Let it rise. Let it return. Let it.’

He exhaled, his forehead briefly pressing against hers.

‘Let it hold.’

Saylong’s voice was quiet, steady. ‘You do not force it. You do not command it. You listen.’

Deyra stirred, her breath shallow.

‘It is not your hands that heal. It is not your will. You are only the conduit. The light moves through you. Tvaris moves through you. You open the door, and you let it flow.’

Her fingers twitched.

Saylong’s hands hovered over hers. ‘Feel it. Not the pain. Not the wound. Feel what lies beneath it. The thread. The warmth.’

She tried. Only the pulsing throb of pain answered, the raw ache in her chest. Saylong’s forehead pressed to hers. His voice was barely above a breath. ‘Breathe. The body is not just blood and bone. The Light is there. It does not abandon.’

Deyra exhaled. The ache pulsed again. Beneath it, something flickered with a faint warmth, a pull, as though something unseen was waiting.

Saylong did not move. ‘Let it rise. Let it return. Let it hold.’

At some stage during the night, she woke, though only slightly. A cough rattled from her chest, weak but present. Both Gurrlan and Saylong stirred at the sound. That, at least, was a good sign. She groaned.

Saylong muttered instructions, guiding her toward her own essence, helping her find the thread of her gift, the same one that had saved her once before. He squeezed her hand. She barely felt it before slipping back into the darkness of sleep.

By morning, the fire had burned low. Saylong stoked the embers, feeding them back to life as he ate in quiet, ever-watchful. Gurrlan remained at Deyra’s side, refusing his food, his massive form pressed close as though guarding her from whatever ghosts still lingered. Saylong understood his concern. The road lay only a hundred feet from their camp, far enough to avoid unwanted attention, but not so far as to be safe from opportunists. Thieves, if they were bold enough, might return. And if they did, they would have to reckon with Gurrlan’s fury.

Deyra coughed. It was a small sound, but enough to make Saylong stop eating. He was at her side in an instant.

He whispered the healer’s prayer again, the words slipping into the air like threads of something unseen. A tether. A call.

She stirred, her face tightening in discomfort, a groan pulling from her lips. Her eyelids fluttered.

‘Gurrlan?’ she whispered.

The boar lifted his head, pressing his snout gently against her leg.

She coughed, a dry, painful sound, then exhaled sharply and closed her eyes again.

‘Let it rise. Let it return. Let it hold.’ Saylong uttered the words softly, again and again, squeezing her hand in a slow, rhythmic pulse.

The afternoon sun had begun its descent when she stirred again. Her breath came easier now, though still heavy.

‘Gurrlan?’ she murmured.

The boar was already there, nuzzling into her side, his warmth steady and loyal.

Her left arm shifted, fingers threading into his thick fur. She tried to sit up, but the moment she moved, a sharp groan left her lips, her body failing her.

‘Stay there,’ Saylong ordered, his voice leaving no room for argument. ‘You’re not ready to move yet.’

‘You gave us quite the scare.’

She exhaled, her eyes meeting Saylong’s.

‘I felt it,’ she said. ‘It was there.’

Saylong nodded. ‘I see it. What was once a dull light is brightening. You’re beginning to understand it.’

Gurrlan pushed further beneath her arm, his snout sniffing at her face. She weakly shoved him away, a small laugh escaping.

‘Ok, ok. I’m fine,’ she reassured the beast.

His tail wagged furiously.

She wasn’t fine. She was still weak, still wounded. Yet she had progressed remarkably. Her gift had saved her. It would still be several days before she could fully use her right arm again, but she would heal.

Saylong handed her a waterskin, watching as she drank before gently inspecting the wound.

‘You wanted to take the forest road?’ His tone was dry, judgmental.

She smiled faintly. There was no thanks. She had made it clear she wouldn’t be humbled into saying it. Even so she was glad he was there. Glad Gurrlan was there. The boar, as if sensing her thoughts, finally gave in to his hunger, devouring his untouched portion of food.

‘We’ll need to stay here for a few more days. You’re not ready to move.’

She frowned, already protesting. ‘We need to get north—’

She tried to rise. Her body failed her again. She collapsed back down with a sharp breath.

Saylong’s expression didn’t change. ‘You’ve lost a lot of blood. You’re healing. Let your gift do it. We’ll keep training it. Just a couple more days.’

Over the next three days, tension lingered as travelers passed along the road, their gazes wary yet uninterested in the camp. None had drawn close. Perhaps the thieves had taken stock of their wounds and thought better of returning. Caution would be needed now more than ever. The river crossing was still to come.

Deyra was walking around the makeshift camp, though still burdened by the weight of her healing wounds. Her strength had returned enough for movement, and when the drizzle came, she embraced it as if the falling water itself carried renewal.

To Saylong, she had changed. The light within her had grown, no longer a dim flicker but something steady, something certain. She was glowing now, almost as bright as Gurrlan.

A good healer is worth their weight in virtue. Not gold, nor silver, nor anything men could hoard. They were more than menders of flesh. They were stewards of the Light, guiding it, shaping it. The gift was not for the needy. It was not for those who simply begged for its power. It was for those who carried the Light forward, who would bear its burden and let it burn.

By the fifth day, she said she was ready to move. Saylong was hesitant. She was healing, but not healed. Still, she had convinced him. They could waste no more time. They needed to get north.

He had tried to argue. Had told her she would be no good to the North if she arrived dead. But she had only laughed, shaking her head.

‘You don’t need me for your vision, Saylong. The North needs you.’

There was something different in her voice when she said it. Something certain.

They crossed Ruesviasie’s River and moved northward, slower now, as the terrain shifted beneath them. The air had sharpened, colder, the forests thinning into open tundra. Trees stood scattered, dark spires against the widening horizon, and the ground beneath them hardened as they passed into the prairies of the North.

Five days later, they saw the Madita River, the great channel that marked the boundary of home. And beyond it, the smoke of chimneys, the clustered thatched roofs of the villages of Madita. The wind shifted, carrying the scent of hearth-fire and pine resin, something familiar.

Murmurs stirred as they crossed the river, hooves squelching through mud-soft banks before finding firmer ground. A hush fell over them; the weight of return had arrived.

Their pace through the village was slow, deliberate. Heavy footfalls pressed into the damp earth, muffled by softened ground. Evening air clung to their cloaks, sinking into bone. Smoke coiled through the trees, pine-sweet. The distant clang of a smith’s hammer faded into silence. In its place, only the hollow hush of wind remained.

Deyra had returned.

And yet, nothing about it felt like coming home.

Villagers paused mid-task. A mother near the well pulled her child to her side, fingers tightening around his arm as if he might slip away. A group of traders, once engaged in lively bartering, fell to silence, their eyes shifting toward the riders as their expressions turned.

Not the wary, uncertain stares of the south. Not fear.

Accusation.

Deyra felt it before she saw it. The tightening in her chest. The drop in her stomach. These were not strangers. They were kin, people she had known all her life, people who had watched her grow, who had sat at her father’s hearth. Yet there was no warmth in their eyes. No welcome.

Saylong sensed it too. She could see it in the way his grip adjusted on the reins, his shoulders tensed beneath his cloak.

They had no one to blame for what had happened. No one to hold accountable. Not until now.

The chariot groaned as it rolled forward, its gilded wheels catching the last slanting light of the sun. It did not shine. It glared, gaudy and foreign among the rough-hewn homes, a mark of something that did not belong.

Deyra straightened in the saddle, her fingers pressing into the reins, trying to steady the sinking feeling rising inside her.

They had passed the first row of houses when the voice cut through the air.

‘Deyra Fjornskara!’

The name struck like a whip.

She jerked in the saddle, her breath catching in her throat. The sound of it was sharp and raw, laced with something that made her heart clench.

She did not hesitate.

Her boots hit the dirt hard, and she barely caught herself before she stumbled. The moment her feet found purchase, she was moving, instinct carrying her toward the voice, toward the figure that had already begun striding forward.

The older woman stared at her, long hair streaked with silver, her thick northern cloak frayed at the edges. Time had marked her. Grief had carved its lines the deepest.

Deyra reached for her.

The woman’s arm shot out, striking hard against her wounded side. Pain seared through her ribs. The force sent her stumbling back, harder than she could brace for.

‘What have you done?’ The woman’s voice cracked, raw as an open wound. Her hands clenched at her sides, trembling with the weight of all she could not hold in. ‘What have you done, child?’

Deyra found her footing, her breath uneven, her hands grasping for words that refused to come.

The woman stepped forward, her voice rising with every syllable.

‘Where are they?’ Her throat caught. She pushed through it, grief turning to demand. 

‘Where are they?’

A murmur rippled through the gathering crowd, the weight of their presence pressing in.

The first shouts rose from the back.

Deyra’s mouth opened, but the words would not come.

She had returned without them. Without Rysna. Without her father. Without the warriors who had stood beside her and Saylong and walked into Roydne with nothing but their steel and their pride.

A land no Northman should have ever set foot in.

The woman’s breath came hard and fast, her shoulders heaving with the effort to contain something that would not be contained.

Then her gaze lifted.

And everything inside her collapsed into something colder, heavier.

‘You.’

Saylong had not moved. His hands rested on the reins, his eyes locked on the scene before him. He did not answer.

He did not need to.

‘We trusted you.’ Her voice dropped, fury and anguish untouched. ‘We trusted you with Rysna. With our sons. With our daughters. With our fathers. And now you return, bringing—’ she gestured at the chariot, at the warhorses, at the armor and the gilded wheels. Her lips curled, bitter and broken. ‘You bring this? You bring the Order’s scraps and expect us to take them in place of the dead?’

The hush deepened.

Saylong exhaled, slow and measured.

How many times had he stood in this place?

Not just this village. Not just these faces. But the weight was the same. The words, the grief, the hatred behind them. Each time, they were sharpened by different tongues, spoken in different lands, but they all meant the same thing.

Why you?

Why did you return when they did not?

There was no answer that could ever satisfy them. No words that could unmake a battlefield. No justification that could bring back the dead.

And so, as before, he gave them nothing. He remained unspoken.

The tension curled like smoke, thick and suffocating. Before it could snap, another figure moved through the crowd.

A man.

Taller than Deyra remembered. His shoulders broader, his stance heavier, set like stone. His armor marked him as a warrior. His presence silenced the murmurs.

As he reached them, he caught the grieving woman’s arms, stilling her with a firm grip.

Deyra barely breathed.

The sun had dipped low, catching in the braids that framed his face, turning them to ember gold.

Her lips parted, the name slipping free before she could stop it.

‘Troraim.’

His expression did not shift.

Not even a flicker.

He looked at her. Not lost. Not confused. But knowing. Knowing too much. Knowing exactly who she was, and what she had returned without.

She swallowed hard, forcing herself to stand straighter.

The grief, the resentment, the weight of loss. It was all here, pressing against her ribs, curling tight around her throat.

She willed herself not to flinch.

‘Cousin. We are home.’

The words barely tasted like truth.

Troraim did not answer.

His gaze held hers for a moment longer, unreadable.

Then, without a word, he turned away.

The crowd parted for him, silent as he passed.

Deyra stood there, the evening wind curling through the square, cold against her skin.

Home had never felt so far away.

11

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Troraim huffed as he stepped toward the long table, where Saylong sat at one end in the dimly lit food hall. The great stone hearth burned low, casting flickering shadows over the rough-hewn walls. The air smelled of pinewood smoke and drying meat, the usual scents of Scharr. Yet something else lingered in the air, heavy and quiet, like the hush before a verdict.

For two days, Deyra and Saylong had sat in silence, neither welcomed nor cast out, their presence tolerated but untouched. No voices reached them. No shared meals. Not even a glance from those passing by. The people of Scharr had drawn a line, and until Troraim crossed it, they were to remain alone, unclaimed, unforgiven, unspoken. He had barred all contact, ensured their solitude while he weighed the cost of Saylong’s betrayal and the bitter truth of Deyra’s return.

Now, at last, Troraim spoke.

‘Tonight,’ he said, voice steady, though something coiled beneath it, held back and taut. ‘We send them off properly. Now that we know for certain they are gone.’

Neither Saylong nor Deyra replied. Their silence wasn’t hesitation, but understanding. They both knew better than to speak too soon. Troraim’s gaze shifted to Deyra, his cousin. She was the one who had left. The one who had returned.

‘I grew up with you,’ he began, the words slow, deliberate. ‘I should have gone to Roydne. It should not have been you. But the elders refused me.’

He paused then, weight shifting slightly in his stance, the flicker of restraint passing through him.

‘For that, I do not blame you.’

Deyra’s throat tightened. She swallowed, uncertain. The hardness in Troraim’s voice had softened, not entirely, but enough to let her believe he meant what he said.

‘I hold no resentment for your return,’ he continued, and for a moment, she allowed herself to believe it. To believe that something could be mended between them. That not all had been lost.

‘You have told me how my uncle died. How Rysna died. I am grateful you survived to offer them the rite of passage for Tvaris.’

A breath escaped her, small, fragile. The beginning of something close to peace.

But it did not last.

‘You brought him back here, cousin,’ he said, eyeing Saylong. ‘There is no excuse for that.’

The words hit harder than a blow. The relief that had begun to rise cracked apart, hollowing her chest with its absence.

She had been furious at the Order, once. She had spat her rage in the halls of Haithe, had cursed the name of Sherptarl and sworn to make them pay. But now, standing before blood, before kin, she could summon none of that fire. There was only weight. Only silence. Her head bowed low.

Across the hall, Troraim’s eyes locked on Saylong.

The room held still, caught between firelight and silence. Saylong sat motionless at the end of the long table, shoulders squared, jaw set. Not in defiance, but in readiness. He didn’t meet the stare as a challenge. He bore it.

Troraim let the moment stretch, letting the quiet settle like dust over stone.

‘You have little right to set foot on our lands,’ he said at last. His voice came low, controlled, as if the words had been carried a long way to reach this place. ‘You should not have returned.’

Beneath the table, Deyra’s fists closed hard enough to shake. The memory of Saylong carrying her through the forest, blood on his arms, still clung sharp behind her eyes. She wanted to speak. She wanted Troraim to understand. She bit the words back.

He hadn’t finished.

‘Rysna believed in you,’ Troraim continued, his voice tightening. ‘So did I.’

The weight of that admission filled the hall more than any shout could have. There was no venom. Only the quiet sting of something worn thin. Trust. Loss. A wound that didn’t scar.

‘Once.’

The fire shifted beside them. Embers cracked, brittle and dry.

Troraim leaned forward, placing both hands flat on the table, as if bracing himself against the very truth he was about to ask for.

‘I should cast you out. Yet here you are. Still breathing. Still walking the same ground as the men who died trusting you. So tell me, Saylong, why shouldn’t I send you back to Haithe in chains?’

Saylong didn’t flinch. When he spoke, his voice was calm and grounded, neither pleading nor proud.

‘The ambush was planned. We were led there. Someone within the Order gave us up. You were right not to trust them then. You’re right not to trust them now, at least not until I find out who ordered it.’

Troraim said nothing. His stillness held a different weight now, one of listening, not judgment.

Saylong went on, quiet but certain. ‘The North can’t afford to watch and wait. You see Haithe as the enemy, but it isn’t them we should fear. It’s the East. If they move, they’ll take what they want. If they take the West, the North will stand last. You’ll be alone, surrounded by enemies, cut off from food and trade. It won’t be war. It’ll be a slow death.’

Troraim’s brow furrowed, the firelight catching the hard line of his expression.

‘So what then?’ he asked. ‘You want us to kneel? March into the South with our hands open?’

‘No,’ Saylong said. ‘You don’t ask. You tell them. You don’t crawl to their table. You build your own. They see a fractured North. I want them to see a force.’

Troraim drew a long breath through his nose, then leaned back slowly, never breaking from Saylong’s gaze.

‘And who do you think will listen? You expect Chalm to carry that torch?’

Saylong’s mouth thinned, the flicker of an old bitterness behind his words.

‘No. Chalm holds no key to the North.’

The conversation turned to the future, with Saylong speaking of unification, of foresight, of survival beyond old grudges. He pressed Troraim to look past the near-sighted ideologies of those before him. Rysna had seen the truth: the North could not stand divided. Not if they wished to endure.

The pirate raids on Scharr, the blood spilled along the northern shores, had been proof enough.

‘We will call a Vardmót,’ Troraim said at last. ‘It will take at least fourteen nights for the leaders to come. And they will come.’

For the first time, Saylong smiled.

‘They will bring hundreds. Over three hundred. We’ll need to prepare a feast. A summer feast. If we do not, they will not be impressed.’

He turned to Deyra. She had lifted her head at last, the weight of shame easing beneath the shift in focus.

Troraim’s brow lifted. ‘That boar. What kind of gift is that? We should kill it, prepare it—’

The crack of Deyra’s hands slamming against the table cut him off.

‘That is Gurrlan. And he saved my life! You will do no such thing, cousin!’

She nearly shouted, voice sharp with fury.

Troraim chuckled, unshaken. He had only been teasing.

‘Good. Hold that fire in your gut tonight.’ His expression sobered. ‘The Skeldrún will be at dusk. Be at the fire. Stand tall. Stand proud.’ He looked between them, then settled on Saylong.

‘And you—’ he pointed, his voice firm. ‘You stay quiet. No politics. I have already bent to your ways. Now, you will wait.’

Saylong nodded, silent in agreement.

The fire was built high, its light clawing at the night sky, sending embers spiralling into the void. Shadows danced over furs and weathered faces, twisting with the smoke, stretching long and strange across the packed circle of mourners. The scent of cedar and pine resin hung thick in the air, curling into the sky like breath offered to the gods. Each log had been placed with care, the pyre raised tall, a beacon for the dead who never came home. For those still lost in Roydne’s dirt, whose bones were ash scattered far from kin, this was their flame. Their farewell.

The villagers came forward in silence first, laying down the tokens of memory. Worn leather belts, blades dulled by use, beads once braided into the hair of sons and daughters waiting at home, a carved token passed down through generations, a scrap of fur from a hunt remembered, a horn once lifted in joy. They gave what they could, not as tradition, but as threads woven from the living into the legacy of the dead, each one a tether of grief and love, laid to rest so the fallen would not fade from memory.

Then came the sound.

It began as one voice, a raw and shattering note that rose into the trees, keening with a pain too wide for silence. Another voice followed. Then another. Until it became something vast. The wailing swelled, not frenzied, but steady, like a tide crashing again and again against stone. The sound held no chaos. It was unified, grounded, a ritual of grief. The voices of the North rose together, not to forget their dead, but to guide them, to carry them forward into the silence with honor.

Deyra stood among them, her throat raw, her eyes stinging with smoke and tears. She had wept in Roydne, but that grief had been a wound borne in silence, carried alone. Here, the grief moved through every voice around her, folding her into something greater. This was not a display. It was sacred. It was the voice of the mountain and the fire, the call of ancestors brought home in flame. She did not hold herself apart. She let it take her. Not a witness now, but a part of the mourning itself.

When Troraim began to speak, the voices quieted. Not silenced, but softened with respect. His words came low, each syllable forged in ash and memory.

‘They do not leave us. We carry them. We burn the fire in their names. We hold the line they can no longer hold.’

Saylong stood at the edge, separate but reverent. He didn’t speak. Didn’t try. He had no words that could belong here. None that would be enough.

And then Deyra stepped forward. Her ribs tightened as she moved, her jaw clenched with everything left unsaid. She didn’t shout. She didn’t need to. Her voice rang clear, low and full, steady with purpose. She named them one by one. Her father. Rysna. The warriors who had fought beside her. Those whose faces she still saw when she closed her eyes. She spoke of their laughter, of the way Rysna’s joy had sounded like steel striking stone. She gave them back to the fire with every word. And when her voice cracked, others lifted theirs again to carry her.

The wailing rose once more, not because it had ever stopped, but because it had found its voice again in her.

The Skeldrún burned long, into the marrow of bone and memory, into the cords of the throat, into the part of the soul that never fully heals.

And when the fire sank to embers, and the last voice fell to hoarseness, what followed was not silence.

It was presence.

◇ ◇ ◇

The early morning sun cast long, slanted beams across the stone floor of Haithe’s great hall. Dust hung thick in the air, catching the light in slow, restless swirls. The Order had convened at the command of Lord Paramount Chalm, their footsteps heavy against the marble as they filed into their seats. The scent of ink and parchment clung to the air, yet there was no deliberation, no measured discussion today.

Chalm stood at the head of the table, fists braced against the wood, his jaw tight, his face carved in barely contained fury.

‘Armekalia has sent word.’ Chalm’s voice carried through the hall, steady, unrelenting. ‘Four Halicerns are missing. One of them commanded by Admiral Norrbeck Sartise.’ A silence fell.

A slow, suffocating silence.

Chalm’s eyes swept over the gathered envoys. No one spoke. No one so much as shifted in their seat.

‘Who,’ his voice lowered, edged with something far more dangerous than fury, ‘ordered Sartise to those waters?’

Still, silence.

Then the heads turned, one after another, slow and unyielding, each a silent verdict cast upon Mortas Lexx.

Mortas swallowed. His jaw tightened, his shoulders squared beneath the weight of their stares. ‘It was a strategic maneuver,’ he said, his voice crisp, practiced. ‘A message. To remind the East that their presence near our waters would not go unanswered.’

Chalm’s fingers curled against the table’s edge. ‘And now they are gone.’

Mortas did not flinch. ‘They are overdue. A storm. Poor winds. Any number of things could have delayed them. You are leaping to conclusions without—’

‘Four Halicerns, Mortas,’ Chalm interrupted, his voice steady, seething. ‘An Admiral of the Armekalian fleet. You think I overreach?’

A flicker of doubt moved through Mortas, quick and cold. For once, he might not have the words to claw his way free.

‘If it had been one ship, perhaps we could consider mishap. If it had been two, we could entertain poor navigation. But four vessels do not disappear into the tide without cause. Four vessels do not simply drift from our reach.’

His gaze burned into Mortas, eyes dark with promise.

‘You sent them into Thewthyri with no escort, no vanguard, no defensive fleet. Four ships, alone. And now, the sea has swallowed them, and you sit here telling me we should wait for fairer winds?’

The air grew thick with the unspoken.

Chalm leaned forward, slow, deliberate. ‘You will organize a search. You will send an escort worthy of the Order’s might. And Mortas—’ His voice dropped low. ‘Your son will be on that ship.’

The words landed like stone. A threat wrapped in iron.

Mortas went rigid.

‘By Tvaris, if you fail me again, your head will be the next to roll.’

A slow, lingering silence stretched over the room.

No one met Mortas’ eye.

No one moved.

Chalm exhaled, his fury tempered only by necessity. His voice carried now, sweeping over the gathered envoys. ‘If any of you think to act in secret again, if any of you think to take matters into your own hands without my word—’ his hand slammed against the table, the force reverberating through the wood, ‘you will pay the price.’

The room remained hushed, thick with the stench of fear.

‘Understood?’

The answer came in murmurs, in bowed heads, in the way not a single man dared defy him.

Chalm nodded once.

‘Then see it done.’

The entire Order watched as Mortas stormed out of the proceedings. The heavy doors groaned against their hinges, slamming shut behind him. The tension did not leave with him. It thickened, lingering in the charged air, curling in the spaces where defiance had been smothered beneath Chalm’s wrath.

Beyond the great halls of Haithe, the city stirred. The morning had stretched into full wakefulness, the streets shifting to the measured rhythm of trade and duty. Voices wove between the clang of the forges and the steady tread of soldiers pacing the outer walls.

Kaedryn Harth walked among them, his training cadre keeping an even pace along the cobbled roads. The young gifted recruits marched beside their captain, Yersmane, a blend of raw youth and the hardened presence of seasoned soldiers. Kaedryn’s gift had grown with him, his control sharper now than it had ever been, though many still dismissed it as weak. It was a skill with no place in an army built on steel and discipline. To them, there was little worth in a soldier who could hear what others could not.

Kaedryn had never cared much for their opinions.

He could listen beyond walls, through stone and wood, weaving unseen patterns of space and sound. He could map entire rooms from the way voices bent and rebounded, hear whispers carried on currents of air, trace the movement of men in places no eyes could reach. Some found his talent impressive, others considered it a curiosity, and a few had warned him against using it where it was not sanctioned.

Kaedryn had ignored that warning so often it barely registered anymore.

The patrol wound through a network of alleys, cutting toward the river docks where the pulse of the city beat strongest. The Shigh docks fed Haithe to the world, ferrying goods, men, and coin in a constant ebb and flow. By then, the morning had settled into a quiet hum, with dockhands unloading shipments, ferrymen calling orders, and sailors securing their vessels.

At first glance, nothing seemed amiss.

Kaedryn let his gift extend beyond the ordinary sounds of the port, filtering through the droning chatter of traders and the complaints of laborers straining under their burdens. Most of it was mundane, the kind of talk he had long since learned to ignore. Further ahead, his ear caught something sharper, something deliberate.

A voice.

His gaze flicked toward a naval vessel moored apart from the others. It was an Armekalian Halicern, its hull a familiar silhouette against the backdrop of smaller merchant ships. Two men stood near the stern, their voices low but distinct.

Kaedryn listened.

The older of the two spoke with measured authority. ‘When you reach the fleet, you’ll take them halfway to Realm. No further. Turn back for Hawn’s Keep. Go no further.’

The younger man hesitated. ‘Do you think it was Kalltor?’

A pause.

No answer came, only the heavy silence of unsaid things.

Then a quiet clap on the shoulder. A brief embrace.

‘Luck to you, boy.’

The conversation ended.

Kaedryn exhaled through his nose, pressing the information to memory. A lead, perhaps. Or nothing at all. Either way, it was the most his gift had given him that day. The docks carried no criminals, no traitors hiding in alleyways. Only the steady business of men who kept the city moving.

Later, as the sun arced high, Kaedryn drifted toward his usual haunt near the Central Quarters. It was the perfect place to train his gift, the heart of power and secrets where noblemen schemed behind the quarter’s gates. He had learned to filter the useless noise, sifting through layers of conversation to find the ones that mattered.

Some words he had kept to himself. Others he had considered selling.

Today, he recognized a voice.

It was the older man from the Halicern. Kaedryn was certain of it. This time, the tone was hushed and measured, an exchange not meant for open ears. His ability strained to reach them, the words faint through the walls of the courtyard.

‘Get the message to him. He’s in northern Elanwyn, at Ralpo-Alm. No one must intercept this.’

Kaedryn tilted his head slightly, as if the name might form something clearer in sound. Ralpo-Alm meant nothing. No place. No image. Not even a whisper of memory.

‘If he doesn’t receive it, he might act too early. We’re not ready.’

The weight behind those words sharpened his focus. This was no idle command. It was urgency wrapped in secrecy, meant for ears that wouldn’t carry it further.

Kaedryn leaned in, straining to hear more.

‘And Saylong? What is he thinking?’

A second voice replied, one he could barely place.

‘There’s no sign he will succeed. If he does, it changes nothing. We can prove the North is worthless to us. He spoke of marching in protest. Let him. If they move before he does, it will embarrass Chalm further. Then, we act.’

Kaedryn stilled.

The name sat heavy in his mind. Captain Marcius Saylong.

He remembered the man. More than that, he knew it was Saylong who had taken him from his home in Devantondie. The memories were fragmented, blurred by the years, but flashes remained: the crack of voices raised in anger, the press of unfamiliar hands pulling him away, the cold realization that he was never going back.

Saylong had brought him to Orynbeck. Then, as he had grown, he had been sent here, to Haithe, trained to serve under the army of Aurenvia Tollitch.

The older man moved off, his footsteps fading into the rhythms of the gardens. Kaedryn followed the sound, mapping his surroundings through the shifting voices and muffled steps. Chalm was nearby, speaking softly with his granddaughter. The man he trailed, however, had drifted further. His path was deliberate, his stride tight with purpose.

Then, he stopped. A quiet exchange. A firm hand gripping another man’s arm, pulling him aside.

Kaedryn strained to hear.

The voices dipped too low, hushed to the point of near silence. He caught only fragments, nothing more.

‘... my son has to go ...’

‘... this wasn’t the deal ...’

A strained voice. Tension curling beneath the words.

The other man’s reply was little more than a murmur, and something in his tone made Kaedryn’s stomach turn. It was delivered with a kind of offhand confidence, as though the outcome had already been decided.

As if the son’s fate had already been decided.

Kaedryn remained still, listening for more. The wind shifted, bringing nothing but the rustling of leaves, the chatter of distant courtiers. He had heard all he was going to.

For now.

This was not something to trade away for coin. Not yet. The Order was already shifting, the weight of command pulling in too many directions. A wrong step now, and he would be crushed beneath it.

He would hold this close. He would wait. When Saylong returned, maybe then he would listen. And when he did, Kaedryn would have his chance to ask about the day he was taken from Devantondie.

Until then, he would keep his ears open.

12

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Kalltor sat in the low light of early morning, the sky painted in thin strokes of silver above the fjord. The waves rolled gently against the pebble-strewn beach, each one folding into the next with rhythmic patience. His ship, the Varkellon, rocked faintly in the shallows, its hull bearing the scars of many moons at sea. Repairs had been made where they could, yet the vessel still looked like something pulled from the teeth of a long storm. Around it, five more ships lay moored in a crescent, their dark hulls moving listlessly against the tides.

Tied to the base of the weathered light beacon, Sartise slumped forward like a discarded offering. His limbs were bound, his frame reduced to something gaunt and pallid, dried by salt and sun. He hadn’t stood in days. Kalltor watched him from the grass verge where he sat, eyes narrowed, unmoved.

After a long moment, Kalltor stood up and turned away. He walked toward one of the cottages perched beyond the grassline, simple and narrow, its walls of faded timber sagging at the joints. Inside, he sat at the crooked table, resting his elbows against the scarred wood, his head folding into his hands.

The silence held for several minutes. Then came a knock.

The door creaked open, and Volnaire stepped inside. He paused and studied Kalltor’s posture, which was slumped, motionless, and barely present.

‘Still no word,’ Volnaire said. ‘The boys are ready. We’re all ready. Why do we even need them?’

Kalltor didn’t raise his head. His voice was quiet, rough at the edges.

‘Because a deal was struck. I’ve already taken what I wanted from it. But there’s more to gain. Silence doesn’t break the plan.’

Volnaire’s frown deepened.

‘Don’t turn into Mika. We’ve seen what that brings.’

That pulled Kalltor upright. His hands slammed down against the table with a crack that echoed through the room. He stared into Volnaire’s eyes, jaw tight, fury just below the surface.

‘Bring Sartise. Food. Ale. Fresh water.’

Volnaire didn’t argue. He turned and left without a word.

Kalltor sank back into the chair, head once again in his hands.

Minutes passed before the door creaked again. Two of the crew shoved Sartise into the room, his body folding to the floor with a thud. He was shaking, bone-thin, and stank of fever. The crewmen laughed, but Kalltor’s frown silenced them.

‘Pick him up. Unbind his hands. Seat him where he belongs.’

The laughter stopped. They obeyed, lifting Sartise and settling him into a chair across from Kalltor. His body slumped forward again, too weak to keep upright. The ropes slipped from his hands. A tray was brought in and placed between them, bearing meat, fruit, a jug of water, and a half-filled flagon of ale.

Kalltor pushed it all toward Sartise.

‘Eat.’

The admiral stared at the table, unfocused. His voice came ragged, barely there.

‘Just kill me. Starving’s a coward’s death. Give me the sword. The arrow. Let me die like something more than this.’

‘Eat.’

‘And if I don’t?’

‘Then your wife, Majorey, dies. Your sons, Hashmine and Seprea, they follow. You know how this works. You die now, they die with you. Or you eat, and maybe they don’t.’

Sartise blinked, uncomprehending. Then, slowly, his mouth pulled into a grimace.

‘You’re bluffing.’

Kalltor gave a low hum, not quite laughter.

‘Are you sure?’

Sartise reached for the water, hand trembling. He took a sip. Salt had dried against his lips, the inside of his mouth shriveled like a tide-washed shell.

‘Captain Ferrow guards your family,’ Kalltor said.

Sartise froze.

‘What of him?’

‘He’s not guarding anyone anymore. Turns out loyalty is lighter than coin. I bought him. For less than I expected.’

Sartise set the jug down, hard.

‘What do you want from me?’

‘Eat. Drink. Survive. You’ll stay here as a guest. You’ll be bound when I’m not in the room. Your men didn’t come for you. They saw what was coming. They chose their lives over yours. You see what that means?’

Sartise didn’t answer. He drank again, slower this time.

‘They chose to let you die,’ Kalltor said. ‘And when they did, they proved their masters would have let them die for nothing. So now, they’ve changed course. They’ve given you up to save themselves.’

Sartise’s voice rasped low.

‘You want me to suffer. That’s it.’

‘Yes,’ Kalltor said. ‘I want your family dead. I want them to go first. I want you to sit here and feel every beat of what it means to lose them. I want you to die with the memory of them fresh in your mind. I want you to live just long enough to make the right choice and know it was too late.

Or—’ he paused, voice flat, ‘—you can choose differently. You eat. You drink. You sit here as my guest, and when this is over, maybe you get your death. A clean one. Maybe your family lives. Maybe they will grow old and avenge you. All you need to do is start with that plate.’

He pushed it closer.

Sartise looked at the food, then back at Kalltor.

And for the first time, he reached for a slice of meat.

Kalltor watched as Sartise ate and drank his fill. Two of Kalltor’s men came in carrying a weighted iron shackle. They crouched by the bed and fastened it to his leg with practiced ease, the chain dragging across the floor with a dull scrape.

For Sartise, his new comforts of a cottage were a trade for his family’s lives. He valued them. He would not betray them, though he still wasn’t sure who he was betraying by remaining alive. The oath to save his closest and dearest was not one he would surrender lightly. That cost would not be given over as easily as Captain Ferrow’s had. His anger boiled beneath the surface, yet gave no sign of the image now rooted in his mind—a knife driven into Ferrow’s throat, clean and quiet.

By midday, Ralpo-Alm had shaken off the stillness of morning. Wind stirred through the gaps in broken shutters, and the sound of voices, low and unhurried, carried between sagging cabins and moss-worn stone. Kalltor and Volnaire passed through what remained of the old village, their steps softened by soil and rot, their eyes on the men settling into ruin as if it were home.

‘We have 418 men now.’ Volnaire said.

‘Loyal?’ Kalltor asked.

‘Loyal enough that they wanted to live.’

‘Any gifted?’

‘We can’t see any. I think Sartise had an issue with the gifted, perhaps that even lead to his decision against you.’ Volnaire insisted.

Kalltor frowned.

‘Then send word to Haithe. We’re coming and they need to be ready. Send word to Orsta that he is to be ready with the package before we reach the East Coast.’

Kalltor lingered a moment longer, the edges of a smile tugging at his lips as he turned toward the cottage.

Inside, Sartise lay sprawled on the bed, one leg still shackled, his body limp with exhaustion.

Kalltor’s gaze lingered. That man, admiral, prisoner, relic, would soon buy them the very future he had once fought to prevent.

A fitting end. The last thing he would ever do for Teloshka.

◇ ◇ ◇

The village of Scharr bustled as more and more tents rose from the soil, their canvas bodies swaying in the wind. Over six hundred had arrived, including warriors, elders, traders, and kin. Some came with offerings: wooden carvings for the Skeldrún, stone tokens etched with clan sigils, bone charms from those who could not make the journey. Others came in silence, drawn only by the memory of Rysna. For him, they stood. For him, they stayed.

Disputes between the clans had been shelved, if only for now. This was Vardmót, the sacred gathering, and while peace was never promised, it was expected for the seven nights it lasted. It was the only time the North laid down its blades and opened its tables to all.

The feuds, though quieted, sat coiled beneath the surface. Old bitterness lingered like frost in shadowed soil, fed by disputes over grazing lands during lean winters, broken salt-fish pacts, and blood still unpaid from barrow raids carried out without sanction from the Kotâry, the gathered voices of the tribes whose word held weight during times of peace. And then there were the unspoken things, grudges born not of land or trade, but of betrayal, of envy, of pride too deep-rooted for the tongue to touch.

None of that could surface. Not yet. For now, there would be feasts. There would be song. And there would be Kotâry, heard by all.

Ramcino was a man in his thirties, broad-shouldered and battle-built. Though cleanly shaven, there was nothing soft about him. His face was all sharp lines and hard edges, and his piercing eyes were a cold, assessing blue. Long curls of blond hair framed a warrior’s bearing, and unlike most gathered here, he wore chainmail beneath his leather armor, a quiet statement that he was ready for war if war came.

He came from the northern Madita Coast and now sat stiffly apart from Troraim’s line. They had no open feud, yet no friendship either. When Scharr had burned under Kalltor’s hand, Ramcino’s people had sent nothing. No timber. No men. Not even a word of mourning. Rysna had severed ties after that. For Ramcino to appear now was more than political.

Saylong saw it too. He had waited for this, the moment when every tribe, from the high hills of Tordveth to the icebound lakes of Jordvann, had gathered beneath one roof. If ever there was a time to speak his vision into life, it was now.

The fire crackled, filling the central hall with the smell of pine smoke and roasted meat. Horns clattered, hands drummed tables, laughter rose and fell in waves.

Saylong sat at the long table beside Deyra and Troraim. Ramcino was close, his eyes never far from Saylong, his mouth thin with restrained disdain.

Then, without a word, Troraim rose to his feet.

His men rose with him, fists beating the wood in rhythm. A thunder rolled through the hall as the crowd quieted, and then all eyes turned.

The young chieftain raised his arms.

‘Welcome. Welcome, my friends. Welcome, my enemies.’

Laughter rippled through the hall.

‘We bid farewell to the days of length and prepare ourselves for the ice. We do not fear it. We welcome it. We are ready.’

Cheers burst forth.

‘Our year has been bountiful. And you, our kin, our rivals, are to share in that bounty.’

Grunts of approval. Hands slapped shoulders.

