Chapter One

The High Seat

Seiry moved swiftly down the long, echoing corridor toward the Great Hall, her boots barely making a sound on the stone. She sensed someone behind her. She spun around, quick, almost instinctive, pressing her back to the cold wall.

She stared straight at him. For a second, neither of them spoke. Mentor and student, tangled together by years of secrets and shared scars. “Will you stand with me, Blattem?“ Her voice carried a dare, but there was a plea underneath, a need for him not to turn away now, not after everything.

He slid his sword Ironspireback into its sheath. The metal whispered, a sound that said more than words ever could. “Yes or no, what does it matter?“ Blattem’s voice had no room for doubt. He knew her, knew she wouldn’t turn back. “You’ve always burned with ambition, Seiry. I only hammered you into shape.“ He didn’t need to say more. They both remembered the training, the pain, the long road that made her into what she was.

She nodded, just once, and started walking again. The sword at her hip, Glashirrim, felt heavier than usual, a reminder of who she was, where she came from, and the duty that waited ahead. Blattem fell in behind her, silent as ever, a shadow of loyalty and trust.

The Ironwood doors to the Great Hall loomed up, black, studded with brass, heavy with the weight of a thousand decisions and bitter fights. Seiry’s grip tightened on Glashirrim. Anger surged through her, hot and electric. She raised the sword high, defiant, unbreakable, then brought it down hard against the door’s crosspiece. The clang rang out, echoing off the stones. This was her answer to silence. She would not be ignored.

“I demand an audience before the Seat!“ Her voice thundered, filling the vast hall. She didn’t flinch. The doors groaned and opened under the force of her demand, revealing the heart of the Brotherhood, their power, their secrets, everything she’d been raised to claim.

A voice, deep and commanding, rolled out from the darkness. “Who demands a voice in front of the High Seat?“

Seiry stepped forward, her boots landing right where her father had once ended a tyrant’s reign. “It’s me. Seiry, daughter of Bane, son of Climmer, of the Bloodletter clan.“ There was no fear in her, not now.

Another voice, quieter but sharp, snapped from her left. “By what right do you speak?“

She didn’t even look. Eyes forward, she fired back, “By my father’s blood. And his before him.“ Every word hit like a hammer to stone.

Now the right side spoke, cold and formal. “Speak, Seiry, daughter of Bane. But if you waste the Seat’s time, your life’s forfeit.“ Seiry’s mouth twisted in a half-smile. She remembered the last time someone tried that old threat, and how her father had answered, blade in hand, rewriting the rules with blood.

She didn’t back down. “I bring news of my father’s death.“ Her voice was low and steady, stripped of pity. As she spoke, she drew Glashirrim. The blade came free with a sound like a slow exhale, and the runes carved along the fuller stirred. Not bright, not wild, but a deep ember-glow beneath the steel, as if something smoldered inside it. The blood-groove caught the chamber light and held it wrong, the etched symbols along its length pulsing once, low and dark, like banked coals breathing in the dark.

She lifted it high.

The glow did not flare. It tightened. A thin, shadowed flame traced the runes, barely there unless you knew to look, heat without light, hunger without smoke.

She held it aloft, daring anyone to challenge her.

“Look well, Glashirrim, the cursed steel of Clan Bloodletter. I’m here to claim what’s mine.“ Her words crashed through the chamber. She leveled the blade at the left, a silent warning, then swept it to the right, slow and sure, daring anyone to step out of line.

The silence that followed was thick, so heavy it pressed down on everyone in the room. This was a moment of reckoning, where legacy collided with demand and blood weighed more than law. Seiry didn’t move, didn’t blink. She stood there, unyielding, part legend, part threat, waiting for the Seat to answer. This was it, the moment where everything hung in the balance.

“Is there anyone who will stand with Seiry to guard her honor, from herself and from without?“ The center voice carried the weight of old law, old stone, old blood.

