Page 1

Chapter One

Haron - 140th year of Ber’s First Reign, 103 years after the fall of Julra

The natural laws of magic are governed by the six Old Gods, their likenesses portrayed as statues in the Pantheon of

Erewen as rulers of this land. It is said that the day Julra fell, black tears streaked the goddess Wira’s face as she

mourned its people’s entry into her deathly embrace. Certainly, the solid foundation of magic was shaken with the

loss of so many talented practitioners to keep its balance.

-"The Tragic History of Julra," by High Scholar Yuret Wend, Year 37 of Ber's First Reign

"Where is Haron Val Toric?"

If the tavern hadn’t been silenced by the heavy wooden door slamming against the wall under the knight’s brutal kick, no one would have understood the question in clumsy Common tongue. Every scruffy and scarred face turned to face the abrupt noise with pints lifted halfway to their mouths and conversations half-spoken. Resparian knights didn’t venture down to the lower sectors very often. The sight was less than a treat, however.

The guest, with lesser manners than an unbroken kisteral, was very plainly a hired guard of a noble Highlan. The gambeson beneath his armor—that looked like it had never seen a battlefield—was dyed a light chartreuse and made from some kind of silky fabric instead of a more practical cotton, and every piece of metal on his person was polished to a high shine. The knight’s helmet was pinned under his elbow to reveal a scowl darkening his craggy face. He didn’t seem particularly happy to be darkening the door of The Hanging Cat. Unfortunately for him, in the lower streets of Gilamorst his kind were not particularly welcome, either.

The stifled air was soon broken with boisterous, drunken guffaws.

I leaned over the bar top and gently shoved the empty glass closer to Gaion, the scruffy old barkeep and owner of the only decent tavern in Gilamorst I’ve found in my five years of living here. Neither of us, along with the rest of the bar, were fazed by the knight’s abrupt presence. He didn’t seem to like that. Hewas probably used to everyone stopping what they were doing to jump to his demands. That kind of expectation would only end in a rude awakening here.

Finally, a barmaid’s voice rose above the howls and bawdy laughter. “There’s no one by that name here, sir.” The lie flowed smoothly from her pink-tinted lips. She had been in the process of clearing a table near the door, stacking the wooden platters on a hand but otherwise not looking his way. Otherwise, she may have been able to avoid his grasp.

“Shutyourmouth, wench!” The knight’s gloved hand snatched out and tangled itself into the voluptuous blonde waves of the woman who answered him. The jolt made her cry out and drop the plates she was bussing back to be cleaned. The sound of them clattering against the stone floor sent a hush around the room. “I wasn’t speaking to the likes of—”

His crude mistake had at least fifteen men shoving back their chairs and grabbing for their swords. No one took kindly to roughing up the ladies, especially the ones that served their beer. The barmaids and escorts served many people in The Hanging Cat, more so for information than anything else. It was an unspoken rule that the men kept their hands to themselves unless invited otherwise. A rule that wasn't shared among many other establishments in Gilamorst.

Gaion slammed two wooden tankards on the bar, calling the attention of the knight as if he’d dropped a gavel. Lucky for him he didn't use the glass ones. They would have shattered under his strong grip. “If anyone would know who was in this bar, it would be those so-called wenches you think so lowly of. If Lota says this Haron isn’t here, they’re not here. Now get your fucking hands off my staff and get out, or I'll be dealin' with you m'self.” His voice rumbled, white brows beneath a wrinkled forehead dropping low over piercing blue eyes.

He was far past his own glory days as a captain in the late king's army, but his stare could still kill at a hundred paces. Anyone sitting in the line of shot shifted slightly, knowing Gaion's ability to drop even the burliest of thugs on their asses. Not looking away from the knight, Gaion shoved the glasses down the smooth bar top, polished with years of service, into waiting hands on his right side. He looked about two seconds from leaping over it with whatever manner of weapon he kept stashed by his feet for rowdy guests.

“There’s a bulletin on the wall you just threw my door into if you have a poster to pin. You’ll only get a response if there’s an award attached.”

Lota thrashed around a bit more and grabbed the hand holding her, twisting it around into a painful angle as she ducked under his arm and shoved the knight away. The move made him howl and swear in pain. He shook the wrenched hand out and flexed his fingers in their plated gloves while throwing a dark glare at her retreating form. The spitting blonde wove through the tables and ducked through the blue curtain covering the doorway to the kitchen.

She was probably going to look for the largest, sharpest butcher’s knife she could find.

The obtrusive knight muttered something to his silent companion hunkering behind him—a young page who’d barely hit puberty and dressed in the same unfortunate colors—who stepped around him carrying a satchel laden with papers, their edges peeking out from beneath the flap as it bulged with the load. He hurried to the bulletin, plastered so heavily with posters it couldn’t be seen beneath them, and struggled to push a pin into the many layers of paper to attach his own.

One of the regulars took pity on his ignorance. “This is why you buy a tankard first, boy!” The scruffy man hefted his emptycup, bottom aimed toward the poster, and slammed the pin through with a heavy hit and droplets of beer flying everywhere.

The boy squeaked, clearly shocked by the method, and practically flew back out the door behind his master.

The knight was not as affected. “The reward is worthwhile, I assure you. The favor of a Highlan is not easily bought, and Highlan Pid will pay most handsomely for his request.”

“I say that about my cunt, but I don’t put a poster up about it!” One of the prostitutes chimed in from my side, causing an uproar of laughter and jeers. She propped a fist on her hip and leaned in menacingly. “Tell your Highlan master the only thing that talks here is coin! And lots of it!”

I kept my head down, face hidden beneath a simple brown hood, but snorted into my own cup, nudging the outspoken woman with my elbow as we laughed together at the knight’s rising ire. Jessella and I had been friends long enough to know she wouldn’t rat me out for some Highlan’s purse. We had also spent enough scandalous nights together, probably in said Highlan’s bed or one of his acquaintances. Nobody’s coin impressed us that much. We shared an interest in the thrill of bedding people we shouldn't.

The boisterous noise of the lively pub kicked up again, effectively dismissing the sour-faced knight and his poor page as they turned to leave as abruptly as they came. His moment of attention had expired in favor of good beer and better conversation.

“Why is someone always busting down my door looking for you, Haron?” Gaion muttered, slapping his wet cloth on the bar beside my elbow before proceeding to clean up sloshed beer. “Do I need to put out posters of my own stating you don’t frequent these parts?”

“I’m waiting to see how many posters they put on that bulletin before realizing someone has already come calling.”

He let loose a gruff laugh. “I wouldn’t give those knights that much credit. They aren’t exactly hired for their brains if y'know my meaning. Most of them are rejects from the royal army.”