My boots pounded against the uneven path, scattering gravel, sending echoes through the forest. The wind stirred the branches overhead, the only sound besides my labored breathing.
The Viori were supposed to offer freedom for Lirien’s oppressed and desperate. For my parents, it had been the only choice. Lirien law dictated that twins be murdered at birth, thanks to the Rúna that wove all fates. Legends held that the Rúna destined one twin for goodness and the other for evil—but no one knew which was which.
My parents had chosen exile over watching their children be killed. Free, Unbound, and away from Lirien’s oppression.
Supposedly.
Seth had shaken my trust in the Viori, and powerlessness pressed down on me. Esme, my family—there was nothing I could do.
I peered through the branches at the moon, its silver light spilling across the forest like a distant promise—a reminder of how far Esme was, and how far I’d have to go to bring her back.
The crisp air sent a shiver through me, but I straightened my shoulders, letting the cold sharpen my resolve.
I can follow Madoc and Father to the border.
I’d need to be careful. One misstep, and Father would send me back, or worse, Seth would find me first. I’d pack light—just enough to keep pace without being noticed. A blade, a spell book, and enough food to reach the border. Once there, I’d be on my own, where even the shadows of the forest couldn’t promise safety.
Either way, I wasn’t staying behind.
Chapter 3
Rykr
“Again.” Dalric scowled at me, his sword gleaming under the pale light of the Rookery. Sweat trickled down his brow, catching on the hard line of his jaw.
I swiped my damp face with my forearm, golden hair sticking to my skin. “You’re exhausted.”
“Am I?” Dalric grinned, shifting his stance. “Or was I just tiring my opponent, waiting for him to grow overconfident?”
“Careful, your wit’s sharper than your sword,” I shot back, though I couldn’t stop my lips from twitching into a smile.
Dalric had a knack for making me second-guess myself. His skill wasn’t just in his swordplay—it was in his ability to outthink and manipulate.
“Dalric’s right,” Thorne called from the sidelines, arms crossed. His voice carried easily over the din of the training hall. “If you’re aiming to lead your own unit this year, you’d better prove you’ve still got some fight left. Getting a bit old, aren’t you?”
This line of ribbing wasn’t new. Because of my Seal and my age, I’d trained and lived in the Regulation Barracks since my arrival—despite not being a soldier. Unlike my friends, who commanded units, I’d spent every day of the last two years training with younger candidates.
Warlord Ellison hadn’t known what to do with me when I’d shown up at his doorstep two years ago with the king’s orders in hand.
Magnus ceased to be my father that day.
Ellison was the only one here who knew my identity. Leather bracers concealed my wrists, leading no one to question my lack of a Bloodbinding mark. The Seal visible on my neck convinced them I was Pendaran anyway—as did the speed at which I’d advanced through my training.
“You hard of hearing now, too?” Thorne said.
“Hilarious.” I lowered the face shield on my helmet. “Careful, or I’ll leave him to spar with you next.”
Dalric circled me, his footfalls light on the sparring platform. In the background, the clang of steel and the grunts of soldiers filled the air, mingling with the sharp tang of sweat. I adjusted my grip on my sword, watching for his next move. He was quick—too quick for someone supposedly tired.
He lunged, a sudden strike aimed at my side. I parried, our blades ringing sharply, but his momentum didn’t slow. A second blow came, then a third.
“Son of a whore,” I muttered, stepping back. “You have been holding back.”
Dalric’s teeth flashed in a grin beneath his helmet. “What can I say? I like making you work for it.”
“Allowing me to win won’t do me any favors at the commander test.”
“You’re Sealed.” Dalric shrugged. “It’s a foregone conclusion they’re foaming at the mouth to have you as a commander.”
