I slide off the bed silently, awl gripped so hard, my knuckles go white.
The guards are still talking at the end of the hall—I hear their low voices, unconcerned, as if nothing is happening.
They know someone’s at my door.
They’re letting it happen.
The handle rattles again. More insistent this time.
I move closer to the door and press my ear against the wood.
Breathing. Heavy. Deliberate. On the other side.
Then a low scrape. Metal on iron. A blade being drawn and dragged down the door in a slow, deliberate scratch.
A muttered curse in orcish. Male voice. Deep. Frustrated.
The footsteps retreat quickly. Moving back down the corridor.
Gone.
I stand frozen, awl clutched in my fist, staring at the door.
The guards’ conversation continues unchanged. They didn’t stop whoever that was. Didn’t even pretend to notice.
Who was that? And why are the guards helping them?
I move back to the bed but I don’t lie down. I sit with my back against the headboard, awl in my lap, and keep my eyes on the door.
Sleep doesn’t come.
FOUR
VLORN
Dawn breaks cold over Ironhold, and I haven’t slept.
The War Hall waits—a cavern of black stone carved into the mountain’s heart. Braziers burn along the walls, casting everything in shades of amber and shadow. The massive iron table at the center is already littered with maps, supply reports, patrol logs.
Evidence of our slow bleeding.
I arrive before my captains, as I do every morning. Survey the damage in solitude before I have to show strength in front of my warriors.
Three supply caravans have vanished in the past month. Gone without a trace, no survivors, no bodies. Just empty roads and abandoned wagons.
Patrols returning bloodied or not returning at all. Five warriors lost last week. Seven the week before.
Weapon shipments arriving with broken blades, cracked hafts, sabotaged leather. Subtle enough to pass initial inspection but deadly in combat.
We are being destroyed from within.
And I have no proof of who the culprit is. Accusation is deadly. I have to be sure.
Footsteps echo in the corridor—my captains arriving. I straighten, rolling my shoulders back, and let my face settle into the mask I wear for them. Unshakable. Unbreakable. The Iron Warlord who fears nothing.
They file in one by one. Hadrun first, reliable as sunrise. Then the others: Gorak, Thraz, Korvin. War Captains who’ve served for years, who’ve bled beside me, who I should be able to trust.
Should.
