The conspiracy runs deeper than just Hadrun. Multiple captains, multiple levels of betrayal. Vlorn is surrounded by enemies who wear the faces of friends, trapped in a web of treachery that’s been years in the weaving.
I have to warn him. Have to get word to him somehow before?—
My foot hits a soft obstacle that wasn’t there before.
I spin around and slam directly into a massive chest armored in black leather. Hands close around my arms before I can react, lifting me off my feet with casual strength that speaks of violence as a profession.
A guard. Posted outside the meeting to watch for exactly the kind of interference I represent. He must have been stationed in one of the side passages, moving to intercept me the moment I got too close to the conspiracy.
“Caught a little mouse,” he rumbles, his voice carrying the kind of casual brutality that makes smart people step carefully around him.
My sewing awl flashes from my belt in a desperate strike aimed at his throat, but he’s ready for resistance. His gauntleted hand catches my wrist and twists until I cry out, the weapon clattering to the stone floor with a sound that seems impossibly loud in the enclosed space.
“Vlorn!” I scream his name with all the breath in my lungs, hoping desperately that he’s somewhere close enough to hear over the sounds of battle. “Vlorn, Hadrun is?—”
The guard’s other hand clamps over my mouth, cutting off the warning mid-word. His palm tastes of leather and old blood, muffling my struggles as he drags me backward toward the lit chamber.
The voices inside cut off abruptly as we reach the doorway. Then Hadrun’s weathered face appears, taking in the scene with calculating eyes that hold no surprise at all.
He knew I was out there. Expected me to investigate, planned for this exact scenario.
“Bring her in,” he says calmly, as if capturing the warlord’s protected woman is just another item on his evening’s agenda.
The guard hauls me into the chamber and throws me against a stone pillar with enough force to drive the breath from my lungs. Pain explodes across my back as I hit the rough surface, and I slide down, gasping while the enemy scouts melt back into the shadows where their faces can’t be clearly seen.
Operational security. Even in the heart of a conspiracy, they maintain discipline.
Hadrun approaches with deliberate slowness, savoring the moment. His scarred features hold satisfaction and darker pleasure.
“Ever where you shouldn’t be, little seamstress.” He crouches to bring himself to my eye level, voice oily with mock concern. “Curiosity was bound to be your downfall. Did you really think you could wander the fortress freely without consequences?”
The words hit hard, but not because of their threat. Because of what they reveal about the depth of surveillance I’ve been under. How long has he been watching me? How many of my movements, my conversations, my growing feelings for Vlorn have been catalogued for use against us?
“Did you enjoy your kiss with the Iron Warlord?” The question comes out casual, conversational, but it lands between my ribs. “Such a touching display of weakness. I was beginning to wonder if he’d ever allow himself such vulnerability.”
The blood drains from my face. He was there. Saw everything that happened between Vlorn and me, cataloged it for future useagainst both of us. The most private, precious moment we’ve shared has become ammunition in this conspiracy.
“You’re his most trusted captain,” I whisper, the betrayal still too large to fully comprehend. “He believes in your loyalty. Calls you brother.”
“His father believed in mine too.” Hadrun’s smile holds no warmth, only the satisfaction of successful deception. “Right up until I opened the gates for the assassins who ended his pathetic life.”
The words hit me. Not just current treachery, but historical conspiracy stretching back years. The death of Vlorn’s father—the loss that shaped him into the man he became, the grief that still drives him—was orchestrated by the very person he trusts most.
“You killed his father.” The words come out as accusation and horror combined.
“I arranged his death,” Hadrun corrects with the precision of someone who takes pride in his work. “There’s a difference. I simply provided intelligence about his movements, his guards, his weaknesses. The actual killing was done by professionals from outside the clan.”
The offhand way he discusses murder makes my stomach lurch, but underneath the revulsion burns rage. Not just for the betrayal itself, but for what it’s done to Vlorn. The way it’s shaped him into someone who trusts carefully and loves even more carefully, someone who carries the weight of his father’s expectations.
Hadrun draws a curved blade from his belt, the steel gleaming in the lamplight as he tests its edge with casual expertise. “The old warlord never understood the changing nature of power. He thought strength was enough, that tradition and honor could stand against gold and political necessity.”
He traces the blade under my chin with deliberate slowness, the edge cold against my throat. “Vlorn makes the same mistake. Thinks you’re his salvation when you’re really just his leash. Oryx offers considerable gold for your capture, but the real prize is watching his perfect control crumble when he realizes how completely he’s been deceived.”
The blade’s edge presses closer, and I force myself not to flinch despite the terror racing through me. “He’ll know you betrayed him. When I don’t return, when he finds this room?—”
“When he finds your body, he’ll assume the saboteurs killed you during their raid on the supply vaults.” Hadrun’s voice carries the patience of someone explaining simple concepts to a child. “His rage will make him careless. His grief will cloud his judgment. And when Oryx’s final assault comes at dawn, the great Iron Warlord will fall because he chose sentiment over strategy.”
The plan is elegant in its cruelty. Not just my death, but the way my death will be used to destroy the man I’ve come to love. The way they’ll turn his feelings for me into the weapon that brings down everything he’s built.
