Prologue
Xandril
The determination of my loyal men sends a surge of pride and gratitude through me. We stand bloodied and exhausted, the clash of steel and shouts of battle closing in behind us, leaving only a moment to catch our breaths and prepare for our final stand.
I’ve lost count how many times I wished it wouldn’t come to this, that the king I serve and the land I treasure could overcome this corruption and decay, but the time for wishing is over. It’s time for action. Jaw clenched, smoke stinging my nose, I face my company of Wardens for what might be the last time.
“The king may be in a sorry state, but we can’t underestimate him while he holds power over the reach,” I say, making sure to project confidence. These men trust me with their lives, with their futures, and I will no doubt fail some of them. Years on the battlefield have taught me that I’ll fail even more of them if I show a sliver of uncertainty.
“Stick to the plan. Watch for our signals,” I say with a nod to my second-in-command, Valenar. “Take a moment to petition your gods, seek their blessings, or make your peace.”
The men break out into murmurs and invocations while I steel my nerves.
“You ready?” I ask Val. I’m sure he’s able to see through my mask of calm, but there’s no shadow in his eyes to mirror the reservations in mine.
He smirks, rolling his shoulders like he’s shaking off a weight only he can feel. “You know me well enough by now—I never take the easy way out.”
“It should be you,” I say under my breath.
“Not this again…”
“You truly think the reach will be better served with deformed bastard on the throne than you?”
He scoffs. “You may not see it, but you’re exactly what this reach needs.” No matter how many times we circle the topic, he refuses to bend. It’s not like him to be so rigid, but he wouldn’t even entertain the idea of claiming the throne for himself. It’s never even been a question as far as he’s concerned.
Reaching into his coat, he pulls out a piece of parchment, folded and sealed with wax. “If things go wrong for me…” he says under his breath, passing the letter to me. “Get this to my family. It’ll explain how to find them.”
I stare at the letter, fighting the urge to crumple it. Val’s never talked about his family—I don’t even know what reach he’s originally from—so I don’t take this lightly, but I can’t do this without him.
Nostrils flaring, I tuck the parchment into my belt and shake my head. “I’ll hold onto it, but don’t expect me to deliver it. You’re making it out, Val. Whether you like it or not.”
The pause between us is heavy enough to bring an army to its knees.
With a signal to my men, I ready my sword. “It’s time.”
I’ve rehearsed this march to the throne room so many times, I’m sure I could do it in my sleep, yet every turn and fork brings with it a flash of hesitation. Magic hangs heavy in the air, and there are suspiciously few guards around to slow our advance. We’ve studied their numbers and movements long enough that I know the small group we encountered at the gate is far from all the resistance we should encounter.
At last, we see why. The bulk of the king’s guard is posted in the hall outside the throne room, crowded shoulder to shoulder, their shields forming a wall between us and our goal.
“For the reach!” Valenar cries, leading the charge into the fray. He’s precise, surgical in the way he picks off one weak link, then another, his blade carving gaps through the front lines for me and my wardens to push through.
Valenar’s tactical strikes help, but the resistance is fierce. I block one blow, then another, advancing two steps for every one they push me back. This is where my years of battle-hardened experience outweighs the endless drills the royal guard perform. These guards know how to fight, but they have never seen the blood of their brothers and sisters spilled before them. It gives us the edge we need to disrupt any cohesion they might have had.
“Go!” Val shouts. “We’ll handle these. Get to Farandir!”
For a fraction of a breath, I hesitate, his letter suddenly burning hot against my waist. Then he’s turned away, already locking blades with another guard.
“Forward!” I call for my men. It takes half a dozen of us to batter the door down, splinters exploding into the throne room ahead of us.
We stand frozen for an instant, the shock of seeing the corrupted ruins of the throne room affecting us all. The thronetree, once a symbol of power for the entire reach, stands gray and withered, roots pulsating with dark energy. The scent of decay hangs heavy in the air, and a noxious haze mixes with the unnatural cold. Are we too late? Has it rotted beyond saving?
I take the first steps forward, each breath a puff of mist. The once-great king is slumped on his throne, eyes sunken, sharp bones pushing against skin stretched too thin. Black veins spider over his skin, and lifting his head seems to be an effort. His hollow gaze meets mine, and the air crackles with raw, untamed magic.
“It’s over, Farandir,” I announce, voice steady and cold. “Surrender, and your death will be quick.”
Farandir exhales a rattling breath, hands trembling as his gaunt face twists into a sneer. “You think you can take what’s mine?” he asks, his commanding voice laced with malice. “This land will rot before it bows to the likes of you.”
The throne tree shudders, and the room rumbles violently as the few remaining leaves fall around me, crumbling to ash. Dark, corrupted roots shoot up from the ground, twisting and writhing, closing in to surround my men. The miasma thickens, decay clogging my senses.
