PROLOGUE
Three Winters Ago
Year 97, 9th Era
Secret Cavern, Ridge Province
“Best behavior, Sigvid.” King Thrain hisses at his brother. The brutal wind of the Ridge Province whips his thick, chestnut hair around his angular face.
Sigvid’s only response is a dark, bitter chuckle. His younger brother never trusted him, and it's funny as he shares a similar sentiment.
The Thordsson brothers dismount in the pale moonlight, tugging their thick wool, hooded cloaks around their muscled bodies to conceal their faces.
As promised to this mysterious patron, they are alone sans a pair of horses for travel. Riding north into the Ridge seemed riskier after the sudden and mysterious death of their father, not four moon cycles prior and in the same nation.
Confronting the brothers is a low-hanging cave—a common enough sight in the craggy, mountainous Ridge territory. At least they are not climbing a damn mountain tonight.
I will take the treacherous forests overlooking the sea any day.
Sigvid grumbles his internal distaste for the neighboring province to the north.
A light flickers inside, but the cavern's curvature conceals any inhabitants.
How convenient.
“I assume we enter without provocation? He did not specify precisely where to meet.” Thrain turns to him with a raised eyebrow.
Sigvid is not fearful of this encounter with the Ridge Lord, only annoyed at their summons like they are errand boys.
And the Thordsson brothers are far from the type of men one can beckon on a whim.
“King Ceowald, or one of his other Ridge lords, murdered Father. You honestly believe this one will be any different?” Sigvid snarls.
“You loathed Father.” Thrain’s laugh drove into his chest like a stake—condescending ass.
“I figured you were thrilled not to have him breathing down your neck anymore.” Thrain ties his horse to the trunk of a thin tree.
Sigvid grits his teeth.
No, he did not hate his father.
Nevertheless, he is relieved the man is dead. His passing did nothing to alleviate Sigvid's boiling fury at being denied his birthright: Kingship of the Salt Province.
As he studies the cavern entrance, he cannot decide the direction of his outrage. The Ridge or his father, the late King Thord.
“If the Ridge lord betrays us, then we cut his throat.” Sigvid tenderly strokes the handle of one of his axes. The shaft is as smooth as a stone from constant use and etched with protection runes.
He never left anything to chance.
Thrain’s gaze focuses on everything but the opening to their destination. Those brown eyes, much like their mother’s, were no doubt scanning the area for a trap. While a centuries-old truce among all three Provinces may exist, neither of the brothers felt comfortable slipping into Ridge territory in the dead of night.
At last, they steel themselves and plunge inside. Sigvid rolls his broad shoulders. The tightness of the narrow cave settles onto the wide girthsof their shoulders as they slip into the smooth entrance with glittering emeralds embedded into the gray stone. He ducks his head, following Thrain across a rickety wooden bridge until the crackling of a roaring campfire is heard deeper inside the cavern.
A lone, hooded figure leans against a stalagmite—their secret contact: Lord Leto.
And at his side is a bulging sack the size of a twenty-pound potato bag. The protrusions straining against the closely woven fabric are irregular and significantly smaller than a vegetable. A twisted smile forms along Sigvid’s bearded face.
They are about to be paid.