‘We honor the warriors of Scharr, Jordvann and all of Madita who gave their blood in foreign soil. They did not die for coin. They died for right. For the right to live, to hold this land, to keep it from those who do not belong.’

The room roared. Tankards were lifted. Names were shouted into the smoke.

Troraim’s voice sharpened.

‘We are blessed by Tvaris and the spirits of the past, but do not mistake blessings for safety. We are not safe. Not yet.’

Silence crept in.

‘I speak not to divide. I speak to warn. The East grows strong. The South grows hungry. Pirates sail under false flags, and those who call themselves rulers look northward with greedy eyes.

We must not be caught alone.

My river is Madita. My wealth is in salt and fish, in stone and wave. We do not covet the gold of Aurenvia Tollitch. We do not desire their courts. What we seek, what we demand, is recognition. Recognition that we are part of the shaping of this land.

The South is filled with power. It is also filled with rot. What it lacks is us. The North.

It must not remain that way.’

He paused. A slow breath.

‘We cannot fight each other and survive. We cannot ignore the East, or the South, or the men who would burn our homes to warm their bellies. We must become one. A north worth fearing. A north worth respecting.’

The firelight flickered across his face, casting the edges of him in shadow.

‘Let this Vardmót mark the end of silence. Let it be the first breath of something greater. And when the winds come, as they always do, let them find us not scattered, let them find us standing side by side.’

He stepped back.

No one cheered. Not at first.

Then, from the back of the hall, a single voice roared.

‘Tvaris witness!’

Others followed. Soon, the room was thunder.

Saylong sat still, eyes on Troraim.

He knew the moment was coming.

His would be the next voice.

And the North would hear the call, or pretend they never had. But they could no longer claim they hadn’t been spoken to.

Saylong rose to meet the moment. He carried no sword, no shield, but his words were steel, and his voice bore the weight of something greater than any single blade. He spoke not in rage, nor in empty pride, but in warning.

Aurenvia Tollitch was no longer spoken of as a distant shadow, but as a force rising in the South, a presence that would not remain neutral forever. He spoke of its reach, its ambition, the lands it gathered like stones in its pocket, each one tipping the balance further in its favor. He spoke of warriors who had fought beside him, of those who had bled and died believing the North could rise, of the Jordvannian warrior who had pulled him from the brink and carried him back here, to this moment.

‘You cannot ignore what grows south of Madita and pretend it will never reach you. The Order will not sit idle forever. If you do nothing, then one day it will not be us, here, deciding whether to stand with Aurenvia Tollitch. It will be them deciding what to do with the North.’

A murmur rolled through the gathered clans.

‘You may think you are safe here, but safety is an illusion. The East will press against the West’s walls, and when they do, Aurenvia Tollitch will rally to defend their interests. Where will that leave you? Still on the fringes? Still scraping by while others carve out your future?’

His voice rose with conviction.

‘We are not asking to be taken in like beggars. We are not asking for favors or scraps. We are demanding our place at the table. The North has bled on the lands of Teloshka. The North has held the passes, the coasts, the borders. And now, the North must claim what it is owed. A seat in the Order. A voice in the shaping of tomorrow.’

He let the weight of it settle before continuing.

‘And if they do not give it?’ He paused, letting the fire crackle in the silence. ‘Then we take it.’

Gasps. Some hands curled into fists. Others gripped their tankards tighter.

‘I do not mean war,’ Saylong continued, his voice measured, cutting through the unease. ‘You do not march with axes drawn. You march in unity. A single North. One people. You will walk through the gates of Haithe not as invaders, but as kin demanding recognition. No threats. No blood spilled. Just presence. Strength.’

His gaze flicked to Troraim.

‘I will ride ahead with Telilus. I will warn the Order that the North is coming, not in war, but in protest. In unity. You will choose one leader, one voice, to speak for all. And they will listen. Because a North divided is weak. A North standing together is a power no Lord Paramount will dare ignore.’

But the hall did not cheer. Not yet. The quiet was thick with thought, with doubt.

Then Ramcino rose.

He had not spoken through the entire speech. His voice cut through the hush.

‘And tell me, Saylong, who do you think will represent the North?’

The room erupted. Voices clashed, names were thrown into the air, the barter for power beginning before the path had even been laid.

Then Troraim stood once more, and his voice rose above the chaos.

‘The one who speaks for the North will not be the one who asks for it.’ His eyes swept the hall, his meaning unmistakable. ‘Power is not given to those who hunger for it. It should rest with those who bear it because they must.’

His gaze locked onto Ramcino.

‘March to Haithe with the best of our warriors at your side. Stand before the Order and demand our seat, not for yourself, but for all of us. And do it with the full weight of the North behind you.’

A silence followed. Deeper than before.

Then, from the back of the hall, a single voice rose.

‘Tvaris witness!’

Another followed.

Then another.

Within moments, the North had spoken.

Ramcino was to be their voice.

He did not smile. He did not bask in the chants of his name, nor the heavy hands clapping his shoulders. He only stared at the fire, knowing that whether or not he wanted it, the fate of the North had been placed in his hands.

The next days of the Kotâry unfolded with the same bitter quarrels that had long defined such gatherings, but there was a shift, one that was subtle yet undeniable. Old rivalries, once rigid, softened under the weight of what had been decided. Grievances, though still aired, seemed smaller when placed against the future that had been set in motion. No single tribe, no single leader, held dominion now. What had been chosen could not be undone.

Ramcino carried the burden of his new role with no pride. He met no man’s eye longer than necessary, spoke when required, and did not let himself sink into the murmurings of power. Before leaving, Saylong had spoken to him in private, yet what was said remained between them.

Beyond the main gathering, by the river where the grasses grew tall and thick, Deyra crouched near Gurrlan as the bear nosed through the reeds. She had been watching the water when Saylong approached.

‘Do you think you’ve done the right thing?’ she asked. ‘Do you think Ramcino can truly hold it all together?’

Saylong did not answer her question. Instead, he shifted the conversation. ‘Will you be marching with them?’

She smiled. She saw through him. This wasn’t about a lack of faith in Ramcino. It was the deeper fear that the North itself would not hold. And he had every right to worry. Diplomacy had never been the North’s strength, and new allegiances had not yet been tested by time.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I am marching on Haithe. With Gurrlan.’

Saylong’s expression eased into something close to a smile. ‘Good. Then I will see you there.’

She hesitated before adding, ‘If they march against us, there will only be a few hundred of us...’

‘They won’t,’ Saylong replied. ‘They will have no reason to. You are marching as one. A single North. That is what they will see.’

Deyra frowned. She understood what he was saying, but the thought lingered—what if they only see a few hundred warriors and not the true might of the North that lay waiting beyond the hills and rivers? What if they do not fear us at all?

◇ ◇ ◇

The Varkellon, once helmed by Admiral Norrbeck Sartise, now sailed under Kalltor’s command. Sartise himself was lashed to the mast once more. He was no longer chained at the ankle, yet he was no less a prisoner.

The Halicern led the fleet, its dark hull slipping into the morning mist. One by one, the other ships followed, their sails catching the early light as they set course southwest.

Behind them, the village was nothing, only smoke and silence. The pyres on the beach burned high, devouring the bodies of those who had refused Kalltor’s rule. Women stolen from nearby villages. Men who would not bow. Their ashes drifted into the sky, carried out to sea on the early morning breeze.

The fjord’s waters were black and still, reflecting the shapes of six ships, ghostlike and silent, sent to haunt the western coasts.

Sartise watched Kalltor at the helm, hatred burning deep. He had cursed himself a hundred times over for bending to the pirate’s threats. But Kalltor had known his weakness and now his chains carried the names of his family. Majorey. Hashmine. Seprea. That was what kept him alive and bound now. 

And yet, a darker thought gnawed at the edges of his mind.

Why was he still living?

If Kalltor had wanted him dead, it would have happened the moment he set foot on the Varkellon. Instead, he had been spared. Kept close. Bound, but breathing.

Sartise clenched his fists. He was not just a prisoner.

He was a piece in Kalltor’s game.

If Kalltor thought he was worth that much alive, then the game wasn’t just cruel. It was far more sinister than Sartise had yet begun to understand.

13

––––––––

Haithe’s central quarters basked in the late summer sun, a golden warmth spilling across the polished courtyards and marble halls. The air was thick with the scent of blooming lilies, the rhythmic trickle of fountains, the soft murmur of nobles engaged in their daily rituals. Lord Paramount Chalm walked with steady ease toward the garden, a place of comfort, of routine. It was where he always met Rhodeia, his granddaughter.

She was never late. He frowned. She should have been here already.

Chalm stood at the garden’s edge, his pale blue robes unmoving in the light breeze. He thought of her golden hair, how it danced like spun silk in the wind. He thought of her voice, soft yet unbreakable, the way it had once soothed his grief, his burdens. She was the brightest piece of his world. He had never doted on anyone more, not even his own children.

But she was not here.

His hands curled at his sides. A flicker of unease passed over him. It was not like her to forget. Just as he turned to summon a guard, hurried footsteps pounded against the garden stones. A boy, no older than ten, came sprinting toward him, gasping for breath.

‘Stop!’ The guards reacted in an instant. Two of them intercepted the boy, seizing him by the arm before he could get close. He struggled, twisting in their grasp.

‘I have a message! A message from Rhodeia!’

Chalm’s heart gave a sudden, stabbing jolt. He stepped forward, his voice low, urgent. ‘What message?’

The boy, wide-eyed and breathless, extended a folded note. Chalm took it without a word. The guards held their grip, waiting for orders, but Chalm waved them off. The boy did not hesitate. His feet barely touched the ground as he darted away, vanishing into the courtyards and out of sight.

For a long moment, Chalm did not move. The gardens around him stood still. It was as though the world waited as he unfolded the note.

The moment stretched as his eyes moved over the words.

Then—

His body buckled. First at the knees, then at the spine. He collapsed onto the path; the note buried beneath him. The breath tore from his lungs, uneven and broken, like it had clawed its way out.

Chaos erupted in the gardens. Guards moved swiftly, forming a barricade around the fallen Lord Paramount, their golden armor flashing in the dappled sunlight. Spectators pushed forward, murmuring, gasping, whispering amongst themselves. A noblewoman pressed a hand to her mouth, while another craned his neck to see what had brought their ruler to his knees.

Chalm did not move. His fingers clutched the crumpled note as though it were the only thing tethering him to the world. His eyes remained fixed on the ground, his breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps.

Then, he stirred.

The guards tensed as he lifted his head, his face drawn, his eyes hollow. A single tear traced the deep lines of his cheek, but he paid it no mind. He did not speak. He did not explain. With a sudden jolt, he rose, his legs unsteady beneath him, and pushed forward through the barricade.

‘My lord!’ The captain of the guard rushed to his side, a gloved hand reaching out. ‘We must proceed with caution. We must slow.’

Chalm did not slow. His feet carried him forward with a force beyond reason, his long white robes billowing in the wind, the blue hems rippling with each stride. His pace had not faltered with age, nor had the fire that burned within him. He muttered under his breath, words lost to the wind, his hands clenching and unclenching as if the movement alone could still them.

Guards scrambled to keep up. Three men surged ahead, cutting through the stunned nobles and courtiers who parted before them. The grand iron and marble doors of the Central Quarters loomed ahead, and as soon as the first gap appeared, Chalm drove forward, forcing his way through. The moment he emerged onto the streets of Haithe, the city itself seemed to flinch.

The markets had been bustling, filled with the scent of fresh bread and spices, the sound of traders bartering, of horses clattering over stone. Children played in the shade of the towering pillars, while couriers weaved between the crowds with parchment tucked beneath their arms. But then they saw him. Lord Paramount Chalm, walking with a pale, unreadable expression, his guards moving beside him in visible urgency. And in that instant, the city seemed to inhale all at once.

Voices hushed. Merchants paused mid-sale. Hands hovered, uncertain, over baskets of fruit.

Then the whispers began.

He was walking. Not in a chariot, not upon a fine horse. He moved through the streets with purpose. With urgency.

The murmurs turned to mutters, then to something darker. Someone spat, the wet impact striking the white fabric of Chalm’s sleeve. The captain reacted instantly, his fist driving into the offender’s jaw and sending him sprawling across the cobbles, blood already pooling at his lip. The movement was slight, but it shifted the air and cracked the moment wide open.

A man lunged forward. A guard stepped in fast, his shield slamming hard into the assailant’s chest. Another surged from the throng, fingers clawing for purchase. The golden-armored soldiers moved as one, shields locking together, the gleam of steel catching the light.

‘Hold formation!’ the captain bellowed. ‘Protect the Lord Paramount!’

The passage ahead was closing. The press of bodies swelled against them, the sea of faces shifting, some in anger, some in awe, others merely watching, waiting. The elite of Haithe forced a wedge through, their presence alone pushing back the braver of the mob.

‘My lord, we must turn back,’ the captain pleaded, voice taut with warning. ‘We must return to the Central Quarters. Now.’

His breath came sharp and ragged; still, his feet did not falter.

‘Take the side streets,’ the captain ordered, voice like steel. ‘Move now.’

The guards obeyed. The procession cut through the narrow alleys, weaving between stone buildings and shadowed walkways where eyes followed them from the gloom. In the main streets, chaos still swelled, voices clashing, anger rising. But here, in the winding veins of the city, the weight of history watched them in silence. Some who peered from their doorways held reverence in their eyes. Others, suspicion. Others still, hatred.

Step by step, they advanced, the weight of the city pressing in around them. The winding paths stretched on, the uneven stones worn smooth by generations before them. Shadows clung to the edges of the alleyways, faces watching from darkened doorways, the echoes of the crowd still swelling behind them.

The walk felt endless. The air hung heavy with dust and murmurs, the scent of old parchment and burning oil drifting from nearby shops. Yet, through the narrow passage ahead, the great expanse of the square finally opened before them.

And there it stood.

The Great Hall loomed at the far end, vast and unyielding. Its towering doors, carved from ancient wood, bore the weight of centuries. The polished surface gleamed beneath the afternoon sun, the symbol of power, of judgment, of history etched deep into its bones.

Chalm did not stop. His breathing hitched with effort, his stride unwavering as he ascended the steps. His guards kept close, their armor clanking in rhythm, their gazes sweeping the square for threats that no longer came. At the threshold, Chalm did not hesitate. He pressed forward, shoving through the heavy doors. The ancient wood groaned against its hinges before slamming shut behind him with a deep, resonant thud.

The noise of the city was cut away in an instant.

Inside, there was only silence.

He moved swiftly through the hall, his steps purposeful, his expression unreadable. The guards at his back exchanged uncertain glances. None knew why their Lord Paramount moved with such erratic urgency. None knew what had been on the note.

As he reached his chamber doors, he turned to the captain.

‘Fetch me Dharl Bodwin. Immediately.’

The captain gave a sharp nod, motioning to one of the guards. The man disappeared down the corridor without hesitation.

Chalm stepped into his chambers, closing the heavy door behind him. The guards took position in the hallway outside, their stillness drawn tight like men waiting for orders that might never come.

He stood in the dim light, his hands trembling as he unfurled the note once more. His eyes traced the words he had already memorized, as though reading them again would somehow change their meaning.

Rhodeia lives for now. You will be told where to find her. Speak of this and she dies. Bring others and she dies. Disobey and she dies screaming.

The words clawed through him. They stood stark on the parchment, every line a hammerblow. His breath shuddered from his lips. Slowly, he sank into the chair by the arched window, the note still clutched between his fingers. He stared at it until the ink blurred, but no matter how many times he read it, the message did not change.

Minutes stretched into long moments before the door opened. A man stepped in, tall and composed, his dark cloak trailing behind him across the stone.. His expression held calm, but the eyes gave him away. This was Dharl, advisor to Chalm. For once, the steadiness he carried seemed shadowed by concern.

‘My lord?’ he asked. ‘What is it?’

Chalm’s hand trembled as he extended the note. Dharl took it, his eyes flickering over the words. His face darkened as he read.

‘My lord, I am sure we can—’

‘No,’ Chalm cut him off, his voice firm despite the weight pressing on his chest. ‘We must do as the note says.’

Dharl read it again, as though searching for something he had missed.

‘My lord, people will talk. Who sent this to you?’

Chalm shook his head. ‘A boy. A servant’s boy. I don’t know who.’

‘We need to find him. Do you remember his face? Who he belonged to?’

Chalm pressed his lips together. The answer did not come easily. He tried to summon the memory, but it was slipping, fading like smoke. Would the guards who had stopped the boy remember? Did it even matter now?

His voice was hoarse. ‘Who took my Rhodeia? I want them dead. All of them.’

Dharl remained still. ‘If we are to find her, we need to know how they took her. How did they get past the guards? How did they remove her from the Central Quarters?’

‘No,’ Chalm said, shaking his head. ‘I am only telling you. You tell no one else. No one at all. Do you hear me? I cannot afford her life to be risked. We wait for the next message. If they want gold, we will give it to them. No one must know. This must be clear.’

Dharl hesitated, then gave a slow nod. ‘Yes, my lord. We will find her. Even if I must do it myself.’

Chalm’s jaw tightened. ‘I am warning you, Dharl. No one must know. I will tell my daughter, and we will keep this silent for as long as we can.’

‘People will talk, my lord,’ Dharl said carefully. ‘I am not sure how long we can keep something like this quiet. I will do all I can to seal the whispers.’

Chalm exhaled through his nose, his fingers gripping the armrests of his chair. ‘Erastus?’

Dharl’s brow furrowed. ‘Can you trust him?’

‘I think so.’

‘Then leave him with me.’

Chalm frowned as Dharl set the note back down on the table, then turned and left without another word.

Outside the Great Hall, the last rays of the sun cast long shadows against the marble steps. Dharl moved quickly, his mind already racing ahead. He passed beneath the colonnades, boots ringing against the stone, then crossed into the eastern walk. The courtyards were quiet, emptied of voices for once, and the branches overhead stirred in the windless hush that came before nightfall. The path veered toward the gardens. He took it without slowing. There was no need for guards now. Not here. The Central Quarters rose ahead, pale and domed, watching over the capital like a judge who never spoke. Dharl ascended the steps and pressed through the arch toward Erastus of Talill’s residence.

The servants opened the doors without a word. Dharl stepped inside, the hush of the chamber settling around him at once. The scent of resin hung in the air, and long curtains filtered the last of the light as evening gathered beyond the windows.

The old man was precisely as he had expected, lounging comfortably in his chair, swirling deep red wine in a delicate chalice as the golden glow of dusk pooled at his feet.

‘Ah, Dharl. What a pleasure,’ Erastus murmured, raising his glass. ‘Can I tempt you with a sip of Mermard’s finest?’

Before Dharl could refuse, Erastus had already motioned to a servant. A second chalice appeared, filled deep with Mermard red. He waved the girl away and settled deeper into his chair, unreadable as ever. Whether it was coyness or true indifference, that was his power. The game was his because no one could tell when he was playing.

Dharl remained standing, a deliberate refusal to play Erastus’s game. He crossed his arms, planting himself just inside the threshold, eyes sharp, posture unbending.

Erastus sighed dramatically. ‘Sit, sit. You standing there like a wraith makes my wine taste sour.’

Reluctantly, Dharl lowered himself into the chair opposite, the chalice untouched before him.

‘Have you heard any news?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Erastus mused, swirling his drink. ‘They say the weather will be golden, which means a wolf winter for the North. Unpleasant for our northern kin, no doubt, but—’

‘No. News of Chalm’s granddaughter?’

Erastus lifted a brow. ‘Rhodeia? No. Should I be aware of something? Has there been a marriage proposal? Surely, I would have heard of that.’

Dharl exhaled through his nose. The fool was playing games. Or worse, he was as doddering as he appeared.

‘She’s missing.’

The old man stiffened, the wine in his hand stilled.

‘Missing?’ His voice sharpened. ‘Lost in a forest? Fallen into the Shigh? Speak plainly, you fool.’

Dharl felt his patience fray, not from uncertainty but from knowing exactly what Erastus was doing. Letting frustration win here would mean surrendering the tempo of the conversation. And Dharl never surrendered tempo.

‘She was taken. No one knows by who. A note was delivered, warning Chalm to stay silent, or she dies.’

Erastus’s fingers tightened around his glass. ‘And Chalm told you?’

Dharl exhaled sharply. ‘And I have now told you.’ He leaned back, rubbing a hand over his face. ‘Yes. Yes, I am painfully aware that you shouldn’t know. Chalm swore it. Swore it to my face. No one. Not a word.’ His hand dropped to the table. ‘And then he made me tell you.’

A low sound rumbled in Erastus’s throat, amusement laced with curiosity. Dharl recognized it. The old man was testing the edges, prodding to see how much had truly been revealed. This time, it came with something else beneath it. A quiet question neither of them voiced aloud—how much longer could Chalm be trusted to see clearly?

He took a slow sip of wine, his gaze sharp despite the lazy posture. ‘Interesting.’

Dharl looked away. The weight of it sat uneasily in his chest.

‘Who else knows?’ Erastus asked.

Dharl hesitated. ‘No one. Only Chalm, myself, and soon, Elia, his daughter. But I do not expect her to stay silent for long.’

A heavy silence passed between them.

‘And your suspicions?’ Erastus asked.

‘I have none. Chalm has enemies. Many. The question is, who gains if he yields his seat?’ Dharl’s eyes flickered. ‘You, for one.’

Erastus’s expression did not change, yet the shift in his gaze was unmistakable. ‘I beg your pardon?’

Dharl held his stare. ‘You have no interest in Chalm’s seat?’

‘None,’ Erastus replied smoothly. ‘Though, many do. Sherptarl. Mortas. And there is no hiding that Allturna would be favored as well. All ten of the Order have some claim, and none deserve it. Chalm... well, let us just say that the whispers are not quiet among them. His grip is slipping. Perhaps it is time for him to let go.’

‘What did the note say exactly?’ Erastus asked.

Dharl hesitated before recounting it word for word.

Erastus listened, eyes darkening while he turned the chalice slowly in his fingers, red wine catching the window’s light like blood.

There was no sign of the sender. Nothing that proved who had taken Rhodeia. No indication of where she was, or how long she had already been gone.

A long, unsettling quiet fell over them both.

The chalice turned slowly in his fingers, red wine catching the window’s light like blood,

Dharl left Erastus with little more than a promise. He would work quickly, set his spies to the task, and uncover the truth. Yet as Dharl stepped back into the dimming light of the corridors, he wasn’t convinced the old man would move at any speed at all.

Erastus had played him, or at least toyed with the urgency of the situation. Dharl didn’t suspect him of orchestrating Rhodeia’s abduction, but he did suspect indifference. The way Erastus had brushed it aside, the way he had chuckled into his wine, speaking of past abductions that had turned out to be little more than desperate ploys for ransom money, gnawed at Dharl.

Not because Erastus had tried to shift the burden of finding the culprits.

And yet, there was a chance he was right.

It was a thought that followed Dharl out of the chamber, a thought that settled like lead in his gut. If this was just a ransom scheme, there was hope. But if Rhodeia had been taken for a different reason, then Chalm was walking blindly into something far darker than he realized.

And Elia... Elia was unraveling.

She had not taken the news of her daughter’s disappearance well. The moment the words left Chalm’s mouth, she broke. She wailed, fists striking weakly against his chest as tears ran freely down her face. Composure meant nothing to her now. Restraint even less. Her child was missing, and all Chalm could say was that they needed to keep quiet.

‘Stay quiet? While my daughter is gone? While someone has her?’ she sobbed, her voice raw. ‘Tell me who is looking for her, tell me now!’

Chalm refused. He had given Dharl his word, and even as his daughter crumbled before him, he held firm.

‘I promise you, we will find her,’ he said.

Elia’s breath hitched. ‘You? You’ll go? You think that won’t get you killed?’

Chalm’s expression was unreadable, but his voice was steady.

‘If it comes down to it, if it’s me or her, I’ll gladly give my life over.’

Her cries only deepened.

She had lived a life of wealth and privilege. Chalm’s power had never been a danger to her, never something she feared. Now, standing in the shadow of his influence, seeing the cost of his rule, she felt it. The sickness gripped her first. Dread followed, heavy. Then came the realization that Rhodeia was gone, and no amount of gold or guards could bring her back right now.

Chalm held her as she wept. His grip was firm, though he trembled.

‘When this is over,’ he murmured, ‘I will step down. My time at the top has passed. If those from within seek to harm us, then I will not give them the chance again. We will leave. Talill, Lucarion, just anywhere far from this. Disappear into the quiet. The coin is enough. The power, more than enough to slip into the shadows and never be found.’

He pressed his lips to the crown of her head, rocking her as if she were still a child.

‘I will bring her home. I promise you, Elia.’

And he whispered it again and again, as if saying it enough times would make it true.

14

––––––––

Morning broke over the village of Scharr, a low mist curling around the rooftops and drifting through the fields where tents sagged with dew. Fires still smoldered among the grass, reduced to coals and smoke, while the sound of dismantled canvas and murmuring voices marked the slow collapse of the Vardmót. Of the six hundred who had gathered, just over four hundred had chosen to march as a hald, a formation drawn from many regions, bound not only for war but for purpose. They would walk as one, beneath a banner that had not flown in generations. Not all were warriors, yet they were bound now by shared cause and oath. They would walk as one, beneath a banner that had not flown in generations.

Ramcino stood beside Troraim near the edge of the outer circle, where the grass grew longer and the smell of morning meat drifted from iron pans. They spoke in low voices, alone but for the dogs.

‘You are braver than I to talk to them at the Order,’ Troraim muttered, watching the last tents come down. ‘Look after them all. My cousin included. And don’t mention eating her pet.’

Ramcino allowed himself the faintest smile, rare as a thaw in a wolf-winter.

‘You gave this to me as punishment,’ he said. ‘We were never close. Had no need to be. When I heard of Rysna’s death, and the why of it, I knew something had to change. The North—our North—can’t falter like this again. If this works, we won’t be a dozen isolated tribes spread thin across the ice. We’ll be more than Haithe in numbers. What we lack is cohesion. That’s the weakness. That’s what we need to learn from them, as much as I hate to admit it.’

Troraim nodded slowly, arms folded across his chest. ‘This is no punishment. This is honor. I just get more peace when you’re gone. There’s no one else I’d send. No one else I’d trust.’

They lingered a while longer, their words drifting toward futures not yet carved. Dreams of a foothold in the south. Trade, alliance, perhaps even permanence. It was only when the sun rose higher that the conversation turned practical, shifting toward movement, message, and presence.

‘We need to be seen,’ Troraim said. ‘Take the hald through Keis’s, Hayn’s, Mermard’s. Let them see the procession. Let them mark its passing. Not with fear, but with understanding.’

Ramcino gave a single nod. The longer road would drag their pace, but that was the point. Let them be seen. Let word spread ahead like dust on the wind. By the time they reached the gates, no one would mistake their purpose. Saylong was already halfway to Haithe. There would be no flanking force, no ambush waiting in the trees. No blades drawn. No threats spoken. Only the slow, steady weight of presence.

The hald readied. Weapons were strapped down, armor drawn tight across shoulders and chests. Horses were saddled, their breaths rising in the morning chill. Dogs tore into raw cuts tossed into the dirt. At the front, Gurrlan stood beside Deyra, proud and still. He snorted and stamped, the cold curling around his bristled flanks. She was not among the shield-bearers, but she would march at the head, alongside Ramcino. Shield-bearers lined up with long pikes gleaming. Behind them came the axemen and swordsmen, their blades strapped crosswise. Archers pulled hoods low, checking strings in silence. Horse-warriors moved to the flanks, their mounts snorting steam into the cold air.

At their head rode Ramcino.

He looked less like a man than a revenant called from ice and blood. His armor was full steel, an anomaly in the North. Not scavenged or piecemeal, but whole and deliberate. Hammered plates gleamed with gray light, each curve etched with sharp-banded knotwork and biting sigils. His helm bore fanged horns, not curled like a ram but arched forward instead, made for piercing, for rending. It cast a shadow across his face, though never enough to soften it.

Coiled designs wrapped his pauldrons and vambraces, carved lines that hinted at oaths made long ago and never broken. A thick pelt of bear and snow-elk hung from his shoulders, the fur half-matted and yellowed, still pungent from old blood and older winters. It reeked of defiance. Of challenge.

Strapped to his arm was a roundshield, painted in faded ice-blue and deep weathered red, the colors of his kin. Iron studs rimmed the edge, but it was the center that drew the eye. A beast’s snarling face stared out, its mouth gaping with fangs carved from real bone, each one driven into the wood with black nails. Its wings curled backward, part crest, part warning.

He passed them one by one. Some met his gaze. Most did not. A few muttered oaths beneath their breath, not curses, but reverence, the kind born of awe and unease. Ramcino was not loved. He was followed.

At the head of the hald, he pulled his courser round to face the line. Four hundred souls. Men and women, many who had never stepped south of Madita. Some were barely more than boys. Others hardened by many winters on the outer hunts.

He drew his sword from its sheath and raised it to the sky.

A single breath passed. Then the shield-bearers struck their fists against the iron domes in rhythm. One after the other. A wave of sound. A drumbeat to carry them forward.

And then they moved.

Not fast. Not yet. But steady. Step by step, southward, toward Keis’s, toward Haithe, toward the unwritten chapter of the North’s fate.

◇ ◇ ◇

Dharl pushed through the passage toward Erastus’s chambers, the air thick with heat and rising tension. His spies had returned with a word at last. The messenger boy had been found and now there was a trail. This was something tangible at last. He hurried through the Central Quarters, knowing already where he would find the old man.

Erastus hadn’t moved. Not truly. It was midmorning, and he was where Dharl had left him days before, settled in his cushioned chair near the open shutters, basking in the sun with a half-empty glass of wine clutched lazily in one hand.

‘Ahhh. Dharl.’ Erastus raised his glass in welcome, lips curling. ‘Lovely to see you. Again. We must do this more. Wine?’

‘No wine,’ Dharl growled. ‘What news have you?’

‘Mmm,’ Erastus mused, swirling his drink as if the answer might rise from it. ‘It appears the boy who delivered the note to Chalm has been flashing his little silver around. Well paid for such a minor task.’

Dharl took a step closer. ‘And? Who? Who is it?’

Erastus didn’t answer straight away. He let the silence breathe, let the weight of it settle, then smiled with something close to regret.

‘The boy...’ he began, his voice dropping as he paused. ‘The boy is Armekalian.’

Dharl’s expression barely shifted, though his eyes tightened. He stared, searching the old man’s face. Erastus was hiding something.

‘And?’ Dharl snapped. ‘He’s the child of an Armekalian? That narrows it how? There must be two hundred of them in the Central Quarters alone.’

Erastus frowned at the words, but gave no rebuke. Instead, he lowered his glass.

‘He is of Mortas Lexx’s servants.’

Dharl froze.

‘Mortas?’

‘Not directly. The servant is Indilia’s.’

‘His wife’s?’

‘It appears that way.’

Dharl’s gaze sharpened. ‘You’re holding something back. I can see it.’

Erastus met his stare and sighed. ‘Very astute. I am troubled by this news as much as you. I have trusted Mortas for a long time. I do not believe myself easily fooled... but someone within his confidence has persuaded the boy to carry that note.’

‘Do you know who?’

‘Not yet. You’ll get more from the boy than I will. His mother will not take kindly to questioning, so if you value silence over outrage, I suggest you show great care. We cannot risk word of Rhodeia’s disappearance finding wider ears.’

Dharl gave a single nod.

The conversation ended as abruptly as it had begun, with Erastus turning back to his wine and the morning sun.

The back court of Mortas’s residence was lined with flowering stonebush and shaded awnings. Two young boys were dueling there, swinging wooden swords with shouts too loud for their own ears. They hadn’t seen him yet.

Dharl stepped between the hedgerows, his cloak brushing against the leaves, his sword drawn in silence. Syllanian steel, charcoal-dark with a glasslike sheen, caught the morning light. He moved through the ankle-high grass like a specter.

One boy struck, the other parried, and just as he surged forward to claim his imagined kill, Dharl’s blade slipped between them. A single flat movement, cool and fast, stopping the wooden strike before it landed. The boy tumbled backward, staring up at the cloaked figure now standing over them.

‘You had him,’ Dharl said, tossing the wooden sword hilt-first into the air. He caught it, offered it back. ‘Step left next time. He left his flank wide.’

The boy blinked, confused and pale.

‘Who are you?’ the other asked. ‘I’ll scream. The guards’ll come.’

Dharl’s smile was faint. ‘With the silver you’ve been flashing? You could pay the guards to come.’

That made the boy flinch. The other stepped backward, eyes wide.

Dharl’s hand flicked toward the quiet one. ‘You, then. You’re the one who’s suddenly richer than your station.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ the boy blurted.

‘Tell me who gave you the coin and the note, and I’ll pay you double. Next time, keep it quiet. You’re not as hidden as you think.’

The boy hesitated. Then shook his head. ‘Didn’t see him. I swear it.’

‘Him.’ Dharl nodded slowly. ‘So, not someone in your house?’

‘Didn’t say that. Just—didn’t see his face.’

‘Any marks? Sigils? The ships of Armekalia?’

A longer pause. The boy’s fingers twitched.

‘Something yellow. I think. Might’ve been. I don’t know. I don’t know.’

He bolted. Turned and ran with the speed of fear.

The other boy stood frozen. Dharl pulled a piece of silver from his pouch and handed it to him.

‘If you see anything here, anyone wearing a crest that isn’t Armekalian, you come straight to me. I’ll be around the quarters every day.’

The boy nodded, hesitant. Dharl turned and left, his cloak catching the grass with each stride.

Almost two days’ walk from Haithe, four figures moved through the forest atop their mounts. Three men rode with purpose, and a fourth was bound to one of the saddles, a hood drawn tight over her head. They kept clear of the roads, but the riders moved with certainty, their route known to them as if drawn in their bones. The horses moved at a steady lope, enough to make pace without breaking stride. Dusk had begun to gather, drawing long shadows between the trees, and with it came the call to halt.

‘We stop here.’

The man who spoke wore chainmail beneath cracked leather, his beard coarse and streaked with gray. His skin was dark, weathered by years of sun and smoke, and his eyes were harder still. There was something in the way he carried silence, tight and coiled, waiting, that warned you off before a word was ever spoken. He looked like a man who had survived too much, and left no part of himself behind in the surviving.

The others dismounted and moved quickly. One reached up and unlashed the girl from the front of Orsta’s saddle, where she’d ridden bound and pressed against him, her hands tied behind her back, her ankles cinched beneath the horse’s belly with rawhide cord. The moment she was cut loose, she slumped forward, half-collapsing under her own weight. She barely hit the ground before one of them shoved her upright again, grabbing her by the arms.

She screamed, sharp and raw, unrelenting as the crack of split wood in winter. It ripped through the clearing, cut the hush of dusk in two. Not a call for rescue, not even desperation. Just fury, ragged and bright, the kind that didn’t ask for help because it already knew none was coming.

Orsta didn’t react.

They made a fire in the clearing and set up camp. The only sounds were the soft crackle of flame and the summer insects humming in the dark. Beyond the firelight, the forest pressed in.

Orsta pulled the hood from the girl’s head. She blinked hard, her breath catching as she looked around. Nothing was familiar. She had never been this far north of Haithe. She had never needed to be.

‘Untie me,’ she said, firm, loud.

None of the men looked at her.

‘Untie me. Now. You know who I am. You know my father, and you know my grandfather. When he finds you, you’ll be dead.’

Orsta grunted and met her eyes as he tore the meat from a charred bone.

‘Eat,’ he said. ‘Talking won’t help you.’

She shook her head, lips trembling. A tear slid down her cheek, not from fear, but from the weight of longing. She missed the quiet of home, the small comforts that once felt unshakable. Beneath that ache simmered something sharper. She despised them. Every glance, every word, every hour stolen. She would not forget it.

‘What are you going to do with me?’ she whispered.

Orsta didn’t stop chewing. ‘Whatever we want.’ His voice came rough, slurred with meat. ‘Eat, girl. You’re no use to us dead.’

‘So you’re not going to kill me?’

‘Not yet. Keep asking questions, I’ll leave you with marks that don’t heal.’

His tone didn’t change. That made it worse.

She hesitated. ‘What do you want? Coin? Jewellery?’

‘We already took that.’

Her eyes dropped to her wrists. No bracelets. The fingers were bare, the neck exposed, her dress torn where the brooch had once sat. She hadn’t even felt them strip it all away.

‘Then what? Riches? Is that it? You want to ransom me?’

‘You talk too much,’ Orsta said. ‘Keep going, and I’ll make sure you don’t.’

She went quiet after that. The ropes were gone, but the eyes stayed on her. She’d thought about running. Many times. Yet she knew what they’d do if they caught her. And no one came this way. This wasn’t a road. This was nowhere.

She lowered her voice. ‘Will you let me go when you get what you want?’

None of them answered. They kept eating, heads down, the silence worse than any threat.

She didn’t touch the food. She wasn’t hungry. And she refused to give them the satisfaction.

The group kept watch in shifts through the night. By dawn, a low mist had settled in the clearing, and the first threads of birdsong stirred the stillness. Orsta was roused by Chisval, sword already drawn, his sharp features tense in the early light. He lifted a single finger to his lips. There were voices. Quiet at first, drifting through the hush, but growing clearer with each breath. Chisval placed them at fifty paces, maybe more. Orsta nodded once, understanding. He reached slowly for his blade. Rhodeia still slept, curled beneath the half-shelter of a moss-logged stump. Orsta moved to Rellin, who lay close to her, and nudged him once.

Rellin stirred, rose without sound. No words were spoken, but a silent plan passed between them, born of routine and instinct. The voices drew nearer.

Four men emerged between the trees, boots damp, bows slung. Hunters, by the look of them. They wore leathers, loose beards, hands open. Not soldiers. Not fools, either.

‘Mornin’, sirs,’ the lead called out, stopping when he saw the weapons drawn. ‘No need for steel—we’re just after game. Not lookin’ for trouble.’

Orsta didn’t answer. His hand tightened around the grip.

