Chapter
One
The war chamber breathed shadows. Flames guttered in iron sconces, hissing and spitting smoke that clung to the vaulted ceiling. The long table at the center of the room bore scars as deep as battlefields, its oak darkened with age, spilled ale, and blood. Weapons leaned against the walls, mute reminders of the countless wars waged by Clan Varak.
It was late winter; the thaw would come, but for now the air bit with cold.
Prince Rakhal stood in silence at the back of the chamber, leaning against the wall, his posture deceptively relaxed, his gaze steady, remaining perfectly still. To the casual eye he might have seemed carved from stone. But the shadows around him stirred like restless spirits, brushing along the edges of his frame, eager to take him into their fold.
To Rakhal, the shadows were familiar and comforting. They were as innate to him as breathing, as life itself. In the history of the Varak, of the shadow orcs, of the ancient lands that cradled their clan, few had possessed an affinity foranakara—the shadow magic—as great as his.
The War Council was gathered. King Draak Karthan, broad-shouldered and scarred, leaned forward on his elbows. Theflickering firelight revealed the ridges left by old wounds: a jaw split in youth, a cheek torn by steel, an eye ringed by a pale scar that spoke of survival against impossible odds. His voice rumbled low and steady, carrying the weight of a ruler who had bled as often as he had commanded.
"The humans hold Istrial now—stone that used to answer orc feet. The Maidan bleed us slowly," Draak said. "Their raids. Their mage fire. Every son we lay into the dust of the Varak Plains." His gaze swept across the commanders. "We kill them, they kill us. And still the stalemate holds. We're getting nowhere. This war has to end."
The words settled like lead over the table.
Prince Kardoc, his firstborn, broke it with a bark of laughter. Tusks gleaming in the firelight, he slammed his gauntleted fist down hard enough to rattle the cups.
"Then we end it, father! Enough of waiting. We march on Istrial itself. Burn the bitch's city to the ground. Tear her heart from her chest and feed it to the wolves."
The commanders growled their agreement, iron voices heavy with bloodlust. General Knuth thumped his chest in approval. Advisor Herkath inclined his head, his eyes gleaming with hungry fire. Even the shaman, Orkal, stroked his long white braids with something close to amusement.
But Rakhal remained silent.
He listened, weighing each word, measuring its truth. Kardoc's rage was fire and fury, but fire burned out fast, and fury could blind a man long before it slew his enemy. His brother had yet to learn.
King Draak raised one scarred hand. The chamber stilled instantly. Even Kardoc held his tongue.
"Eliza Ducanis is not her father," the king said, his voice rumbling like thunder. "Orwald ruled with caution. Eliza ruleswith fire. She throws her mages at us like wildfire in the grass, reckless, relentless. She has no fear. No restraint."
The silence that followed was sharp, like an indrawn breath.
The king's gaze shifted, past the commanders, past Kardoc, settling at last on Rakhal. The weight of it pressed hard.
Rakhal did not lower his eyes. He had long grown accustomed to the way silence grew heavier whenever his name was unspoken but felt. He knew what his father meant to say before the words were formed.
Still, he asked, his voice low, quiet as shadow. "Do what?"
The question slithered into the air, soft but cutting. The commanders shifted uneasily. Herkath cleared his throat, as if to speak, then thought better of it. Even Kardoc's grin faltered.
Shaman Orkal's lips twisted into a knowing smile.
King Draak's face remained carved from stone. Only the barest glint in his scarred eye betrayed what came next.
"Infiltrate the castle," the king said, his voice carrying across the chamber. "Slip into Istrial as only you can. And kill Eliza Ducanis."
An execution, not a battle. In orc tradition, such a death was meant for the honorless—those who sent others to die while remaining safe behind walls. The queen had earned this fate by her own cowardice, sending human mages to burn orc young while she hid in her stone fortress.
No one moved. The torches hissed. Smoke curled. The shadows stretched longer across the walls, leaning toward Rakhal with the seductive promise of death.
Rakhal did not answer at once. He let the silence expand, let it press on the council until they shifted in their seats. The commanders avoided his gaze. The thought of his shadow-magic—of its sheer potency, of what he could do and had done—unnerved them. He knew the names they whispered behind his back: Phantom, Deathbringer, ghost born of shadow.
The shadows rippled eagerly at his heels. They knew what his father demanded, and what kind of blood would be spilled.
The Queen of Maidan. A big prize for the hungry shadows. A worthy one. The new ruler of Maidan had waged a fierce, unrelenting war.
It was time for it to end. Enough blood. Enough killing. One life to save thousands.