“I will.“

Blattem stepped forward, sword drawn, helm on, and the room felt it the way a room feels a storm gathering beyond the walls. He was taller than most men there and quieter than all of them, and that had always been enough. Every eye shifted to him, then back to Seiry.

He would guard her honor to his last breath. If she faltered, if she turned to run, it would be his blade that took her head before any other could.

Seiry felt him at her back. It was comfort and it was warning. The clan would not expect weakness from her, not with Blattem standing there. If she broke, he would end her himself.

“Is there anyone who stands against Seiry taking her place in the high chamber?“ The question settled into the silence. A heartbeat passed. Then another. Then a figure stepped out of the far shadows, moving into the light with the kind of ease that meant he’d been standing there a long time, watching and waiting.

“You.“ Seiry’s voice dropped flat. “Gath.“

Glashirrim came up in her hand, the blade humming low against her palm. Gath stopped in the center of the floor and didn’t reach for his sword. He was tall and lean where Blattem was broad, quick where Blattem was immovable, and the fact that his hand stayed away from his hilt was its own kind of threat.

“I don’t contest her skill,“ Gath said. “She can use a blade, a knife, and the dark. But killing a man in his sleep proves nothing about judgment. It proves opportunity.“

His hand settled on his sword hilt. “I’ll withhold my support until I see proof she can lead me, not just kill for me.“

The murmur that moved through the room told Seiry everything. He’d brought enough of them with him. If it came to a fight right now, the numbers wouldn’t hold.

“What would it take, Gath?“ she asked. Her voice was steady, almost bored, the way she’d trained herself to sound when she was actually calculating fast. “In your considerable judgment, what would make me worthy of the High Seat?“

He let the silence stretch just long enough to make it feel like his answer mattered. “The head of Mindeel.“

Seiry held his gaze. Mindeel. The court wizard of King Goudall. The man the Brotherhood had been cursing since the disaster at Lord Sallse’s court, the wizard who’d walked away from that meeting with Brotherhood blood on his hands and no consequences to show for it.

A smile crossed her face, the kind that didn’t reach anywhere warm. “Done,“ she said. “But you’re coming with me, Gath. Only seems fair, since you’re the one who needs convincing.“

The sound of boots stamping on the stone floor moved through the seats around them, approval in the old way, hard and rhythmic. Gath’s mouth curved, something between amusement and respect and neither fully. “Agreed. The day Mindeel’s head rests on this floor, my sword is yours. Until your last day or mine.“

“The High Seat has rendered its decision,“ the center voice pronounced, final as a door closing. “Seiry, daughter of Bane, will ascend to her rightful place on the day Mindeel’s head is laid in this chamber.“

Seiry sheathed Glashirrim and turned without another word, walking back down the hall the way she’d come in. Plans to make. Supplies to pull together. People to summon who still owed her something. The cost of all of it would be paid in blood, and she’d stopped pretending that bothered her somewhere around the age of fifteen.

Outside, the sunlight hit hard after the dark of the hall. She found her horse, took the reins from the stable hand, and swung up in one clean motion. Blattem was already mounted. Gath came out a moment later, his black horse waiting with saddlebags already packed, like he’d known exactly how this was going to go.

“Looks like you came prepared,“ Seiry said, glancing at the bags.

“I came expecting bloodshed,“ Gath said. “Yours or someone else’s. The bags were optimistic.“

He moved his horse up to her left. “The Brotherhood’s honor took a wound at Sallse’s court that hasn’t healed. Mindeel walked away from that. Your clan’s reputation, my clan’s reputation, all of it sitting in the mud while that wizard sits comfortably in Goudall’s palace.“ He said it the way men say things they’ve been thinking about for a long time. “Your blade work isn’t in question. What comes after the blade, that’s what I need to see.“

Seiry held his gaze for a moment, warrior to warrior, then kicked her horse forward through the gates.