The man hesitated. His gaze shifted past them, to the edge of the camp, where movement caught his eye. Rhodeia had woken. Rellin’s hand was clamped over her mouth. Her eyes were wide, pleading, trying to warn them.

The hunter’s voice faltered. ‘We... we don’t see nothin’. We’ll be on our way, right now. No need for this to go wrong.’

His hands remained open, chest rising unevenly, eyes flicking between the drawn blades and the forest behind him. The other three had stilled, caught between the instinct to run and the foolish hope they might walk away.

They eased backward, feet sliding over damp moss, shoulders angled just enough to suggest retreat without panic. No sudden moves. No sharp breaths. Each step was a quiet plea not to be noticed.

Orsta didn’t answer. His feet were planted, shoulders squared, face unreadable in the morning light. For a moment, it seemed he might let them go.

Then he moved.

There was no shout. No charge. Only movement, measured and final, with the cold, certain purpose of a man who had already made the decision. His boots churned the moss as he closed the gap in a handful of strides, the blade rising with grim precision.

By the time the first hunter drew breath to cry out, steel was already on him.

The first hunter didn’t get his hand to his belt. The second raised a bow but never drew it. Orsta and Chisval cut through both before the third man shouted. The remaining two turned and bolted through the brush, splitting opposite ways.

No orders were needed. Chisval veered left. Orsta took the right.

Back at camp, Rhodeia thrashed, voice raw as she broke free just long enough to scream.

‘Run!’

Rellin struck her with the back of his hand. Her head snapped sideways, hitting the packed ground hard. She went still.

By the time Orsta and Chisval returned, the clearing was quiet again. Blood soaked their boots. Neither spoke. Rellin was crouched beside the girl, checking her heart was still beating.

She breathed, slow and shallow.

They lifted her onto the horse, lashed her wrists, and cinched her ankles once more beneath the belly strap. Her head hung limp, hair matted and streaked with blood where it clung to her cheek. As Rellin mounted behind, he pulled the hood back over her head, dragging the cloth down to swallow her face in shadow.

The group rode in silence. The air stank of copper and morning heat. They passed the two bodies in the brush, faces pale, mouths open. The third lay half-hidden behind a root-split tree, throat gashed wide. The fourth wasn’t visible at all.

A red streak ran down through the ferns toward the streambed.

No one spoke.

There would be no more warnings.

◇ ◇ ◇

Saylong had been on the road for days. Haithe was close now, just a day’s ride ahead, and with any luck, the hald had begun their march south. He wouldn’t know for certain until the first whispers reached the Order. Still, he trusted Ramcino to move when the time was right.

Soon enough, they’d pass beneath the shadow of Keis’s Castle.

He knew the Keepbloods of Keis. He’d spent moons behind those stone walls, long evenings with the family, training their daughter, Brigetta, whose gift made even the Order hesitate. She sat in Haithe now as the Keis envoy, the youngest in the Circle and the only gifted among them. She was never meant to hold the seat, not then. Her father, Werrin, had grown too old and too unwell, and Brigetta, young, untested, and far more liberal than the Keepbloods preferred, had been pushed forward.

Chalm had opposed it. The Lord Paramount never liked gifted among the Order. Not out of fear, but because he believed they already had too many tools of power. He saw politics as a different kind of weapon. One they didn’t need.

And then there was the history.

Keis and the North had never warred outright, but blood had stained both sides more than once. In better winters, the borderlands had stayed quiet. In worse ones, skirmishes flared. Saylong remembered one in particular, four winters ago, when Werrin Keis accused northern hunters of crossing Ruesviasie’s River. The North had answered with steel. That river, sacred to them, was not something they would see bound to a southern claim.

Now, Werrin lay ill. He wouldn’t ride out with the Keisguard. Saylong doubted he’d even rise from his bed. The garrison had thinned under his silence. Hollan, the eldest son, tried to keep provisions stocked and the guards on rotation, but with Werrin’s stubborn grip still holding the seal, little held together.

If Ramcino passed Keis with the hald in peace, with no banners raised and no blades drawn, the Keepbloods might stay in their seats. Might even show support.

And if the North reached the Order? Then they’d be bound. Bound to rules they hadn’t written. Bound to borders they never asked for.

If they chose to respect them.

15

––––––––

Haithe’s circular walls loomed ahead, vast and silent beneath the morning mist that clung low across the outer fields. Saylong guided Telilus along the northern approach, where the River Shigh curved into the city’s flank like a blade laid against stone. It had been years since Haithe had first become his home, years since he had left Lucarion and the call of salt air behind. He missed it sometimes, the pull of the open sea, the steady pitch of ship decks beneath his boots. Yet Haithe had become the heart of Aurenvia Tollitch, where his strength was no longer measured in steel, but in words that cut deeper.

The gates near the northern channel were open, flanked by two patrols and half a dozen dockhands unloading carts of fruit and rope. On the far side of the outer wall, in the widened cut of the Shigh, four great Halicern ships were moored, their hulls painted in the deep slate of the Aurenvian navy. For a landlocked city, the sight of full warships was striking. They would make their way south in time, riding the slow bend of the Shigh until it opened into the Sea of Thewthyri three days on.

Saylong moved through the East Ward with purpose, the guards giving him little more than a glance before returning to their posts. His presence was known here, unremarkable to those who had seen him pass countless times before. He guided his horse through the winding streets, the city’s pulse growing faint behind him as he turned southward, his destination clear. The barracks loomed ahead, the quiet hum of disciplined life just within reach. The rise ahead seemed endless, but Saylong pushed forward, his gaze steady and unwavering as the path opened before him.

He would seek Allturna later, when the time was right and the circumstances more favorable, and he would meet the rest of the Order when their movements aligned with his own. For the moment, however, it was wiser to remain unnoticed, moving through the city with quiet purpose, avoiding any unnecessary attention that might disrupt his plans.

Inside the barracks hall, fresh recruits moved in formation under the direction of an officer. As Saylong entered, a few turned their heads, youthful faces bright with sweat, their gifts faint but already beginning to hum. One of them glowed brighter than the others around his temples.

‘Captain Saylong?’ a voice called out.

He halted, pausing just long enough to assess the source.

A young man had broken from the line and now approached, thin-shouldered, but bold in his stride.

‘Captain Saylong, sir. We should speak.’

The lead officer turned at once, his voice sharp. ‘Boy! Get back in line, now.’

‘My name is Kaedryn Harth,’ the recruit said quickly. ‘We need to speak. Before sundown. Outside the Central Quarters.’

Saylong said nothing. He neither overruled the officer nor returned the boy’s breach with praise. Instead, he simply watched as Kaedryn returned to his rank. The other recruits glanced at him, their eyes narrowed, but none of them said a word.

Then, from across the hall, another voice called out, husky and darker with age, shaped by years of command.

‘Saylong. Welcome back. How was the North?’

General Aleska stood at the corridor’s edge, silver-haired and severe, yet smiling. His uniform was loose now, his chest not as broad as it once had been. Still, his eyes burned with the clarity and determination of his younger days.

Saylong stepped forward toward him, smiling. ‘They’re going to march,’ he said, allowing the smile to carry him. ‘They’re actually going to march.’

Aleska’s hand met his shoulder, and the two embraced. For a moment, the past felt less distant.

‘Knew they would,’ Aleska said. ‘Knew you’d find the words.’

It had been Aleska who first brought Saylong before the Order, years ago. When no one else had listened, Aleska had risked his own rank to make room. Now he waved Saylong onward, promising news and a fresh audience with the Order itself.

They returned to Aleska’s quarters, a chamber of faded glory. Dust streaked the light through high windows, catching the edge of map-scrolls and old weapons hung like memories along the walls. One table lay cluttered with reports. On the other, three untouched cups.

‘I’m tired of this,’ Aleska said, motioning to the room. ‘Tired of being the only one who sees what’s coming. Chalm’s grown quiet. Conservative. Maybe worse. And some in the Order have started moving through permission, not around it.’

Saylong stepped to the map table. ‘Who?’

‘Sartise,’ Aleska said. ‘He left Armekalia with three other Halicerns, under direct orders from Mortas Lexx.’

Saylong turned. ‘What orders?’

‘To intercept an Eastern merchant incursion. That’s what he claimed. Mortas signed off on it personally.’

Saylong turned sharply. ‘Armekalian? Sartise?’

Aleska nodded. ‘Mortas claimed he was ordering Sartise to intercept an Eastern merchant fleet. Said he was sending a warning. But tell me, Saylong, have the East ever once sent merchant ships into our coast without parley?’

‘No,’ Saylong said.

‘Exactly. Even if they had drifted too far, Sartise wouldn’t have been needed. A scoutship could’ve done the job.’

Saylong stepped closer to the maps.

‘He hasn’t returned,’ Aleska continued. ‘Now Lewisear has been sent to find him.’

‘Do we know where Sartise was last seen?’

Aleska shook his head. ‘Not precisely. That’s why I wanted you here. Where exactly were you ambushed?’

Saylong pointed to the Roydne border, just south of Lucarion. Aleska studied the map in silence, then tapped his own finger against a coastal mark, where Sartise might have passed.

Together, they watched the space between their hands narrow.

‘Kalltor?’ Saylong asked.

Aleska stayed silent for a moment, then allowed the thought to take shape.

‘If Mortas had suspected your plans,’ he said, voice low, ‘and if he or someone close to him had dealings with pirates, then the timing of Sartise’s departure looks different. Sending him out to chase Eastern ships might have cleared the path. If Kalltor was already leaving Roydne, then Sartise would be isolated before he ever saw the trap.’ He paused. ‘And who’s hated Sartise longer than anyone else?’

Saylong let the silence answer.

‘But why Mortas?’ he asked, voice low. ‘What does he gain?’

Aleska’s jaw tightened.

‘A man who trades his sword for standing does not become gentler. He becomes precise. And the wounds he leaves behind don’t bleed. They rot.’

Saylong looked at him, the weight of the words sitting heavy.

He considered what to say next.

‘There were four of them. In the gardens. They were discussing the end of Chalm’s time as Lord Paramount. Mortas Lexx. Lady Gray. Erastus of Talill. And Allturna Vehzar.’

Aleska’s expression darkened.

‘No surprises,’ he muttered. ‘Mortas and Allturna are as close as any pair I’ve ever seen. Don’t dismiss the others. Erastus won’t move unless he knows the next man’s rope is already tied. And Lady Gray never hid her contempt for a Lord Paramount. She had been waiting for Chalm to falter since the day he rose.’

‘You think they’ll force a vote? Embarrass him enough to step down?’

‘They’d need over four. And a missing admiral won’t be enough. They’re bending the Order at any cost. Negotiating with pirates? I’d believe it from Sherptarl, maybe, but anyone else?’

He paused.

‘To remove Chalm another way would require...’

Saylong said nothing. The thought sat between them, cold as steel.

And in the stillness of that war-worn chamber, they left the ultimate truth unspoken: if Chalm fell, so would the balance of the Aurenvia Tollitch.

Hours had passed since Saylong’s meeting with Aleska, yet no word had come from the Order. No summons, no council, no chance to speak of the North’s march, peaceful or not. The silence was deafening, leaving him with little more than uncertainty as the hours stretched on.

He made his way toward the Central Quarters, hoping for a moment of quiet and perhaps a glimpse of Fiota. She had once helped him gain entry there when no one else would. Her husband, Lewisear, had been dispatched by his father, Mortas Lexx, to search for the missing admiral. She would be worried now, rightly so, considering the stakes and the uncertainty hanging in the air.

The city’s pulse dulled in this part of Haithe. The thick outer walls of the Quarters shielded its gardens and paved walks from the rest of the capital, rising like a stone curtain drawn between power and the world.

Saylong found a bench near the south perimeter and sat alone in thought. His eyes lingered on the upper ledges of the walls, where pale banners moved in the slow wind. Time passed unnoticed until the sound of an adolescent voice stirred him.

‘Captain Saylong. Thank you for coming.’

He looked up, uncertain, until the boy’s face caught the light, and with it, memory returned. It was the recruit from that morning, the one who had spoken with such urgency, now standing before him in the quiet.

‘Can we speak here, sir?’

Saylong narrowed his gaze. ‘Who are you?’

‘Kaedryn Harth, sir.’

Saylong frowned.

‘You took me from Devantondie, sir. Years ago.’

‘I don’t answer to any Harth. Nor to your memories.’

‘No, sir. That’s not what this is. I’ve information for you.’

Saylong studied him. The surrounding glow was bright and warm, the mark of a gift sharpened with time.

‘Speak, then.’

Kaedryn hesitated. ‘I overheard someone speaking. About you.’

‘Who?’

‘I don’t know. But they mentioned the North. Said if it marched, it would humiliate Chalm further.’

Saylong stiffened, his gaze turning distant as a bitter stillness settled in his chest. Had he, without knowing, helped pave the way to Chalm’s fall?

‘What else?’

The boy hesitated. ‘I don’t know. Nothing important.’

Saylong’s voice hardened. ‘Don’t lie to me. You’re a hearer?’

‘Yes. I am. You were the one who—’

‘I’m not here to revisit the past. You said you overheard something. You haven’t told me who, or where. If there’s more, you say it. Now.’

Kaedryn held his ground. ‘I can help you. I can hear what’s being said behind those walls. I can give you every word.’

Saylong’s eyes narrowed. The boy’s control was already remarkable.

‘Tell me what else you heard first.’

Kaedryn took a breath. ‘I need to know what happened that day.’

Saylong stood abruptly, closing the space between them. His hand seized the boy’s collar and dragged him forward, bringing their faces close.

Kaedryn tensed. He didn’t fight. Saylong’s voice came low, iron beneath each word.

‘I don’t converse on the history of a Harth child. You were lucky. That’s all that matters.’

Of course he remembered it, every step of that morning. The blood had soaked the cobbles, the chaos had torn through the town. What was meant to be a clean retrieval had become something else entirely, something far more costly. Too many lives had been spent to bring back one boy, and some things done that day were not easily forgotten.

But Saylong would not speak of it. Not here. Not now. Not ever.

He released Kaedryn and turned to leave.

‘Ralpo-Alm.’

Saylong froze, a ripple of trepidation running through him. He knew that name, though it hadn’t crossed his thoughts in years, not since his historical studies, when Ralpo-Alm had been little more than a footnote in the conquest of Plocetol.

‘What did you say?’

‘Ralpo-Alm,’ Kaedryn repeated.

Saylong turned, voice sharper. ‘And what of it?’

‘You know it, then?’ Kaedryn asked.

‘What of it, boy? You speak too freely.’

‘That was the name I heard. Someone said they were sending a message there.’

Saylong returned to the bench and lowered himself slowly.

Kaedryn sat beside him.

‘Kalltor,’ Saylong muttered. His brow furrowed. ‘Ralpo-Alm was an old western outpost, before the Age of Accord. It stood in Elanwyn, built by Aurenvian hands during the early reach into the East. The Union pushed back. The outpost fell. Some villages remained. Ralpo-Alm may have been one of them.’

‘Who’s Kalltor?’ Kaedryn asked.

Saylong offered a thin smile. ‘You picked that name up, did you? He’s nothing. A pirate. One who plays at war.’

‘Then it might be him. They were sending a ship halfway to Realm. Wondered if he was there.’

Saylong considered him. The boy had uncovered more in moments than any officer had in a month. If Kalltor was in Ralpo-Alm, or even near it, everything could shift. Deyra would need to know.

‘What else?’ Saylong asked.

Kaedryn stood. ‘Why don’t we find out what’s being said now? Chalm usually walks the garden path around this hour with his granddaughter. She hasn’t appeared the past few days.’

They moved toward the high walls. Kaedryn walked slowly, listening. He spoke softly as they moved, relaying pieces of conversation from far within the Central Quarters, details Saylong had no way to verify. Too specific to be guessed. Kaedryn could describe not only the tone of a voice but the speaker’s gait, even the weight of their clothing by how the sound traveled. His gift wasn’t just rare. It was dangerous.

Saylong offered quiet advice where he could, minor corrections, reminders on discipline. The boy barely needed them.

When Kaedryn spotted Chalm through the trees, his tone shifted.

‘He’s alone,’ Kaedryn said. ‘Rhodeia’s not with him.’

Saylong stepped in closer.

Kaedryn focused. His breathing slowed. His body became still. Saylong said nothing, watching him shift entirely into the work. The boy traced every movement Chalm made, from the lift of the stone to the fold of the paper and the press of breath in his chest. And then he began to listen not just to Chalm’s steps, but to the rhythm of his muscles, the rise of his breath, the shapes formed silently in his throat.

Even the pressure of ink against parchment had left marks Kaedryn could trace.

When he spoke again, his voice was low.

‘She’s been taken.’

Saylong blinked. ‘What?’

‘Rhodeia. He’s to wait for instruction. Here, in two suns.’

Saylong felt something shift beneath his ribs. ‘Taken?’

Kaedryn nodded. ‘The note says Rhodeia is with them.’

‘Who?’

‘Doesn’t say. Only that he’s about to wait. They’ll give the meeting place later. He’s to come alone. No guards. Or she dies.’

Saylong stared at him.

‘Did you know of this?’ he asked.

‘No, sir. I swear it.’

Saylong stepped forward. His voice dropped lower.

‘No one must know of this. No one. Not yet.’

Kaedryn didn’t answer. He only nodded.

‘You’re coming with me.’ Saylong ordered.

‘Not until you tell me what happened that day in Devantondie.’

‘I’ll tell you what is going to happen to you now if you don’t come with me, and you probably won’t live long enough to regret it.’

Kaedryn saw it in Saylong’s face, the edge behind his eyes, the weight gathering. This wasn’t the time to press for answers, though that had never stopped him before.

‘So, you’ll tell me?’ he asked.

Saylong didn’t answer. He turned and walked on. Kaedryn followed in silence.

They passed through the residence quarters, moving deeper into the city’s old bones. The halls here were broad and arched, dressed in tapestries faded by age and smoke. The stone beneath their boots was smooth and unbroken, the kind that remembered power. These quarters were built for captains, generals, and senior officers, men trusted with command though not yet legacy. Some still lived within. Others had gone to war and never returned. From the outside, nothing looked abandoned. The Order kept appearances. Walls swept. Gardens trimmed. Guards posted at the edges.

Saylong stopped outside one particular door. He unlatched it without hesitation.

Inside, the illusion ended.

The room bore the weight of months untouched. Dust clung to the corners. The air smelled damp, unmoved. Books lined the shelves, hundreds of them, neatly arranged but left untouched for far too long. The hearth was cold. The oil in the lanterns had thinned to a skin. Kaedryn stepped forward and lit one with care, its glow crawling slowly into the corners of the room.

Saylong didn’t speak. He paced the room, each stride drawing lines of thought he never quite followed through.

‘It could be all right,’ he muttered, half to himself. ‘If Allturna were to...’

‘Allturna?’ Kaedryn echoed.

Saylong froze, realizing too late that he’d spoken aloud.

This boy. Nothing spoken near him was safe.

‘I think Allturna Vehzar is setting Chalm up. To force him from the Order. But kidnapping? That’s...’ Saylong’s voice thinned. ‘It would be difficult. Too visible. Assassination would be worse. No, forcing him to step down, cornering him into it, that would be clean.’

He stopped pacing.

‘He couldn’t risk being linked to the kidnapping directly. Lady Gray, Erastus, they wouldn’t tolerate that.’

Another pause.

‘Unless...’

‘Unless what?’ Kaedryn asked.

‘Unless he’s the one who pushed Kalltor into place. Not directly. Just enough to let it burn on its own.’

He fell quiet again. Then shook his head.

‘We need to speak to Erastus of Talill.’

‘And how do you do that exactly?’ Kaedryn asked.

‘I’ve met him. Once. He may remember me. If he does, perhaps he’ll grant an audience.’

Kaedryn folded his arms. ‘We just came from the Quarters. We’re going back?’

‘We?’ Saylong turned on him. ‘There’s no we. You stay here. Out of sight.’

‘I could help.’

Saylong frowned, recognizing the truth in the boy’s words. His gift had already proven invaluable, but it couldn’t be seen. Not yet, and certainly not by too many eyes. Power like his never stayed free for long; it drew chains the moment it was noticed.

The hours passed, and night came on silent feet. At last, Saylong relented and beckoned Kaedryn to follow.

They returned to the edge of the Central Quarters, where the lamps glowed soft gold along the high outer wall. Saylong approached the guards with the confidence of a man who belonged. He gave his name. His standing. Dropped Erastus’s title with the weight of familiarity.

None of it moved them.

‘You may wait here, Captain Saylong,’ one of them said. ‘If the Lord of Talill is expecting you, you’ll be summoned. If not, he’s not receiving.’

Saylong tried again, voice colder now. ‘He will be disappointed to hear you’ve refused his guest. I trust your name is one he’ll remember?’

The guard didn’t blink. ‘Perhaps. I’ve been remembered for worse.’

Kaedryn pulled Saylong aside before the words sharpened any further.

‘There’s another way in.’

Saylong turned toward him, not masking his surprise.

‘You know there’s always someone digging into this place,’ Kaedryn muttered, lowering his voice. ‘About two hundred paces east. It’s not marked. Won’t last long. But it’s there. Fresh.’

Saylong’s eyes narrowed. ‘How do you know that?’

Kaedryn didn’t answer. Just pointed. And Saylong understood enough.

These weren’t smuggler’s tunnels or rebel paths. They were lover’s routes, dug from the outside in. Lower-born, hired or desired, crawling beneath the stone to reach those too noble to be seen lowering themselves. Illicit rendezvous, the kind whispered about, never named. Shame lived in the stone. The act remained in shadow.

Together, they made their way around the east side of the walls. The road was empty. Wind had picked up, pushing clouds across the crescent of Astra. When they reached the crudely dug tunnel, Kaedryn dropped first, crouching low beside the wall where the soft ground had been turned.

‘I’ll clear it,’ he whispered.

He wriggled in. Saylong waited above, eyes on the shadows. Minutes passed. A soft voice called back.

‘Now.’

Saylong dropped to one knee and crawled in after him. The soil was damp, the air close, and his shoulders scraped against the sides as he pulled himself forward. The space was barely wide enough for him to pass. He cursed as his hip caught a root, twisted, then pushed through.

Kaedryn met him on the other side, crouched near the base of a trimmed hedge.

‘No one’s close. There’s light to the left, but it’s a long way off.’

Saylong adjusted his cloak and rose slowly.

‘You’ve done this before.’

Kaedryn shrugged.

Without Kaedryn’s gift, they would never have risked the tunnel. Illicit paths like these, hastily dug and too shallow, often collapsed before a second use. If mistimed, they could lead directly into a patrol. The Quarters were quiet now only because Kaedryn had listened, measuring the gaps, following the guards’ cadence, and moving in time with their rhythm long before they passed through the wall.

Now came the harder part.

Saylong brushed the soil from his sleeves, casting a glance toward the long line of lanterns curving ahead through the quiet gardens.

‘Let’s find Erastus,’ he muttered. Kaedryn didn’t reply. He followed without question.

They moved through the upper quarter with practiced ease. Only a few people were out, and none of them lifted their eyes. The walk to the living halls passed without interruption, and the shadows clung close enough to make the steps feel hidden. Saylong stopped twice for directions; it wasn’t until the third that an old servant pointed down a narrow, lantern-lit path to a smaller residence nestled near the east wall.

The house was modest for the Central Quarters, built in the older style with shuttered windows, a low arch, and a stone garden kept too neatly to be unoccupied. Saylong knocked once. His heart thudded. He hated this part, politics in a man’s home.

The door opened, and a servant peered out with barely a glance before gesturing them in.

‘Come on in,’ came a voice from inside, drifting lazily over the low crackle of fire. ‘What brings you here at the hour of Astra’s crescent?’

Saylong stepped into the chamber, closing the door behind Kaedryn. The air was warm, scented faintly with old wine and ash. Erastus of Talill sat in a low-backed chair facing the window, a thin-stemmed chalice balanced between two fingers. He didn’t turn.

‘It’s me, my lord. Marcius Saylong.’

‘I know,’ Erastus said, his tone light, laced with precision. ‘I have ears and eyes everywhere. You should be more careful about how you gain entry. I’ve seen eunuchs made of men who’ve tried the way you did. And Kaedryn Harth... you need to be better. Use your gift where it’s needed—not for your own pleasure. Your gambling ends. Now.’

Saylong looked at Kaedryn. The boy gave a half-shrug, unbothered or just very good at pretending.

Erastus stood, still holding his wine, and gave the subtlest nod. A servant moved to turn his chair toward them and fetched two more. Chalices and wine followed. They sat. Not as equals, but permitted, for now.

‘We’ll wait for Dharl,’ Erastus said, returned to his seat with fluid grace. ‘I’ve sent for him.’

‘Dharl?’ Saylong asked. ‘Chalm’s advisor?’

‘Yes. And the best man to hear what you came to say.’ Erastus sipped slowly. ‘You didn’t come for wine.’

They sat for a moment in silence. Kaedryn leaned forward.

‘How do you know all this?’

Saylong shot him a look. Too bold. Too fast. Erastus didn’t flinch. If anything, he smiled.

‘I have no gift. Not like either of you. No blood of The Light, no whispering of the Essence. It is coin that buys things your gods can’t. It buys ears. Eyes. Loyalty. I reward those who serve me, and they stay rewarded. I don’t need the Light of Tvaris in my blood, as long as I have the gift of coin in my pockets.’

He swirled his chalice, watching the firelight dance in the wine.

A servant stepped in quietly, whispering low. Erastus inclined his head.

‘Dharl will be here shortly.’

They hadn’t spoken of Rhodeia. Not yet. Not aloud. They would wait for Dharl, and until then, let the silence settle, thick with the weight of things unspoken, too fragile to name in this room where even quiet could betray them.

Then, footsteps. A pause at the door.

Dharl entered, his black cloak slick from the night air, his expression unreadable. He was introduced with a word. Sat without one. A fourth chalice was poured and placed in front of him.

The silence didn’t last.

‘Tell me,’ Dharl said, his voice low and sharp, roughened by the weight of too many nights without rest.

Saylong leaned forward. ‘There was a note Chalm received. Kaedryn was able to read it.’

Dharl turned, gaze narrowing. ‘Read what, exactly?’

Kaedryn held steady under the look. ‘That Lord Paramount Chalm was to return here in two suns. He’s to wait for instruction. Rhodeia was named directly.’

The air in the room seemed to shift, though every person remained still.

‘He must come alone,’ Kaedryn added. ‘If he brings guards, she dies.’

Saylong watched Dharl closely. The pause told him everything. Dharl had seen the note. He’d read it himself, held it in his own hands. What he hadn’t known, what clearly unsettled him, was how Kaedryn could have done the same.

‘You weren’t there,’ Dharl said slowly, turning to the boy. ‘You didn’t touch it. How in all the gods’ breath did you read it?’

Kaedryn didn’t blink. ‘I’ve got a gift. I can see things through sound.’

Dharl leaned back, his expression unreadable.

‘What else did you hear or see?’

Kaedryn’s tone stayed level. ‘There was talk. I heard others speak of the North. Said if it marched, it would humiliate Chalm.’

He paused.

‘There was more. A name. A place.’

Dharl leaned in slightly. ‘Where?’

‘Ralpo-Alm.’

Saylong didn’t hesitate. ‘It was an outpost in Elanwyn, raised before the Age of the Accord. The West lost it when the Union struck. What’s left now is barely more than stone. The name remains. So do the ruins.’

Dharl’s eyes narrowed further. ‘That land was wiped clean. There’s nothing left there worth claiming.’

Saylong gave a single nod. ‘No use for us, certainly. Kalltor? If Kalltor is there—or was—it points us somewhere.’

Dharl’s gaze drifted toward the fire. ‘The distance doesn’t fit. Not for a direct role in the kidnapping. He couldn’t reach this fast. The timing breaks. His involvement isn’t likely. Not directly.’

Erastus had remained quiet. Now he raised his cup with a slow tilt of his wrist.

‘Not directly, no. But Kalltor wouldn’t need to act alone. Not if someone placed the opportunity in his path. Mortas, perhaps. Or Allturna. They both benefit. If Chalm falls, their path opens. Mortas secures his alliances. Allturna gets the seat. They may not have drawn the bow, but they would not stop the arrow.’

The fire hissed low behind them. Kaedryn said nothing, though his eyes stayed sharp.

Dharl exhaled, his voice dropping. ‘We can’t move soldiers. Not with that message in the open. If Rhodeia dies, Chalm won’t step down. He’ll hold on tighter. He’ll block every door, just to prove he still can.’

Erastus answered with a slight incline of his head. ‘Then it must be done without the guard. Quietly. Precisely. Without leaving too much blood on the road.’

None of them disagreed.

They sat in the thick of it, the corners of the room weighted with consequence. Saylong added what he knew. Dharl absorbed every word without a single question.

No final conclusion was drawn. No verdict passed. The lines had begun to take shape, and each man saw enough to know the next step.

When the next message came, Dharl would call them. Until then, they would remain hidden. They would not be seen. They would not speak of this again.

The fire had burned low by the time Erastus shifted in his chair and turned his gaze on Saylong.

‘The North marches. That much is true?’

Saylong nodded. ‘Through Keis. Then Hayn. Mermard after that. They raise no flags, no threats. Just presence. The North wants recognition. A seat. A voice.’

Dharl looked up from the rim of his cup. ‘Unity, or something louder?’

Saylong didn’t flinch. ‘Structure. Stability. The North’s been kept outside for too long, always named by others, ruled by those who don’t understand it. If they’re brought in now, properly, they’ll stand with the West. Not behind it. Not against it. A new Order, built with them instead of above them.’

Erastus studied him. His fingers traced the rim of his chalice once, twice. Then he looked toward the hearth.

‘That’s a dangerous vision, Marcius.’

He lifted the chalice to his lips, drank, and set it back down.

‘But perhaps the only one left worth chasing.’

​

16

The northern Sea of Thewthyri dulled beneath the dusk. A long chain of clouds hung low in the sky, unmoving. Though the wind had faded, the Varkellon carved a clean line through the calmer waters. Behind her, somewhere beyond the horizon, five ships followed in formation, including the Mor ò Thail.

Kalltor stood at the foredeck, gaze fixed westward, until a silent resolve shifted in his stance and carried him toward the mast.

Sartise stirred as the boots approached, their rhythm too deliberate to mistake. His wrists were raw where rope had bitten deep into flesh, the mast cold against his spine.

Kalltor leaned in, voice low against his ear.

‘It’s your turn to shine.’

Sartise turned his face away with slow contempt, jaw clenched, the silence between them deliberate.

He already knew what awaited him. His family, Majorey, Hashmine and Seprea, were held by men he once trusted. His crew followed him still. Not from loyalty. From hope. A hope that rebellion might yet come. There had been no such sign.

Kalltor had shown no hint of hesitation. It was no bluff; his tone left no room for doubt. He was in full command.

Sartise’s voice rasped. ‘We’re heading west. Keis’s Castle? What do you plan there? I doubt the Keepblood Werren will be too fond of your arrival.’

Kalltor smiled.

‘It will be your arrival.’

The meaning landed instantly. Sartise couldn’t think like Kalltor. Only like his enemy. He had known Lord Werren once, long ago, before illness took its toll. If the man still lived, perhaps his memory had faded. Perhaps the Varkellon’s return would stir no alarm. Perhaps the tidegate would open.

And if not—

If not, the Armekalian fleet would already be searching for him. This far north, though? It seemed less likely now.

Kalltor moved behind him and cut the rope at Sartise’s wrists. The blade didn’t pause.

‘You will get us through the tidegate,’ he said, shoving him toward the helm. ‘You will open Keis’s Castle. If I see anything, any move that threatens me, my men, or this mission, Majorey dies. Hashmine and Seprea die. Your crew dies. You stay alive. Long enough to carry the weight of every one of them.’

Sartise’s mouth tightened. ‘I thought you said I was the monster.’

Kalltor laughed.

‘Right now? Eat. Enjoy the sea air. You’re a free man, for now. You’ll helm the Varkellon one last time. Die a hero, trying to prevent rebellion. Or die a coward and take your family and crew with you.’

Sartise turned to face him. ‘And once you’re in Keis? What then? You don’t have the men. You don’t have the strength to hold that castle. And even if you did, Chalm would be on your throat by week’s end. It’ll be over before you even sit in the chair.’

Kalltor stepped forward, took Sartise’s hand, and laid it gently on the ship’s wheel.

‘Influence doesn’t need a seat of power,’ Kalltor said. ‘It claims it. Chalm won’t be a problem.’

He let the words sit.

‘Your only concern now is the tidegate. The rest is mine to handle. Do you understand?’

Sartise didn’t answer. He stared ahead at the horizon, the very path he would clear for a man he would never follow.

Despite that, he turned the wheel.

By nightfall, the Varkellon followed the faint signal of Keis’s light towers, distant along the black line of the coast. Two flames flickered from the twin watchtowers flanking the river mouth, barely visible through the sea haze but just clear enough to hold a steady bearing.

Sartise stood at the helm, the salt wind coiling through his coat. He had considered ending it here. Driving the ship into the shallows. Wrecking it on the rocks. If the Varkellon ran aground, the five ships behind her would never breach the tidegate. Kalltor’s plan would shatter with the hull.

The cost—

His family. His crew. The others trailing in Kalltor’s wake. The weight pressed like iron against his ribs.

Ahead, the mouth of the Keis inlet narrowed into a long bay that curved toward the castle walls. Beneath the water, unseen but deadly, lay the tidegate, a submersed, iron-spiked barricade built to both defend the river and act as a sluice. Any vessel entering without clearance would be torn apart.

If the gate was not lowered, the Varkellon would never reach the docks. It would founder beneath the weight of its own speed.

And from the docks, you were already within the castle.

That was the danger. The walls encircled both the river and the main fortress. A ship let past the gate could berth within arm’s reach of the great hall. It was a marvel of Tollitchian engineering and a critical weakness if the wrong ship passed.

Sartise’s hands clenched the wheel.

This was his moment. His only one. The watchtower guards would soon ignite the signals. A fire exposed to iron filings, waste from the smiths, would send sparks of bright white into the air, a signal that it was safe to enter and the gate was lowering. But strontium salts would stain the flames red, a warning not to approach. The gate would remain sealed.

His eyes fixed on the towers.

One bucket. One color. One signal.

Perhaps this was the cost. Perhaps losing his family was the only way to save the Order. To save Keis’s Castle.

The sea whispered at his back. The wheel creaked in his grip.

The towers waited.

Kalltor crouched below deck, hidden from view. Before vanishing into the hold, he had issued his final orders: Look like Armekalians. Act like Armekalians. Be Armekalians. No one was to break formation until they were safely through.

Skillgry, one of Kalltor’s most trusted, had been placed at Sartise’s side as acting second mate. If Sartise faltered, even for a breath, Skillgry would cut him down. It wasn’t ideal. It wasn’t meant to be. It was insurance.

Above, the Varkellon neared the watchtowers. Sartise stood at the helm, eyes locked ahead, the wheel steady in his hands. He knew exactly what to do.

A signal lantern was hoisted into view and tilted three times in quick succession, an old code used by Armekalian officers when returning from long-range missions. Recognition. Confirmation. Request to lower the gate.

Below deck, Kalltor and his men waited in silence, blades drawn, breath held. Every footstep above echoed like thunder.

Then a shout drifted down from the towers—

‘...approaching!’

It wasn’t clear. The words scattered across the water, swallowed by the bow wake.

The Varkellon slowed, edging toward the narrow throat of the tidegate.

Still no signal.

Neither tower moved. No flame shifted. No color raised.

The watchmen were waiting, watching, measuring the ship’s sails, the crew on deck, the tilt of her bow. They knew this ship. They had seen her before. But time had passed, and they needed to be certain that what approached was truly the Varkellon, the Armekalian flagship.

Movement behind the watchtowers as more men gathered lining the banks of the river with pikes. The Varkellon inched ever closer to the tidegate, the sharp spikes of blackened steel protruded from the water, visible from the lights of the watchtowers.

Then—

The tower on the left stirred. One guard knelt beside the brazier and unlatched a metal hatch beneath its bowl. Another stepped up behind him, holding a long-handled bellow capped with a narrow brass tube, its surface etched with faded glyphs.

Neither of them spoke.

A groan came from the hatch as it opened, hinges stiff with rust. The bellow hissed once, its contents driven through a fine mesh buried beneath the coals. Flames twitched, then shivered, uncertain for a moment. A burst of sparks scattered into the sky. The color danced between hues, at first impossible to name. Then it settled into a single, brilliant glow, white fire glittering like shooting stars flicking out the flames.

The tidegate would lower.

Water churned ahead of the Varkellon as the first spiked gate sank beneath the surface. Foam gathered where the sluice expelled its flow, aligning with the pull of the Sea of Thewthyri’s retreating tide. A moment later, the second gate dropped, five hundred yards forward beneath the twin watchtowers.

Horses had now joined the pikemen lining the banks, the lead bearing Keis’s banner depicting a horse rearing upward, silhouetted on a flared black sun, flanked by two crescent moons.

Beyond the tidegates, the dockyard came into full view. It was broad and mostly vacant, its moorings silent under the low torchlight. Fifty men of the Keisguard stood watch, eyes locked to the Varkellon’s approach. Sartise raised his chin, scanning their ranks. A silent plea passed through his gaze: See this for what it is.

A voice rose from atop a gray-coated steed.

‘Steadfast, through storm and stone,’ the rider called.

He waited. Then—

‘Keis remains ever defiant against the tides.’

The pikemen struck their shields in thunderous rhythm.

‘Defiant against sun and moons alike.’

A roar answered—‘Ooh. Yah.’

‘And those who betray us fall beneath the gaze of Tvaris.’

Every pike dropped as one, driven like stakes into the hard-packed soil.

Four riders broke formation at once. The lead turned down the slope toward the docks, the others close behind.

Then the line of Keisguard turned in perfect timing and began their slow advance, marching toward the river’s edge in silent unison, flanked by mounted escorts on either side.

