Chapter 1 - Arvoren

The chamber is dark, its high, arched ceiling lost to the shadows that coil thickly like smoke. Here, beneath the spine of Millrath Castle, the weight of the mountainside into which the sprawling structure is built presses down like a beast upon its prey. The black stone walls hum with a coldness that seeps into the bones. You can smell the age in this place, the sheer history of its bones and bricks.

Tonight, even the torches set at intervals along the walls—twisted iron sconces carved to resemble serpentine coils—seem muted in the murk, their flickering light swallowed by the oppressive gloom. Their soft, greenish glow flickers in the dark, failing to penetrate far.

From where I sit on my throne, I survey the gathering below. No—this is no throne. It is a great beast of twisted metal and dark wood, its spikes splayed toward the heavens like bared teeth. The underchamber of Millrath Castle, with its cavernous halls and columns like towering bones, serves as my court’s shadowed heart. Here, I meet those who dare not step into the sunlit sanctum of the upper castle. Here, I strip away all pretense. Here, shadows do not bother to hide.

I tap a clawed finger against the high, carved armrest, the dull click echoing in the silent chamber. On the stone floor below, two figures kneel before me, shrouded in travel-worn cloaks that still glisten with moisture. The mist that eternally clings to Millrath’s shores seeps into every crevice, curling around the castle like a serpent guarding its lair. From where I sit, I can see it outside the high, narrow windows: a roiling mass of silver and gray, slithering across the vast black waters of the lake below, swallowing all in its path.

The two kneeling figures shift nervously, the movement slight but unmistakable. I narrow my gaze, taking in the way their shoulders hunch, the way their breaths come too quickly.

Spies should know better than to let fear show. But perhaps this is more than fear.

"Speak," I command, my voice low and cold. It cuts through the silence like a blade through flesh, sending a shiver through the assembled courtiers. Even Darian, Commander of the Royal Guard, standing at attention beside the throne, shifts imperceptibly.

The first spy, a lean man with the look of a fox about him, all sharp angles and wary eyes, glances up. His face is pale beneath his hood, beads of mist clinging to his lashes.

"Your Majesty, we—" He clears his throat. "There’s been another skirmish in the North, between the borders of Fjordmarse and Fort Caddell. Their forces are at each other’s throats near-constantly."

My gaze sharpens. The news is no surprise. The restive outposts at the northern fringes of Kaldoria have been simmering with unrest for months now, their warlords growing bolder by the day. Both houses—Fjordmarse with its thick-skinned, stone-eyed draconic warriors, raised in the fierce cold of the foothills, and Fort Caddell with its restless, iron-toothed human warmongers—are ruled by families who find the current order distasteful. House Sturmsen and House Caddell have been a thorn in my side for half a century. And there is no man or beast alive either house hates more than the other.

They know their quarrel is disallowed by the code of the lords. Still, they disobey me. Did they think I would not learn of their deceit?

“A skirmish,” I murmur, leaning forward just enough to let my shadow fall over the spy’s face. The man flinches, though he does not look away. Good. I want him to see me in all my rage, all my volatility. "How many dead this time?"

"Two hundred, at least, Your Majesty." His voice trembles, but he forces himself to continue. "The fighting escalated to a full battle along the western ridge of the Fjordmarse border. House Caddell’s forces were the aggressors, though House Sturmsen struck back hard. Several smaller settlements in Fort Caddell’s territory were caught in the crossfire."

"Settlements, you say?" My voice softens, a deadly caress.

Settlements are where the human populace of my kingdom lies—the fragile creatures who serve as the bones and blood of this place. They have their uses, more than the warlords seem to understand. A cold, terrible rage rises within me, though I do not let it show. I do not appreciate others breaking what belongs to me.

“Sturmsen and Caddell.” I let their names hang in the air like the bitter aftertaste of poison. These fools, too hungry for their own good, too blind to understand true power lies in patience, in calculation.

Did the cold starve them of blood to spill, that they now waste it so recklessly?

Slowly, I rise from the throne, the creak of leather and metal breaking the silence. My gaze sweeps over the court—the minor lords, sycophants, and bloody-handed aristocrats who watch with wide eyes. In the flickering torchlight, my shadow stretches long and monstrous before me.

"Darian," I say, and my commander stiffens. "Send word to all garrisons north of Estwell. Mobilize the troops. We must show the North what strength looks like."

A murmur ripples through the court. They know what this means. I will not allow the petty squabbling of warlords to tear my father’s legacy apart. No, if Kaldoria burns, it will be because I willed it.

But something more urgent itches beneath the surface of this unrest. A deeper need festers within me, one I can no longer afford to ignore.

"And another thing, Commander," I add, my voice dropping lower, thickening the air with tension. “I will lead a garrison myself, northwest. The time has come once more.”

Darian’s eyes widen, but he nods without hesitation. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

It’s been more than a year since I’ve ventured north to the human settlements beyond the walls of my city. This city, this kingdom beyond it—it is mine. Every stone, every shadow, every life. And yet, I know how fragile that claim truly is. The lords of the noble houses are like caged beasts, restless and savage. Even now, they plot and scheme, seeking any weakness to exploit. They will be upon me the moment I appear vulnerable. They smell blood like sharks.

