The corner of his mouth twitches. Almost a smile. “Stay put, seamstress.”
The door closes behind him with a heavy thud, and I’m alone in the Iron Warlord’s private domain.
I wait until his footsteps fade completely before allowing myself to truly explore.
The maps on the table draw my attention first. Hand-drawn with incredible detail, showing terrain features I don’t recognize—mountain passes, river crossings, forest roads that wind through wilderness. Supply routes are marked in red ink, patrol paths in blue, defensive positions in green. Recent additions appear in black—fortifications, maybe, or troop movements.
One large map shows the entire region around Ironhold. I trace the roads with my finger, following the route they brought me along three days ago. Finding Red Hollow, just a tiny dot in the vast wilderness that stretches in all directions.
So far from home. So impossibly far.
The distance hits me. Even if I could escape, even if I could somehow break these shackles and slip past the guards, I’d nevermake it home alive. The wilderness would kill me long before I reached familiar territory.
I’m truly trapped here.
The letters catch my eye next, and I move closer despite knowing I shouldn’t pry. The handwriting is bold, confident, but the paper is old—years old, judging by the yellowed edges and the way the ink has faded in places. I don’t read the contents—that crosses a line I’m not ready to cross—but I notice the salutation on the top letter.
“My son.”
Family correspondence. From someone who meant everything to him, judging by how carefully they’re preserved. How reverently they’re stacked. Someone he loved enough to keep their words close even after...
Even after they were gone.
The thought comes unbidden, but I know it’s true. These aren’t recent letters. These are memories made physical, grief given form.
I move to the weapons on the walls next, studying the collection with professional interest. Each piece is perfectly maintained, oiled and sharpened to razor keenness. I can see the nicks and scratches that speak of real combat, real blood spilled. These weapons have stories written in steel and iron.
The broken sword hilt on the mantle draws me back to it. I approach it carefully, studying the craftsmanship. The silver and black metal is worked in patterns that must have taken a master smith months to complete. The wolf heads carved into the pommel are so detailed, I can see individual teeth, individual strands of fur. This wasn’t just a weapon—this was a work of art.
I reach toward it without thinking, then stop myself. This isn’t mine to touch. These aren’t my memories to explore.
But the broken hilt speaks to me anyway. Tells me about loss, about something precious that couldn’t be saved. About keeping the pieces when the whole is gone.
I understand that now.
The door opens, making me jump guiltily away from the mantle. Vlorn enters with Hadrun close behind, both of their faces grim in the firelight.
“Find anything?” Vlorn asks, and for a moment, I think he means my exploration of his private space. My cheeks flush hot.
But he’s talking to Hadrun, who shakes his scarred head grimly.
“The previous guards have vanished,” Hadrun reports without preamble. “Gone from their posts, quarters empty, personal effects missing. They didn’t just abandon their duty—they fled.”
My blood chills. The guards who were supposed to protect me, who witnessed someone marking my door, who allowed the assassin access to my corridor—they’re gone.
“How long?” Vlorn’s voice is deadly calm.
“Sometime between midnight and dawn. Long enough to be well clear of the fortress.”
“Or long enough to be silenced.” Vlorn moves to the windows, checking each lock personally with methodical precision. His movements are controlled, professional, but I see the fury underneath. The violation of trust. “What about the arrows?”
“Clan-made. Specifically, from our own fletcher—I checked the markings personally. The arrowheads came from our forge, using our iron, our techniques.” Hadrun’s scarred face is tight with anger and something else. Something that looks like alarm. “Whoever did this has been planning it for weeks. Maybe longer.”
This wasn’t opportunistic—this was deliberate, long-term, carefully coordinated. Someone has been working to undermine Vlorn’s rule from within, using his own people, his own resources.
“How many others?” I ask quietly, not sure I want to hear the answer.
“Unknown.” He moves to the weapons on the walls, selecting a long dagger and checking its edge with practiced ease. The blade gleams in the firelight, sharp enough to split hairs. “But this wasn’t a single orc acting alone. The coordination, the inside knowledge, the resources...” He slides the dagger into his belt with smooth precision. “This is organized rebellion.”