Skillgry glanced at Sartise and gave a nod. Quiet, approving.

The Varkellon eased into the docks as the tidegates rose behind her, sealing off the bay once more. The water level matched neatly with the dock rise. The black iron spikes glistened, now fully visible beneath the torchlight.

Lines were secured. No call was made to disembark.

Sartise waited, standing still at the helm. Only when Skillgry gave the signal did he move. His sleeves had been rolled down to cover the marks at his wrists. He walked slowly, thin and pale from confinement, yet not broken. Kalltor had made sure of that.

He crossed the gangplank first, with Skillgry close behind. The Varkellon’s deck sat just above the dock, an engineer’s triumph in design.

From the bank, a horseman dismounted.

Sartise recognized him at once. Hollan Keis. The eldest son and heir of Keis.

The young man stepped forward, cautious.

‘Admiral,’ he called. ‘You’ve been lost to the sea. Lewisear is searching for you. What of the others? You must come now. Father is unwell, and he may not recall you.’

Sartise gave no reply. His eyes spoke what words could not, but Hollan missed the cues. He turned to mount his horse. A second was led forward beside him, saddled and ready.

Skillgry moved.

He shoved Sartise aside with a grunt, stepped in fast, and caught Hollan by the collar. A dagger flashed. Pressed to the throat.

‘Hold still,’ he hissed.

The horse reared, hooves lashing. That was all the signal needed.

Bolts tore through the air, launched from the Varkellon’s rail, and struck the pike lines with brutal precision. Keisguard fell, mounts reared, and shouts rang out.

Men poured from the Varkellon’s deck, pirates leaping to the docks with blades drawn. Steel met steel. The defenders tried to rally, but the attack had already broken their line.

Hollan struggled, but Skillgry dragged him up the gangplank of the Varkellon, pinning him hard to the ship’s bulwark as the crew formed a wall across the boarding point. On the far side, Sartise was recaptured and forced back aboard, the two men held on opposite ends of the same vessel.

Kalltor rose from below deck, his boots striking the boards with purpose. He lifted his sword high, claiming the moment as his own.

‘Lay down your arms,’ he called, his voice cutting across the chaos. ‘Or the son of Keis dies where he stands.’

More bolts loosed from the rail. The mounted escorts dropped in the first wave. Crossbowmen had already taken the high flanks, cutting down the watchtower guards before any alarm could be raised.

Kalltor’s men surged up the tower stairs. The signal horns fell silent. Steel rang, then ceased.

Water surged into the channel once more. The tidegates lowered again.

The first ship followed through, Drenzaris. Behind her came the Razebreakers. And then, finally, the Mor ò Thail straddled the river and came to dock.

Kalltor now held the docks. And the heir of Keis.

The pirates moved quickly, securing the quay and surrounding alleys. A large detachment followed Skillgry and his hostage up the riverwalk. Kalltor and Volnaire moved behind them. Two more pirates kept Sartise close, blades at his back.

The riverwalk toward the castle was nearly empty. A few runners, field staff and errant guards alike, were cut down without pause. Others slipped away behind doors and did not return.

Ahead, the castle gates loomed.

Crossbowmen had already gone ahead. Any sentry with a bow had been silenced. Still, the shouting began, muffled voices rising behind the gates. Alarms followed. The towers above the gates flickered with movement.

Then the climb began.

Pirates scaled the towers with rope and hooks, quiet and fast. Resistance was light, far too light. The guards hadn’t expected war.

Steel clanged once. Then twice. And then the gate creaked open.

The pirates surged forward, flooding the entrance yard of Keis’s Castle.

Around seventy Keisguard stood braced beyond the gate, shields locked and halberds raised. On the upper levels, more figures appeared. Kalltor’s men took to the outer stairs, clashing with defenders positioned along the ramparts. Some fell. Others fled. The remaining disappeared into the high corridors.

Kalltor stood at the edge of the courtyard, sword drawn, flanked by his lieutenants. Skillgry held Hollan tight, the blade at his throat glinting in the torchlight.

The standoff held.

Kalltor did not advance. He held his ground, stance low, ready.

More pirates poured through the gate behind him.

‘This need not end in blood,’ Kalltor called. ‘The son of Keis will walk from here. But if you advance, he dies.’

A sharp, desperate cry tore across the courtyard.

Above, on the high balcony, a young boy thrashed in the grip of a dark-skinned pirate. Teyvin Keis, the youngest heir, was being dragged toward the edge, his heels scraping stone and limbs flailing. The pirate lifted him clean off the ground, one arm locked under his ribs, the other holding a knife across his throat.

He was dangling now over the upper balcony rail, his small feet kicking above the stone courtyard below. The blade stayed fixed. But it was the drop that would kill him. And the man holding him looked ready to let go.

More of the Keis family were forced into view, their faces pale and blades pressed to their necks.

And then, at last, Werrin himself.

The old man was half-dragged to the railing, then slowly brought down the tower stairs. His feet barely moved. He wore the robes of sleep. His head hung. Skin sallow. The weight of illness clung to every step.

Teyvin was yanked back from the edge, his heels scraping over the balcony’s stone railing before he was dumped hard onto the corridor floor. A moment later, the pirate hauled him back to his feet with rough hands, gripping him by the collar. From the look on the man’s face, he would have taken great pleasure in dropping the boy headfirst onto the courtyard below.

Kalltor stepped forward.

‘The father of Keis. The heirs of Keis. The guards of Keis. They all walk free—if they leave through the South Gate. Now. No blood. No fire. No more deaths.’

More Keisguard spilled into the courtyard, over two hundred now, but it was already too late. Kalltor held the towers, the walls, the high ground, and the bloodline.

It was only a matter of time.

‘Throw down your arms,’ Kalltor said. ‘Everyone walks. No one dies.’

Werrin was dragged forward, barely upright. His feet left twin ruts in the dirt on the stone courtyard. He was forced to kneel before the pirates.

The Keisguard stood frozen, every hand on steel, yet none moved. They knew that if they struck, the heirs would die. The father would die. And what would remain to defend? Just stone, water, and mud. A castle emptied of bloodline. A legacy already buried.

Kalltor approached, took Werrin’s balding head in hand, and tilted it back, exposing his neck.

‘Enough!’ shouted the Keisguard captain. ‘Let the old man go. Let the heirs go. We’ll leave the castle.’

A quiet smile crept to the corners of Kalltor’s mouth. He nodded once to his men.

Across the courtyard, the Keisguard held their stances, weapons clenched tight with bitter restraint. No orders were given. They simply understood. To strike now was to lose everything.

‘We request terms,’ the captain called out. ‘We’ll not surrender to nothing. You state your conditions. We will have your word. No blood is to fall.’

Kalltor nodded again.

The captain gestured to several of his men, and they broke away without a word, their helmets low and steps quick, as if leaving the scene would absolve them of its shame.

The standoff held.

The air was thick, hot with breath, yet unmoving. Swords remained raised. Shields held steady. No one stepped forward, though every eye was watching and every hand twitched on steel.

Werrin muttered something, dry and faint, his mouth barely forming the words. Hollan turned toward his father, straining against the blade at his throat.

‘Don’t surrender,’ he shouted, his voice tight with fury. The knife shifted, pressing deeper into the flesh with slow intent.

A pirate beside him struck him hard across the ribs. His voice broke into a ragged cough. He sagged in Skillgry’s grip. The blade scraped just enough to draw blood, a thin red line tracing down his neck. His breathing slowed, shallow and uneven, but he didn’t cry out again.

The courtyard remained tense, swords still drawn, eyes unblinking, every heartbeat a question waiting for the next step. Then, finally, the soldiers the captain had released returned. They carried a table, four stools, inkwells, quills, and rolls of parchment bound in twine.

A few of the pirates chuckled at the sight. To them, it was absurd, politics dragged into the heart of a battle they thought they had already won.

Kalltor turned his head.

He looked to the men who laughed. Nothing was spoken, but there was command in his eyes, and it was enough. The laughter soon stopped.

A wide table was placed at the center, marking a line between the pirates and the Keisguard. Stools were set with quiet purpose, Kalltor seated alone on one side, the captain and two scribes facing him across the grain. Standing just behind them, a female officer held her place, tall and composed, watching everything with a gaze that missed nothing.

Across from Kalltor, the Keisguard captain approached, slow and measured, each step heavy with years of oath.

The line of Keisguard never broke. They held their ground, more numerous than the pirates yet powerless to act. Their oaths bound them to the bloodline, not just the walls. And the bloodline was in the pirates’ grip.

The two scribes sat beside the captain, quills ready.

Though the courtyard brimmed with steel, the conversation was quiet, low and deliberate, veiled by the noise of torchlight and horse breath.

The eastern boundary of Keis was already in Kalltor’s control. The rest would follow at the end of the signing.

Almost half an hour passed before, at last, the captain stood.

‘Men of Keis!’ he called. ‘Tonight, we march south. We will reclaim this castle when the time is right. These lawless men will not hold it long. And we leave with the heirs of Keis. With an allotment of gold. With our legacy intact. We leave with the right to return with force.’

A cry rose from the men, not of triumph, but of vengeance.

‘Long live Werrin the Honorable,’ the captain called.

Their reply was not the cheer of soldiers. The sound was guttural, the echo of men made into exiles.

Within the hour, most of the Keisguard had been escorted out through the castle’s south gate, stripped of arms but allowed to walk with heads held high. By the early light of dawn, the rest followed. A line of figures trailed through the lower gate, made up of families, staff, healers, cooks, scribes, stable hands, and those who had served Keis since their youth. A cry rose from the men, not of triumph, but of vengeance.

None knew who had been given leave and who had simply slipped out unseen. Not all were permitted to go.

At every turn along the walls, pirates loitered, choosing with idle eyes and quiet grins. A gesture here. A nod there. Some were pulled from the lines. A few screamed. Others went quietly, forced into side halls and down into the lower cells. The selection was swift, indiscriminate in theory. In practice, the same patterns always showed. Youths with strong backs. Women with fine features. Men with the marks of guilds. All chosen. All vanished.

Slaves. Interrogation. Punishment. No one spoke of it aloud. Those who remained in the line kept walking.

Fires began to rise in the courtyards as the gates were sealed behind them. The cheering of the pirates echoed long after the castle had disappeared from view. Each shout sounded like a nail driven into the spine of the long march south.

Hollan walked beside the stretcher bearing his father. Werrin lay motionless, eyes half-shut, lips cracked. The old man’s body rattled with each jolt of the road.

‘The North march on Keis,’ Hollan said quietly, just above the wind. ‘We can reach them. They’ll help us take it back. It will be months before Chalm sends men this far. Let me ride. Let me bring them.’

Werrin muttered, his words lost to the wind. The stretcher-bearers slowed, and Hollan bent low, pressing his ear close.

‘You will do no such...’ Werrin’s voice rasped, barely sound. ‘The North scum are not...’

The sentence never found its end. His breath fell short. His eyes flickered closed again.

Hollan straightened. His jaw locked.

‘Yes, my lord. I will ride to meet them. And we will return. Keis will not fall for long.’

The guards carrying the stretcher gave him a look, not refusal, but unease. They said nothing, distrust cloaked in silence. Still, heads bowed, and when the castle was well behind them, vanished beyond sight and stone, Hollan broke away with over four hundred Keisguard. He led them west, off the main road and deep into the forest, following old paths and hunting trails far beyond the reach of the castle’s gaze, toward the northern force that might reclaim what had been lost.

None voiced what all knew. If the North took Keis, they might never give it back. The grudge ran deep, and deeper still was the memory of why. The hunger older. Hollan gave his orders quietly to the captain, then mounted his steed and rode into the dark. They would meet again, once he had brokered a truce with the Northmen. Then they would ride as one to reclaim Keis.

17

––––––––

It was the day of the second sun for Chalm, and Saylong and Kaedryn had been confined to Dharl’s residence since the previous dawn. No visitors. No errands. Not even a step beyond the walls. They were prisoners in all but name, an inconvenience Saylong accepted with patience and Kaedryn endured with visible agitation.

Kaedryn had already explained his gift more times than he cared to count. How it worked. How he used it for gambling. How he didn’t cheat—not exactly. He listened. He watched. The flush of blood behind a bluff, the tremor in a wrist, the slight imprint of ink pressed by anxious hands. He could read a card before it turned. And he usually walked away richer.

Greed, he admitted, was the problem.

Saylong lifted a card before him, careful not to breathe.

A red triangle. Above it, a yellow sun.

‘Red triangle. Sun above, yellow,’ Kaedryn said with a tired sigh.

Saylong nodded, amused. Then he held another card, marked with a black square, a black circle, a pentagram enclosed, and three pebbles beneath.

‘Square, circle, pentagram, three stones,’ Kaedryn recited. His eyes didn’t move.

Even overlapping cards didn’t matter. Only face-down ones gave him pause. And even then, a soft tap beneath the table, almost imperceptible, brought clarity. He always guessed true.

‘You’ve made something rare of your gift,’ Saylong said. ‘Just remember—gambling’s banned in the Aurenvia Tollitch armies. Erastus will be watching you now.’

Kaedryn blinked slowly. ‘You met Erastus with Allturna. How can you be so sure he’s not playing both sides?’

‘Because I’m a Seeker,’ Saylong said. ‘And, like you, I can hear the lies in a heartbeat. Just not with sound. Erastus may be clever. Treachery isn’t cleverness. Offering support to a stronger claim isn’t rebellion. It’s politics.’

Kaedryn had stopped listening halfway through, though he nodded politely. Saylong caught the drift of his thoughts all the same. Between them, it was a quiet duel, boredom set against wit. And the day had only just begun.

The two spoke little after that. Hours passed. They kept to separate ends of the room, meeting only in shared silence. Dharl was not expected back until nightfall, if he returned at all. The message, if delivered, would take time to reach its mark. Kaedryn urged again that they go to the Central Quarters. They could watch for Chalm there, catch him in the act. But Saylong refused. It was too great a risk. Not with Erastus aware of their presence. Not while Dharl carried word of Rhodeia’s kidnapping, proof that could damn her if it was exposed.

For now, the silence kept her safe.

Few knew the truth of her absence. The servants at her house had been instructed to say she was ill, too weak for visitors. Even those charged with overseeing her welfare, women of propriety and trusted names from the High Tables, had been turned away. Bedrest, they were told. She needed sleep. She needed time.

Meanwhile, Dharl had placed men at the usual meeting point, a stone bench nestled in the gardens of the Central Quarters. The guards stayed back. The nobles rarely looked twice. Now, every passerby was noted. If anyone sat, if a stone was dropped on the bench, if a scrap of parchment appeared mysteriously, Dharl’s men would see it.

Hours passed, the stone bench unmoved, the silence uninterrupted.

By late afternoon, Chalm approached the bench alone. His guards hung back, as always. The seat was empty. No rock. No message. Routine, broken only by absence.

He waited. Five minutes. Then ten. Hoping for a courier. A whisper. A clue. Dharl watched from the gardens, eyes fixed to the space between the hedges. Nothing came.

The sun had begun to sink behind the western arches, casting long shadows that stretched across the gardens. At last, Chalm rose from his seat, his posture tense, his movements edged with impatience. He had waited long enough. With one final look toward the empty bench, he turned and walked, his guards following in silence behind him.

The gardens had quieted. A few birds lingered near the hedges, fluttering between patches of grass. One dropped lower than the rest and landed where Chalm had been sitting.

A pigeon. Pale-feathered, small. It waddled across the stone, pecking at nothing in particular, its coo barely audible beneath the hush of the wind.

Dharl had been watching from across the path. His eyes narrowed. A beat passed before he spoke.

‘The pigeon,’ he murmured. Chalm kept walking until Dharl stepped forward again, voice sharper now. ‘My lord—the pigeon. Its leg.’

There, wound tight against the bird’s foot, was a strip of parchment.

Dharl quickened his pace. He passed Chalm without pause, moving in slow, deliberate steps so as not to startle the bird. When he was close enough, he crouched low and reached forward, steady as stone.

The pigeon didn’t flee.

With one firm motion, Dharl caught it in both hands and turned it gently. He loosened the twine and slipped the scroll free, then released the bird. It flew at once, high and fast, vanishing over the hedge wall before he could track its direction.

He cursed under his breath. Letting it go had been foolish. He should have marked its flight. He should have seen where it came from.

Then he turned, holding out the scroll.

Chalm snatched it from his grip and unrolled it with a practiced hand. His face hardened as he read. The expression was not subtle this time. Whatever he’d expected, this was not it.

Dharl stepped closer. ‘My lord?’

Chalm didn’t answer at first.

Then, flatly: ‘Not here.’

Dharl gave a small nod.

Chalm spoke again, voice low. ‘Come to my residence. Quietly. No guards. I’ll send for you myself. Be ready.’

Dharl returned just after nightfall. Saylong and Kaedryn were waiting, both restless and soured by the long hours of confinement. Dharl offered little apology, only the assurance that it had been necessary.

He hadn’t seen the message. Not yet. But judging by Chalm’s expression, it was worse than any before. 

‘Is she dead?’ Kaedryn asked.

Saylong shot him a sharp look.

‘I don’t know,’ Dharl replied. ‘But if she were, I doubt they’d send a message. Rhodeia’s life is their leverage. They’ll keep using it. I don’t believe she’s dead. Not yet.’

The three waited, tension thickening with each passing hour. Even the food brought by the servants, the wine poured and re-poured, did nothing to ease the stillness.

Lantern light softened the edges of moonlight spilling through the windows. Saylong dozed lightly in his chair. Dharl sat fidgeting, his fingers tracing the rim of his goblet. Kaedryn sat upright and unmoving, his finger tapping gently against the wood of the table.

Then the door opened.

Chalm stepped inside.

Hooded men took quiet positions around the perimeter of the house and along the street beyond. His face was drawn. Strained.

‘Are we safe here?’ he asked.

Kaedryn listened. The servants were distant, too far below to hear anything clearly. He gave a small nod.

Chalm’s eyes fell on him.

‘Who is this?’

‘Kaedryn Harth, my lord,’ Dharl said. ‘He knows about Rhodeia. He’s offered to help.’

‘A Harth boy?’ Chalm’s voice sharpened. ‘No. Get him out.’

Kaedryn stiffened. Dharl grimaced and held his tongue.

Saylong stirred, voice rough with sleep. ‘My lord, Kaedryn is gifted. Skilled. If we’re going to find Rhodeia, we’ll need every advantage. I suggest you let him listen.’

Chalm studied Kaedryn for a moment longer, then looked back at Dharl.

‘It’s not about Rhodeia anymore,’ he said quietly. ‘Not entirely. And I don’t think a Harth should hear what comes next. He’s of the East. And the East may need to answer for this.’

‘The East?’ Dharl asked.

Chalm handed him the parchment. Dharl stepped into the lamplight and unsealed it. His eyes moved quickly across the script.

‘The East?’ he repeated. ‘I don’t see how. We can explain this. But you need to act now. If you wait...’

He stopped.

Saylong sat upright. Kaedryn leaned in.

Chalm sank into a chair opposite Kaedryn.

‘I need to tell them what’s in this message, my lord,’ Dharl said. ‘They can help.’

Chalm gave a single nod.

‘Keis’s Castle has fallen.’

Saylong tensed. He held still for a long moment before he asked, ‘Kalltor?’

‘I assume so. The note isn’t specific. Perhaps it’s meant to look like the East. It mentions Razebreakers blockading the river, Eastern ships.’

‘My lord,’ Saylong said, ‘Kalltor Dalke had three Razebreakers in Roydne. That’s where we were ambushed.’

‘Why didn’t you say this sooner?’

‘I tried. But Sherptarl’s outbreak—’

He paused. ‘Kalltor was at Ralpo-Alm. We’re certain of it. The Harth boy heard enough to confirm it. If he left there, Keis was the closest prize. He already tested the ground by pushing into Madita. This was planned.’

Dharl raised the parchment again. ‘It says no army is to approach the perimeter of Keis for thirty nights. If they do, Rhodeia dies.’

‘Brigetta will learn of this,’ he added. ‘She’ll demand the Order act immediately.’

‘We can’t act,’ Chalm said. ‘Not until she’s safe.’

‘The next message is due in two more suns,’ Dharl said. ‘By then, all of Haithe will know. And so will your North, Marcius. They’ll already be near Ruesviasie’s River.’

‘Deyra,’ Saylong muttered. ‘If they don’t know what’s happened, they’ll pass quietly. That’s what I asked them to do. They hold no love for the Keepbloods of Keis. They’re not marching for war. If Deyra sees even a glimpse of Kalltor or Volnaire... she won’t stand down.’

‘They must be stopped,’ Chalm said.

‘That won’t be possible,’ Dharl replied. ‘Our only chance is to find Rhodeia before they reach Keis. If we fail, and the North takes the castle from the pirates, then so be it. We’ll follow with force enough to lay siege and retake whatever remains. They already know we won’t storm it now. The channel is narrow, the tidegates are sealed, and a river assault would be suicide. From land, a siege will take months.’

‘If these messages are arriving within a day,’ Saylong said, ‘then whoever’s sending them is close. A day’s ride. Maybe less. They wouldn’t risk carrying her through Hayn’s or Mermard’s. What do we know of the area?’

Dharl looked to Chalm. ‘There was a report of hunters found dead north of Shigh’s Head. The Grast family claimed the Haithe Guard were to blame.’

‘How did he know they were Haithe Guard?’ Kaedryn asked.

‘Grast was a tracker. He served with us once. It’s the only lead we’ve got, and it holds weight.’

‘We can’t send troops,’ Chalm said. ‘If they so much as suspect we’re coming, she dies.’

‘They won’t kill her, my lord,’ Dharl said, cutting in. ‘Not yet. They need her alive. If she dies, you’ll bring the full force of Haithe down on Keis, and they know it.’

He drew a breath to steady himself.

‘Send two experienced scouts. We might still be ahead of them, and they don’t yet know the North is already marching. Let Captain Saylong and Kaedryn Harth go. It’s the best chance we have.’

Chalm frowned. Saylong said nothing, though the displeasure in his face was plain. He had already been offered once, and not for something like this. Facing the seasoned Haithe Guard was not the task he had signed for. Across from him, Kaedryn leaned forward, ready.

Chalm exhaled. ‘We wait for the next message. If you find her before it arrives, she’d better be alive. If not, start praying. And pray the North comes late.’

A long silence followed, pressing into the room. Saylong held his tongue, though the shift was unmistakable. Chalm had acknowledged him, and the North would not be turned away now. The only question left was what price it would demand.

◇ ◇ ◇

Gurrlan grunted and nudged into Deyra as she sat near the fire with a circle of warriors. The day had been long, the march heavy on their legs, and though she was tired, sleep didn’t come easily. Tomorrow, they would cross into the reach of Keis’s Castle, the first true hold of Aurenvia Tollitch. She couldn’t tell if it was nerves or instinct; only that something felt wrong. Deeply wrong.

Perhaps it was the old grudges. The Keepbloods of Keis had never forgotten the North’s defiance, and she feared they might view even a peaceful march as provocation, an attempt to rewrite history beneath new banners.

If the North was to be accepted, they would need to give up their claims to the lands beyond Ruesviasie’s River. In return, the Keis family would be bound from pressing further into those northern valleys. Perhaps, under the new structure of the Order, such a treaty could finally be formalized. It was the kind of agreement both sides had long avoided.

Around the fire, the conversation was light, careless. The men spoke of women, of past conquests and imagined ones. The women who had not been trained to fight talked of family, of children left behind and harvests yet to come. Deyra had no place in either circle. She was a warrior, though few of the men would ever grant her the name. To them, she was only a woman with a sword, not a soldier.

They had mocked her silently after Roydne, where she alone had returned. She alone knew the truth of that battle. And she kept it to herself. She was a healer as well as a fighter, and it had saved her life more than once. The scar was clean. For another, it might have festered and led to fever, sickness, or worse.

Ramcino approached the fire, his voice low and clear. ‘Tomorrow we walk on Keis’s Castle. The Keepbloods will remain behind their walls. Our shield-bearers lead. Banners behind. We stay tight, controlled, and at a distance. No eye contact. If anyone from Keis speaks, only I answer.’

The circle nodded. No one challenged the order.

Beyond the firelight, a rider emerged from the darkness at speed, alone, with a pale banner raised high above the saddle. It caught the wind and fluttered like a torn veil, stark against the gloom. A white flag.

Gurrlan rose instantly, his bristles lifting. Deyra reached for her axe. Others followed suit, forming a defensive arc. Ramcino stepped out in front, sword already drawn.

‘Peace to you, warriors of the North,’ the rider called. ‘I am Hollan Keis. I seek audience with Ramcino, envoy of the united north.’

Ramcino raised a hand. ‘Aye.’ He turned, gave a half-shrug to the warriors behind him. Deyra stepped forward. One of the men reached to hold her back, but she brushed past him. Gurrlan moved with her.

‘Lower your weapons,’ Hollan said. ‘I am alone. I bring news from my father and the state of Keis’s Castle.’

Ramcino hesitated. Traps came dressed in soft words.

‘Dismount,’ he said. ‘Come forward under the flag of peace. Unarmed.’

Hollan nodded. He dismounted, left his weapons on the horse, and approached with the reins in one hand and the banner in the other.

‘Ramcino?’ he asked as he neared the firelight. A red mark cut across his neck, stark against pale skin. ‘We must talk. Now.’

‘Talk, then,’ Ramcino said. ‘My warriors have ears enough.’

Hollan advanced another few paces before Ramcino lifted his hand again. ‘Thirty paces. No closer.’

‘As you wish,’ Hollan said.

He began to speak of the fall of Keis, of pirates who reached the docks in a single breath and watchmen who never made it to the horn before steel met flesh. Deyra heard the names, unspoken but clear in the spaces between. Kalltor. Volnaire. Her grip on the axe tightened until her knuckles whitened.

Hollan was brought to Ramcino’s tent. Deyra entered with Gurrlan at her side. She had faced the pirates before, and that alone had earned her a place within. The others did not welcome it, though none spoke their displeasure aloud.

Inside, Hollan laid out the truth. How the captain of the Keisguard had surrendered. How the pirates had accepted the terms without discussion. How everything had changed in less than a day.

‘They let us go,’ Hollan said, his voice flat with disbelief. ‘All of us. The Keepbloods. The guards. Even Admiral Sartise. He was with them. Taken. And they let him walk. No chains. No shame. He walked among us like nothing had happened. They gave us food. A road south. No threats. No demands. Not a word in return. As if none of it mattered. As if it had never happened at all.’

Ramcino frowned. ‘They’re pirates. They know no honor. And the Keepbloods know nothing of sacrifice.’

Hollan’s reply was bitter. ‘The Keisguard protect not only stone. They protect blood, my lord.’

Ramcino had never been called ‘my lord’ by a Keepblood before.

‘That is your weakness,’ he said. ‘And that is why you walls have fallen. If this had been me, my warriors would have died in place. I would have fallen for their freedom.’

Hollan didn’t flinch.

‘The differences between our people may last an age, my lord,’ he said. ‘But tonight, we stand at a turning point. Together, we can reclaim Keis and shape a future the Order will have no choice but to acknowledge.’

They spoke long into the night. Of numbers. Of formations. Of what was left.

Hollan had brought four hundred Keisguard with him. The others had gone south with the exiles, escorting them to Hayn’s Town. Ramcino’s numbers matched. His force was mixed. Not all were hardened. Among the North marched farmers, traders, and sons of distant valleys. They had taken up arms not for blood, but for unity.

Still, the plan formed.

They would not move by day. For the first time in history, Northmen and Keisguard would march beneath the same banner, side by side beneath the stars. And at the gates of Keis, they would strike.

◇ ◇ ◇

She had waited for the firelight to dip and the voices to fade. When the wind carried their laughter in another direction, she slipped from the cave’s mouth and walked. Careful. Slow. Quiet. Only when she believed she was beyond earshot did she run.

Hands were still bound behind her, wrists burning with every stride. Blood and dirt clung to the sleeves of her tunic, the fabric torn and stiff. Beneath the underbrush, a low branch jutted from the soil, and she dropped to her knees, grinding the twine against the bark. Each pull tore at her skin, cutting deeper with raw insistence. The inside of her cheek bore the pressure of her teeth as she fought to stay silent, her breath caught somewhere between her ribs and her throat.

She rubbed harder, the pain lancing up her forearms until her fingers numbed from strain and cold. Voices were already rising behind her, distant shouts threading through the trees. Gritting her teeth, she doubled her efforts. Skin broke. Blood slicked the twine. One final twist, and it snapped.

She staggered upright, her hands free, her wrists bleeding.

The forest was dark. Astra’s light pierced the canopy in thin, broken strands, and though Nyx was full, the clouds veiled her. She couldn’t see far ahead. She didn’t care. She ran anyway. Her boots slipped on moss and loose soil. She moved between the trees in ragged arcs, each step desperate.

A voice called behind her, distant at first, but drawing closer with every step.

She slid down a bank and landed in a cold stream, the water rushing around her legs. She dropped low, crouched beneath the overhang, and listened. Her heartbeat was all she could hear at first. Then the crunch of boots above her, the shift of leaves, a voice she recognized.

‘Over here!’

She gasped and moved with the current, boots splashing through the shallows. The cold reached her bones, her cut wrists burning raw beneath the stream. She tried to climb the far bank, but her foot slipped, and she dropped hard into the mud. The voice came again, closer now, laced with amusement.

She turned and saw him. Chisval stood outlined in pale moonlight at the top of the ridge. He followed without urgency, his movements deliberate. She ran, knowing it wouldn’t matter, and headed downstream.

Another figure appeared ahead. Rellin. He slid down the slope and entered the water without hesitation. His eyes locked on hers as he advanced. She tried to climb the far bank. Her foot slipped, and she dropped hard into the mud. Behind her, Chisval entered the stream, closing the gap without a word.

They were closing.

‘Thought you’d gotten clever, didn’t you?’ Chisval called. ‘You’ll learn.’

She made one last attempt to slip past them. Chisval caught her easily. His grip locked tight around her arm.

‘Come now, my pretty,’ he said. ‘You know we’re not done yet.’

He dragged her back through the stream, her legs buckling beneath her. Her clothing was soaked, her hair plastered to her face. She struggled, yet it made no difference. They pulled her up the embankment, half-crawling and half-carried, with mud clinging to her sleeves and blood filling her mouth.

At the top, Orsta stood waiting. His face was shadowed, his fists clenched.

No words.

He struck.

The blow knocked her sideways, her head snapping back as she hit the roots beneath the trees. Distant voices swam in her ears. She felt the pull of hands in her hair, the scrape of boots against soil, but her body no longer moved with her.

Orsta muttered the same thing again and again. He spoke of her disobedience, of the price to be paid, and of the man who had let her slip through the trees. His voice trembled with fury.

None of them noticed what she had left behind.

A length of twine, snapped and frayed, half-buried in the topsoil beneath a scatter of leaves. It was darkened with bark, streaked with blood, forgotten beneath the undergrowth, yet still it remained.

A single trace. The first.

18

––––––––

Sleep clung to Brigetta Keis like damp silk, heavy and stubborn, unwelcome against her skin. Somewhere within the haze of her dreaming, the knock returned. Then it came again, louder this time, dragging her further from the pull of sleep. It wasn’t urgent, but it carried the weight of someone who wouldn’t leave without an answer. A servant crept in through the half-open door, her face half-lowered, her steps cautious on the tile. She approached the bed and reached out, trembling fingers brushing the Lady’s shoulder.

Brigetta’s eyes opened slowly. Her gaze did not warm. She lay still beneath the covers, tall even in repose, her dark blonde hair unbraided and spread across the pillow. Muscle still lined her frame from years of training, though comfort had dulled the edge. Her face, neither plain nor striking, bore the softness of wealth, and her green eyes watched without kindness.

The girl had already flinched, her body trained by habit to brace against Brigetta’s morning temper.

A flash of heat, sudden and sharp, lanced up the girl’s arm, and she screamed, stumbling back from the bedside. The edge of her sleeve appeared to catch fire. Illusion or not, her panic made it real. She flailed, dropped to the tiled floor, and slapped wildly at the invisible flames.

Brigetta turned away with a tired sigh.

There was no fire, no true heat beneath the illusion, no flame to mark the skin. What struck was sensation alone, summoned with precision and planted deep enough to feel real. The body remained whole, but the mind carried the wound. Brigetta Keis had trained for years not to dazzle or destroy, but to bend the will of others until it followed without question. Her gift did not need spectacle. It needed silence, memory, and the quiet certainty that pain could come from nothing and still command obedience.

‘Lady Brigetta—’ the servant stammered, still trembling.

‘Captain Marcius Saylong waits in the hall,’ came another voice, low but clear enough to carry. ‘He’s asked to see you. Says it’s urgent.’

Brigetta paused, then swung her legs over the edge of the bed and rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand.

‘And so begins another day of diplomacy through panic,’ she muttered.

Two attendants moved quickly, setting about their usual business: fussing over her robes, drawing the curtains, and opening the balcony doors to let the morning light in. She pushed them off with a wave and remained where she stood, tall in her bed-dress, her long blonde hair unbraided, her face drawn yet stern. The resemblance to Hollan Keis was unmistakable, marked by the same wide-set jaw and the same unflinching posture.

Saylong entered without waiting for permission.

‘Ah, Brigetta Keis,’ he said, ‘using your gift of the Light for good, as ever.’

‘Careful, Marcius. I could have you swatting at vipers crawling up your legs before you draw breath, though I doubt there’s anything left worth biting.’ 

‘Not with the weight I carry,’ he replied.

She ignored him.

‘What brings you to my door this early? Last I saw you, you were trying to convince the Order that pirates were the true threat, and that the sky itself might fall.’

‘Brigetta,’ he said, more serious now. ‘I need you to listen.’

He followed her out onto the balcony, where the breeze stirred gently through the trees. Below them, the gardens of the Central Quarters shifted in the morning light. Saylong told her everything, speaking with a quiet rhythm, each detail measured, each word complete.

By the time he finished, Brigetta’s eyes had lost their humor entirely.

‘I’ll ride north today,’ she said. ‘Keis’s Castle must be taken back. We will send from Haithe, from Mermard, from Hayn’s. The Keepbloods must be returned to their seat.’

‘We haven’t had final word yet,’ Saylong said carefully. ‘The first birds are expected today. There is no confirmation. We must not act too soon.’

She didn’t answer him.

‘I know how it sounds,’ he pressed. ‘But Chalm is bound by something none of us expected.’

Her eyes narrowed.

‘I think you know Rhodeia has gone missing.’

Brigetta’s mouth twitched. Then: ‘The fuck I care about some young girl?’

Saylong’s expression didn’t shift, though his voice dropped.

‘She is Chalm’s granddaughter. And if she dies, everything he’s done to hold this Order together will die with her.’

‘Then let her die,’ Brigetta snapped. ‘She dies, we take back the castle, and the pirates are swept from our lands. The price of the Order, as history has shown repeatedly, was never anything less than blood. One girl is not worth the fall of an entire stronghold.’

Saylong moved in front of her, blocking the balcony doors.

‘Brigetta. The North are already near Keis. If they realize what’s happened before we move, they will strike. And they will not stop.’

She glared at him. ‘No Northblood crosses that threshold with a sword drawn. You hear me? Not one. I’ll speak to Chalm myself. He has failed. He clutches at sentiment. He refuses action. He leads with his own heart, not the heart of our country. And that is not leadership.’

Saylong said nothing. One servant entered with a tray of food, caught sight of Brigetta’s expression, and immediately withdrew.

‘I’ll call the Order myself,’ she said, walking back into the room. ‘If Chalm refuses to move, the Sheriffs of Hayn and Mermard will break from him. Keis will rise on its own terms. Even Palladine of Orynbeck and Squie will follow, if it means we strike first. The Order will fracture. That much is certain.’

She turned.

‘Perhaps we’d be better off siding with the North now. At least their thieves are honest about what they want. Unlike the ones we’ve let rule these walls.’

Saylong raised a hand.

‘I came to warn you. That’s all. I came to tell you to wait. Let me find Rhodeia. Let me return her safely. Then we act.’

Brigetta held his gaze, but her mind had already turned.

The air warped, and the walls behind her shimmered with rising heat. A sudden burst of fire followed, roaring outward as it licked the beams and blackened the ceiling. Her eyes flared red. Her jaw cracked open with a hiss, and from her mouth spilled teeth that were sharp and curling, monstrous in shape. The scent of burning oil thickened the air.

Saylong stood still. He did not blink.

He let the illusion play, let the monster rise from her skin and tower toward him. He felt the heat on his face, the weight of the wrath she summoned.

Then it passed. Gone like mist and she hadn’t moved.

‘You’ve had your moment, Captain,’ she said, her voice low, coiled tight. ‘Now get out.’

He didn’t argue.

As he stepped back into the courtyard, Kaedryn joined him.

‘Didn’t go well, did it?’

Saylong exhaled through his nose. He didn’t answer.

‘Come on,’ Kaedryn said. ‘We’ve got a girl to find. Before the Order tears itself apart.’

Through the gates they went, slipping from the manicured calm of the Central Quarters into the harder edges of a city already bracing for the spark.

The pair left Haithe and headed north. They were left to be on foot with no armor and no possible recognition they were soldiers. Chalm was adamant that Rhodeia would come back alive or they should not return.

In Haithe’s great hall, the Order sat in strained silence. Brigetta’s fury was plain, her hands clenched at the table’s edge, while the others shifted restlessly in their seats.

Chalm had not come.

He had sent no word. No proxy. No delay.

Brigetta stood.

‘Keis’s Castle has fallen to pirates,’ she said, voice clipped. ‘And the Order sits idle.’

‘We’re aware,’ Erastus replied, his voice slow, deliberate. ‘We wait for Chalm to set the command.’

‘He’s not coming,’ Allturna said before she could speak again. ‘It’s clear he no longer values the Order. His only concern now is his own house.’

‘Then we start without him,’ Mortas muttered, eyes fixed on the table.

