Smoke drifted above the wreckage of Ironreach, curling in the wind like the breath of some buried god. The once-proud stronghold now wore a crown of blackened stone and broken sigils. Beneath it, blood soaked the banners, and the smell of ash never left the air.
Thorne Malrik stood barefoot in the ruins of the governor's hall.
He had left his boots behind as a statement: this ground belonged to him now. His enemies had bled into the stone, and he wanted to feel it—the cold, the consequence, the weight of conquest. Around him, his commanders bickered like feral dogs over scraps.
"We can't hold Ironreach for long," one spat. "The Empire will retaliate—"
"There is no Empire," Thorne cut in, voice low, each word falling like iron. "Only scavengers pretending to rule."
The room fell silent. Vael Corren leaned in a shattered windowsill, tossing a coin. He'd swapped his noble silks for hardened leather, though the rings stayed on every finger. "Still. That scavenger Lucan Vire has teeth. He's sent word."
Thorne didn't turn. "What does the snake want?"
Vael flipped the coin. "Peace talks."
Laughter rose from the men, cruel and sharp. But Thorne didn't laugh.
"He'll come himself?"
Vael smirked. "Of course not. But he's sending his blade."
Thorne's jaw clenched. "Selene."
Three Days Later — In the Shadow of Ironreach
Selene Varrow arrived alone.
No guards, no horses, no banners. Just her and the road, dressed in mourning black. She wore a dagger at her thigh and poison in her perfume, and when the rebel scouts stopped her, she smiled as though she knew their children's names.
They led her to Thorne's camp with the quiet tension of men escorting a loaded crossbow.
He met her inside his command tent—large, spartan, stinking of leather, blood, and firewood. Maps were pinned to every surface, marked with knives instead of ink. Selene stepped inside without waiting to be announced.
Thorne's soldiers cleared out at the sight of her.
She didn't bow. "You've redecorated."
He eyed her, arms crossed. "I expected Vire's whisper, not his whore."
Selene chuckled, slow and cold. "Funny. That's what I called you after the Korran Valley fell."
Thorne's fingers twitched. But then he smiled—wolfish, dangerous. "Still venomous."
"Still breathing," she replied. "Which is more than can be said for the last man who called me names."
He gestured to a chair. She ignored it.
"What does Lucan offer?" Thorne asked.
Selene stepped closer, boots silent on the dirt floor. "Legitimacy. A seat on the new council. Your own province, untouched by tax or decree."
"And what does he want in return?"
"Your leash," she said, smiling. "Tied around your own throat."
Thorne stepped forward until they were inches apart. "I burn leashes. And the hands that hold them."
"Then maybe you're not here to negotiate," she whispered. "Maybe you want to die."
A tense silence. And then—
He kissed her.
Not out of affection. Out of control, dominance, the memory of shared blood and broken nights in enemy tents. She bit his lip and shoved him back.
"I'll tell Lucan you declined," she said, voice like cut silk.
"You'll tell him," Thorne growled, wiping his mouth, "that the next time he sends a message, it better be on his knees."
Selene turned and left without another word.
But outside, as the cold wind caught her cloak, she smiled faintly.
The seed was planted. Rage was easy to grow.
Far North — The Ashspire Mountains
Iskra Thorne stood at the cliff's edge, watching the storm crawl across the sky. Behind her, the mercenary legions trained in silence—her soldiers, her ghosts, her future executioners.
A scout approached, armor clinking. "War is coming. Lucan and Thorne move their pieces."
Iskra didn't turn. "Good."
She lowered her spyglass. Below the mountain, the world was shifting.And she would strike when both kings were weakest.
Let them bleed each other dry. She would crown the corpse that remained.