Without an heir, I am vulnerable to attack. Such will never change, not until I rectify it myself.

My mouth twists with a cold smile. An heir, born of fire and flesh, forged in the crucible of our blood. My kin cannot breed true with our own kind. Our fire is too strong, too fierce.

Only human blood can temper it, can give it form and life. It has been that way for centuries. It will be that way for centuries more. Thus far, my journeys out to the human settlements have yielded nothing, and each human woman taken back to my castle has failed to give me my heir. Most have died here, within these walls.

The child will be mine. And this kingdom will be his. But first, I must find her. The one who will bear my bloodline, who will secure the future of House Szallitás.

The reports, scattered and fragmented, speak of a hidden line of women in the northern hills, not far from the Great River, descended from magic itself. Their blood is said to protect them against the dark and destructive magics of my kin. If the whispers are true, such blood is the answer I’ve been seeking.

If not … whichever woman I find there will be disposed of, like all those who disappoint me.

An heir must be born, one strong enough to inherit both my power and the power of such a bloodline. The survival of my house depends on this.

I move toward the tall windows, peering out at the twisted landscape below. The city of Millrath sprawls around the lake, a labyrinth of streets and jagged spires rising like teeth. But beyond, hundreds of miles north, past the misty shores and through miles of desolate forest, lies the distant village of Essenborn. The rumors point there, to that forsaken place, nestled in the deep woods like a secret waiting to be unearthed.

I turn, my decision made.

"Prepare the troops," I say. "We leave at first light."

***

The iron-shod hooves of my warhorse pound against the earth, reverberating like thunder through the narrow streets of the village. Around me, the village smolders in the early light of dawn, smoke curling upward to join the dark clouds that hang heavy above. The air is thick with the acrid scent of burning thatch, the sharp cries of the villagers swallowed by the roar of fire and the clang of steel as my soldiers sweep through the settlement.

I watch from my mount as the square fills with bodies—men forced to their knees, women dragged from their homes, their faces pale with terror. Behind me, my standard flutters in the rising wind, the black and crimson banner of House Szallitás unfurling like a vulture's wing over the devastation.

Darian rides up beside me, his helm tucked under one arm, his expression grim. "The village is secured, Your Majesty. The men are rounding up the women now."

"Good," I say, my voice low, emotionless. My gaze sweeps over the village, taking in the scene of methodical destruction. "Bring them to the square."

As if on cue, I hear the cries—women, young and old, being dragged through the streets by my soldiers, their wrists bound with rough cords.

They are forced into a ragged line at the center of the village, beneath the shadow of the crooked clock tower. Some are weeping, others trembling in silence. A few struggle, only to be struck down by the butt of a spear or a mailed fist.

I watch them with disinterest as I dismount, my boots landing heavily on the packed dirt. None of these women matter. Not yet. My eyes skim over them, searching for something … different. A witch-blooded woman, said to be hidden among the villagers.

But so far, these pale, trembling creatures are not what I seek.

I stalk toward the gathered women, my cloak swirling around me like a shadow. One of them—an older woman with gray streaking her dark hair—glares at me with defiance in her eyes. I stop before her, and without a word, I strike her across the face, sending her sprawling into the dirt. She does not rise.

The others fall silent, cowed, as I stand over them.

"None of these," I mutter, the words like venom on my tongue. "She’s not here."

Darian shifts beside me, but before he can speak, a sound pierces the air—a distant, primal scream, raw with rage. It echoes from the edge of the village, uphill, from the forest beyond, carried on the wind like a curse.

I turn sharply, my eyes narrowing.

Two soldiers emerge from the trees, dragging a woman between them. She thrashes wildly in their grip, her dark hair whipping across her face, her pale skin flushed with exertion. They struggle to contain her, their faces grim with effort, and she fights them as though possessed, her movements fierce and wild.

And then I see her clearly.

Slender and pale, with dark hair that spills in a tangled cascade over her shoulders, her skin glows with an otherworldly light in the smoky dawn. She is beautiful, yes, but there is something more—something raw and untamed in the way she moves, in the defiance burning in her storm-gray eyes.

My breath stills in my chest as I watch her, and in that moment, I know.

Her.

The soldiers drag her toward the square, forcing her to her knees beside the other women. I approach, boots loud on the cobblestones in the silence. Around us, fire crackles. It all seems to dull. She glares up at me, her chest heaving, her eyes aflame with fury. There’s no fear in them, only a hatred so sharp I can almost feel it bite into my skin.

I take another step toward her, my pulse quickening. The noise of the village is gone, the chaos around me blurring into the background. All I see is her.

The woman I’ve been searching for.

She snarls something under her breath, too low to hear, her gaze never wavering from mine. I smile—a slow, cruel twist of my lips.

This one will not break easily. But she will break. And when she does, my legacy will be born from her.

I glance at Darian, my voice low and satisfied. "Bind her well. She’s the one."

The commander nods sharply, gesturing to the soldiers. They move quickly, roughly tightening the ropes around her wrists, though she continues to struggle, cursing them, spitting at their feet.

I turn away, the sound of her fury like music in my ears, and look out over the village that we will leave in ruins, my mouth curling into a smile of cold, malicious satisfaction.

This time, I will not fail.

The bloodline will continue. And the kingdom will be quelled beneath it.