‘What of Keis’s Castle?’ Sherptarl cut in, louder now. ‘The East have moved into our northern reaches. This is a direct act of war.’

The room went still.

‘I have it on sound authority,’ Allturna said, turning toward him, ‘that Armekalian pirates led the assault. Admiral Sartise was among them. Complicit.’

‘And the Razebreakers?’ Sherptarl pressed. ‘Blockading the river’s mouth. That’s not pirates. That’s the East.’

‘They are pirates,’ Brigetta snapped. ‘You truly believe the East would act with such open audacity? This was no formal strike. It was theft, plain and opportunistic. Where is Chalm?’

Her voice echoed across the chamber. No one answered.

The silence gave way to murmurs. Arguments followed, rising, fracturing.

Brigetta didn’t wait for calm.

‘We all know what this is. We’ve simply been too cautious, too comfortable, to call it by its name,’ she said. ‘Chalm isn’t acting for the realm. He’s acting for his granddaughter. One girl, placed above tens of thousands of lives across our regions. Above the future of Keis. Of the Order. How long do we let him turn from his post before we remove him from it?’

The words struck like iron. Even those who favored Chalm found themselves quiet, their justifications thin. The chamber teetered.

And then Allturna stood.

His voice did not shout. It carved.

‘If we vote to remove him, who leads us into Keis?’

He let the question hang.

‘Brigetta? With blood ties to the Keepbloods? That is no less conflict than Chalm himself. Erastus? Too old. Lady Gray? The same. Mortas Lexx?’ He turned. ‘The same man whose orders led to Sartise’s capture? Whose ships were drawn thin for prestige instead of protection?’

Mortas shifted uncomfortably.

‘Palladine? Sherptarl?’ Allturna’s gaze cut wider. ‘Their loyalty ends where the coin does. Roydne let pirates nest for years. And now you want him clearing them out?’

Sherptarl opened his mouth, but Allturna kept going, unbothered.

‘And if we march on Keis, Lenne will back the Keis family. You’ll have war at both ends. Talill?’ He looked at Erastus. The old man gave a faint nod.

‘Armekalia?’ He turned to Mortas.

The answer came slower. But it came. Mortas nodded once.

Allturna turned, one by one, calling their votes aloud. Not officially, but loud enough to bind them all the same. Palladine gave his word. Sherptarl pledged warships. Lady Gray spoke of restoring honor to the Order. Even Xania of Hawn’s Keep, rarely vocal, agreed to send men.

Brigetta’s eyes darted around the room. Support was growing. Fast.

And not one of them had suggested a leader.

Still, without Chalm, no vote could pass. The Order could speak. It could plan. But Chalm’s word alone would have sealed it.

And he was not there.

Dusk settled across the floodplains that flanked the northern reaches of the Shigh River. The ground was soft underfoot, still damp from the cooling of the last days of summer, and each step sank just enough to remind them that this was not a path made for ease. Saylong walked ahead, his cloak drawn close, Kaedryn at his side matching his pace with a quiet persistence.

‘And we couldn’t have horses?’ Kaedryn asked, already knowing the answer, though it came out more bitter than curious.

Saylong didn’t stop. ‘Chalm was clear. No crests. No uniforms. No signs of Haithe or its Order. Not even a saddle mark. We’re not to be seen as searching for her. The fewer who know our path, the better.’

Kaedryn’s brow furrowed. ‘You think they’re watching this far out?’

Saylong gave a curt nod. ‘We know someone in the Order is involved. Beyond Dharl, Erastus, and Chalm himself, no one else was told. Brigetta’s a fool in many ways, but not a traitor. I don’t think she’d betray this.’ He paused. ‘Still, too many eyes. Too many tongues. I won’t risk her life on trust.’

They walked in silence for a while, the reeds swaying in the breeze that had begun to rise. The river flowed beside them in long, slow sweeps, shallow and whispering, its banks wide and open.

‘But you do have suspicions,’ Kaedryn said, watching him closely as the silence stretched.

Saylong didn’t answer at first. When he did, his voice lowered to a hush that only Kaedryn’s gift could follow.

‘Yes. I have them. Suspicion without proof is smoke without fire. Chalm’s held this realm longer than most have drawn breath. I’ve seen it in him. He’s grown careful. Soft, perhaps. The Order used to act with a single voice. Now it whimpers with a dozen—each one drawn to coin, not conviction. Erastus might be the only one among them with any worth left, and he won’t take the seat. Brigetta rules through anger. Sherptarl answers only to his own harbor. And the man who might lead... refuses.’

Kaedryn didn’t reply. He watched Saylong’s expression for a long moment, then tilted his head slightly. ‘Have you ever heard of the Horizon Clause?’

Saylong stopped walking. He turned to face him fully. ‘What?’

Kaedryn smiled faintly. ‘While you were with Lady Brigetta this morning, I overheard something. A conversation from the lower tier of another residence. They said the Horizon Clause would save Keis.’

Saylong gripped his shoulder, more sudden than forceful. ‘Repeat it. Exactly.’

‘I swear, that’s all I heard. The clause would save Keis. That was the phrase. Nothing else.’

Saylong’s eyes narrowed. He drew back and looked out across the plains, his thoughts already racing.

The law was ancient, a holdover from the early days of Aurenvia and Tollitch, long before the Order had structured anything. It was a clause written in the time of frontiers, when a man could claim the land so long as he held it, and no army rose to challenge him for thirty days. Thirty days of unbroken possession, and the land became his by right. All land to the horizon.

‘Someone knew that law,’ Saylong said. ‘This is why Chalm was forced to wait. The note’s demand for thirty days wasn’t just a bluff. They’re using that clause. They’ll hold Rhodeia until the time has passed, and once it does, they’ll claim the right.’

‘But the North, they march on Keis.’ Kaedryn pointed out. ‘Wouldn’t that void the claim?’

Saylong’s voice dropped again. ‘No. The North isn’t in the Order. That’s the point. If they strike first, they’re not bound by its laws, which means they can’t be accused of violating its statutes. They would hold the same claim as the pirates, the same rights under the Horizon Clause. Whoever possesses Keis’s Castle for thirty unbroken nights, and faces no opposing army in that time, can file for ownership. Full land rights. All the way to the horizon.’

Kaedryn’s brow furrowed. ‘So if Chalm does act, the claim is broken?’

‘Exactly,’ Saylong said. ‘If Chalm moves, the clause collapses. No one gets the deed. But if he waits, if he’s too late, whoever holds the walls on that thirtieth night can make claim to Keis’s Castle. Pirates or North, it won’t matter.’

Kaedryn looked toward the north, the first stars blinking into the dark.

‘So either way, Keis falls to someone,’ he said.

Saylong didn’t reply at first. The wind was picking up across the plains, low and dry.

‘Unless we find her,’ he said. ‘Unless we find Rhodeia and give Chalm a reason to act before someone else claims what should never have been lost.’

Kaedryn said nothing. His footfalls slowed. The weight of what had just been laid bare settled over them, thick and unspoken, needing no repetition.

‘If we don’t find Rhodeia before the thirty days are done,’ he said, ‘someone will sign the deeds to Keis, whether with gold ink or blood. And by then, it may not matter who had the better cause.’

They walked on, the river to their left, the sun fading behind them.

And the Order, piece by piece, drew closer to its own edge.

Dharl’s black cloak swept the dust as he mounted his horse. A hooded figure rode beside him, already in the saddle. Four more riders joined them, armored and silent, bearing no banners. With a quiet signal, the six turned northward and rode through the gates of Haithe, the city behind them still gripped by night.

They said nothing as they passed beyond the walls. The pace quickened. The horses, long trained, sensed urgency and obeyed. Gallop turned to a canter. Canter to thunder. They did not stop until the stars had wheeled overhead and the eastern sky lightened.

Just before dawn, they paused to water the horses and take a small meal. Dharl passed a skin of water across. His words came soft, but firm.

‘You’re sure of this? We can still turn back.’

The man beside him pulled down his hood.

Lord Paramount Chalm stared ahead, his face pale, drawn, set to resolve.

‘I will not leave this to a Harth boy and a Seeker. If they don’t want an army, then they’ll have me instead.’

Dharl exhaled. ‘My lord, if you’re gone more than five sessions, the Order can move to vote. They’ll begin proceedings either way, and your presence will no longer shield the chair.’

Chalm nodded. ‘I know.’

His voice was quiet. Hollow.

‘No more speeches. No more halls. If she lives, I die. And the Order can fight on without me. They don’t need me now. They haven’t for some time.’

Dharl stared at him. The madness was no longer creeping; it had taken hold. Grief had stripped the man bare, and from what remained, only one thing still moved him forward.

He had begged him not to do this. Not to abandon the seat. Not to ride blind into the dark. But Chalm had stopped listening.

The wind shifted as the horses stirred. The riders mounted again and turned back to the path.

Dharl rode behind the Lord Paramount, the reins slack in his hands.

He knew that when history turned its gaze back to this day, it would do so with a frown carved deep into stone. And in the years that followed, it would be remembered by many names.

But in Dharl’s mind, it would always be this:

The Blood of Rhodeia.

And the fall of the Keepbloods.

19

––––––––

Deyra and Gurrlan led the way, with Ramcino and Hollan close behind, their steps muffled by the soft scrub beneath their boots. The Keisguard had joined the Northerners, and now the united host crept eastward beneath a cloak of darkness.

At the head of the column moved one hundred warriors, silent, sharp-eyed, and sure-footed. Behind them marched two hundred battle-hardened men and women who would form the first wave when the castle’s west gates were breached. Beyond that, the remaining force, nearly five hundred strong, moved in quiet formation, each one a shadow in the starlit dark.

Hollan led the way, guiding them through terrain he knew better than any man alive. They avoided known trails, took the long way when needed, and kept low beneath the hills. Every step was a gamble. If even one of Kalltor’s scouts made it back, all hope of retaking the castle would vanish. A siege with these numbers was folly. It would take months, and bleed them dry. Surprise was their only hope.

They advanced only beneath the cover of night. By day, they vanished, slipping into folds of land and tree shadow. No fires marked their presence. No tracks betrayed their path. They signed with hands or whispered in passing, and where no message was needed, silence reigned. The soldiers moved like ghosts across the ridges and gullies west of Keis’s Castle.

Gurrlan halted suddenly, his broad snout lifted to the wind. He sniffed the air in swift, alert bursts. Deyra raised a hand, motioning for a stop. Hollan’s fingers slipped to the hilt of his sword. Ramcino stilled. The message rippled backward in silence: halt.

The boar had picked up a scent. With Gurrlan, that could mean truffle, or bear, or something worse.

Ramcino gave a single nod. Deyra touched the hilt of her blade and followed the boar into the dark.

They crept through low brush for seventy paces before Gurrlan broke into a sudden run, crashing through the undergrowth. Deyra cursed under her breath and sprinted after him. So much for silence. If anyone was nearby, they would hear them now. And Gurrlan, massive as he was, made a fine target.

She lost sight of him almost at once. The scrub and moonless dark closed in. She could hear him, his hooves thudding across the soil, the low grunts of a creature on the chase, but she couldn’t place his direction.

Then came the scream. A man’s voice, raw with pain, followed by a string of curses.

Deyra veered toward the sound.

She found Gurrlan first. The boar stood a few paces from a lean figure in scuffed leather, the man’s back pressed to a tree, sword drawn, eyes wide with terror. Gurrlan grunted and pawed the ground, tusks flashing in the starlight.

Deyra drew her sword but saw no others. The man was alone.

Ramcino and Hollan arrived moments later, weapons ready. The man barely noticed them. His eyes were locked on Gurrlan.

‘Get this thing off me!’ he barked, stumbling back until bark pressed into his spine.

‘Drop your sword,’ Deyra ordered.

‘Get it off me first!’

‘Gurrlan,’ she said softly, stepping beside him. She laid a steady hand across his thick neck. The boar snorted once but didn’t move.

The man dropped his sword. It hit the earth with a dull thud. He sagged to his knees.

‘Don’t hurt me. I’m not one of them,’ he said quickly.

Ramcino and Hollan moved at once, dragging him to his feet. Ramcino tied a gag into his mouth and bound his hands before they hauled him back toward the line. Deyra picked up the sword and cleared what little evidence remained. No time for details. The scout was either lucky or cursed.

They stopped in a thicket well out of sight. The army was still far behind. Hollan stood before the man, gaze cold. He looked ready to end him there, consequences be damned.

Ramcino crouched instead, studying the prisoner. Not a fighter. Not a pirate either, not truly. Thin wrists. Hollow cheeks. The blade was clean and unused. He shoved the man down against the trunk of a tree, then pulled a dagger free. The blade kissed the man’s throat. Ramcino forced his head back against the bark with one hand.

‘You will stay quiet,’ he said, low and sharp. ‘If not, this blade sinks. Do you understand?’

The man gave a trembling nod.

Ramcino loosened the gag and peeled it down in one steady motion. The man’s chest heaved. For a moment, he said nothing. His mouth worked soundlessly, breath catching in his throat. The blade still hovered at his neck. He drew a single, rasping breath, dry and shallow, each gasp edged with desperation.

Then, with trembling lips, he spoke.

‘Please... I’m not one of them.’

Ramcino didn’t move. The dagger remained where it was, still pressing lightly against the hollow of the man’s throat.

‘I... I was the apothecarist aboard the Drenzaris,’ he stammered. ‘Under Captain Wolst.’

Still no response from either of them, no call, no movement, nothing to break his growing dread. The silence didn’t just settle; it clutched at him, dense and absolute, like the moment before a scream that never came.

His gaze darted between them, panic flickering in his voice. ‘I was. I swear it—I swear it on my life.’

Ramcino said nothing. He stepped back without a word and motioned for calm.

The man’s breath hitched again. ‘I’m the only one out here,’ he said, faster now. ‘They only sent a few scouts. I wasn’t meant to survive long. If I didn’t return, they’d know something was wrong.’

Hollan exhaled and sheathed his blade. He drew Ramcino aside and spoke to him quietly. Deyra kept her eyes on the prisoner, but his eyes were fixed on them. Wide. Unblinking.

‘Don’t send me back there,’ he blurted suddenly. ‘They’ll kill me.’

Hollan didn’t answer. He disappeared into the dark without a word.

Ramcino returned alone, standing once more beside Deyra.

‘If we let you go, and you go back,’ he said evenly, ‘you’ll tell them about us.’

‘I won’t. I swear it. I’m not one of them.’

‘If we kill you, it keeps them guessing.’

The man faltered. No denial. No plea. Just the slow withering of hope.

Ramcino’s voice dropped. ‘Better to leave them uncertain... than send you back and know the truth will follow.’

‘No, my lord, please. Don’t send me back. I’m not one of them. Don’t kill me. I can help. I’m an apothecarist. I swear it. I can be of use.’

Deyra studied him. There was no defiance in the man. No pride. Just fear, and something faintly resembling honesty. Either he was a gifted liar... or he had long since severed his loyalty.

He swallowed hard and tried again.

‘I am Slaxis. I’ve served aboard the Drenzaris for years, long before Wolst took her. I tell you no lies, my lords.’

‘We are not your lords,’ Ramcino said flatly.

‘No, of course. Forgive me. I meant only respect. I want that bastard Kalltor dead as much as you do.’

‘I doubt that,’ Deyra cut in. ‘You’ll side with anyone who lets you keep your breath. That’s not loyalty. That’s desperation.’

She turned to Ramcino. ‘I don’t trust him.’

He nodded once, but said nothing.

The man pleaded again, spiraling into circular appeals that went nowhere. Yet still, he didn’t run. Gurrlan’s glare alone likely kept him rooted, the boar’s fearsome eyes fixed and unblinking, his every breath a promise of violence.

It was some time before Hollan returned.

With him came a woman clad in Keisguard armor. Her gait was silent and steady. Her hair was dark and cropped, her jaw strong, her gaze direct. This was Tyrea. There was grace in her bearing, but nothing soft in her stance. She carried herself with a quiet authority that left no room for doubt, and no patience for men who underestimated her.

The prisoner’s voice cracked.

‘Who is she?’ he whimpered. ‘What do you want from me?’

She didn’t answer. None of them did.

He looked between them in confusion, his hands twitching in their bonds.

‘I wasn’t going to tell them anything, I swear it,’ he said quickly. ‘I can go back—say I saw nothing, report a quiet sweep. But if you let me go, I’ll do more than that. I’ll find the highest-ranking officer still loyal to the Armekalian fleet. Someone from the Drenzaris or Varkellon—someone who remembers who we were before Kalltor took our ship. I’ll tell them to be ready. I’ll warn them. I’ll say the attack will come from the west. The pirates won’t know a thing.’

His voice faltered.

Then his eyes locked on the woman. Whatever color remained in him vanished.

‘She... she can... she’s...’

He stopped himself. Swallowed.

‘I am not lying. I will do it.’

The woman said nothing. Her expression remained unreadable.

Without a word, she turned and beckoned Hollan aside, the two drifting into a hushed distance.

Deyra watched her closely, but the man’s whisper cut across her focus.

‘She’s a truthseeder...’

His voice was reverent. Almost awed.

‘I’ve heard of them. Never seen one. They’re... they’re rare. I didn’t know they were real.’

He fell quiet as the woman turned her gaze fully on him.

Deyra had heard the term before. Truthseeders were trained to implant thoughts, subtle and fleeting suggestions that faded quickly but left the mind exposed. The subject would feel the intrusion in time, but for a brief stretch, their defenses slipped. In that fragile span, a truthseeder could see beyond speech, able to sense purpose beneath the words.

Others could place horrors in a man’s thoughts and let him live them. But this... this was something deeper. Not imagined pain, but access to the threads beneath speech, beneath action. The silent tremor that came just before betrayal.

Hollan returned and addressed Slaxis.

‘Deyra,’ he said, ‘give him back his sword.’

She hesitated, but obeyed. She held the weapon a moment longer than needed before placing it at the man’s side.

Slaxis remained seated beneath the tree. His breathing slowed, but his body remained rigid.

Hollan spoke to him quietly, laying out what was required. It was not the full plan, only the shape of it.

Tyrea stood nearby, watching him as a hawk watches the wind, seeking not motion but the slightest change in pressure, the silent tilt that signals a coming storm. In that hush, the plan was not judged by oaths or pleas, but by what lingered beneath them, something unspoken, something truer than words.

◇ ◇ ◇

The midmorning sun barely broke through the pale ceiling of gray cloud that stretched from horizon to horizon. Beneath it, the exiles of Keis moved south toward Hayn’s Town in solemn pilgrimage, a slow procession of the displaced, carrying only what they could hold. Children rode on shoulders or clung to the hands of the infirm. Old men leaned on farmers. Keisguard walked beside tailors and smiths. No rank. No distinction. Just people, bound to the same dusted road, heading not for glory, but for preservation.

Ahead lay Hayn’s Town, and beyond it, uncertainty. The Keis family’s holdings stretched far, as far as Mermard’s Town, and the name still bore weight. Hayn’s would accept them. They had to. Yet even with that assurance, there was unease. The numbers were too great. If Keis’s Castle could not be reclaimed, if its storehouses remained shut, the strain on the northern settlements would break the land. Food was already teetering on unsustainable.

Sartise marched freely, not in chains, and still baffled by the pirates’ release. No ransom. No promise of favor. Only a parchment signed, a truce of thirty days, and a stipulation: Chalm must be informed before any acts of war resumed. He did not know what Kalltor knew. The Horizon Clause, buried in legal scripture and untouched for four centuries. Sartise had never heard of it. Nor had Tyrea, the truthseeder who had served as scribe at the truce. Nor the young captain who had passed the scroll across the table. Only Kalltor had studied deeply enough to invoke it without lying. Only he understood the trap.

And now the exile march passed into Hayn’s Town.

The townsfolk had seen the smoke on the horizon, had watched the slow approach of the displaced with a growing, helpless ache. They had nothing to offer, no empty houses, no storehouses of grain, no beds left untouched.

But they gave what they could.

Doors were thrown open. Old quilts laid across floors. Bread was divided even as cupboards emptied. The poor offered space. The sick gave water. Strangers were welcomed as kin. Those who had little gave all the same.

One woman took in three children, though her own cupboards were nearly bare. A man who could not speak offered his home by gesture alone, pressing the hands of the weary into his own and leading them through his door. No one asked rank. No one demanded names.

They did not give because they were told to.

They gave because the moment asked them to.

There was no pride in it. No grand declarations. Only quiet, instinctive acts of grace. One soul helping another. Not for reward. Not for duty. But because it was right.

In the Sheriff’s Hall, the higher officers were seated and fed. No questions. No ceremony. Only broth and bread and a moment to breathe. Sartise sat among them, silent, his hands wrapped around a wooden bowl, the scent of meat and herbs rising into the dim air. It was, somehow, one of the finest meals he had ever tasted.

A taste of freedom before the war.

Sheriff Theo Onvear moved from officer to officer, speaking in low voices. Occasionally, he glanced toward Sartise with an expression that did not quite reach pity, nor curiosity, only sorrow.

When he finally approached, it was with a slow and deliberate calm.

‘Admiral?’

Sartise rose, setting the bowl aside. ‘Thank you, Sheriff, for your hospitality,’ he said. ‘These are days we prayed would never come. And yet, here they are. Just a few days’ march from war.’

‘Precisely, Admiral.’

The sheriff held out a scroll, bound in red twine and sealed with the sign of Armekalia.

‘This arrived for you yesterday.’

Sartise hesitated. His eyes locked on the seal. Slowly, he took it and broke the wax.

The sheriff said nothing as Sartise read. The admiral’s face gave no sign. Only silence.

‘Admiral?’ Onvear asked gently.

Sartise looked up, managed a faint smile, and nodded.

‘Thank you,’ he said softly. ‘Truly.’

He glanced once more at the parchment, then slowly rolled it closed between his hands. His fingers lingered on the broken seal.

He bowed his head, not out of formality, but to gather something in himself, then turned from the sheriff without another word.

He walked back through the crowded hall, moving quietly between officers and townsfolk, their voices soft, their faces tired. No one stopped him. No one spoke his name.

Outside, the air hung dull and wet with an early autumn chill. The shifted breeze curled through alleys and around homes, a palpable pressure that moved without form or sound. Sartise slipped through the crowd into the gray morning.

He approached a Keisguard and asked to inspect his weapons. The guard, recognizing him, nodded and handed over a dagger.

‘Sir. I must have that back,’ the guard called as Sartise turned away.

Sartise did not look back.

Another soldier nearby spoke. ‘Let the admiral have it. He’s likely going back to Keis to end it for us now.’

Sartise said nothing.

He crossed the stone bridge north of town, where exiles still trickled into Hayn’s, their faces worn by cold and road-dust. He passed them all, unseen beneath his hood, a shadow moving among the weary.

At the far edge of the bridge, where the road vanished into pale trees, he turned from it. Down into the thickets, slipping beyond the final markers of the waking world.

A small stream whispered through the underbrush, its waters dull beneath the overcast sky. There, beneath the thin-barked trees, he knelt slowly, as if the weight of it belonged not to the body but to what remained of the soul.

A single tear carved its way down his cheek. He didn’t brush it away.

His grip held firm. Not out of calm. Not from peace. But from a quiet that comes when nothing else remains. No trembling. No hesitation. Just resolve, hollow and wordless, final.

No one saw him go. The silence that followed drifted with the breeze and settled into the stream, quiet. And when it was done, the wind moved gently over the reeds, and the stream kept whispering, unchanged.

Dusk fell on Hayn’s Town, now swollen with the breath of too many lives in too small a space. The exiles of Keis filled its streets, its shelters, its silences. Foragers moved through the thickets to the north, searching for mushrooms, herbs, and roots for the infirm and the fading. The land, tired though it was, offered a little more.

Among the foragers were two girls, one from the town, young and curly-haired, the other a child of Keis, her clothes still damp from days on the road. They moved together through the scrub beyond the northern bridge, down to where the stream curled along the base of the gully. The town girl showed her new companion how to spot the pale bulbs of summer mushrooms that clustered beneath the elder trees.

Then she froze mid-step, her hand flying up as if to hold back the breath caught in her throat.

Something in the brush ahead was still. Unnatural. She saw it first. Her scream ripped through the trees, sharp and breaking, and a moment later the Keis girl cried out too, voice cracking as if the horror physically pierced her.

The cries brought two guards running, one from Hayn’s, the other cloaked in the armor of Keisguard. They broke through the thicket at a sprint, eyes scanning for threats, then stopped.

He lay crumpled at the water’s edge, half-submerged in the mire where the stream curved gently past. Blood had pooled beneath him, thick and dark in the grass, its edge feathering out like ink through paper. His shoulders sagged beneath a sodden cloak. A dagger rested beside him, its handle dry, untouched by blood. A parchment lay near one open hand, curled at the edges from damp, the seal broken.

The Keisguard stepped forward with deliberate slowness. He did not kneel at once. He stood, staring down, as if the shape of the body would correct itself if given time. But it didn’t move.

He crouched at last, turned the man gently, and looked into the face.

And there he was.

Sartise.

No longer the Admiral. No longer the traitor, or the captive, or the hero. Just a man at the end of what had been taken from him. His face was drawn, hollow, but peaceful in a way that made the peace itself feel cruel.

This was not the stillness of rest, but the stillness of someone who had given up waiting to be saved.

The parchment’s seal had already broken. The Keisguard picked it up and began to read, his eyes tightening with each line. Wind stirred the edges of the letter like fingers sifting through memory.

When he finished, he did not speak. He passed the page to the other guard and remained there, unmoving, beside the man who had steered the Varkellon into hell and paid the price no one else would bear.

The second man unrolled it again, reading aloud:

News of your capture and hopeful release has reached our shores. For this, we are relieved.

It is with deepest sorrow that I now write to inform you: your wife and your two sons have been found dead. Murdered.

It is believed that Captain Ferrow, and possibly other traitors within the command, orchestrated this crime. Ferrow has been apprehended and will face execution before this letter finds your hands.

Know this, Admiral: your family longed for your return. They died with love for you in their hearts. Their souls now dwell with Tvaris. May the Light carry you safely home.

—Lord Threfell of Armekalia

20

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Kaedryn moved quietly behind Saylong through the late morning haze. The light was pale, filtered by a ceiling of low, gray cloud that pressed the warmth into the soil like the hush before a storm. The air held stillness, thick with must and muffled damp, pressing in close like an anxious breath against skin.

They had long since passed the place where the four hunters had been slain. Their only lead. The trail that might yet lead to Rhodeia. She had not been seen, nor heard from, in days. If there was any chance of finding her now, it would be on the ground, in what the captors had left behind.

Saylong believed they wouldn’t risk taking her far north. Not with the towns watching. And the messages had come, which meant the kidnappers hadn’t fled far. Still, the pair were no longer within the veil of Haithe. Even if another message came, there would be no way to track its path.

Kaedryn’s hand shot out, fingers pressed to Saylong’s arm and a second hand to his own lips signaling silence. Without a word, he pulled them both off the trail and into the trees.

Saylong mouthed a question—what?—but Kaedryn offered no answer.

They crouched low beneath the hanging limbs of an alder, breath stilled. Saylong could hear nothing but the beat of his own pulse. Had Kaedryn acted too hastily?

Then he could hear them, hoofbeats soft, distant, unmistakable.

Saylong listened, still unsure what had given Kaedryn cause for alarm. Horses in these woods were not uncommon, but they almost never prompted caution.

And then, through the shifting trees and pale-barked undergrowth, the riders emerged, slow at first, their mounts exhaling clouds into the morning air.

The first was cloaked in black. Behind him, a hooded figure with his face obscured. Then others followed, clad in armor, almost certainly the Lord Paramount’s guard.

Dharl? Saylong thought. Chalm?

He remained silent as the riders passed. Only once the last hoofbeat had vanished into the hush did Kaedryn rise again.

Saylong turned toward him at once. ‘That was Chalm and Dharl. What are they doing out here?’

‘They spoke little,’ Kaedryn said, eyes still scanning the woods. ‘Still, they’re doing what we’re doing. Hunting. Dharl said something earlier. He thinks Chalm’s losing his grip.’

Saylong raised a brow. ‘You heard that?’

‘I hear most things.’

They resumed their pace, quicker now, following in the same direction as the riders, keeping well off any path.

‘We have to find Rhodeia before they do,’ Saylong muttered. ‘If the kidnappers spot Chalm... he won’t walk away. There should be three more sessions of the Order before they can vote him out. If he dies, he’s replaced. No vote. And whoever takes that seat next could strike the Horizon Clause with Kalltor. The Keepbloods would be abandoned. The North left to rot. Someone doesn’t want them in the Order, and they’re making damn sure of it.’

They stayed off the roads for the rest of the day, keeping distance, moving quietly through groves and underbrush. Kaedryn listened for signs: snatches of sound, broken branches, voices on the air. Nothing came. No trace of Rhodeia. No scent of her captors.

At dusk, they stopped by a shallow stream veiled in low mist. Saylong crouched to fill his flask, the water cool and fast over the stonebed. Kaedryn had wandered into the brush nearby, scanning the forest floor with practiced eyes. He clicked softly as he moved, identifying the quiet rhythm of late-summer mushrooms peeking up through moss and loam.

He bent to collect a cluster beneath a berry bush. It was in that quiet moment, as he crouched, that he saw it.

Bloodied twine, half-buried in the soil.

His breath caught in his chest, stilled by a sudden surge of recognition and dread. The rope had been frayed, snapped rather than cut. He picked it up, studied it briefly, then turned and moved swiftly toward the stream, the weight of the discovery already sinking like a stone in his gut.

Saylong looked up as Kaedryn approached, the length of twine held in his hand like a thread of truth.

‘She was here,’ Kaedryn said. His voice was low and certain. ‘She tried to escape.’

He knelt at the streambank and pointed. ‘Footprints. And here—drag marks. They pulled her up from the water’s edge.’

Saylong followed his gaze. The signs were faint, but real nonetheless. The story had been written in the mud.

Swords drawn, they followed the trail upstream. It led to a hollow beneath a limestone shelf, dark, still, and empty. Inside, more signs. Broken branches. Dragged moss. A torn strip of cloth.

Kaedryn tilted his head, listening through the quiet for any sign of pursuit, but after a long moment, he only shook it. Nothing yet.

‘They’re not close,’ he whispered. ‘If Chalm’s already ahead, and they see him pass... it’ll be too late.’

Saylong’s jaw tightened. He looked once more at the mud, the drag marks, the signs she’d fought.

‘Then we catch them now,’ he said, rising. ‘And we warn him—before they do.’

Kaedryn led the way, his pace relentless, measured, and unforgiving. Saylong followed, a knot coiling in his gut. Each step was a choice: forward, or everything fell.

Branches clawed at them. Roots rose like snares. They hurdled logs slick with moss, ducking beneath limbs heavy with late-summer leaf that snagged at their shoulders. The last of the light vanished, and with it, the dark pressed closer, dense and shifting, full of unseen things. Still, Kaedryn moved as if the night were day. Saylong struggled to keep pace.

It slowed them, his human stride and his human eyes. Kaedryn compensated. He moved with an urgency that felt inhuman. Focused. Tuned to something deeper.

‘They’re ahead,’ Kaedryn whispered. ‘A few hundred paces. They’ve stopped.’

He didn’t have to name them. Saylong already knew who waited ahead.

Saylong nodded, his jaw clenched.

As they neared the camp, Kaedryn whispered what he heard, each detail drawn out carefully, passed like breath against the dark. The guards were speaking, their voices sharp with quiet agitation. One had built a fire, ignoring Dharl’s objections. Still, Chalm, ever stubborn, had insisted. Saylong exhaled through his nose, a drawn breath, consciously restrained, as though trying to press calm into the surrounding air.

‘He’s not thinking straight,’ he said, almost to himself, Kaedryn didn’t answer. His focus was elsewhere, every sense strained toward the forest’s edge.

They veered wide, looping far beyond the cast of firelight. The glow flickered faintly through the trees, a low orange pulse against the damp trunks and leaf-litter. At this distance, the guards would hear nothing. Nor would Dharl. If Rhodeia’s captors were anywhere near, one mistake would doom her.

Beyond the camp, the forest thickened. The air turned close. The ground rose and fell unpredictably, broken by roots and twisted hollows. Fallen branches reached across their path like grasping hands. Saylong stumbled often, slowed by the dark. Kaedryn pressed on. There was no hesitation in him, no misstep. Even now, his gift guided him, silent and unseen.

By the time midnight came and passed, their strength was beginning to fray. They found a patch of ground that wasn’t too wet to sit on, and stopped. Saylong dropped heavily, arms draped over his knees, breath coming harder now. The heat of the effort clung to his face despite the cool of the night.

‘She could be anywhere,’ he muttered, the words falling flat in the stillness.

Kaedryn remained standing. His eyes half-closed, head tilted just enough to catch the wind, he let the forest pour into him. Sound came first, always sound. The hum of the nocturnal insects in the brush. The faint rush of water somewhere to the east. A pair of owls hunting to the west, their cries low and rhythmic. Mice shifting beneath fallen leaves. Predators moving without sound, but not without presence. Not to him.

Then something else, something softer than the rest, much further away. He listened carefully, almost straining to bring each sound into focus, willing them to merge and grow louder. A sharper pop broke through, the sound of a fire, distant but alive, its crackle momentarily lifting the veil on what lay beyond. Each snap of flame opened an image. A man sat nearby, not tall, not strong, his posture slack. He held a blade, though not like a warrior, more like a man who had grown used to holding one out of habit. He tore at meat with his teeth, smacked his lips with each bite. The sound was grotesque, distinct. Behind him, others slept, three shapes, cloaked and unmoving.

He pushed further, deeper into the fire’s music.

There was no shelter built, only a lean-to tucked beneath a rock shelf. The fire had been laid carefully beneath it. Smoke rose in soft plumes, slow and nearly invisible. Four people. Three horses tethered close by. One man snored. The man eating didn’t speak, didn’t move much. He was waiting for something, or guarding it.

He opened his eyes.

Saylong had begun to doze, his chin dipped, his hand resting unconsciously near the hilt of his sword. Kaedryn crouched beside him and pressed a hand to his shoulder. Saylong startled awake, reaching instinctively for the blade.

Kaedryn didn’t flinch. His voice remained quiet, deliberate.

‘I think I’ve found them.’

Saylong jolted, mind dragging itself through shadow and scattered thought, still bound by sleep’s weight. His limbs resisted, thick with exhaustion, his breath caught between dreams and waking.

‘How many?’ he asked at last, voice low but steady.

‘Three,’ Kaedryn replied.

Saylong shifted upright, instinct stirring. ‘Three? Are you certain?’

‘Three horses. Four people. One is awake, guarding. The rest are asleep.’

Saylong ran the odds. Three against two was not the worst he’d faced, but far from favorable. The boy was gifted, but unproven in the field, and Saylong himself... he was not what he once was. Age was a slow wound, and lately, every encounter had left its mark. Too many melees. Too many wounds. Too few victories.

‘We need to reach Chalm’s men,’ he said. ‘Dharl, at the very least. If this is them, if she’s there—’ he stopped himself. His tone darkened. ‘If we fail here, the Order will not survive it.’

Kaedryn didn’t respond immediately. His head angled, listening for something beyond Saylong’s reach.

‘They’re moving,’ Kaedryn said quietly. ‘Taking their time. Chalm’s restless again.’

Saylong’s eyes narrowed. His voice carried no surprise, only weariness sharpened into certainty. ‘He has lost his mind.’

He adjusted the strap at his shoulder, hand brushing the sword’s grip before turning to Kaedryn.

‘Lead the way. We can’t risk warning Chalm now. Not like this. We secure Rhodeia first, then we deal with whatever madness follows.’

They pressed through the underbrush, crouched and deliberate. The night clawed at them, branches scraping bare skin, roots tripping tired legs. Neither wore armor. Their only weapons were the swords at their hips and whatever strength they could still summon. The journey was slow, measured in inches and breaths. Each step was weighed against risk.

An hour passed before Kaedryn raised a hand and crouched low. Saylong dropped low beside him, hands braced in the damp brush.

‘The kidnappers are just ahead,’ Kaedryn murmured. ‘Chalm’s riders are still behind us. We’re closing the gap.’

He fell still once more, every breath narrowed to silence as he listened.

The camp had stirred. One who had been sleeping now stood guard. The roles had shifted, and one paced around the edge of the fire while the others slept. The new guard was alert, though sluggish with weariness. If they moved too fast, made even a whisper of sound, they would be heard. Their own fatigue now made the risk greater. Any fight would be fought on adrenaline alone.

Still they moved, inch by inch, driven not by courage but by necessity.

Kaedryn had already mapped the terrain in his mind, the slope of the bank, the curve of the overhang. He could see the men now, their outlines sharpened by his gift. He could see the girl as well, small and still, her limbs bound. She was sitting now, huddled near the stone wall. The horses were at rest, tethered nearby. The man on guard moved without purpose, circling the embers of the fire, rubbing warmth into his arms.

‘We should attack,’ Kaedryn said, his voice nearly lost in the brush.

Saylong shook his head. It was too soon. Too dangerous. The dark was against them, and they had no vantage. No crossbows. No distance weapons. If they struck now, Rhodeia might be the first to die.

‘We hold,’ Saylong said, his voice low but firm. ‘If Chalm’s men arrive, and we’ve taken the high ground, we flank them. If the captors move first, we strike in response. It’s the only chance we have to keep her alive.’

He crouched beside Kaedryn, speaking in a steady rhythm. ‘Look for a line of stone, something we can take shelter behind. Barely a rise, just enough to shield a crouch. If there’s cover beyond it, I need to know. A bend in the treeline, perhaps—if the ground opens, we might circle wide. The slope needs to give us height. It must be narrow, only two men abreast. Find that, and we can hold them.’

Kaedryn’s eyes closed, breath steady as he filtered sound from shadow, motion from wind. Saylong could see the boy listening, not with ears alone, but with his whole gift. Sound, shape, motion, all folding into his awareness like threads drawn taut.

‘I’ll find it,’ Kaedryn whispered.

