Prologue
Lethren was weighing a single line he had argued over for weeks when the glass began to tremble.
The tremor passed through the tall windows and into the desk. His quill slipped, dragging ink across the margin. He stared at the smear, irritated more than afraid, then lifted his head and listened.
From below came a sound that did not belong to the fort.Steel meeting flesh.Stone receiving it.
He stood and crossed to the window.
The courtyard lay open beneath him, already thick with bodies. Men moved among them in armor dulled by use, faces bare, eyes fixed forward. Their blades rose and fell with practiced patience, each stroke measured, unhurried. Scholars collapsed where they stood. Some reached for doors. Some held books tight to their chests. Blood spread across the stone and ran into the seams between blocks.
One man broke from the line and ran. He slipped, caught himself, staggered on. Steel took him at the neck. His body slid across the courtyard while the others stepped around him and continued their work.
Lethren turned from the window and ran.
The inner halls were slick. He skidded once, caught himself against a column streaked dark with handprints, and kept moving. Bodies lay folded into doorways, slumped against shelves. One scholar knelt against the wall, hands pressed to his throat, breath bubbling uselessly between his fingers. Lethren looked once, then turned away.
The high study door gave beneath his hand.
"Master Luwan," he said. His voice broke. "They're inside."
Luwan sat at the desk, writing.
Fire climbed the shelves behind him, the oil lamp at his feet broken carefully. Parchment curled inward, collapsed, drifted down as ash. Smoke pressed low against the ceiling. The quill scratched steadily across the page, never pausing.
Lethren took a step forward. "Master. We have to leave."
Luwan raised one hand. Lethren stopped.
Footsteps reached the corridor outside. Steel brushed stone. A sound ended mid-breath.
Lethren backed away, pulled the door shut, and dropped the bar into place. His fingers found the small knife at his belt, meant for trimming vellum. He turned toward the stair.
He never reached it.
The impact came without warning. Steel punched through his chest and drove him backward. The knife fell and spun across the floor. He struck the stone hard, breath tearing out of him. His hand closed around the knife anyway, the blade scraping armor before skittering away.
Blood filled his mouth, hot and thick. He stared up at the ceiling as it blurred, dimmed, and went dark.
Inside the study, Luwan finished the line.
He set the quill aside and folded the page, once, then again. He tied it to the pigeon's leg with careful fingers. The bird shuddered, wings twitching in the heat and smoke. Luwan stroked its neck and opened the window.
The pigeon vanished into the night.
The vial waited on the desk.
The liquid burned. His body stiffened, then shook. Blood spilled from his mouth and soaked into the wood, darkening the page beneath him. He slumped forward, breath hitching once before stopping.
The door broke inward moments later.
The men entered the study and took in the fire, the ash, the empty shelves, the scholar already dead over his work. One checked his neck and withdrew his hand.
Without a word, blades turned inward.Steel kissed throats.Blood followed.
Bodies fell among the burning shelves. The fire climbed into the beams.
Smoke poured from the fort's windows and drifted into the night. Blood ran down the steps in slow, dark streams. Above it all, the blue moon hung low and unmoving.
By morning, the fort stood empty. Shelves were blackened. Desks lay split and scorched.
The windows stared out over the city, and no one answered them.
⸻
1. Succession
The rider did not slow until the gate filled his vision.
The capital wall rose pale and sheer from the road, its stones fitted so tightly that even age had found little to loosen. Towers crowned it at intervals, banners hanging still in the early air. Before the gate, the road thickened with life. Merchant carts queued in uneven lines. Mules stamped. Voices tangled over prices and grievances. The smell of the city reached out to meet them.
The rider drew his horse up hard. He was a tall man, broad through the shoulders, built like someone who had spent more time riding than resting. His beard was kept short, his cloak travel-worn but cared for. The second horse followed, ridden by a man who sat badly in the saddle, shoulders hunched, eyes fixed on the ground ahead as if it might rise to meet him.
A guard stepped forward, spear angled low.
"State your business."
The rider reached into his coat and withdrew a narrow tube sealed in dark wax. He held it up just long enough for the mark to be seen.
"For the king."
The guard's eyes flicked to the seal, then to the rider's face. Dust clung to his boots. The horse was lathered and breathing hard. Whatever road had brought them here, it had not been a gentle one.
The gate creaked open.
A second guard fell in beside them as they passed through. The crowd shifted. Some watched with interest. Others turned away, already bored.
Inside the walls, the city closed around them.
Buildings leaned over narrow streets, their upper stories nearly touching. Cloth hung from windows, faded and frayed. Vendors shouted, voices rising and falling as buyers passed. Children ran barefoot through the gaps between carts, laughing until they were shouted at and scattered. A woman argued with a butcher over a cut of meat already crawling with flies.
They rode on.
Near a well square, a small crowd had gathered. Two prisoners knelt on the stone, wrists chained behind their backs. One swayed, barely holding himself upright. The other stared straight ahead, jaw clenched, eyes empty. No charges were read. No mercy asked for. People watched as they watched weather.
The rider did not look away. His companion did.
As the road climbed, the noise thinned. Dirt gave way to stone beneath the hooves. The capital keep rose ahead, its towers sharp against the sky, its gates already open.
They passed inside.
Horses were taken in the inner court. The rider dismounted with practiced ease, joints loose, balance certain. His companion slid down stiffly, as if each movement cost him something. Boots struck stone. Doors opened and closed without comment.
The rider was led through corridors that smelled of oil and old rock, past servants who stepped aside without lifting their eyes.
At the council chamber doors, the guard knocked once and opened them.
⸻
The small council was already in session.
The king sat at the narrow end of the table, crown set aside within arm's reach. Robnar Herald carried his years openly. His frame had thickened with comfort and command, but there was nothing soft in the way he held himself. Power sat on him like a habit. His eyes were sharp, calculating, and tired in the way only long rule could make them.
Others spoke while he listened.
"Another attack," a councillor said, leaning forward. "A village west of the road. Three dead. The same pattern as before."
Murmurs followed. Not surprise. Annoyance.
Robnar's gaze shifted across the table.
"Ser Darick ."
The knight straightened at once.
"Take men," the king said. "Ride to the village. See the matter dealt with."
Ser Darick inclined his head.
The Grand Maester stood beside the table, hands folded into his sleeves, his chain resting heavy against his chest. He had not spoken once.
The doors opened.
The rider entered alone and crossed the room without haste. He moved with the easy confidence of a man who knew when to be still and when to act.
"I am Corin," he said, stopping before the table. "In service to House Garisten."
He knelt, clean and practiced, and held out the sealed tube with both hands.
"For the king."
Robnar did not reach for it.
The Grand Maester stepped forward instead and accepted the message. He turned it slowly in his fingers, studying the wax. His thumb pressed lightly against the seal.
Unbroken.
"Garisten," he said.
One of the councillors shifted.
The Grand Maester broke the seal. The sound was small. Final. He unrolled the parchment and read in silence. His face did not change, but the room seemed to draw tighter around him.
When he finished, he folded the page once and looked to the king.
"Lord Vellar Garisten is dead."
Silence settled over the table.
"The message confirms his son has taken the keep," the Grand Maester continued. "Robert Garisten now rules Blackmere."
Robnar nodded once.
"Blackmere stands."
He looked back to Corin.
"You rode well."
Corin bowed his head. He did not speak.
The Grand Maester placed the folded parchment on the table, as if leaving it there too long might stain the wood.