The air sharpened as they climbed, pine and cold earth and something cleaner than the hall they’d left behind. The valleys fell away below them, replaced by steep rock and stubborn slopes. Barns and homesteads clung to the mountainside the way people here clung to everything, with both hands and no expectation of help.

Seiry, Blattem, and Gath rode without much talk. The journey back to the clan’s stronghold would take the full day, and they all knew it. Some roads you just ride.

This land didn’t exactly roll out a welcome mat. Clan Bloodletter had carved itself into the mountain’s bones and dared the world to answer.

Their trail dipped between sky-high peaks, down into fields where grain waved and sheep grazed. The ground changed under their feet, sometimes rough and wild, sometimes soft with new grass. They passed tidy fields and little cottages tucked into the hills, a kind of quiet stubbornness written into every stone and furrow. The land was tough, no doubt about it, but the people here were tougher. Somehow, they scraped out a living, turning rocky dirt into something that lasted.

Their horses’ hoofbeats thudded in time with the land’s own pulse, or at least that’s how it felt. Cobblestone gave way to dirt, the path winding through hills that rose and fell and rocky crags that jutted out like old bones. Sunlight broke through clouds in sudden flashes, warm one moment, gone the next, and for a handful of heartbeats, they moved through gold. It was a small gift, one they needed more than they’d admit.

Each step higher brought a new bite to the air, sharp, clean, heavy with pine and damp earth. The world shifted fast as they crossed into a fresh valley. Rich farmland faded behind them, replaced by steep climbs and stubborn, rocky slopes. People vanished too. Just the occasional weathered barn or a lone homestead clinging to the mountainside. Sometimes a herd of goats, their keepers as tough as the land, would show up, proof that life here fought for every inch.

This valley wore its battles openly. Old clan wars that scarred earth, battered homes, a people shaped by hardship. Nothing came easy here. Everything, land, breath, survival, had to be fought for. It was the kind of place that made warriors and assassins out of necessity, not choice. The winters alone were enough to drive anyone to chase fortune, gold or silver, just for a chance at another spring.

At last, their journey ended at the mountaintop stronghold, Clan Bloodletter’s fortress carved into the mountainside like something that had grown there instead of been built. It did not crown the peak. It clung to it, fused to sheer rock, black stone climbing upward in layers and terraces as if the mountain had sprouted walls instead of trees. Watchtowers rose so high they nearly brushed the jagged spine of the summit, their silhouettes cutting into the sky like broken spears.

It was a beast of a place, heavy and silent and watching. The lower walls disappeared into the cliff face, seamless and dark, while the upper battlements jutted outward in hard angles, daring the wind to tear them free. Shadows slid along the stone even in full daylight, pooling beneath towers and gathering in arrow slits where old blood had soaked so deep the rain never quite erased it. The air carried iron and cold ash, the lingering breath of forge fires and funeral pyres.

There was nothing ornamental about it. The walls bore the scars of old sieges, stone chipped where ladders once bit in, darker streaks where men had fallen and never risen. Clan Bloodletter had carved their claim into the mountain’s ribs and left it there, raw and unsoftened. It was not meant to welcome.

It was meant to endure.

When they reached the gates, the air pressed down, heavy, thick with memories and echoes of old battles. The doors towered over them, carved deep with scenes of war and blood, the figures almost alive in the flickering light. Even the ground seemed to hum, as if the mountain itself was waiting.

Gath’s horse shifted, anxious, picking up the tension that settled around them. The wind, which had followed them through the valleys, died out. Silence closed in. Seiry glanced at Blattem, her oldest ally, and caught a crooked smile in his eyes. Somewhere inside, the priest had roused the hold’s guardian, its presence prickling in the air.

The gates groaned open, shadows spilling out. Seiry’s heart hammered in her chest. Inside these walls lived the strength of her clan, generations of killers and fighters, all bound by blood and purpose. She knew every stone, but still, a chill raced down her spine. This place demanded everything.