Kaedryn kept still, eyes shut, breath barely moving. He didn’t speak. He didn’t dare. The forest spoke enough. The wind brushed across branches, sending low rustles through the leaves. A single cricket chirped near his foot, the sound bouncing softly through the brush. In the distance, something stirred the undergrowth. It was not close, not urgent. Every sound struck his awareness like pressure against cloth, shaping the world in folds and edges. In his mind, a map formed. The rise of the ridge. The hollow beneath it. A line of trees slanting downhill, one missing its top. The forest took shape not in light, but in motion and echo. He searched the dark for silence, for gaps in the pattern, for the places a man might hide. When the picture was clear, he opened his eyes.

‘There,’ he whispered, just loud enough for Saylong to hear.

The pair moved quietly through the undergrowth and reached the ridge Kaedryn had seen in his mind. It wasn’t ideal, too exposed, too familiar. It would have to do. Saylong crouched low behind a fallen trunk, the bark soft and moss-covered beneath his hand. The place reminded him of Roydne. Of mistakes too long past to fix.

They waited, a palpable stillness gripping them as the shadows of morning stretched across the clearing.

The first pale light crept between the trees, slicing through the undergrowth in narrow blades. The night began to break. The creatures of darkness retreated to their dens, and the day’s hunters began to stir. Somewhere beyond the ridge, hoofbeats began to echo, soft at first, then clearer with each passing moment.

Kaedryn tensed as the sound solidified into grim certainty, the unmistakable approach of riders, Chalm’s men. He nudged Saylong gently, not needing words. Movement stirred below, the camp beginning to shift, to wake.

All three kidnappers were now awake. The man on watch had wandered toward the bank to relieve himself. He stopped midstream. Kaedryn’s breath caught. One of the horses below had whinnied, sharp and piercing. A single sound in the stillness.

The man turned quickly, eyes narrow with sudden alertness. He crossed back to the others and kicked them into motion. They scrambled upright, half-dressed, hands finding weapons.

‘Ready?’ Kaedryn whispered.

Saylong offered no reply. The pulse in his ears matched the urgency pressing in. They held a slight edge in numbers, but the element of surprise was gone, and with Rhodeia still in their grip, the risk outweighed everything.

Below them, the kidnappers were beginning to stir. Two took up crossbows, listening for the sound of approach, their eyes fixed on the trees beyond the clearing. The third forced Rhodeia upright. Orsta knelt beside her, pressing a blade to her throat as he reached around to cover her mouth with his other hand. Her eyes opened wide. She strained to breathe through the grip of his fingers.

Kaedryn exhaled, slow and silent, and described what he saw to Saylong. Every detail. Saylong’s heart sank. There was nothing they could do, no angle, no approach, not without risking her.

Below, the kidnappers moved into position. Two lay prone along the rise, crossbows raised and ready. The leader knelt beside Rhodeia, his body shielding her from view. She struggled, but the blade kept her still.

And then, in the clearing, the first horse appeared, slow and uncertain. Dharl. Behind him, the others flanked Chalm, the full guard still unaware.

Saylong hesitated. He could feel the moment beginning to slip away.

Kaedryn glanced sideways. Saylong’s eyes told him everything.

Impatience flared within him; there was no waiting. Instinct seized his actions before reason could intervene.

Kaedryn rose silently, stepped from the cover of the ridge, and leapt down the slope with sword drawn.

The first crossbowman turned sharply, reacting to Kaedryn’s sudden descent, and Saylong was already in motion, descending the slope from the overhang with a grunt as his boots struck the ground. His shoulder clipped the man nearest the entrance, a broad, weathered man who had stood holding Rhodeia, eyes fixed on the ridge. The impact jarred him off balance, and his grip faltered. The knife slipped. Rhodeia twisted free with a cry, scrambling backward into the shadows.

She screamed out loud. A warning to the others.

Orsta spun, blade already drawn. He was quick. Saylong met him in a clash of steel; the younger man drove forward with relentless force. Saylong staggered back, his heels slipping in the ash of the firepit.

A crossbow bolt tore through the trees, a sharp, vicious sound that vanished into the dawn beyond. A second followed half a breath later, this one closer. Kaedryn ducked low, rolled, and came up with his sword drawn. His target had already risen to meet him, steel in hand. Kaedryn’s speed was greater. He closed the distance before the man could fully steady his stance.

The third man joined the fray. The sound of hooves drowned the chaos. Chalm’s guards had heard the shouting and were already dismounting. They didn’t recognize Kaedryn, didn’t ask questions. They had been fired upon, and that was enough.

Two of the Lord Paramount’s guards reached Kaedryn just as his opponent staggered back. They had seen the bolt fired toward Chalm and needed no orders. One kidnapper was already falling; the second was cut down before he could recover. The third guard moved for Rhodeia. He pulled her clear and slashed through the bindings with swift, brutal precision, then turned his body to shield hers as he guided her toward cover.

Saylong was losing ground.

Orsta struck hard, pushing him back again and again. The older man couldn’t gain footing, and his sword went purely to defense, parrying with what strength remained. He slipped again, back to the overhang now, the firepit’s ash beneath his boots. Orsta raised his blade, eyes narrowed with finality.

A breath, sharper than Saylong’s, cut through the clash. It came with a sound, low and wet, like cloth tearing open. Blood followed, thick and sudden.

Kaedryn’s blade had found Orsta’s spine. The younger man gasped, his eyes wide as red poured from his mouth. His knees buckled, his body folding inward before it collapsed at Saylong’s feet.

It was done.

Saylong’s exhale carried the full weight of what had passed. Relief met him a moment later as Lord Paramount Chalm crested the bank, crying out for Rhodeia. For a man of his age, he moved quickly. He fell to his knees and wrapped his arms around the girl, weeping openly as he held her.

Kaedryn helped Saylong to his feet. A faint tremble passed through him, but he managed a brief smile. There was no acknowledgment from Chalm. His entire world was locked in that embrace.

Saylong stepped forward and clapped a hand to Kaedryn’s shoulder. No words. It had been done. Against every odd, they had succeeded. Tvaris had smiled on them this day.

Saylong pushed past the guards and moved toward the horses. He was searching for Dharl, scanning the clearing, hoping to find him standing, giving orders, brushing mud from his cloak. But none of the riders stood beside the animals. The horses waited in the morning hush, breath steaming from their nostrils, heads shifting in the silence. Only one guard remained near them, crouched low between the saddles. Saylong slowed. His pace faltered. He saw the boots first. Black and still. The edge of a dark cloak spread across the forest floor.

He swallowed hard and stepped closer. The guard looked up. Their eyes met. Then, without a word, the man stood and stepped back. Saylong looked down.

Dharl lay motionless in the leaf litter, one arm outstretched, his hand half-curled. A crossbow bolt had struck him clean through the chest. He had died instantly.

Saylong stood over him for a long time. The quiet pressed in around him, weightless and heavy all at once, as if even the forest could not quite accept what had been taken. Of all the burdens he carried, this would be among the heaviest. He felt it settle into him, not as fire, but as stone. Cold, solid, permanent.

This one might never leave him.

21

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Darkness swallowed the western bushland outside Keis’s Castle as the first of the warriors moved into position. Hollan could only hope Slaxis had done enough, had reached the right people in time to prepare the attack from within. The window was narrow. A day, perhaps two, before the pirates spotted them. This was their one chance to retake the castle.

Everything hinged on the plan working. The Armekalians who had once sworn fealty to the West would have to decide now if they could turn again. Slaxis had warned that some were too far gone, too loyal to Kalltor. Those men, he would avoid. The ones still capable of loyalty, he had marked for action.

They only needed to get a few weapons over the wall and secure the battlements before the enemy overran them. If they could hold the wall walks, they could hold the castle. That was all Hollan needed: enough men inside to strike first and tip the balance before the pirates knew what was happening.

Kalltor’s position had weakened. He held no Keepbloods, no admiral, and now faced the chance of betrayal within his own crew. His power had always walked a blade’s edge. Tonight, that edge would cut.

Ramcino’s hald crept through the brush along the northern river wall. Hollan’s men followed close behind, spaced tight and silent. A northern breeze swept through the reeds, cool against the skin. Overhead, clouds masked the twin lights of Astra and Nyx. The castle loomed above, high-walled, with steep stone overhangs that made climbing a perilous gamble. The river blocked any broad approach, allowing only scattered teams to reach the base of the wall. But this wasn’t a full assault. All they needed was to get inside, to cause enough chaos for Hollan’s men to reach the western gates and throw them open.

Beyond the walls, Deyra waited in the dark with a few hundred more, crouched low across the outer bushland, ready to charge once the gates opened. Her force would have to charge blindly toward the locked gates and hope the timing held. There was no contingency. If the plan failed, the Keepblood claim would die here, and Kalltor would remain sovereign.

From the reeds, Ramcino could hear drunken revelry echoing from within the walls. Faint firelight danced against the stone above. He scanned the battlements, eyes narrowing on the sentries pacing the wall walk. At this distance, he couldn’t tell if they were pirate or Armekalian, or whose side they’d choose when the blades came out.

Torches fixed to the outer walls lit the incline toward the river, aiding the watchers above. They also offered just enough light for Ramcino’s men to move with care, inching forward through the grass and reeds.

They reached the Nor-Western tower, the first marker. No horn had sounded, no cry of alarm. Either no one had seen them yet... or the watch was Armekalian and loyal to the West. If so, they were letting the Northerners pass.

Ramcino crouched low, inching forward with the riverbank to his right, the reeds whispering sideways beneath a steady draft. He moved with them, parting each stalk where the wind had already made way. His eyes flicked up. No sign of a grappling hook. Nothing. A flicker of unease touched his gut.

It would be difficult for the insiders to lower siege hooks without drawing notice. Perhaps they’d failed. Or worse, perhaps there had never been a plan to lower them at all. If that was true, if this was a trap, Ramcino’s hald would be the first to bleed.

More dire still, if there was no way in, there would be no fight. Just retreat. The pirates, upon discovering them, would lock the walls, burn the fields, and eliminate any chance of a second attempt.

Ramcino felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned. One of his warriors pointed toward a thicket of shrubs at the base of the wall. A coil of rope, the first sign of equipment thrown down from within, lay twisted in the grass, just visible in the dark.

He gave a sharp nod and motioned for the warrior to take three others and hold the position in silence.

The four crept forward, moving only when the sentries above turned from their post. They slipped into a blind spot near the base, pressed themselves tight against the stone, and began assembling the hook in darkness.

Further along the wall, Ramcino’s eyes caught another shape, thicker and heavier. A second hook, and beside it, a net. Woven rope, knotted for climbers. Enough to bring several men over the wall at once. Someone inside had risked everything. The plan was alive.

Ramcino crouched low, signaling the next wave. One by one, his hald spread across the riverbank, crouched in the reeds. They were ready. Only two lines, two entry points. If the net held, if the climbers moved quickly, they would have their foothold. And if they bought the Keisguard even a few minutes, the gates would open, and Deyra’s force would pour through.

Ramcino selected each climber based on skill. Hollan had done the same. They had both sworn to lead the ascent if it came to it. Tonight, the North and Keis would be bound by blood, a pact never sealed in written accord, never spoken aloud in centuries of tension. And even if they failed, the attempt alone would prove their worth.

They had already sent word to the remaining Keepbloods, Brigetta included. Whatever the outcome, people would not forget the North.

On the far edge of the line, Hollan knelt in the reeds, eyes fixed on the shifting dark. Ramcino was out of sight, but that didn’t matter. The signal would come. Trust had replaced the need to see.

He turned, scanning his own ranks, each warrior crouched and ready. A quiet nod passed down the line.

They stretched the net between four points, ready for hauling. The hook-bearers each gripped their weapons and waited, backs to the stone. Then came the signal. Two watchers raised their hands, counting silently.

The climbers spun the hooks and released them in unison. They struck the upper wall with a metallic clatter that rang down into the stone like a bell. Ramcino flinched. The sound would carry.

Already, two men were climbing. Their movements were swift and fluid, nearly silent. They carried the net between them, coiled and heavy. The next men followed, gripping rope and netting as they moved in tandem, hands and boots testing every inch. Each ascent was smooth. Precision and coordination held firm. No wasted motion. No lost seconds.

Higher still, the lead climbers reached the crest and locked the net to specialized iron catches embedded near the hook points. The net unfurled beneath them like a woven ladder hanging over the wall.

A shout broke the quiet. Then came another, followed by rough voices sharp with alarm. Pirate tongues. Figures moved on the wall. A moment later, the first bolts hissed from crossbows above.

The siege had begun.

The hook-bearers were the first to fall, bolts thudding into their chests before they’d gained any ground on the wall walk. Behind them, others took to the ropes, a swarm of Northerners scrambling upward, hands slick with sweat and grit. Steel clashed above. The air rang with shouts and the scream of metal meeting metal. Ramcino reached the rope net and began his ascent, each step a test of weight and will. Although the first climbers had secured the overhang, crossbow fire from the parapets pinned them.

Within the walls, the sounds of drunken revelry twisted into something sharper: panic, orders, steel on stone. The wall walks had become a corridor of chaos. The northerners who had breached the wall threw the oil, intended for defense, back toward the inner courtyards. Clay pots shattered, their contents igniting with arcing fire. Arrows followed, lighting the stonework in waves. The flames carved a corridor for the northern warriors to claim the wall.

Keisguard troops ascended behind them, Hollan at the head, the horse crest of his helm bright even in the flicker of firelight. The Northerners pushed east along the wall, forcing the defenders back toward the towers, then began dropping into the courtyard below. Ramcino stood out among them, broad, armored, and unrelenting. He fought through pirates and Armekalians alike. There was no time now to question allegiance. Yet some within the castle had already turned against Kalltor. Skirmishes erupted across the courtyards, blades ringing through smoke and flame.

Beyond the walls, Deyra waited with her shield held high. The fires inside the fortress danced brighter now, licking at the sky. One flare, then another. Her heart hammered beneath the weight of stillness. To move too soon would doom them all.

She crouched among the others, a round shield pressed to her shoulder. Across the line, shield-bearers mirrored her posture, rows of warriors breathing in unison.

They never intended for there to be a signal. Only timing. Hollan had done what he could, outlined the moments, the measure of time it would take them to reach the gate, to reach him. Securing the western gate would not come easily. He would need to cross the open courtyard, face whatever force still held it. Kalltor. Volnaire. The rest.

She held her count steady. Each heartbeat a number. Her eyes found Gurrlan crouched beside her.

‘You don’t have a shield,’ she whispered. ‘Let me be yours.’

She exhaled. Slowly. The firelight caught her cheek. Dirt streaked her brow like war paint.

A sudden flare lit the northern wall. Flame curled high into the air, orange and writhing, climbing the battlements where Ramcino and Hollan’s warriors had ascended. From this distance, it looked like the wall itself was aflame.

Deyra’s gut twisted. If the fires spread, there would be no further ascent. No reinforcements that way. No second chance.

Only the gates remained now.

She raised her sword and slammed it against her shield.

May Tvaris be with them.

The sound cracked like a war drum. Deyra rose in a single motion, shield braced, sword ready. Gurrlan barrelled to her side with a low grunt, his tusks slicing into the dark. Then came the others, shield-bearers first, then the rest, thundering behind her, North and Keisguard bound in blood and cause.

The iron gates still held. Ahead, the ground stretched open and treacherous, lit only by faint moonlight. Boots struck the earth in a thunderous cadence, each step hammering the silence into battle-song. The ground shook beneath them, but the gates showed no sign of yielding. Torches along the battlements flickered with indifference, casting long shadows across the stone. The closer they ran, the more impossible the gates seemed. Still sealed. Still silent.

Now the archers appeared, shapes moving atop the wall walk. Shadows with drawn bows. Deyra didn’t slow. The warrior’s pace held fast behind her, unbroken.

Gurrlan stayed close, hooves pounding, snorts flaring hot in the night. His bulk moved with uncanny speed, his presence a silent oath.

The first arrows hissed into the dirt, followed by scattered volleys that sliced through the air with sharp, whistling trails. They struck shields with heavy thuds, tore through cloaks, and found flesh with a wet, final sound. Warriors fell mid-charge, their bodies crumpling into the mud. Shields lifted, slowing their momentum as iron-tipped shafts tore through the air overhead.

The gates remained shut.

Inside, the sounds came clearer now. Clashes. Shouts. Steel on steel. A rhythm of violence rising from beyond the gate, each beat echoing through the stone like the breath of war.

Then Deyra struck. The shieldbearers with her collided against the iron gate, their formation buckling under the pressure. Arrows raked the shield line. Some held. Others failed.

The crush came quickly, too many bodies, too little space. Warriors jammed together beneath the overhang, shields lifted, hands clawing for cover. Those pressed tight against the gate shouted to pass shields back, to shield the rear, but panic overruled discipline.

Gurrlan veered sideways, tusks sweeping to clear space. Deyra cried out as her back struck the gate, pinned beneath a surge of bodies and steel. Breath punched from her lungs. Knees buckled. The crush pressed in, unrelenting.

She was fading.

And the gate was still closed.

It felt like an eternity. Darkness pressed in at the edges of Deyra’s vision, each breath a battle as the crush tightened behind her. With nowhere left to go, her body bore into the iron gate like a sacrificial offering. Her heels slid, her shield caught against another’s back, and she felt her thoughts fray. A final gasp burst free, sharp and desperate, just enough to lift her head and see the fracture in the gates. It was thin, jagged at first, then widened with a jolt, the iron shuddering as the inner gears churned into motion.

The weight behind her broke. One soldier pushed through, then another, and Gurrlan surged forward with a guttural roar that shattered the rhythm of her panic. She tore herself from the gate’s crushing grip, dragged in a full breath, and bolted after him. She focused her thoughts on Volnaire. He had to be inside. If she reached Kalltor too, she would not hesitate. It was Volnaire her blade longed for. She scanned the chaos ahead, searching for his form through the smoke and flame, her heart pounding with every step.

Within the courtyard, chaos bloomed like wildfire. Steel rang against steel in a chime of fury, firelight painted streaks of crimson across broken stone, and the charge of Northerners collided with the splintering lines of pirate resistance. Deyra glimpsed Gurrlan tearing through the enemy ranks, his tusks bloodied, his hooves battering men to the ground. He fought like vengeance incarnate, like he had not forgotten the ambush at Roydne.

She drove forward, cutting through one pirate, then another. The courtyard belonged to neither side now, a battlefield of shifting tide. Ahead, she spotted Volnaire, his hulking form unmistakable as his morning star spun in arcs of violence, felling anyone foolish enough to step near. Kalltor had already begun retreating toward the Eastern wing, but Volnaire stayed to hold the line.

Deyra pushed harder, her path closing toward him until a figure lunged into her way. Bald, shirtless, rippling with scars and muscle, he swung at her with a roar; the blade crashing against her shield. The impact jarred her arm and forced her back, her boots scraping over blood-slick stone. Another blow came fast. She shifted into a new stance, defensive, drawing her guard high, eyes fixed. Her arms ached, and her stance nearly collapsed under his strength.

The man raised his blade for the final strike when something pulled him off balance. A scream tore from his throat as his body twisted sideways. Gurrlan had clamped down on the man’s arm, tusks tearing through sinew, dragging him off course. The pirate dropped his sword with a metallic clatter and gave a gurgled cry, slumping under Gurrlan’s grip. Deyra didn’t hesitate. She stepped forward and drove the point of her blade through his chest, quick and clean.

She didn’t pause. Her eyes flicked back toward Volnaire. He was nearly gone now, retreating through the swirl of melee. She stepped to pursue.

Then came the sound that stopped her cold—a squeal, sharp and strangled. Gurrlan buckled where he stood, his limbs giving way as he dropped hard to the stone. An arrow jutted from his front shoulder, embedded deep. Deyra dropped her sword and turned to him, crouching low. Her hands pressed around the wound, careful, trembling. Around them, the battle raged on, loud with shouts, steel, and thunder. The pirates were breaking, fleeing east to their ships. Still, all of it faded. The world narrowed to a single shape in the dust.

‘You saved me,’ she whispered, her voice trembling. ‘You saved me again.’

She closed her eyes and focused, not on the battle, not on Volnaire, not on any of it. Only on Gurrlan. On the blood still pulsing beneath her palms. On the chance, however slim, that he would live. That she could give him back his life.

The surrounding war faded to silence. The clash of steel, the shouts of victory, the final cries of retreat all dimmed. She was no longer in the courtyard. She was back beneath the trees, an arrow in her chest, her breath tight, her vision dim. Saylong’s voice came to her, not in memory, but in spirit. His hand on hers. His words in her essence.

‘Breathe. The body is not just blood and bone. The Light is there. It does not abandon.’

She drew a breath and pulled the arrow free.

Gurrlan screamed.

His body thrashed, hooves scraping at the stone, blood gushing from the wound. She wrapped her arms around his thick neck, pressing into the coarse bristle of his hide. Her hands found the torn flesh and held fast, as if clinging to more than a creature. As if clinging to memory. To meaning. To the last unbroken truth, the world had left her.

‘Stay with me,’ she whispered. ‘Please. Just... stay.’

Her gift stirred, then wavered. Fear clawed at her focus. She gritted her teeth, eyes stinging with tears.

‘Not the pain. Not the wound. Go deeper. Listen. Find the thread beneath it.’

She steadied her breath and reached inward.

The Light answered, faint and familiar. Not seen, but known. Felt like warmth drawn from within, a tide that rose to meet her touch. Her hands trembled as she gave it to him, not as a healer, but as one saved. A soul bound to his. How he had shielded her before. How he bled for her now.

Gurrlan’s hooves kicked weakly. Then slowed.

‘No,’ she breathed. ‘No, don’t you do this. Don’t you leave me.’

She pressed harder, trying to feel the pulse in his chest. It was there. Barely. A flutter in the dark.

‘The Light is there. It does not abandon.’

Around her, voices cried out. The courtyard was theirs. Pirates fled through the eastern gate, their escape sealing the victory.

But not for her.

Not if he died.

She bent closer, her forehead pressed to his hide. His breath came in stutters now, each one more shallow than the last.

‘I’m here,’ she whispered. ‘You saved me. Again. You always do. So let me save you now.’

Nothing.

Her tears soaked into his coarse fur. She tightened her grip, the feeling of warmth flaring through her hands with everything she had left.

‘I am your shield,’ she whispered, the words shaking. ‘Let me be your shield.’

The warmth flickered. Her strength dimmed. And still she clung to the hope that he would breathe again.

That he would choose to stay.

Volnaire barked orders down the gangplanks. Men dragged the wounded aboard. Those who could still run poured onto the Mor ò Thail, while the rest scrambled toward the Varkellon, where Kalltor waited, eyes fixed on the river mouth.

The Razebreakers launched first, sleek and sharp, skimming the current like knives drawn for flight. One by one, they slipped into the channel, carving toward the open sea.

On the Varkellon’s deck, Kalltor stood at the prow, cloak torn, jaw clenched, the stink of smoke and iron still thick in his lungs. The waves crested, heaving beneath the hull as they breached the mouth of the river. Salt met silt in a frothing clash. The ship bucked, lunging east. Still, he pressed on.

Then came the shapes on the horizon, gray outlines in the low light, sails taut in the wind. He counted four. Then seven. Signals flashed between them, controlled and methodical. Not a pursuit. A formation.

It was a fleet. He didn’t need a glass to recognize the sails as Armekalian. Perhaps they were searching for Sartise. Maybe they had pushed farther than planned. Or perhaps fate had twisted again. It didn’t matter now.

‘Douse the lanterns,’ he snapped. ‘All of them. Now.’

The Mor ò Thail obeyed first, its lights vanishing into the sea mist. The Varkellon followed, dissolved by shadow. Darkness fell over the Razebreakers. The wind spoke in rigging. Wood creaked under strain. And the sea turned cold.

The ships scattered wide. No formation. No unity. Just flight. The movement made when no command could help you, when all that mattered was the open water ahead.

Drenzalis had already lost her captain. Tolgeen had died in the raid. His crew now sailed blind. The others pressed northward, desperate and silent.

Behind them, the Armekalian fleet turned into the wind, cutting fast, veering toward interception.

They lost the battle for Keis. The fire. The walls. The Keepbloods.

And for the first time in years, Kalltor ran.

He gripped the rail tighter, jaw locked against the salt. He had gambled everything, and Roydne’s prize now slipped through his fingers. The darkness ahead was his only hope.

He never turned to see it vanish.

Day broke over the castle. Smoke curled through the morning light, soft as breath, veiling the aftermath in a pale haze. The dead lay where they’d fallen. They gave quiet ends to those too wounded to speak. Pirates who still breathed but had raised arms for Kalltor found no mercy.

In the courtyard, Deyra lay curled beside Gurrlan. She hadn’t meant to sleep, had meant only to rest for a moment; instead, her body had given out beside his. The boar’s breaths came shallow, ragged, uneven. Still, he breathed. He had lived through the night. Her gift, the echo of Tvaris’s light, poured into the wounds of the warhog who had refused to fall. It could not promise safety. It had no power to undo the pain. But it held him from the edge, not with mercy, but with love.

For now.

Ramcino approached in silence. He looked down at them, girl and beast, warrior and brother, and pulled a fur from his shoulders. He draped it gently across them both.

She hadn’t taken Volnaire. Hadn’t reached Kalltor. They had vanished into the tide.

Yet, she had stayed. And she would not lose him.

Not this one.

22

––––––––

Kaedryn and Saylong rode south in the slanting afternoon light, astride the mounts claimed from the kidnappers they had left behind. Lord Paramount Chalm and his retinue were far to the rear now, and Rhodeia, battered yet breathing, traveled under careful watch, forced to keep a slower pace so her wounds might heal. If anyone intended to reach the fifth session of the Order before they cast out Chalm, they would need to ride with speed that even their weary horses could scarcely manage.

Chalm had offered them neither thanks nor any moment’s courtesy for saving his granddaughter. Saylong felt a deepening resentment toward the man whose reckless decisions had led to Dharl’s death, the same Dharl who had tried relentlessly to curb Chalm’s folly.

‘We’ll stop ahead,’ Saylong called over the thunder of hooves.

The horses labored, lungs working hard, their hides streaked with sweat. Even so, the odds of returning to the Order in time for the vote grew slim with each passing moment.

‘We will not make it,’ Kaedryn said.

Saylong guided his mare down a narrow slope toward a shallow stream, letting the animal drink.

‘No. We will not,’ he replied. ‘And Chalm has already surrendered his seat. Brigetta, by now, will have lost patience with the delay. If we hasten them to march on Keis, we might salvage what remains.’

Kaedryn glowered. ‘We are better off without that senile man. He put Rhodeia at risk, sacrificed Dharl, and nearly tore the Order apart. We have no need of him.’

Saylong inclined his head, unable to dispute his anger. ‘You may be right. Chalm never colluded with pirates, at least not knowingly. Yet someone in the Order did. Someone invoked the Horizon Clause in secret, aiming to see Keis’s Castle delivered into pirate hands.’

He paused, scanning the treeline in quiet frustration.

‘Chalm never would have done that, whatever his failings. He gave himself up for Rhodeia and turned his back on the Order all in one breath. Now, while his guards trail behind, he serves only himself.’

Kaedryn heard the bitterness in his voice but found no argument to counter it. Their horses stood panting in the stream, the water rippling around ironshod hooves. The sun dipped lower, shadows stretching across the bank. Neither of them spoke further, though the unspoken realization bound them: time had already slipped through their fingers, and the Order’s next step would not wait for them.

By the time they reached Haithe’s walls, night had fully taken the sky. Stalls and market tarps that had once bustled with daylight trade now folded beneath lanterns swaying in the damp breeze, and weary vendors packed away crates under the watch of early stars. In the distance, alehouses already hummed with boisterous laughter, their doorways flaring with a warm glow against the evening’s chill.

Saylong and Kaedryn urged their mounts onward, hooves echoing heavily on the slick cobblestones. ‘Clear the way!’ Saylong shouted, his voice cutting through the clamor of stragglers trying to get home. Pedestrians darted aside, pressing backs to walls or ducking through narrow alleys. A tension thrummed in the air, the sudden flurry as the riders pounded through, both men focused only on the castle up ahead.

At last, they reined in at the foot of the great hall’s broad steps. Saylong swung out of the saddle, landing with a jolt that shot up his boots. He threw a quick glance at Kaedryn, still atop his horse, and gestured for him to remain behind. ‘Stay here. We need your face unseen right now.’ His tone held urgency, though he tried to mask it with brisk authority.

Kaedryn gave a terse nod, clasping the reins. In a few strides, Saylong dashed up the stairs into the halls. Servants in drab tunics swept the corridors with straw brooms, while others tended to guttering torches in iron brackets. He pushed through them, ignoring startled gasps and quick bows, determined to reach the Order before the night sealed away its secrets.

Before him stood the heavy doors of the Order’s meeting hall. Two guards stood with pikes crossed, barring entry. Saylong drew up short, breath loud in his chest.

‘I bring urgent word of Lord Paramount Chalm,’ he said, voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling.

Neither guard so much as shifted. Their eyes stayed forward, pikes unmoving.

‘He’s gone from Haithe. Do you not grasp the weight of that?’ Saylong pressed, glancing between them. A spasm of annoyance flared in his chest. He started forward. The guards snapped their pikes into position, forcing him back a step.

Saylong exhaled, his gaze roving the carved door, heavy timbers reinforced with black iron bands. ‘You don’t understand. I have information. Let me in!’

Still no reply. The hush in the corridor magnified each of Saylong’s breaths, each echo from the tall stone arches. The silence from the guards, unyielding and final, needled into his thoughts.

When they refused to respond at all, he pivoted in place and paced the length of the polished marble floor. Back and forth, back and forth. His boots squeaked on the stone as each step seemed to hammer home his helplessness. He tried reason, persuasion, even anger, invoking Chalm’s name and threatening to bring the matter before the lord paramount himself. Yet each attempt ended the same: the guard pikes lowering in unison, silver tips glinting in the lamplight.

Nothing broke their stony calm. Eventually, he exhaled a defeated sigh and slumped against the opposite wall. The corridor lamps flickered, and time slowed to an agonizing crawl. He rubbed at the taut muscles in his neck, gaze locked on the shut doors, waiting for any sign they might yield.

Two hours crept by in that silent corridor before, at last, the heavy door’s iron hinges groaned. The guards snapped their pikes upright, permitting the envoys to file out one by one. Oran of Zerthys emerged first, brows drawn in thought, gaze distant. Xania of Hawn’s Keep came next, her keen eyes flicking briefly over Saylong before she moved on. Then Mortas Lexx, who lingered a moment, his stare meeting Saylong’s with guarded indifference. Saylong offered only the barest nod, unwilling to extend more courtesy.

Moments later, Erastus emerged, his worn features etched with something between resignation and curiosity. He caught sight of Saylong rising from the floor, shaking off the numbness in his legs. With a subtle nod, Erastus drifted closer, keeping his voice low so no others would overhear.

‘Meet me at my residence, two hours from now. Bring the boy. Go quickly.’

Saylong answered with a curt dip of his chin and slipped away into the thinning crowd of envoys and scribes. Their hushed footsteps and rustling parchment echoed off the polished marble walls as they made for the exits. Outside, the night air curled around Saylong like a cool salve. He found Kaedryn waiting on the steps, reins in hand, the horses stamping and snorting against the lingering tension.

‘You waited?’ Saylong asked, accepting the reins to his mount.

Kaedryn only inclined his head, a quiet confirmation. The boy’s eyes held some secret he did not offer. Saylong did not pry. They mounted up and rode for the Central Quarters, where a gate official allowed them inside without question. By lamplight, a servant welcomed them and led them through dim archways to Erastus’ home. Wisps of Astra’s glow flickered through sparse cloud, casting a pale sheen on the path. When at last they arrived, fatigue weighed on both men’s shoulders, but they followed the servant in.

As expected, Erastus waited in the upper chamber, seated in a high-backed chair, one hand curled around a wine chalice. He waved off the servant, offering both visitors a drink as he stared out the window onto the quiet gardens below.

‘So you’ve heard, then?’ he asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer. Kaedryn accepted the wine with eagerness. Saylong frowned, uncertain.

‘Heard what, exactly?’ he pressed, dropping onto a bench opposite Erastus.

Erastus stood slowly, still facing the window, his hand resting on the sill as though reluctant to turn from the night. Two servants moved at once, circling behind him to rotate the chair toward the table. He lingered a moment longer, then sighed and shuffled around, easing himself back into the seat with a groan that seemed older than the man himself.

‘I’m old, Saylong. Old and tired.’

‘Heard what?’ Saylong repeated, sharper this time.

Kaedryn took it upon himself to speak: ‘Chalm is out. They voted him down.’

Saylong’s eyes sharpened with realization, followed by a flash of annoyance that Kaedryn had known before him.

‘Yes,’ Erastus said. ‘No more Chalm. Voted out in a chamber too loud for reason.’

He paused, swirling the wine in his cup.

‘Then there’s the matter of Keis’s Castle.’

Saylong leaned forward. ‘What of it?’

Erastus offered a thin smile. ‘Ah, well. The Order knows nothing. Not yet. The first birds will arrive by morning, no doubt flapping with secondhand news. I prefer to know things before they’re written in ink.’

Saylong said nothing, waiting.

‘Your Northmen were successful,’ Erastus went on. ‘They joined with Hollan Keis. Retook the castle. Swiftly, and with little error. The pirates were driven out.’

He took a slow sip of wine, watching Saylong over the rim of his cup.

‘No formal declaration yet, of course. The Order still thinks Keis is under siege. But I’ve seen the reports. The Keisguard captain signed them, using language unseen for centuries, a clause buried so deep in the old accords I doubt half the Order would even recognize it.’

Saylong tightened. ‘So it was invoked, then? You know of the Horizon Clause?’

Erastus exhaled through his nose. ‘It was in the official dispatch. Signed cleanly, and in full, Horizon Clause language and all. I was astounded anyone remembered it, let alone acted on it. Most of the Order didn’t even pause when it passed across their desks.’

He leaned back, swirling the wine. ‘Kalltor must have believed he could hold the castle long enough to make it binding. Thirty days of possession would force the Order to legitimize it. A clever move, if it had worked.’

He smiled faintly. ‘Fortunately for us, your Northmen moved faster than he expected.’

Saylong folded his arms. ‘Not entirely. If the North pressed the Horizon Clause, they’d have lawful claim over Keis’s Castle, no matter who originally owned it, unless Hollan Keis forced a treaty from Ramcino. Did that happen?’

Erastus’ thin smile hinted at mischief. ‘Well, if not, you are precisely the man to settle it. Because Allturna is favored to become Lord Paramount tomorrow, and I doubt Allturna will lift a finger to secure the castle for the Keepbloods. They’ll leave it to you.’

‘Allturna?’ Saylong should not have been surprised. ‘No one else dared stand for the position, I suppose.’

Erastus shrugged. Kaedryn chimed in, ‘They want you to represent Haithe.’

Saylong blinked. ‘Me? I wasn’t born here. I can no more represent Haithe than Allturna could.’

Kaedryn offered a shrug. ‘Allturna wasn’t born in Lenne, either. The Order’s been disputing origins for hours. Where you’re from means little if you serve that city’s interest.’

Erastus nodded, a faint grin warming the lines of his face. ‘I’m afraid you have little say; it’s settled. You’ll be Haithe’s envoy, so long as you fulfill that role truly. No one opposed it, not even Sherptarl. But you’ll discover the Order is no gentle council. They’ll test you, dismiss you if you falter. They’ll offer no aid.’

‘Midday tomorrow, in the great hall,’ Erastus continued. ‘Chalm’s disapproval is irrelevant. You’re appointed envoy to Haithe either way.’

For hours more, they spoke of Saylong’s new role, a position of authority he had never fully tasted, yet now found laid at his feet. A future once distant now stood near enough to grasp. His thoughts drifted to Deyra and Gurrlan, praying that Tvaris had spared them in the battle for Keis. Erastus had little news on the dead, only that Kalltor and Volnaire remained unaccounted for. Three Razebreakers had clashed with Lewisear’s Halicerns, with ships lost on both sides. The Varkellon and Mor ò Thail were likewise missing, most likely slipped back to Ralpo-Alm.

Lewisear and the Armekalian fleet would not risk rousing the Eastern Union. Thus, Kalltor, as far as Erastus was concerned, had become an Eastern matter.

They spoke until the lamps burned low, their voices falling into silence as weariness took hold. In the quiet hours before dawn, Saylong and Kaedryn returned to the city. The walk was long and wordless, their minds steeped in the weight of what had changed. The streets of Haithe were still, the city unaware of what had passed within its walls.

By mid-morning, Kaedryn had risen early and gone out, returning with bread and salted meats, already set on the table when Saylong stirred. They ate in thoughtful quiet, the corners of his mouth still heavy from the night before. Kaedryn was the first to speak. ‘What will you do now, as Haithe’s envoy?’

Saylong gave a quiet shrug. ‘Tell Ramcino to sign a treaty with the Keepbloods. That will be the first.’

‘You’re a Seeker. Other than Brigetta, there’s no one else in the Order who carries the Light. It’s always the same voices deciding everything. They’ve never made room for people like us. But if you stay... maybe that changes. Maybe the North finally counts for something.’

Saylong glanced up, one brow lifting. ‘And how do you know that?’

‘I listen,’ Kaedryn replied simply.

That earned him a faint smile, one of the rare ones. The conversation turned then, naturally, to the gifted. Saylong spoke of Deyra, how she had lived most of her life unaware of the Light within her. Many in the North never knew, not truly, not unless the gift forced itself to the surface. In the South, it was different. The further one traveled from the frozen coastlines, the more frequent the signs became. Something in the land, perhaps. Or the air. Or what came before.

Saylong leaned back, hands curled around his cup, voice quieter now. ‘It all began with the Essence. The lifeforce left behind by every living thing—plant, beast, person. When they pass, what remains returns to the world, unseen. Over time, it gathered, thickened, and grew. The East calls it a balance. We call it a rupture.’

