My jaw clenches hard enough to make my teeth ache. The ceremonial shackles I placed on her wrists were supposed tomark her as mine, under my protection. But marks of ownership mean nothing if I can’t enforce them, and every failed attack makes me look weak to warriors who follow strength above all else.
“Casualties?” The word comes out rougher than intended.
“None, Warlord. The intruder was taken alive.” Korvin’s relief is visible. He knows what happens when my people are hurt on my watch.
“Where?”
“Corridor outside her chamber. Malthak and Lorun have him secured.”
My boots strike stone with measured beats as I climb toward the tower, taking the spiral stairs three at a time. The narrow passage forces me to slow despite my urgency, and every second stretches toward catastrophe.
If they’ve hurt her—if she’s lying in a pool of blood because I wasn’t there to prevent it?—
The thought cuts off sharply. I can’t afford such thinking when lives depend on clear decisions. But the fear remains, coiled in my chest and demanding satisfaction.
The sound of my ascent echoes off the curved walls, announcing my approach to anyone with ears to hear. Let them listen. Let them know the Iron Warlord comes hunting.
I reach the corridor where her chamber sits, and relief crashes through me. Two of my most trusted warriors—Malthak and young Lorun—kneel beside a struggling figure they’ve pinned to the stone floor. The intruder wears dark clothes that would blend with shadows, but now he’s exposed under the torchlight.
More importantly, there’s no blood on the stones. No signs of violence beyond the capture itself. No indication that the assassin reached his target.
Zoraya is alive.
The relief is so intense, it’s almost painful, followed immediately by rage that someone dared make another attempt. The fury builds in my chest, demanding outlet, requiring satisfaction.
I force my breathing to remain steady, my expression to show nothing but cold calculation. These warriors watch my every reaction, looking for signs of weakness or favoritism that might be exploited later.
“Strip the hood,” I order, my voice carrying casual authority that makes smart warriors obey without question.
Malthak jerks the dark fabric away with efficient brutality, revealing a face I recognize. The shock hits me, followed by rage so pure, it threatens to overwhelm rational thought.
Bren Stonecutter. Barely twenty summers old, one of the supply runners who carries messages between the fortress and outlying settlements. I’ve spoken to him personally a dozen times, commended his reliability, trusted him with sensitive information about patrol routes and supply schedules.
His face streams with sweat despite the mountain cold, and his eyes dart between my warriors. But underneath the terror, I see something else that makes my blood run cold.
Defiance. The kind of stubborn hatred that would rather die than yield, that views capture as a temporary setback rather than final defeat.
He’s not just terrified. He’s disappointed that he failed.
“Bren,” I speak his name with quiet menace, and watch him flinch, “how long have you been playing both sides?”
No answer beyond heavy breathing and the desperate calculation of cornered prey.
I begin to circle him slowly, letting my boots ring against stone with each deliberate step. The sound echoes off the narrow walls, multiplying until it seems armies approach from alldirections. Bren’s breathing grows more ragged with each circuit I complete around his kneeling form.
“Who sent you?” I keep my voice soft, conversational. The kind of tone I use when discussing the weather or the quality of ale. The kind that makes smart warriors check their weapons and pray they’re not the target of my attention.
His jaw works, muscles standing out beneath sweat-slicked skin, but no words emerge. Only a thin whining sound that might be the beginning of a plea or a prayer to gods who stopped listening to his kind long ago.
I stop directly in front of him, close enough that he has to crane his neck back to meet my eyes. Close enough that he can see the fury burning in them, the promise of what happens to those who threaten what’s mine.
“Let me explain how this works,” I continue in that same pleasant tone. “You were caught outside her door with a blade in your hand. That makes you either an assassin or a fool. Either way, you’re going to tell me who sent you.”
Several guards have gathered at the ends of the corridor, drawn by the commotion but keeping their distance. They know what I’m capable of when someone threatens what I protect.
“The only question,” I continue, drawing my belt knife and examining its edge in the torchlight, “is whether you tell me now, while you still have all your pieces attached, or later, after I’ve started removing them.”
The blade gleams in the dancing flames, honed to razor sharpness and thirsting for blood. I’ve used it for interrogation before, know exactly how much pressure to apply, which cuts cause the most pain with the least permanent damage.