The fortress was a maze, chambers, corridors, each with its ghosts and secrets. Torches spat light along the walls, shadows flapping like wings. The air stank of steel and sweat, the stink of endless training, never letting up, never safe.

Gath watched her, eyes hard to read, but Seiry felt it, the way he measured her, weighing what she was worth. She was back to claim what was hers, to prove she could lead, to fight for her place. The fortress would test her. The clan would judge her. She’d find out if she had what it took.

Their horses’ hooves clattered over black stone. Seiry remembered her father’s words: “There’s no place for weakness here. No mercy. You want to lead? You use the darkness. Make it yours.“ That fire burned in her blood, a legacy carved into her whether she wanted it or not.

“How long’s it been?“ Blattem asked, glancing at Gath, who kept scanning the shadows, always watching, always ready.

“No one from Stone Towers has walked these halls in two generations,“ Gath said. His words hung heavy, the old feud between their clans alive in every syllable.

Seiry slid off her horse, tossing the reins to a stable hand. “Keep your sword close and your tongue honest,“ she said quietly, meant for Gath alone. “Do that, and maybe they’ll treat your clan better this time.“ She didn’t look back as she strode toward the Hold’s inner doors.

Gath trailed her, taking in the fortress. The place was a maze, twists, dead ends, all those spots where a few defenders could hold off an army. Arrow slits cut the walls, and Gath spotted a few hidden doors, too. The whole place screamed old grudges and battles, long before the clans ever tried playing nice and forming the Brotherhood.

They climbed a tight spiral of stairs and burst into a huge hall. A long table dominated the room, chairs set for a dozen or more. Extra seats lined the walls. At the far end, a giant flag blazed with the clan’s crest. Smoke and the scent of roasting meat hung in the air, mixing with the sharper smell of old fire.

Seiry threw her arms wide. “Welcome to the Hall of Elders,“ she called out, her voice echoing off the stone. “Sorry there’s nothing to eat or drink. Didn’t expect to be back, at least not like this.“ She laughed, as if dying at the high seat’s hand was some private joke.

A skinny girl darted from an archway. A handful of staff and elders trailed behind her. She wore black and gray, silver threads glinting at her cuffs and collar. Her skin was pale, almost glowing, and her raven hair spilled wild around her face. When her bright green eyes landed on Gath, her hand shot to the knife at her belt.

“Did the High Seat really send one of them into our home?“ Nardella’s voice cracked like a whip. She half-drew her blade, tiny but fierce. “I won’t back down, and neither should you.“

Gath let out a booming laugh and shed his cloak with a flourish, bowing deep, like she was a queen and he her favorite knight. “Lady Nardella, I’m honored. Stories of your beauty have reached even the Stone Tower. I’m at your service.“ His tone was so smooth even Seiry couldn’t find a lie in it as she stepped closer to her sister, ready to leap between them if she had to.

“Enough with your snake’s tongue,“ snapped one of the elders, fingers tight on the blade at her side. “Why are you here? I expected Blattem with your head, not some jester from Stone Tower.“

Elder Beth rose slowly from her seat, joints stiff but spine straight as an iron rod. Age had thinned her frame but not diminished it. Her hair, once dark, hung in a long braid streaked white and bound with a strip of dried leather. A thin scar split her upper lip, pulling one side into a permanent curl of disdain. The sword at her hip was older than half the warriors in the hall, its grip worn smooth from decades of use.

Her glare could have cut stone. Green eyes, sharp and unclouded, fixed on Gath and did not waver. She did not look like a woman waiting for younger hands to defend her. She looked like someone who had buried husbands and sons and still stood ready to make another grave.

Everyone watched Gath. Nardella’s gaze bounced between her sister and the stranger, not sure what to make of him. The room felt like it might snap in half from all the tension, one wrong word and the whole shaky peace would shatter.