He explained the split, that moment when the Essence had divided, giving rise to Tvaris, the Counter-Essence. A division without will or meaning, only force. In the East, they revered the Essence as wholeness. In the West, Tvaris was purpose. The Light was not given, but earned. Not a blessing, but a calling.

‘Tvaris doesn’t choose,’ Saylong said. ‘The gift isn’t passed like a torch from hand to hand. It flares up, random and unexpected. A spark released when something old dies, and something new can carry it forward. Where that spark lands... no one knows. Some say it follows the lifepath of the thing that carried it. An animal’s instincts, a person’s strength, the will of a tree that grew through stone.’

He looked to Kaedryn. ‘In your case, maybe bats, owls. Carried into you, fused with your own lifeblood. Made usable.’

Kaedryn’s eyes were wide now, alert with something beyond curiosity.

‘Most never know what lies inside them,’ Saylong continued. ‘And most never will. That is the nature of Tvaris. Unpredictable, unchosen. Skilpis taught that the Light is not to be given—it is to be endured. Cultivated. Guided. Not everyone is born with it. And not everyone who is, survives it.’

Kaedryn nodded slowly, his expression unreadable. The room fell quiet again.

Saylong spoke once more, almost to himself. ‘Perhaps now, within the Order, that can change. If we decide policy, if we lead, then we must recognize those gifted with the Light not as anomalies, but as part of this world’s truth.’

He didn’t speak further on it. The subject shifted, gently at first, Saylong steering the conversation toward smaller matters: training, schedules, supply routes. But the ease was gone. He knew Kaedryn had crossed unseen thresholds. The boy’s gift was growing, and with it came knowledge that might no longer be safe.

As midday neared, Erastus sent squires to fetch Saylong for the Order’s proceedings. Kaedryn was once again asked to remain out of sight, as his safety was still a quiet concern. Until Allturna’s intentions were clear, the boy would keep to his training for the Aurenvia Tollitch army, unnoticed.

For the first time, those at the door welcomed Saylong, not with suspicion, but with respect. The guards stood aside without question. He stepped into the chamber as an equal.

Chalm’s chair had been moved. No longer at the head, where the Lord Paramount once sat, it had been shifted down the right side to the place formerly held by Lenne. Allturna now occupied the central position, elevated by vote, the authority undisputed, at least for now.

Saylong took his place without ceremony. The chair felt foreign beneath him, weightless in its suddenness. It had not been offered, only assigned. His by declaration, not desire.

The others arrived in measured succession. Brigetta entered with her usual storm-eyed presence, her glance cutting toward Saylong with something between scepticism and restraint. She did not greet him. Whether her silence was disapproval or quiet respect, he could not yet tell.

Allturna entered last, his robes immaculate, his expression unreadable. He crossed the chamber with deliberate steps and claimed the central seat at the head of the long table.

‘We welcome young Captain Marcius Saylong to the Order,’ he announced, voice echoing cleanly through the hall. ‘A son of Haithe and a bearer of Tvaris’s Light. You are welcome.’

Saylong offered only a nod in return, his face still.

‘We must address the matter of Keis,’ Allturna declared, wasting no time.

Murmurs stirred at once, and Brigetta rose before any could speak. Her hands braced flat on the table, her voice sharp.

‘It is an outrage that the North have been allowed to gain a foothold in my castle,’ she said. ‘My brother had no right to bring them in.’

Saylong stared at her, stunned. There was no trace of gratitude, no relief. Only accusation. Did she not see what had been reclaimed? Her father could return, her brother would one day rule, and still she called it betrayal.

‘We could have waited,’ Brigetta snapped. ‘Just a few more days. With Chalm gone, we had the time to gather our strength and strike on our own terms. We didn’t need to acknowledge some pact forged between a coward and a pirate.’

Saylong glanced toward Erastus, seeking clarity, but the old man only offered the faintest shrug.

‘Now I’m to negotiate with Northerners instead,’ Brigetta muttered.

‘Nonsense,’ came the voice of Lady Gray of Jolda, speaking from further down the table. ‘You need do no such thing. Your brother acted in the field, as a commander.’

Allturna’s brow creased, but his tone remained level. ‘Under the laws of Aurenvia Tollitch, where no formal alliance or treaty exists, any army that enters a contested region during wartime holds equal say in its governance.’

Lady Gray narrowed her eyes. ‘You invoke laws that have not been used since the founding of the Order. The North has no more right to Keis than I do. I will not entertain this.’

‘My lady,’ Allturna replied quietly, ‘these laws are the Order. They have simply not been needed until now. If the Keepbloods wish to remain within the Order, the same laws that bind Haithe bind them as well. Am I clear?’

Brigetta’s voice cut through like a blade. ‘One day in the Order and you’ve already lost a castle to the North. You promised us Teloshka. You’ve handed a piece of it away.’

Saylong spoke for the first time, his voice measured. ‘Not lost. Retaken. And not claimed by the North, only held. Ramcino did not enter to conquer. I believe he would sign a formal treaty, returning the castle and lands to the Keepbloods, if approached in good faith.’

Allturna smiled faintly, almost indulgent. ‘And when would you plan to conduct this negotiation, Captain Saylong? Before or after your formal induction? There are rites to perform, declarations to make. The people of Haithe deserve to know who represents them.’

‘And when will you give me the armies to march on Keis?’ Brigetta demanded.

‘In time,’ Allturna answered smoothly. ‘In time.’

The meeting dragged for hours. Brigetta, unsatisfied at every turn, pressed and pushed but received little in return. Saylong said little more, though his mind raced with possibilities. If Ramcino could be made to sign a declaration of alliance, if Keis could be brought back into the Order’s fold without blood, then he might prevent another wave of needless loss.

His thoughts turned to Kaedryn. The boy could ride north in his name, carry the words of Haithe’s new envoy, and offer peace in writing. A place at the table. A formal seat for the North.

It was a dangerous gambit, but perhaps the only one Saylong had left. His thoughts didn’t linger long, but the session did.

What followed was a slow unravelling of tempers and alliances, voices rising, then fraying as the hours wore on. Every envoy had their view, every region its complaint. They resolved nothing. Brigetta had long since stormed from the chamber, her voice still echoing in Saylong’s head. The others pressed on into territory claims, procedural revisions, and whispers of trade disputes, all irrelevant to the matter at hand.

Saylong sat through it all, his body still but his mind adrift.

He doubted Ramcino cared for any claim to Keis’s Castle. Even if offered the deed, the northern warrior would likely hand it back out of pragmatism alone. The land surrounding it, though—Ruesviasie’s River—that might be another matter. The crossing held weight. Wealth. Trade. Tactics. If the North intended to leave a mark, it would be there.

And that’s where Saylong’s mettle would be tested.

His first true act of diplomacy would be convincing Ramcino to relinquish his rightful claim. And he would have to do it soon. Before someone else in the chamber acted first.

It was late in the afternoon before the envoys began to rise, their tempers dulled by exhaustion rather than consensus. Saylong barely felt the numbness in his legs as Allturna called for him to remain behind.

One by one, the envoys of the Order filed out. When the last had gone, Allturna rose and walked slowly behind Saylong’s chair.

‘Well done, saving Chalm’s granddaughter,’ Allturna said quietly. ‘A fine effort. Now, tell me more about the boy who rode with you.’

Saylong frowned. ‘Boy?’

‘Kaedryn Harth.’ Allturna paused, then added, softly—too softly: ‘Does he know what you did, Marcius?’

The name hit like a lash. Saylong stiffened. His eyes met Allturna’s, pleading without words.

‘You can’t tell him anything,’ he said. ‘It would destroy him.’

Allturna let the silence linger. Then smiled.

‘Don’t worry, Marcius. Your secrets are safe with me. And you—’ he paused ‘—would do well to keep them buried.’

Saylong gave a stiff nod, his throat dry.

‘Good,’ Allturna said. ‘I’d like to invite you both to my residence tonight. It’s only fitting. Haithe owes you that much. As does the Order. Congratulations again, Marcius. You’ve earned this.’

Saylong drew a breath. ‘Let me ride north. Let me negotiate with Ramcino, please.’

Allturna’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. ‘We’ll send our own envoy to see it handled properly. You’ll be needed here.’

Something in Saylong cooled. His gaze drifted. The shape of power had changed, and Allturna’s hand now wrapped too tightly around it.

‘Be at the residence after sundown,’ Allturna continued. ‘We’re arranging rooms for you in the Central Quarters. A few more suns and they’ll be ready. See you tonight?’

Saylong only nodded. He left the chamber in silence and returned to the modest captain’s quarters where Kaedryn had waited, restless with anticipation. The boy peppered him with questions, eager to know what the Order had decided.

Saylong gave him little. His answers were short, distracted. When he told Kaedryn they’d been summoned to Allturna’s residence, he ignored the boy’s usual quips. It wasn’t only fear of what Allturna might reveal; it was what Kaedryn might do if he ever discovered the truth. That kind of anger, once stirred, could not be put down. And Saylong could not risk that. Not now. Not at the start of his ascent.

Night came too fast.

They walked together into the Central Quarters and were led without delay to Allturna’s home. This time, there was no fanfare, no officers waiting at the gate, no ceremonial guards. Just servants and soft lamplight. Allturna greeted them alone.

His wife, Merjhan, was absent. When Saylong inquired, the Lord Paramount waved it off with a casual remark and ushered them to the table.

They ate. Servants waited on them silently. Conversation, at first, was light and restrained. Saylong steered it away from Kaedryn’s past whenever he could. But it circled back. It always did. The boy’s gift lingered between words like a shadow neither could avoid. Saylong flinched more than once, praying he hadn’t said too much. To his surprise, Kaedryn downplayed everything, minimising his own abilities, speaking as though he barely understood them.

Allturna asked after Rhodeia’s rescue. He praised them both, called them heroes, promised reward. But then his tone shifted.

He looked at Kaedryn with eyes full of false sorrow.

‘I’m sorry to do this to you, Kaedryn.’

Two guards stepped from the far side of the room. Saylong rose halfway from his seat, eyes wide.

‘What is the meaning of this?’

Allturna raised a hand. ‘Kaedryn will spend tonight in Haithe’s dungeons.’

Kaedryn didn’t rise, though his pulse quickened. The words cut deep, but it wasn’t fear that held him. It was fury. ‘What?’

‘Captain Tollyne will escort you west tomorrow. You’ll join a training cohort in the Gelyan Mountains, young gifted selected for service. You’ll help identify new Lumineers for the Aurenvia Tollitch armies.’

Kaedryn turned to Saylong in disbelief.

Allturna pressed on. ‘This is not a punishment. You are a hero to Haithe. But your actions, spying on nobles in the Central Quarters and gambling, remain unforgiven.’

Kaedryn opened his mouth, but a guard’s hand clamped down on his shoulder.

‘I spoke with Captain Yersmane,’ Allturna continued. ‘He agreed. Gelyan through the winter. When you return, you’ll be ready for a formal rank. A man, not a boy. One night in the prison will remind you of what’s expected.’

Kaedryn didn’t speak. He didn’t have the chance. The guards lifted him from his seat before he could argue, dragging him from the room.

Saylong didn’t move. There was nothing to say, not yet. Not until he could strike where it would matter most.

And Allturna said nothing more.

23

––––––––

Saylong woke to sunlight spilling across the table, streaking through the window and catching the dust that danced in its beams. For a moment, he barely recognized the surrounding room. Although it was his home, it wouldn’t be for long. Soon, they would move him to the Central Quarters, placing him among the nobles and envoys of the Order.

The night before returned to him in a slow tide. Kaedryn. Allturna. The guards.

He exhaled, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Kaedryn.

What game was Allturna playing? There had been no genuine need to detain the boy. Yes, Kaedryn had broken ranks, flouted rules, overstepped the limits of his post in the Aurenvia Tollitch army, yet none could deny the part he played in saving Rhodeia. That alone had earned him more than reprimand. It deserved gratitude. Honor. Recognition he would likely never receive.

Saylong rose slowly. The day ahead would bring no ease.

He had already decided. He would visit Kaedryn in the cells and wish him well before they marched him west to the Gelyan Range. It might be the last time they ever saw one another. The last chance to close the door, quietly, on the truth Kaedryn had once asked about.

The truth he could never give.

What happened in Devantondie would remain buried: the blood, the screams, the broken cries of a family torn apart. Saylong had killed that day, killed two who had stood only to protect their child. A child who now bore no memory of that hour, only questions that had no answer.

Perhaps Kaedryn would never ask again. Perhaps he didn’t need to know.

But a farewell, at the very least, was something Saylong could offer.

Within the hour, Saylong had made his way to the dungeons, and already the guards were addressing him as ‘my lord’—a title he hadn’t yet learned to wear. Guards admitted him without question, escorting him through the lower corridors where the air grew thick with filth. The smell clung to his nostrils: sweat and rot, stale urine pooled along stone gutters, the unmistakable stench of old blood baked into the walls. This was not a place men left whole.

He passed half-lit cells where groans echoed, some near-whispers, others hoarse with madness. When he reached Kaedryn’s cell, the boy sat slumped in the straw, motionless until the footsteps neared.

Kaedryn scrambled up. His hair hung ragged over his face, his tunic stained. His eyes met Saylong’s, desperate.

‘You have to get me out of here,’ he hissed.

‘You’ll address my lord properly, you gutterborn little shat,’ barked the guard beside Saylong, slamming the butt of his spear against the bars.

Saylong raised a hand. The guard fell silent at once, and after a brief pause, unlocked the door. Kaedryn stepped out, breathing hard. He didn’t speak.

‘Come,’ Saylong said, voice softer now. ‘I’ll take you to your new captain. You can wash, change, and be on your way to the Gelyan Range.’

He tried to smile, but it faltered. Some part of him wanted to reach out, to offer a hand to Kaedryn’s shoulder, or some small gesture of reassurance. Instead, he kept his arms at his sides. The weight of the past anchored them there.

They walked in silence, boots echoing off the narrow stone passage. The dungeon door groaned as it opened ahead, spilling the stink of rot and iron into the courtyard beyond. Cool air swept over them. The fainter of the twin moons lingered overhead, barely visible against the blue, like a ghost refusing to leave the night behind.

Kaedryn shielded his eyes and stepped closer.

‘We need to talk.’

Saylong’s pulse kicked. It wasn’t the tone; it was the certainty. He’d known this moment would come. Kaedryn’s questions had lingered too long. Still, it wasn’t the past that came spilling forth.

‘Allturna Vehzar kidnapped Rhodeia,’ the boy mumbled.

Saylong froze mid-stride. He turned slowly, eyes fixed on Kaedryn’s face, scanning it for doubt. There was none.

He didn’t speak, not yet. He took Kaedryn by the shoulder and guided him off the street, his grip firm.

‘Be careful who you speak of,’ he said. His voice was barely more than breath.

‘I saw it,’ Kaedryn insisted. ‘In his residence. Last night.’

Saylong’s gaze swept the square. A boy loitered near a bread stall, watching too closely. The farmer ambled by, gaze downcast, yet his stride didn’t suit his attire. Another leaned against a column with arms crossed, saying nothing. To most, the square looked busy but harmless. To Saylong, it was a trap waiting to close.

‘We can’t talk here. Not now. There’s somewhere safe. Come.’

Kaedryn followed without argument. When they reached the barracks, he frowned.

‘They’ve gotten to you already?’ he muttered, venom in his voice. ‘My lord.’

Saylong said nothing. He led Kaedryn down a corridor the boy had never walked, walls lined with carved stone, doors that did not open for footsoldiers. A guard glanced up, saw Saylong’s face, and stepped aside. The door at the end was thick oak, banded with steel.

Saylong opened it without knocking and ushered Kaedryn inside.

General Aleska rose from his desk at once, surprised. His gaze flicked from Saylong to the scruffy boy behind him.

‘Ah. Saylong. And you’ve brought me a guest.’

Saylong shut the door behind them. He didn’t sit.

‘He has something you need to hear.’

Kaedryn hesitated. His eyes darted to the general, then back to Saylong, uncertain. He didn’t know whom to trust.

Saylong’s voice came again, firmer this time. ‘Now.’

Kaedryn exhaled. He stepped forward, eyes on Aleska.

‘We were at Lord Paramount Vehzar’s residence. There was a desk. He’d left writing tools out. Ink, parchment. I saw it.’

‘Saw what?’ Saylong prompted.

‘The note.’

Saylong’s brow lowered. ‘What note?’

Kaedryn looked at him directly. ‘The one Dharl described. The one sent to Chalm. Rhodeia lives for now. That one. He didn’t just read it—he wrote it.’

Saylong’s eyes widened. Aleska’s expression didn’t change.

‘Maybe Chalm gave it to him to read,’ Saylong offered, too quickly.

‘No, my lord,’ Kaedryn said. ‘That’s not what I meant. It wasn’t the note itself, it was the one beneath it. The parchment below.’

Saylong drew a breath, slow.

Kaedryn hesitated, then pressed on. ‘He’d written it on a fresh sheet... but the page under it took the shape. I... I could hear it. Not the words, exactly, but the... marks. The scratches. Where the quill pressed too hard, where it dragged. It made a shape in the parchment, and I—I saw it.’

He didn’t respond. His gaze held, sharp and unblinking.

Kaedryn exhaled. ‘It wasn’t the note itself. It was the sheet underneath it. The quill left marks, deep enough I could pick them up when I passed his desk. Scratches, grooves. I saw the shape of the letters in my head. They matched Dharl’s words, every one.’

Still, Saylong said nothing. A shadow passed across his expression, but he held it in.

Kaedryn added, firmer now, ‘It came from Allturna’s desk. There’s no doubt. He wrote it.’

Aleska looked at the boy, frowning. ‘And how could you possibly see that?’

Kaedryn didn’t blink. ‘I didn’t see it. I heard it. The scratch marks from the quill pressed into the parchment below. When I passed the desk, the echoes came back sharp. I followed the shape in my head. The words matched what Dharl said. He wrote it. Right there.’

Saylong sat at last, slowly, onto the nearest stool. He dragged a hand across his jaw.

‘There were no birds with the kidnappers,’ Kaedryn continued. ‘No runners. No scribes. They couldn’t have sent anything. It had to come from inside Haithe.’

Saylong looked up. His voice was low. ‘Allturna.’

He stood still, the weight of it anchoring his breath.

‘He played both sides,’ Saylong said. ‘Used the pirates. Orchestrated the kidnapping. Fed Chalm the threats to force his hand... then timed the girl’s return just late enough to shatter what little trust remained.’

Silence followed.

Aleska didn’t speak, arms folded tight across his chest.

Saylong went on, voice steady now. ‘It fits. Every failure stacked just so: the ambush, Dharl’s death, Keis falling. Each one nudging Chalm closer to collapse. And when he did, Allturna was ready to rise. The timing wasn’t lucky. It was planned.’

Aleska stepped toward the window, but stopped short, gaze turned inward.

‘Keis’s Castle?’ he asked. ‘Why risk that? It’s too much to lose.’

Saylong shook his head. ‘He thought Kalltor would hold it longer. Maybe he hoped the North wouldn’t act. Maybe the delay in messages between here and Ralpo-Alm skewed the plan. Either way, he miscalculated. And now, he’s overstepped.’

The shape of it stood now, undeniable. Laid bare.

Saylong’s gaze drifted.

‘You should report to Captain Tollyne,’ he said at last.

Kaedryn stared at him, stunned. The words felt like a dismissal, or worse, a betrayal. He had uncovered treason, and this was the answer?

‘It’s for your safety,’ Saylong added. ‘If you stay, it won’t be long before Allturna finds reason to throw you back in a cell. Is that what you want?’

Kaedryn’s jaw tightened. He looked from Saylong to Aleska.

The general gave a slow nod. ‘As my lord says. Go west. By spring, this will be dust.’

Kaedryn’s expression went cold. Fury simmered behind his eyes, yet he said nothing. He turned and walked out.

Saylong called his name, but the boy didn’t stop.

A long silence followed.

‘I need to get back into Allturna’s residence,’ Saylong said.

Aleska nodded once. ‘Then understand this. One misstep, and you’ll fall alone.’

Saylong didn’t move.

He was already calculating the cost.

Gaining entry to the Central Quarters was no longer an issue for Saylong, but without Kaedryn, breaching Allturna’s residence required subtlety. For over an hour, he lingered near the courtyard wall, studying the gates beneath the slant of mid-morning light. At last, there was movement. A cloaked figure flanked by four guards stepped into the sun. Allturna. They moved together through the archway and vanished toward the high street.

Saylong took the opportunity. He did not scale the garden wall or creep through the grove of trees at the rear. That would have drawn eyes. Instead, he walked openly through the gate, quiet but unhurried, his stride purposeful. Suspicion came more easily to those who crept than to those who acted as though they belonged.

Inside, the house was silent.

He moved fast, crossing the stone floor of the antechamber and passing beneath the carved lintel into Allturna’s study. His eyes were already scanning. Kaedryn had said the message had been written on parchment atop the desk, the same message Chalm had received, threatening Rhodeia’s life. The note itself was long gone. Yet, the indentations, if they were still there, would be enough.

He picked up a stack of parchment and held the topmost to the light. Nothing. He tried the next. Still nothing. The third caught faint on his fingertips, edges uneven, soft creases near the top. His heart pounded harder. It had to be one of these.

On the corner of the desk sat a candleholder, its stem buried in rings of old wax. Saylong reached for it and set it close, the stub of the candle leaning slightly in its brass cup. He struck the flint and lit the wick. Flame flickered to life.

He searched the room. Drawers opened, surfaces checked. He needed something to lift the grooves. In the far corner, near the fireplace, a discarded cork caught his eye. He seized it.

Returning to the desk, he let the wax soften around the flame and, with care, smeared a fine layer across the face of the parchment. He worked slowly, smoothing it flat with the pads of his fingers until the sheet shone dull under the light. Then he held the cork in the flame, let it blacken, and blew it out. The edge smoldered.

With the burnt end, he dusted the wax. Ash spread, thin and dry. At first it blurred—then it began to catch. Tiny rivulets. Shallow impressions. And then, words.

One by one, the message revealed itself.

She is alive. Interfere and she dies.

Just as Kaedryn had said. Just as Dharl had read it.

Saylong stared at the parchment, ash still clinging to the wax. His hand trembled as he set it down.

Behind him, the floor creaked.

Saylong froze. A shadow shifted in the doorway.

‘Marcius?’ came the voice, surprised and steady.

He turned slowly. Merjhan stood at the threshold, framed by soft lamplight, a curl of dark hair falling loose over her shoulder.

‘My lady,’ he stammered. ‘I... I didn’t realize—’

‘That I might be in my own home?’ she said, stepping in. Her gaze dropped to the parchment in his hand. ‘What is that?’

Saylong hesitated. The parchment was still warm from the candle’s heat, soot streaking the wax across the surface.

‘I was only... looking,’ he managed. ‘I believed there might be notes, documents of importance for the Order. My companion noticed something last night. He thought a message, the kind sent to Chalm, may have been written here. I meant no disrespect. I should not have come without leave. Forgive me, my lady.’

She studied him for a moment, her expression unreadable. Then she moved closer, her voice calm, almost sorrowful.

‘You are a good man, Marcius. I see that. And yet what you do now, breaking into your Lord Paramount’s home, stealing documents, this is not service to the Order. It’s sedition. You undermine the very framework that holds us together. Do you not see it?’

Saylong stood firm, his chest was tight. ‘If that framework is built on lies, my lady, then it deserves to fall.’

She shook her head. ‘No. It deserves to be strengthened. Chalm’s failure weakened us all. Allturna gave the Order something it desperately needed—certainty. The West must hold firm now, or it will not hold at all.’

‘And Keis’s Castle?’ Saylong asked, quietly.

‘Keis hoarded gold, withheld grain, demanded title without paying the price of unity. Let them buy back what they lost. Let them learn to fear the North, so that when we call on them, they answer with urgency. That is the balance Allturna brings. That is strength.’

He stepped forward. ‘You knew, then. About the pirates. The kidnapping.’

‘Knew?’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Marcius, you still don’t understand. This isn’t about one girl. Or one castle. This is about the future. A future where the West is no longer ruled by decay and dithering. A future where Tvaris is not merely worshipped, but upheld. There is no other path.’

‘There is,’ Saylong replied. ‘The North. It’s already begun.’

She gave a soft, almost indulgent smile. ‘You dream too easily.’

He didn’t move.

‘Give me the parchment,’ she said.

He hesitated.

‘Do I need to call the guard?’

He held her gaze a moment longer, feeling the weight of failure settle in. Slowly, he handed it over.

She took it without ceremony. Tore it in two. Then again. She crossed to the fireplace, scattered the blackened fragments into the cold ash, and dusted her hands clean.

‘Good,’ she breathed. ‘Now leave. And be what you were meant to be. A voice at the table. Not a prisoner beneath it.’

‘Yes, my lady.’

Saylong turned and walked out.

He didn’t run. Didn’t look back.

Only once outside did Saylong feel the tremor in his breath.

He was still free, for now. The proof was gone. Destroyed. And with it, any hope of justice for those who had died needlessly for this cause. For Dharl.

And whatever fire still smouldered beneath the Order, it would not wait much longer to burn.

His pulse quickened. Thoughts reeled with the weight of what he’d just lost. He moved from Allturna’s residence in a daze, too consumed by the confrontation to notice the four figures moving down the street ahead of him. Their purposeful walk took them past him, yet one came close enough to speak.

‘Follow us,’ came the low command, barely louder than breath.

Then they moved on.

Saylong halted. The four figures moved with silent intent, their backs already turned. One had spoken, just enough to unsettle, not threaten. If they meant to kill him, they wouldn’t have asked.

He cast a glance behind, then stepped forward, boots clicking softly against the cobbles as he trailed after them.

They led him through one street, then another, slipping between market lanes now half-shadowed by the rising sun. He quickened his pace. Within moments, they were gone. His eyes flicked left and right.

Then, from the corner of his vision, light flared in brilliant white, sharp, cutting through the shadows. It bloomed like a flare, brighter than the sun itself, searing across his eyes with a force that made him flinch, momentarily blind.

Then the scratch of hessian, rough and stale, dropped over his face. He inhaled the bitter stench of old grain as hands clamped down on his arms. He jerked. Another blow struck low into his ribs, sharp enough to drive the breath from him.

They dragged him fast, boots skidding on stone. The warmth of morning vanished into shadow. The scent shifted, thick with damp stone, dust, and wheat husk. Somewhere below a house or beside one. An old store, maybe.

One of them was gifted. He could feel it. The flash hadn’t come from steel or flame; it had weight behind it, a ripple through the air like a current under water. A Light-born talent, practiced and sharp.

He didn’t speak. There was no point.

He hit the floor hard, rolled once, and lay still.

The sack slipped free a moment later.

The room was narrow, stone-lined, its only light creeping in from a jagged crack in the wall. Dust motes hovered in the air. Wooden slats above suggested a lofted granary once used to store wheat or barley. A man slipped from view, closing the door behind him with a careful latch.

Saylong sat in the dark, chest rising. Waiting.

Whatever this was, it wasn’t random.

​

24

Keis’s Castle lay draped in mist, its upper towers veiled in the low haze of late afternoon. The outer courtyards still bore the scent of ash and lye, but within the walls, life had returned. Villagers came in waves, welcomed by Keisguard, some still wrapped in soot, others carrying the torn remnants of what they could salvage. Ramcino stood atop the inner walkway, watching the line of returners wind along the ridge.

A Keisguard brought him the sealed parchment.

‘It came by bird, my lord. The seal’s from the Order.’

Ramcino turned it over. The wax bore the unmistakable mark of Aurenvia Tollitch.

Deyra stepped beside him.

‘How is that boar of yours?’ he asked, fingers still at the edge of the seal.

She tried a smile. ‘Gurrlan hobbles about, pretending he’s lame. He hates the stables. I think he’s sulking.’

Ramcino nodded absently, then broke the wax.

His eyes scanned the message. He read it once. Then again. His expression hardened.

Deyra tilted her head. ‘What is it?’

‘Let’s go see Gurrlan,’ he said.

They crossed the inner ward without another word. Deyra kept pace, her thoughts racing. If it was news from Saylong, why not speak aloud? If it was from the Order... Her jaw tightened.

Inside the stables, Gurrlan perked up at once, letting out a delighted grunt and thumping his uninjured side against the door. Deyra opened it and pushed him back with both hands.

Ramcino followed her in.

She crouched to scratch behind the boar’s ear. He licked her shoulder and let out a snort. Ramcino waited until she rose, then handed her the parchment without speaking.

She read it. Her face shifted with every line. When she finished, she stared down at the crumpled seal in her palm.

‘They’re offering us Keis’s Castle,’ she said. Her voice was flat. ‘They’re offering to recognize our claim.’

Ramcino nodded.

‘This is a trap,’ she whispered.

‘It’s a legal precedent,’ he said. ‘According to laws predating the modern Order, if a territory is left without a blood claim and defended by a foreign force, those who hold it may challenge for deed and dominion. And we hold it.’

‘So we press our claim, and what then? The Keepbloods declare war?’

He didn’t answer.

She took a step toward him. ‘Ramcino. If we take this, we stand against the Keepbloods. If we don’t, we’re denied entry into the Order. It’s a poisoned deal either way.’

‘Exactly.’

‘Then we walk away. Sign no claim. March north with peace still intact.’

‘You’re young, Deyra,’ he said, quietly. ‘You don’t remember what was taken. Ruesviasie’s River. The oathstones. The southern fields. You don’t remember the blood price our fathers paid just to be heard. That parchment, if we sign it, forces the Order to acknowledge our challenge to Ruesviasie. The River belongs to the people of Madita, Scharr and the north. They’ll never grant that if we join with quiet hands.’

‘And you think they’ll grant it when we’re at war with our only ally?’

‘They don’t want us inside the Order. Not truly. They want us to bleed the Keepbloods, and fall before spring. Then they’ll sweep in, clean the carcass, and call it diplomacy.’

Deyra said nothing.

Ramcino folded the parchment once more.

‘We don’t have long. Hollan will have the same offer. And he’s no fool.’

Saylong shifted against the cold stone wall, spine aching, neck stiff. The fading light had all but vanished from the storeroom’s high crack, leaving only dusk and dust. He had no sense of the hour, only that it had been long. Too long.

The latch clicked.

He sat up straighter. Footsteps padded softly. A tall figure entered, silhouetted in the doorframe.

‘Marcius, my lord—quiet now,’ came the low voice.

Saylong blinked. ‘Mortas?’

The man stepped inside and shut the door behind him. A breath escaped him, part sigh, part exhaustion.

‘You’re lucky I reached you first,’ Mortas muttered. ‘When Allturna finds out you were in his residence, no quiet word will save you. He’s more dangerous than you realize. We’re all balancing on the edge with him now. You don’t want to be the one who slips.’

Saylong’s throat burned as he rasped, ‘Why did you do it?’

Mortas didn’t answer at first. He moved to the far wall and sat beside Saylong, back to the stone, his face half-lit by the grainy twilight.

‘I thought I was serving the Order,’ he said at last. ‘I thought I was helping him stop Chalm before the Order fell apart altogether. I was wrong.’

Saylong’s jaw tightened. ‘You set up Sartise. You cut deals with pirates. You put Rhodeia’s life in the hands of men who burn cities for coin.’

Mortas’s gaze dropped. There was no anger in it, only weariness.

‘Chalm forced me to send my son,’ Mortas said, voice low. ‘He knew I had mishandled it, sending Sartise without cause, based on nothing but Allturna’s whispers. So he punished me. Ordered my son to sea, to find a man I knew was already lost.’

Saylong’s eyes narrowed, watching him.

‘Sartise had been taken,’ Mortas continued. ‘Captured during the crossing. Kalltor used him to breach the castle gates, then cast him out, sent him to Hayn like a message in blood. A few days ago, they found him. Just north of town. Dead.’

He paused. His voice cracked slightly.

‘By blade. Not by force. They say it was self-inflicted. He received word that someone had murdered his wife and children in Armekalia. Kalltor had waited—waited to break him with the worst of it, once he was free. That’s the man I helped rise. That’s the plan I thought would save us.’

‘Who else knew?’ Saylong asked. ‘Erastus? Lady Gray?’

‘No. Neither. The others just backed the vote. Allturna needed support to unseat Chalm. I gave it. Chalm’s hold was slipping, and I thought we needed someone with vision. Allturna had that—at first.’

‘And the Horizon Clause?’

Mortas frowned. ‘That... I didn’t know about. I only realized the scope of it after Keis fell. At first, I thought it was political leverage, to rattle Brigetta, get the Keepbloods to squirm. But there was something else. So I sent men to Lenne. Quiet ones. I needed to know who Allturna really was.’

Saylong turned toward him, confused. ‘What do you mean—know?’

Mortas exhaled through his nose. ‘He was born in Orynbeck. His parents ran a gold mine up the Ruesviasie’s tributaries. Built it from nothing. Gold enough to feed the town. But the mine strayed just beyond their boundary, into Keis land. The Keepbloods took it. Claimed it as their own. No warning. No compensation. Orynbeck couldn’t stop them.’

He paused.

‘The family was ruined. The mine, the yield, their home were stripped away, every part of it taken. No recourse, no hearing. Just silence. They begged for help, and none came. They sold what little they had, but it was never enough. Hunger settled in like rot.’

Saylong said nothing. He already knew where this led.

‘The father tried to hold them together,’ Mortas said. ‘But in the end, there wasn’t even enough for the journey back to Orynbeck. No way forward. No way home. One night, he made a choice. Took a blade to his wife while she slept. Then turned it on himself.’

‘Allturna was eight. They found him the next morning, crouched in his parents’ blood, clothes stiff with dried gore. He didn’t speak. Someone took him in, briefly. By month’s end, he had been sent to Lenne with a new family. Far enough that no one would remember the name. Far enough they thought he might forget.’

He looked sideways at Saylong, eyes hollow.

‘He remembers,’ Mortas said. ‘Every bit. He grew with that fire. And now he means to end the Keepbloods, whether by ruin, exile, or submission. He sees Keis’s Castle not as a seat of power but as a symbol. They took everything from him. Now he’s taking it back.’

Saylong clenched his hands. ‘So this is revenge. Not vision. Not order.’

‘No. But in his mind, they’re the same.’

‘You can’t justify what he’s done,’ Saylong snapped. ‘Letting pirates take a stronghold, risking the life of a child, setting the West on fire to settle an old debt?’

Mortas stared ahead. ‘I’m not trying to justify it. I’m telling you what he believes. He thinks this is how you break a failing system. Keis hadn’t paid dues in years. Their forces were a shadow. He knew Chalm would falter. Allturna didn’t wait for the moment to come; he made it. And now we live with the aftermath.’

Saylong was quiet.

The room was still, save for the echo of distant boots on stone above.

Mortas added, ‘You can expose him. You can bring the truth to light. But if you do, make sure it’s worth the cost.’

‘The parchment.’ Saylong said. ‘It’s in the fireplace, if you get to Allturna’s before they light the fire, you might be able to recover them.’

Mortas agreed. ‘You get to Brigetta Keis at once, I have sent some Armekalia guard to intercept the ledger showing Allturna’s background. They will meet you at Brigetta’s. Let her deal with it. Do not take the fall for her. Do not involve the Haithe guard, you do not want Haithe getting involved. We need Lenne as much as we need the Keepbloods.’

Ramcino stood at the edge of the courtyard, watching the formation gather like a slow storm. Keisguard, nearly fifty of them, arrayed in full kit, helmets low, shields braced, blades drawn. This wasn’t ceremony. It was challenge.

Across from them, the northerners had formed what they could. It wasn’t much, just half-armored men, boots still caked from the march, shields borrowed or dented. They stood shoulder to shoulder, the beginnings of a phalanx, not to charge but to hold. They’d come to Keis as allies. Now, they stood like intruders.

Ramcino stepped forward with Deyra close at his heel. Gurrlan remained in the stables, still limping but on the mend. She’d promised she would come back for him, though now she wasn’t certain she’d be able to keep that vow.

‘Ramcino!’ Hollan’s voice cut across the courtyard. ‘You marched with us, bled beside us—and now you send word that this castle should be yours? Was that always your aim?’

Ramcino lifted a hand, ordering his men to lower their weapons. ‘We bare no teeth, my lord. We’ve come for truth, not blood.’

Hollan scowled. ‘You claimed right to the castle. You played the law in shadows. My father was right never to trust the North.’

The words stung, but Ramcino said nothing. He turned instead to his warriors, the ones who had crossed rivers, climbed walls, and held the western gate when it burned. They were outnumbered, far from home, but they stood unshaken.

He turned back to Hollan.

‘The law gives us right, perhaps. But law alone does not earn loyalty. We will not press a claim that brings war. Keep your castle. Keep your title. The North withdraws.’

‘And you abandon your claim?’ Hollan asked, incredulous. ‘You’ll walk away?’

Ramcino nodded once. ‘Aye. Not for fear. Not for shame. But because peace is worth more than parchment. We march for unity, not conquest.’

Behind him, the northerners lowered their spears. Tension released like a held breath.

Deyra stepped closer. ‘You’re letting them throw us aside? After everything?’

‘Let them,’ Ramcino murmured. ‘We came to join the Order, not to be broken by it. If they cannot see the North’s worth, then we do not belong here.’

He turned to his men. ‘Ready the march. We go home. With heads high.’

Deyra lingered only a moment before turning back to the stables. Gurrlan limped to meet her, tail wagging, nose wet. She opened the door to let him out, but a voice stopped her.

‘Where’s the lady going with our dinner?’ one man asked, stepping from the shadows. Another followed, drawing steel.

‘Which one’s dinner, though?’ the second sneered.

Deyra’s hand flew to her hilt. The first man stepped forward, raising his sword in a lazy arc meant to threaten more than kill.

Gurrlan didn’t flinch.

He lurched into motion, dragging his bad leg, weight surging forward. The blade came down. Gurrlan didn’t stop. He crashed into the first man’s side, the strike glancing off thick hide with a spark and a grunt. Before the man could recover, Gurrlan drove past him, straight into the second attacker.

