At last, Rakhal inclined his head just once. "I will go." He'd ended lives beyond counting, each death justified by the survival of his people. One more. One final strike to end the war. He had to believe this time would be different.
Before the council could exhale, Orkal's staff tapped against the stone floor, sharp as a blade's point. His voice carried, low and rasping, but it cut through the chamber with startling clarity. "The wards of the Maidan are not snares to be taken lightly. Their mages have bound Istrial with fire and iron. If you falter—if they catch you—you will not simply die. You will be caged. Broken. Used as a hostage against your father, against us all. Their mages will take you apart while you live; they have long desired to possess the power of our clan—the shadows, the gift you manifest so easily. Your mother's gift."
Unease rippled through the commanders. Even Kardoc's grin faded to a grim line.
Rakhal turned, the shadows folding closer about him. The familiar burn of shadow-sickness prickled beneath his skin—his mother's gift came with a price, one he paid with each use. His reply was quiet, almost intimate, yet every ear caught it, betraying nothing of the weariness that had been growing inside him with each mission, each kill. "I will not be caught. I have studied their city for weeks. Watched the gates. Walked their alleys unseen. A soldier told us everything—before his screams ended. I know the queen's tower. I know where she sleeps. It will be swift. In and out. The shadows will guide me."
Orkal's eyes lingered on him, the old man's grip tightening on his staff until the wood creaked. At last he inclined his head, though his expression remained troubled.
The council exhaled as one, relief and fear mingling in the sound. Kardoc grinned again, savage pride on his face. The commanders muttered oaths to battle and blood.
But the shaman's eyes glittered with something else: anticipation perhaps, awe, fear, knowing.
Rakhal felt the weight of it, and the weight of what he had just agreed to.
A queen's blood. A kingdom's fate. And shadows that whispered louder than ever, hungry for the kill.
Chapter
Two
The queen's chambers were quiet but for the low crackle of the hearth.
Eliza Ducanis stood at the window, barefoot on the cold stone, the hem of her nightgown brushing her ankles. Though smaller than Istrial's royal palace, the ancient fortress of Istrial Castle—where she had retreated to oversee the eastern front of the war—offered a commanding view of the plains. Beyond the glass, distant fires flickered red against the night. Orc fires. Enemy fires. She could almost taste the sharp, bitter smoke that drifted faintly on the wind.
Three months had passed since her father's death in late autumn. Winter's grip was beginning to loosen its hold on the plains, but the memory of loss remained sharp as ever.
Thankfully, the plains were otherwise quiet. There was no mage fire, no carts piled with bodies being led in a steady stream through the fortress gates.
On other nights, yes, but not tonight.
The reprieve was welcome, but there was something sinister about the sudden stillness.
Behind her, her maid bowed, murmured a goodnight, and closed the door, leaving Eliza alone with silence and echoes. Shepressed her palm against the chilled glass, eyes narrowing at the horizon.
She thought about the never-ending war.
The war. Always the war.
As a child, she had listened to her father speak of border skirmishes with the Varak orcs—arguments over land so barren it hardly deserved the blood spilled over it. She remembered those talks with little patience, thinking them small and distant. But small sparks grew. Sparks became flames, and flames, left untended, became wildfires.
Her father had tried to explain the orcs' territorial nature, their ancient claim to lands humans considered worthless. "They don't think as we do," he'd told her. "Land isn't just property to them—it's identity, history, bloodright." She'd understood his words but not his caution.
Ten years of wildfires. Ten years of blood.
Her father's blood most of all.
The memory cut sharp and deep. She'd tried to patch it over with rage, but the grief inside her was still raw. King Orwald Ducanis had been felled on the battlefield by an orc blade, left broken in the dust of the Varak Plains.
With her father's body barely cold in the tomb, she had abandoned his cautious defense and ordered a scorched earth campaign that drove the orcs back twenty leagues. The mages had balked at first—such use of fire was considered excessive even in war—but she had been merciless in her commands. "Burn everything they love," she'd ordered, "until they understand what it means to take something from me."
The news had been carried back by men with hollow eyes, their silence saying more than words ever could. She had buried him in Taelys, the ancient, abandoned capital, in the field of monarchs, crowned with steel before the body had gone cold. And in her grief, she had sworn vengeance.
Now the crown of Maidan was hers, and with it, the burden of a kingdom's hope.
Eliza turned from the window, crossing the chamber on silent feet. The rugs muffled her steps, though the weight of power made every movement heavy. Her body ached. Her mind was numb.
Her shoulders slumped.