“Elder Beth,“ Gath said, his voice sour with old grudges. “My father died cursing your name. They say your poison turned his heart to stone.“

Beth didn’t flinch. But something flickered in her eyes. “Took me fifty years to put that stubborn fool in the ground. Maybe now my brother’s ghost can rest.“

She let go of her blade. The room breathed again. “Enough. Speak straight. Why’s this ’guest’ in my stronghold?“

Gath kept his hand on his sword, his grin never fading. “I’m here to see Seiry take the high seat, or fall before it. I don’t care which.“ He locked eyes with Seiry, daring her to flinch.

Blattem stepped out from the shadows at the entrance, and just like that, the whole room snapped to attention. He didn’t even have to say a word, his sheer size and the way he carried himself demanded respect. When he finally cleared his throat, you could feel the air shift, everyone waiting. Blattem barely ever spoke. When he did, people listened.

“The High Seat, and our challenger here,“ he said, nodding at Gath, “have called for a trial. Seiry’s task is simple: kill Mindeel, the wizard in King Goudall’s court. If she pulls this off, she proves herself. She claims the High Seat.“ His voice rolled through the hall, deep and sure, landing like a hammer blow. Even the fire seemed to crackle a little louder, as if it cared about the news. Every eye turned to Seiry, wanting her answer.

“Mindeel? You plan to face the ’Thief of Souls’? Are you insane?“ Nardella’s voice cut through the tense air. She stared at her sister, Seiry towered over her, and anyone could see they weren’t born of the same mother. eight years between them, too. Nardella still looked half-girl, still figuring out the kind of power she might one day hold.

“The challenge stands. I’m taking it. That bastard’s going to pay with his life,“ Seiry said, her voice hard as steel. She met her sister’s eyes, fierce and unflinching. Both sisters had a beauty that could stop a man in his tracks, but Seiry’s was all sharp edges and fire. Nardella hadn’t grown into her own yet.

Seiry searched her sister’s face, hoping for a flicker of understanding, or at least some sign that Nardella got just how wide the gap between them had grown. It just hurt. Their father had turned Seiry into something sharp and dangerous, while Nardella got to stay soft, safe inside the house.

They stood there, not saying a word, but everything tense between them. The questions hung in the air, buzzing like angry bees. But Seiry had already decided. She would hunt down the Thief of Souls, the monster who’d butchered their family. The choice pressed down on her, but she’d run out of room for doubt.

Nardella broke the silence first. “I’ll never understand you,“ she muttered, turning her back and walking over to the others. That was it, the line between them, drawn clear as day.

“I need supplies. And another horse. I’m leaving at first light,“ Seiry said, her voice hard.

The horse master leaned in from the doorway. “I’ll have our best steeds ready for you.“

Elder Beth shook her head, not bothering to hide the disappointment. “You can’t just leave the clan now. Your father’s only been dead two weeks.“

“I’m leaving. End of story,“ Seiry shot back, her anger flaring up. Just hearing her father’s name made her want to scream. She hated him, but she’d never let anyone see how deep it went.

Blattem stepped up, steady as ever. “I’m going with her,“ he said. “Someone’s got to keep her alive.“ Like he needed to justify it.

Gath tried to crack a joke, desperate to break the tension. “Well, that’s that. Three of us against the world. Any chance there’s wine? Every dead man deserves a good meal before the end.“ His words just fell flat. Nobody even smiled. The air felt heavy, and a few people glanced at Seiry like she was already halfway gone.

Then someone yelled, “Fest!“ and the whole room jumped at it, finally, something they could rally behind. Cheers bounced off the walls, and Seiry slipped away toward her own chambers. All she wanted was a bath, a little quiet, anything to calm the storm inside her. She’d traveled a lot in her twenty-two years, but this time, leaving everything behind, setting her sights on the high king’s court on the far side of the world, this was different. The road waiting for her would test her in ways she couldn’t even picture yet.

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