A tusk slammed into the man’s shin with a wet crack.

He howled and dropped, thigh folding beneath him as his leg gave out. Gurrlan planted a hoof against the man’s chest, pressing him into the dirt. A faint shimmer leaked from the boar’s mouth, thin and trembling like heat off stone. It streamed straight into the man’s face.

He gagged. Coughed. His arms flailed once, then seized against his own throat. Veins rose along his temples. His mouth stretched wide in a silent scream as his eyes rolled back.

The fallen man writhed, coughing violently, his body twisting in the dirt. Deyra rushed forward, meeting the first man’s blade with her own. She parried hard, twisted, and drove a boot into his stomach, forcing him back. Behind her, the second man gasped and clawed at his throat, his face pale with panic, his legs kicking helplessly. The sight of it broke the first man’s nerve. He turned and fled.

Gurrlan backed away, panting, foam clinging to his snout. The man on the ground gasped for air, eyes wide with terror.

Deyra grabbed Gurrlan’s harness. ‘Come on. We’re done here.’

She led him back to the gate, breath catching in her throat. The courtyard was nearly empty now. Northerners marched westward in staggered lines, packs shouldered, shields slung. No fanfare. No farewell.

Keisguard lined the battlements above, watching without a word.

Ramcino walked at the head of the retreating line, eyes fixed on the horizon. Deyra and Gurrlan caught up beside him.

‘We’ve lost nothing,’ Ramcino said quietly. ‘We’ve gained knowledge. We know what kind of peace they offer. We know what we must build instead.’

‘Alone?’ Deyra asked.

He glanced sideways. ‘Together. For the first time. The North has unity. We need nothing more.’

Gurrlan grunted in agreement, limping forward beside them. Behind, the gate of Keis’s Castle closed with a hollow groan.

Let them keep their towers and titles.

The North would build something stronger.

Mortas watched the sun droop lower over the Central Quarters as he made his way toward Allturna’s residence. The warmth of the day clung stubbornly to the stone, but dusk was on its way. He came alone. Saylong had been sent to Brigetta’s quarters with warning of what was to come. Mortas’s personal guard, meanwhile, were en route to intercept his informants returning from Lenne, carrying with them the ledgers that traced Allturna’s past. Pages of truth. Enough, perhaps, to bring him down.

He still cursed himself for falling into the man’s thrall. Allturna had moved with confidence, spoken with clarity, carried conviction like a blade. Mortas had believed it. Believed him. And by the time he saw the truth, it was already too late.

Saylong had already missed today’s Order session. Mortas had locked him in the grain store to keep him from making a reckless move, not as punishment but as protection.

The residence stood quiet. No chimney smoke. At least that much was in his favor. The warm weather had bought him a sliver of time. He knew Allturna’s routine well enough. At this hour, he would be seated for supplication, hearing appeals, weighing grievances, posturing before the Order’s hopeful. Mortas slipped through the outer gate and entered.

He had been inside this house more times than he could count. The layout was etched into him by habit, not affection. The study hadn’t changed. It was still as he remembered it, untouched and too familiar. A servant knelt at the hearth, flint in hand, coaxing spark into kindling. Mortas crossed the room in three strides and struck. The man reeled back with a cry as his head cracked against the hearthstone. He groaned, dazed, one hand clawing at the flagstones.

The straw caught.

Mortas dropped to his knees, ignoring the rising heat. His hands plunged into the hearth, yanking out kindling, scattering it across the floor. He needed the parchment whole, unburnt. His fingers found one scrap. Then another. The edges curled, smoldering. He blew hard, ash stinging his eyes.

The flames popped. One licked his sleeve, and he slapped it out, teeth gritted, then yanked another sheet free, dark with soot. There was no way to know if it was the full message. No time to find out. It would have to do.

The fire hissed, climbing fast. Mortas stepped back from the hearth, chest tight with smoke. To his left, the servant groaned again. He was half-curled against the stonework, blood trickling from a gash near the temple, eyes fluttering open. Mortas looked down. The servant’s gaze met his, clouded and dazed, but not blind. Recognition flickered.

He clenched his fists. One blow. That’s all it would take. The man had seen his face. If he lived, the tale would spread. Theft. Treason. A name forever blackened.

Mortas stared a moment longer.

Then he turned from the servant, tucked the scorched parchments beneath his cloak, and strode for the door. He slipped through the study, crossed the antechamber, and stepped into the cooling dusk. Light stretched long across the courtyard, casting the cobbles in fire-gold. At the gate, his breath slowed. One step more, and he was free. He passed through and turned toward Brigetta’s estate.

Then, just as his foot touched the street, he froze. Allturna was coming down the lane, arm in arm with Merjhan, flanked by six guards in dark mail. Mortas stiffened. He glanced back, but the courtyard lay open behind him, exposed and empty. There was nowhere to run.

Allturna’s smile faltered the instant he saw Mortas at the gate. His arm shot out, barking orders already on his lips.

‘Stop him!’

Mortas turned and bolted, boots hammering the stone as he fled into the street. He felt his age at once, every step a labor, every breath pulled from a body no longer made for flight. The street blurred ahead, but the sound behind him sharpened: boots pounding, armor clanking, blades rasping free of scabbards. He didn’t look back.

A thud split the air.

Something struck his legs, ropes weighted for capture. The bolas snapped around his calves, fast and cruel. His knees gave out. He hit the ground hard, cheek to stone, air ripped from his lungs. The parchment slipped free, fluttered ahead in the rising breeze.

He reached for it.

A boot slammed into his back, pinning him. Another crashed into his arm. Steel drove into his shoulder, clean and deep. Pain surged, hot and electric. He gasped, hands trembling as they clawed at nothing.

The parchment tumbled further, just beyond reach.

He strained to see. Through blurring vision, lean figures moved, quick, slight, and sure-footed. Barefoot boys, no older than thirteen, slipped through shadow like smoke. One darted from the alley, another from the edge of the square. A hand reached down, scooped the parchment, and vanished into the dusk without a sound.

He smiled, just barely. They had it.

Another shove forced him down. Blood warmed the stone beneath him. The sounds of the street dimmed. He closed his eyes, not in peace, but with resolve.

It was done.

25

––––––––

Saylong stood in the antechamber of Brigetta Keis’s residence, where the stone walls caught the fading light in bands of rust and fire. Outside, the sun had slid beneath the towers of the Central Quarters, but inside, it was Brigetta who burned.

She was pacing, her voice sharp. ‘I’ll gut him myself, and take that smirched cow of a wife with him.’

Saylong stepped forward. ‘If you raise a blade now, and you’re seen, it won’t matter what proof we carry. Keis will be blamed. You’ll be charged with treason.’

She rounded on him, fury rising. ‘You think the Keepbloods need the Order? You’re mistaken. Keis holds more gold than all of Aurenvia Tollitch combined. If we withdraw, the Order fractures. The south will bleed.’

Saylong exhaled slowly. She wasn’t thinking of strategy, only fury. She saw the Order not as something to reform, but as a fire to be extinguished.

‘Mortas is bringing the ledger. The parchment. Everything. We hold all of it if we wait. Just a few moments longer.’

Her eyes flared. ‘You would wait while our name is dragged through ash? While a man like that sits the highest seat?’ Her voice dropped colder now. ‘Then you are not the man I thought you were.’

She pivoted. Servants scattered. One held out her breastplate, and Brigetta stepped into it with practiced ease. She stretched her arms once as buckles tightened, then reached for her sword and belt. Saylong tried once more.

‘Let diplomacy win this. I beg you.’

She ignored him, sheathing the blade with a hiss and brushing past.

Outside, the guard station sat built into the adjoining wall, a narrow outbuilding where the envoy’s detachment of Keisguard quartered during their stay. Two door guards had already fallen in behind her, armor catching the last of the light. She pounded once on the barracks door without breaking stride. She didn’t wait. She knew the rest would follow.

Saylong remained in the residence for a breath, then turned to the nearest servant.

‘A sword. Please.’

The servant blinked, then pointed toward a tall cupboard along the far wall. Saylong yanked it open, found three blades hanging in leather loops, and took the lightest. Its hilt was wrapped in worn hide, the crossguard plain and dulled by use. He didn’t pause. With his weapon clenched, he ran, charging through the doorway and into the street, the stone hard beneath his stride.

He caught sight of the last of the Keisguard as they disappeared beneath the southern archway, boots striking cobble, blades already drawn. He ran after them, boots skimming the edge of shadow and firelight as the sun dipped lower between the towers.

The alleyways twisted tighter with every turn, stone pressed close on either side, damp with age, still warm from the sun. Ahead, the street echoed with steel against stone, voices raised in panic. Saylong reached the mouth just as the Keisguard fanned out behind Brigetta.

The alley spat them out into chaos.

Saylong barely slowed as he rounded the corner. Ahead, the street opened wide, or what should have been wide. It felt compressed now, thick with dust, panic, and the reek of something acrid. Doors slammed. A child screamed. A noblewoman vanished through a bronze-stamped arch with a servant on her heels. Merchants scattered.

Then he saw the body.

Mortas lay collapsed near the center of the street, just beyond the gates to Allturna’s residence. Blood darkened the cobbles beneath him. One leg was twisted awkwardly beneath the other. A thin trail of red stretched from the wound in his shoulder, where the blade had gone in. No twitch. No breath. No motion.

Near the threshold of the residence stood Allturna, sword half-drawn, body turned toward the aftermath. Merjhan clung to him, face buried in his chest, fingers clenched white in his cloak. The Lord Paramount’s guards, six of them, stood closer to the body, arrayed in a broken crescent, watching as Mortas lay, unbreathing.

‘Allturna!’

Brigetta’s voice cracked like steel from behind. He turned too late.

Merjhan shrieked. Allturna shoved her aside, drawing his sword in a single motion.

Brigetta closed the distance with fury behind every step. Her blade rose, then fell. Allturna caught it edge-on, sparks bursting as steel kissed steel. The shock staggered him, but he recovered fast. Faster than she expected.

He struck. She parried. Again. Then again.

But Brigetta was not just steel. Her gift flared.

Allturna jerked mid-swing, his shoulder spasming as if touched by flame. He winced, gritted his teeth, forced the next blow, but it was weaker. Slower. Brigetta pressed, her sword a white flash through the rising dusk.

Behind them, the courtyard erupted as Keisguard and Lord Paramount’s guards clashed in a brutal circle, steel colliding with steel. It wasn’t a pitched battle, but it was bloody. Two of Allturna’s men fell almost immediately, caught off-balance. The others fought on, blades flashing, pushed hard by veterans who had seen proper war.

Saylong reached the edge of the fray, heart pounding. He didn’t draw; he was too far to reach her in time.

Brigetta pressed forward, each strike more vicious than the last. Allturna blocked, his teeth bared, his footing slipping with every step. He tried to swing back, too slow. She caught the inside of his guard, twisted low, and drove him backward with a cry of fury. He stumbled, and she lifted her hand.

Not a blow.

A blaze of thought.

His body seized. He clutched his ribs, breath caught in his throat. Brigetta’s gift ripped through him like fire, a pain that had no source but burned all the same. His sword dipped. His stance faltered.

He dropped to one knee.

And still he raised the blade.

Saylong saw it then.

Merjhan’s hand slid low. She drew a dagger from the inside of her boot. No hesitation. She moved around Brigetta’s blind side, quiet, composed.

Saylong ran.

He pulled the sword from his belt and hurled it across the stones. The clatter caught Brigetta’s ear—just enough to turn her head.

Merjhan lunged.

Brigetta turned into the motion and drove her sword through Merjhan’s chest. The steel punched deep. Merjhan’s mouth opened, but no sound came. She collapsed at once, the blade still lodged.

But Allturna was already moving.

His sword slashed low. It bit into Brigetta’s thigh. She cried out and crumpled beside Merjhan’s body, blood blooming across the front of her leg.

Allturna stepped forward, eyes full of fury, blade ready to end it.

Saylong didn’t hesitate.

He lunged for the sword he’d hurled, scooped it up in one fluid motion, and rose between them.

Allturna’s swing faltered. Their eyes met, locked in a split-second standoff. Breath caught in their throats. Around them, the clash of blades dragged on, but here at the center, time narrowed to two figures and a single decision.

Brigetta was down, teeth bared in a silent snarl, one hand pressed to her thigh. Blood leaked fast between her fingers. She was trying to rise, but she wasn’t getting back up.

Saylong shifted his stance. Blade raised. Balance held.

More of the Lord Paramount’s guard thundered from the residence. The line was collapsing. Keisguard were pressed to the edge, outnumbered and nearly overwhelmed. Saylong heard the shift of the fight, the scraping retreat, the slip of boots against stone. They were being pushed toward him.

Allturna stepped forward, testing Saylong’s guard. His mouth curled, not in triumph but in calculation. He saw it in his eyes, the fatigue, the slip of Saylong’s knuckles on the hilt.

He raised his sword—

A sharp hiss split the air.

The crossbow bolt tore past Saylong’s hip and slammed into Allturna’s leg with a sickening crunch.

He crumpled, snarling, the blade clattering from his hand. The shaft had pierced clean through the lower thigh. He grabbed for it, blood pouring hot through his fingers.

Saylong held still. The sound of boots striking stone in measured rhythm reached him first, the pace exact and unhurried. A formation was approaching, each step heavy with purpose. Saylong kept his gaze ahead. Whether it was his life or Allturna’s that would end here, it would be decided now.

The Keisguard pulled back. The Lord Paramount’s men faltered, blades half-lowered, their stance breaking under the weight of uncertainty. At the front of the advancing column, a mounted figure charged forward, banner streaming green and silver behind like a wound in the dusk.

The square fell to silence.

Sixty soldiers, maybe more, fanned out into formation. Shields locked. Swords at the ready. Their helms gleamed in the half-light. Order imposed itself in steel.

The rider came to a halt in the center. Aleska. General of the Haitheguard. Dressed in full command regalia, sword sheathed, gaze sharp.

‘This fight ends now,’ he called. His voice didn’t shout. It didn’t need to.

The Haitheguard moved like clockwork. Two broke toward Allturna. Two toward Saylong. Weapons were taken. Hands clasped. No resistance.

‘This is treason!’ Allturna roared. Blood streamed down his leg. He gestured to Saylong, to Brigetta. ‘You’ll hang for this, both of you!’

No one answered him.

The remaining guards tended to the wounded. The guards eased Brigetta against the stone, binding her thigh in linen. They forced Allturna to sit. A tourniquet wrapped tight. No ceremony.

Saylong stood before Aleska, unarmed.

‘Look at this,’ Aleska muttered. ‘Blood on the stones. In the capital’s heart. What in the name of Tvaris has this Order become?’

Saylong didn’t speak.

Aleska leaned slightly forward in the saddle. ‘You’ll all be seen to. The Lord Paramount. The Lady of Keis. And you, Saylong, by Haithe’s word now Lord of Haithe, you’ll walk into that chamber under guard. And you’ll see this through.’

A beat.

‘No one else dies in the street. Not today.’

Saylong was the first to be led away. His wounds were minor, no blade through muscle, no arrow to dig out. Haithe Guard took him from the square and locked him in a barracks officer’s quarters. The door shut. The bolt slid into place. Saylong was alone. He was given water, nothing more. No visitors. No questions.

Through the wall, he heard the others. Brigetta cursing, loud enough to rattle the boards. Allturna’s voice rising and falling in sharp bursts, threatening justice and revenge, until even that wore down to muttering.

Time passed. The sun rose and food came. Saylong ate in silence, staring at the far wall as the hours unspooled. He hadn’t seen Aleska. Not yet. But he knew the General’s hand was on the wheel now.

By midday, the doors opened.

Saylong stepped into the corridor as Haithe guards brought Brigetta and Allturna from their rooms. Both were walking, barely. Brigetta batted away the aide trying to steady her. White cloth, thick with blood, wrapped her leg. Allturna leaned hard against one guard, his jaw set, his thigh bound with a tourniquet. Neither spoke.

Guards marched them out into the noon glare and up the wide steps of the Great Hall.

No guards waited at the doors. They were already inside. Lined shoulder to shoulder, helms polished, pikes braced to the stone. Every corner of the chamber bore their presence. No one would flee this meeting. No one would raise a blade unnoticed.

The hall itself was colder than Saylong remembered. No voices. No muttering. Just the creak of boots on stone and the faint hiss of torchlight.

They entered as three, Saylong, Brigetta, Allturna, and were shown to their places without word or gesture. Mortas’s chair stood empty, its high back left bare. Not draped. Not removed. Just... absent.

Allturna was guided to the head. Brigetta limped to her seat, waving off help. Saylong followed, sitting beneath the banner of Haithe. Every gaze brushed across him.

Behind the high table stood Aleska. He wore full dress uniform, polished scale, draped cloak, sword sheathed at his hip. His face betrayed nothing.

He raised one hand. ‘By the statutes of Aurenvia Tollitch, when quorum is breached by blood and leadership fails to prevent collapse, the General of Haithe may assume temporary oversight of the Order.’ His voice echoed clean through the chamber. ‘That day has come.’

No one replied.

‘We begin in silence.’

The Order stood.

Saylong rose. Brigetta gritted her teeth but followed. Allturna stood, hands clenched at his sides.

They stood not for custom. Not for the law.

They stood for Mortas Lexx.

Only when the silence had settled did Aleska lower his hand. They sat.

He did not.

‘Until this body can decide its leadership and repair its charter, the Guard of Haithe will oversee this assembly. If no consensus is reached, if this chamber cannot reconcile its own betrayal, then the law grants this authority the right to disband the Order. Seats will be reassigned. New delegates will be chosen by region. Until then, this hall remains under martial supervision. Speak freely. But do not mistake freedom for impunity.’

His gaze passed over every face.

‘This is not a coup. This is the last thread holding the Order together.’

The silence that followed was heavy and real. The chamber, once built for unity, now felt like a blade held over its own throat.

He gave a nod.

‘Erastus of Talill. You may speak first.’

Erastus rose, scrolls in hand. His robes bore the dust of travel and ink at the sleeves. He moved with the calm of a man who had waited years to say what came next.

‘I will be brief,’ he said. ‘Because the facts require no poetry.’

He laid one scroll flat on the table and unrolled it with care.

‘This parchment was recovered from the residence of the Lord Paramount by the late Mortas Lexx, with aid from Saylong of Haithe. It is a partial transcription of the message sent to Svedmyra Chalm of Haithe, then incumbent Lord Paramount, warning him against any attempt to retrieve Rhodeia Ellorne from captivity.’

He turned the parchment so all could see the seal, scarred but clear. The wax bore indentations from another page once pressed against it.

‘It matches the seal of Allturna. And the indentations match the hand of Merjhan, his wife.’

A stir moved through the room. Even those trying to maintain composure looked sideways, searching each other’s faces for reaction. Brigetta had gone still.

Erastus continued, lifting another scroll.

‘This second record is a ledger of birth and guardianship, retrieved by my men from Orynbeck and cross-checked in Lenne. It confirms the story we were not meant to know.’

He paused.

‘Allturna was born in Orynbeck,’ Erastus said. ‘His parents later moved to the upper tributaries of the Ruesviasie’s River, where they built and operated a gold mine, legally and independently. That mine thrived until the land was seized by the Keepbloods of Keis. Their petition for appeal was never heard. Their means collapsed. His mother was murdered. His father took his own life. Allturna was found, eight years old, in bloodstained clothing, and sent to Lenne under a false name.’

The silence deepened.

‘He remembers. Every part. And he used this Order, and his power, to settle that score.’

Erastus looked directly at Allturna.

‘He made use of pirates. He removed Chalm. He risked the life of a child, and nearly collapsed the central authority of the West, all so that Keis’s Castle would fall and the Keepbloods be stripped of land and title.’

Aleska raised a hand before Brigetta could speak. He turned to Saylong.

‘Marcius. You may respond.’

Saylong stood slowly. He bore no notes, only the weight of memory and the weight of choice.

‘I confirm what Erastus has said,’ he began. ‘Mortas told me himself. He died trying to retrieve this parchment. He gave his life to ensure the truth was not buried with him.’

He let the words settle.

‘You may ask why Mortas backed Allturna at all. The answer is because Allturna was convincing. Because he spoke of reform. Because he made many of us believe he could bring order to the West.’

He looked around the room.

‘But justice cannot be built on vengeance. And a man who hides behind pirates and uses children as bait cannot lead it.’

Allturna scoffed, but Aleska silenced him with a glance.

Saylong went on.

‘I have no desire to watch this Order fall. I came to join it. To bring the North into its fold. Not through challenge. Not through bloodshed. Through truth. Through change.’

He glanced toward Brigetta.

‘I have sent message to the northern hald. I do not know their answer. But I swear this—Keis’s Castle will remain in the hands of the Keepbloods. The North will press no claim. Let that be the first new law.’

Brigetta’s eyes narrowed.

‘And the second?’ she asked.

Saylong’s voice was steady. ‘That those who lead the Order must be accountable for its laws—and not above them.’

Allturna rose.

‘This is a sham,’ he snarled. ‘You dare strip me of office based on one note and a sob story? You would take the crown because you weep louder than I do?’

The guards shifted. Aleska’s hand hovered at his hip.

Saylong said nothing.

Allturna pushed up from his seat, one leg bandaged, jaw clenched tight. ‘I have given my life to the Order. Everything I have done, everything, was to preserve its future. You call me traitor, yet you stand here alive, breathing the peace I built!’

No one answered. Not even Brigetta. She sat still, pale, hands clasped on her lap.

‘You believe him?’ Allturna’s voice cracked, finger stabbing the air toward Saylong. ‘A northern dreamer who rides in cloaked behind dead men and stolen banners? He whispers change and you all bow? This is madness!’

He turned, sweeping the room with his eyes, desperate now. ‘My wife died for you yesterday! Cut down in the street while your guards stood idle. And by her hand,’ he jabbed toward Brigetta, ‘the madwoman who brings flame with every thought and calls it judgment.’

Erastus remained still. It was Aleska who stepped forward, voice calm but unshakable.

‘This is not vengeance. This is justice. And by the laws you claim to uphold, you will stand trial—for treason, for conspiracy, and for the unlawful use of foreign force to alter the balance of the Order.’

Allturna’s jaw tensed. His voice dropped, heavy with threat. ‘You’re making a mistake. This vote will damn you. And when the flames come, don’t you dare look to me to put them out.’

He moved to rise again, but the guards were already on him. Two Haitheguard stepped in, flanking the Lord Paramount. One seized his sword; the other laid a hand to his shoulder. He did not struggle, though the fury in his eyes had not dimmed.

‘You will regret this,’ he said.

‘Then we vote,’ Aleska said, unmoved.

The guards led Allturna from the hall. No one cheered. No one spoke. The great oak doors closed behind him.

For a moment, silence settled again.

Erastus stepped forward, breaking it.

‘I nominate Marcius Saylong of Haithe to serve as steward of the Order until a lawful and representative election convenes. We need a voice that can bridge the fractures that have formed. A voice not bought by legacy or vengeance. But one tested by truth, and willing to bear the cost.’

He turned to the table. ‘I put his name forward, not because he is flawless. But because he is the only one who did not run from the fire.’

Lady Gray lifted her hand. ‘I second the motion.’

One by one, hands rose.

Saylong felt the weight of every one.

Votes followed, murmured by name across the hall.

‘Uterra,’ called one voice. ‘Aye.’

‘Xania,’ said another. ‘Aye.’

‘Oran of Zerthys—aye.’

Then: ‘Hugo of Alrece—aye.’

Even Palladine of Orynbeck, long silent, gave a quiet nod.

Saylong’s heart pounded, yet it was the next voice that cut deepest.

‘Sherptarl of Roydne,’ Aleska prompted.

The man rose. His expression unreadable. Since Saylong had first set foot in the Great Hall, Sherptarl had opposed him at every turn, challenging his vision, undermining his arguments.

Now the silence stretched. A few heads turned. He let it linger a moment longer, then spoke—quiet, unadorned.

‘Aye.’

It hit like a dropped blade.

One of Allturna’s own.

The tide had turned.

Then only one remained.

Brigetta Keis stood. Her brow furrowed, her eyes unreadable.

‘I will not cast my vote for a man who would see our borders redrawn and our titles erased,’ she said. ‘We cannot rebuild the Order in a single night. And dream alone does not shape law. If Saylong is to lead, then he will swear now that the North relinquishes all claim to Keis’s Castle. That its land, titles, and rule remain with the Keepbloods alone.’

Every head turned.

Saylong stood slowly. His voice did not rise. He looked her in the eye.

‘I swear it.’

A silence passed between them. Then she nodded once, sat down, and folded her arms.

‘Then let it be done.’

Aleska stepped forward once more, his voice clear and formal.

‘By majority vote, the Order hereby removes Allturna Vehzar from the seat of Lord Paramount. He is to be held under guard until such time as a formal trial may be convened. Marcius Saylong of Haithe, by will of this chamber, you are to serve as steward of the Order until a lawful successor is chosen.’

High above the rafters, the banners of Aurenvia Tollitch stirred, softly, as if in warning.

26

––––––––

The first snow fell softly across the North. Thin flakes drifted between the boughs of giant oaks, clinging to what few bronze leaves still held their branches. Beneath, the ground had hardened, pale and stubborn with cold. Smoke rose from the chimneys of Scharr in lazy ribbons, mingling with woodsmoke and the scent of pine. There was warmth here, hard-earned and unshaken. Not just from the fires, but from the steadiness of those who waited.

Hooves clopped slow and sure into the village square.

Fifteen riders crossed beneath the arching timbers, their cloaks heavy with fur, their armor dulled gold with the dust of the southern road. They wore no sigils, only the weave of Haithe’s green and silver drawn into the braids at their shoulders. Each rider bore arms, though none were drawn. The pace was ceremonial. Cautious. Measured.

In the square, thirty northerners stood waiting. A crescent of warriors and chiefs, wrapped in gray wool, oiled leathers, scaled hides. Their helms glinted in the low light. Their silence was not suspicion. It was weight. Ceremony. The Kotâry had begun.

Ramcino stepped forward.

Beside him stood Troraim, his expression unreadable, and Deyra, her gaze pinned to the lead rider with quiet intensity. Gurrlan grunted behind her, thick tusks pale in the overcast light. He did not growl. He watched.

Ramcino reached up and caught the reins of the frontmost horse, a tall, dark-coated Telilus bred for speed and endurance. Its rider dismounted without word. Saylong. No longer envoy. No longer supplicant. Lord Paramount of Aurenvia Tollitch. Lord of Haithe.

He landed with weight, yet sure. His guards stayed mounted, hands near hilts, unmoving. Ramcino studied his face, lined now with the shape of power. Saylong did not smile. Nor did Ramcino.

The North did not greet with fanfare.

Ramcino stepped forward and embraced him.

‘Welcome, Saylong,’ he said, his voice deep with old iron. ‘It has not been long enough.’

Saylong let out a quiet breath. Then, the smallest smile tugged at his mouth. ‘I see you’re ready for winter.’

Ramcino gave a low laugh. ‘It came whether or not we were ready.’

Deyra broke from the line.

She strode forward and wrapped Saylong in a fierce, unasked-for hug. Behind her, Gurrlan’s tail swayed in steady rhythm, a low chuff rumbling from his chest.

When Deyra pulled back, her eyes narrowed at Saylong’s waist. ‘You’ve eaten too well, my lord.’

‘South of the river, everything comes with sauce,’ Saylong said wryly. ‘Even the wine’s too sweet.’

Troraim stepped forward. ‘Then we’ll burn the sweetness out of you with game and fire.’

They laughed, soft northern laughter, drawn from memory rather than mirth.

Inside, the great hall of Scharr was warm with light and breath and the rattle of tankards. Fires roared in the twin hearths. Pelts lined the benches. Smoke wreathed the beams like slow-drifting cloud. Saylong sat beside Ramcino and Troraim, his guards posted just outside the doors. Deyra joined further down, flanked by two tribal captains whose names Saylong could not yet place.

The Kotâry lasted hours.

Then days.

The feast was the formality. The true work came after, when the fires dimmed, the ale steadied, and the Kotâry gathered close. Ramcino presided with quiet weight. Troraim raised doubts, as expected. The chieftains, from low coast to high plain, sat with arms crossed and jaws set. Some asked what the South would give. Others asked what it would take. They listened, but did not yield easily. The Order had broken before. Promises had shattered. What Saylong offered was not yet trust. Only time could decide that.

Saylong did not speak over them. He listened first. Then, when the time was right, he answered.

He told of Haithe, of Aleska’s leadership, of the tribunal that followed. Erastus and Lady Gray came next, and the votes cast when none dared breathe. Little was said of Allturna beyond what needed saying. Chalm’s name did not pass his lips. The North did not hunger for southern gossip.

He spoke instead of purpose.

‘You are not guests in the Order,’ Saylong said, his voice low and unshaken. ‘And you are not debtors. You are the iron edge—sharpened by distance, not dulled by it. If you step into Aurenvia Tollitch, it must be your step. On your terms. With your banner raised beside the rest.’

Ramcino studied him. ‘And what do you gain, Saylong of Haithe?’

Saylong did not look away. ‘Ingenuity. Isolation. The things the South forgot how to wield. I gain a future built by hands that don’t wait for permission.’

A hush passed over the table.

In the end, it was not the promise of land or coin that swayed them. It was the shape of what came after. A North no longer spoken of in caution, but remembered in every corner of both coasts. Their name carried forward. Their work, impossible to ignore.

Saylong laid it out, not with promises or pomp, but with deliberate, measured weight. The North would be no outpost. No forgotten fringe. Gold would flow to its rivers. Trade would pass through its roads. Names once whispered in the margins would be carved into the new shape of the West. And when the time came, they would look east, not as wanderers, but as claimants.

Saylong leaned over the map, his finger settling on a stretch of jagged coastline across the Sea of Thewthyri.

‘There are harbors there—old ones. Ralpo-Alm is one. It was ours once, during the Herastium conflict. Abandoned since. Kalltor’s men have taken it. Volnaire too, we believe. They’ve kept low, but not idle. They’re fortifying. Ready to move.’

The room darkened.

Deyra’s voice broke the quiet. ‘Then we strike before they do.’

No one spoke against her.

Ramcino looked at the map for a long time. Then, without ceremony, he gave a single nod.

Snow fell over the fjord, settling in ripples across the blackwater. Above, the cliffs loomed dark, and the sky gave no light, no moon, no stars, only the breath of winter thick in the air. The longboats moved without sound, their oars wrapped in cloth, slipping through the current like shadows.

This deep in the fjords, winter brought no day. The light had been gone for a moon or more, and what passed for dawn never reached the water. Intelligence said Kalltor was preparing to move, with supplies loaded and sails ready. If they waited any longer, the ice would trap them all.

Ahead, the Mor ò Thail sat hidden in the bay, its silhouette masked in the jagged black. No lanterns. No flags. Just mass and menace.

On the boats, the warriors crouched low. Some held shields, others clutched swords wrapped in wool to keep them from rattling. The water was calm, lit only by the firelight that flickered faintly from the far shore. Figures moved between the huts. Archers on the forward boats stood ready, fingers notched, breath held.

Deyra stood at the prow of the lead boat, her sword already drawn. Gurrlan pressed in behind her, massive and quiet, breath fogging the air in front of his snout.

One figure on the beach stopped. He’d seen something. A sound or a shape, he wasn’t sure. He squinted into the dark, trying to catch the outline, but the falling snow blurred everything beyond the shore.

The arrow struck him through the throat. He dropped without sound.

Another turned. Too slow. He raised a hand, and a second arrow dropped him before the shout escaped his lips.

The first keel scraped stone. Then the second. Northern boots splashed into the shallows and surged up the beach in formation, Deyra at the front, sword held low. Behind her, Gurrlan and the first wave, nearly a hundred strong, fanned out into the snow-blown dark, splitting toward the village. More boats followed behind, the raid unfolding in silence and storm.

The buildings were scattered, small and slumped against the hills. Smoke trickled from the longhouse at the center, the food hall. Laughter bled through the timbers. Drunken voices. The stench of broth and burning fat.

Two northerners reached the entrance. They slid a wooden bar into place across the front doors, then ducked to the side.

One lit a clay pot, pulled from a sling.

He hurled it through the window.

The flames caught fast. Inside, shouts turned to screams as fire devoured the rafters. Pirates surged toward the door, battering it in panic. It held. Those who fled through windows were met by arrows, their cries swallowed by the snow-swept dark.

Alarms rang. The settlement writhed to life as blades were drawn, and boots struck stone. Northmen clashed with pirates in the swirling dark, steel flashing beneath the burning glow. Gurrlan dragged one pirate down by the leg and slammed him across the ice-glazed ground.

Deyra saw him through the haze of firelight and smoke, Volnaire, broad-shouldered and brutal, his morning star cleaving arcs through the melee. One northern warrior raised his shield too slow. The iron head struck clean through, cracking wood and collarbone in a single thunderous blow. The man dropped. Volnaire stepped forward to finish it.

And Deyra screamed.

The sound tore from her lungs as she charged, shield braced full against her arm. Snow kicked from her boots. She launched herself into him with everything she had: steel, weight, fury, and grief. Her shield slammed against his chest with a crack that echoed through the stones. He stumbled back, teeth bared, breath knocked from him.

He caught himself.

And he saw her.

Just a woman. Alone.

He laughed, sharp and guttural. Then raised his weapon, slow and certain, as if it were already over.

She struck first, a clean, low cut meant to open him. Volnaire turned with it instead, deflecting the edge with the studded haft of his weapon. A second warrior came from behind, trying to flank him. Volnaire twisted sharply, backhanding the morning star into the man’s ribs. The crunch was sickening. The northerner dropped, writhing in the snow.

Deyra ducked as Volnaire turned back toward her. The iron-spiked head swept over her, close enough to rattle her braid. She drove in again, sharp and controlled, but Volnaire caught it mid-swing and drove forward. His next swing came heavy and wide. It caught her shield dead-center.

The wood cracked like dry bone.

He advanced.

She met him again, blade to steel. But he was stronger. Her sword tip scraped the ground. Another blow followed. Her arm jolted, numb now. Her grip slipped.

He swung again. Her sword went spinning.

She was weaponless. Her shield hung in tatters. She stepped back, breath caught, vision blurred.

He laughed.

The firelight glinted across his sweat-soaked brow, fur cloak flickering red and gold. He raised the morning star.

Then came the sound.

A grunt. A thud.

Gurrlan charged tusks down and crashed into Volnaire with full force. The pirate was flung backward. He hit the stones, grunting. Gurrlan snapped and writhed beneath him, but Volnaire landed a gloved punch that sent the boar skidding.

Deyra was already moving.

She dropped to his chest, knees pinning his arms as he bucked beneath her. Her breath came in ragged bursts, white in the cold. One hand gripped the knife drawn from her boot.

The first stab struck low. The leather gave. His flesh did not. It flexed. Thick. Wrong. Like jabbing steel into wet bark.

She snarled and stabbed again. The blade skidded, caught, then slid off. Skin thickening like a hide, rubbery and dense. His laughter came hoarse, blood-spattered.

She drove the blade into his collar. It sank a little, then stopped, gripped by that unnatural resistance.

Again. Again.

The knife glanced off ribs, caught in the sinew, resisted at every turn. Blood spilled in thick ropes now, but his body still wouldn’t break. Not the way a man’s should.

Deyra screamed and kept stabbing—into his neck, his chest, his shoulder, anywhere. Her whole body behind each blow. Gurrlan circled near, silent. He did not intervene. This was hers.

Volnaire thrashed beneath her, wild and bucking. His fists pounded her sides, elbows jerked to unseat her, boots slamming the ground. She drove her knee into his gut, forcing his ribs down, and screamed as she stabbed again—harder this time. The blade struck deep, twisted, met something thick and wrong.

He roared, his strength flaring again. One arm slipped free, and he swung, striking her temple with a glancing blow that sent fire across her vision. She didn’t flinch. She howled and drove the knife straight into his throat.

It didn’t sink like it should. His gift resisted, flesh gone dense, meat and The Essence made one. It pushed back against her fury, against steel, against death itself.

His hand reached her throat, fingers tightening like iron hooks. She drove her forehead into his brow, felt the crack of bone split through her skull, and heard his breath hitch. He recoiled, grip faltering.

She stabbed once more.

This time the blade punched through, deep into the hollow just beneath his ribs. Something gave. Something inside him broke.

His body jerked. Spasmed.

And still she stabbed. Not out of need now, but because rage had found its rhythm. Her arms moved on instinct, and her breath tore from her lungs. The snow turned slick. Blood soaked her thighs, her sleeves, the curve of her jaw.

He tried once more to push her off. Failed.

She stabbed again.

And again.

Until he wasn’t fighting. Until he wasn’t anything at all.

Chest. Shoulder. Ribs. Her breath broke with each thrust. Blood poured across her hands, across his jerking limbs, until there were no more cries. Only wet silence.

Still she stabbed.

It was remembrance. Her father. Her chief. All the names etched into silence.

She stabbed again.

‘It’s over.’

The voice came from behind. Troraim. He reached for her arm, gently, but with strength.

‘Deyra. It’s over now.’

She looked down at the lifeless body beneath her. Volnaire’s eyes were open. Empty. She screamed, not words but fury, and broke from Troraim’s grasp. She fell to her knees beside the corpse and wept.

Kalltor was dragged forward soon after, bound and bloodied, his laughter rasping from split lips. Blood streamed down his jaw as he spat onto the reddened snow.

They forced him to his knees at the foot of a flat stone by the water’s edge.

Deyra picked up her sword. She cleaned it once.

Then she walked.

She stepped through the ash and blood, her boots firm, her shoulders square.

He looked up as she neared, braids matted to his face. His smirk was broken, barely there, yet somehow clinging on.

She did not flinch.

‘I am Deyra Fjornskara,’ she said, her voice a breath of steel. ‘When the storms have passed, they will all call my name.’

The sword came down.

And for now, the storms passed.

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