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.”
I lunged and narrowly missed the leather of his vest.
Dalric spun, light on his feet, his sword slashing past me as I ducked. “You spent too many days at the harvest feasts.” He winked, then called to Thorne, “He’s sluggish. I told you not to take him to the dueling pits.”
Thorne bit into an apple, watching with mild amusement. “He won me a year’s pay. Best investment I’ve ever made.”
“Great.” I deflected another blow. My muscles burned, the strain of earlier rounds catching up with me. Dalric pressed his advantage, damn him.
He lunged again, and I ducked, narrowly avoiding his blade. He had me near the edge of the platform—too close for comfort.
Then I saw my opening. With a sharp upward slash, I drove him back a step. Before he could recover, I tossed my sword into the air, flipping over him in a single smooth motion. I caught the hilt as it fell, the movement instinctive.
Dalric laughed, lowering his sword slightly. “Theatrics won’t win you a battle.”
“No, but they’ll win me this match,” I said, driving a final strike toward his legs. He stumbled back, conceding the point.
I smirked and bowed. “Victory. Again.”
Thorne chuckled, tossing his apple core aside. “Cocky bastard. One good night at the pits, and he thinks he’s invincible.”
Dalric pulled off his helmet, his golden hair plastered to his forehead. “You’re lucky I don’t have the energy to throttle you right now.” He scowled, though humor glinted in his eyes. “I swear, you’re more trouble than you’re worth, Rykr.”
I removed my own helmet, letting the cool air hit my face. A faint smile tugged at my lips. These moments—however fleeting—made the endless days of training worthwhile.
“You cursed yourself with all that saving your energy talk,” Thorne said, clapping Dalric on the shoulder. “My father always said, ‘The silent enemy is the most dangerous one.’”
“That explains your ineffectiveness,” Dalric quipped, setting his sword on the platform. “You never shut up.”
“Rykr Westhaven!” a deep voice interrupted us. “Warlord Ellison requests you at headquarters.”
I turned as one of the warlord’s officers approached. Thorne scowled. The Regulation soldiers had about as much patience for the officers as I did—most came from wealthy or noble families whose influence had secured their rank.
In that way, the Bloodbinding kept the realms balanced.
Rich or poor, no one could buy a gods-granted gift.
Strong lineages increased the chances of being born with a realm’s craft, but even that guaranteed nothing.
The magic imbued into humans at the start of the Fourth Age, when the gods had abandoned direct intervention, was unruly and unpredictable.
I’d seen it here—noblemen longing for the powers they hadn’t been born with.
Which was why I could never tell my friends I was Prince Calix. Or Ederyn.
They would see me as an interloper who’d manipulated his way into mastering their realm’s craft.
The warlord’s officer looked coolly between Dalric and me. “Which one of you is Westhaven?”
“I am.” My lips twitched. “Don’t tell me you think I look like this sorry hagspawn.”
Dalric laughed. The irony was, we did resemble each other. He could have passed for my brother, which was unusual for a Pendaran. His mother had been Ederyn, though, which explained the looks.
Thorne, on the other hand, looked every inch a Pendaran warrior—dark hair, intimidatingly broad with massive, well-muscled arms and legs. He also wore a berserker bearskin cloak, regardless of the weather.
Dalric had suggested drunkenly once that Thorne might even be a shapeshifter.
The officer inspected us. “You won’t have time to clean yourself up. He’s expecting you in ten minutes.”
I watched him go, narrowing my eyes.
Something about him was … off.
“What’d you do this time?” Dalric asked with a grin.
I raised a brow. “Who says I did anything?”
“When was the last time Warlord Ellison called you for a private chat?” Thorne asked Dalric, peering over at me.
Dalric shrugged. “Never.”
True enough. Most Regulation soldiers, even unit commanders, never met with the warlord. I, on the other hand, had met with him dozens of times. He probably has news from my father.
I kept my face neutral. “That’s probably because of your stench.”
“You sowrutter.” Dalric shook his head. “You’re confusing me with that bear.” He pointed at Thorne.
We left the din of the Rookery and exchanged our training swords for our personal ones at the entrance. I’d blackened my sword’s hilt when I’d arrived from Ederyn to make it less obvious. A Pendaran with an excellent blade wouldn’t raise suspicion, but a gold-hilted sword would.
Outside, the brisk air hinted at the coming winter. The leaves had begun changing a month earlier, not that it mattered here in Pendara. Once harvest ended, any lingering warmth would vanish. Pendara, the northwesternmost realm, claimed the icy mountains Ederyn hadn’t wanted.
After two years here, I understood why Pendaran soldiers made up the bulk of the army.
Their realm was devoted to warcraft, and they could outlast nearly all other Liriens in harsh elements.
Other realms had soldiers, but only the Askaris of Doba, near the Great Wasteland’s deserts, knew such extremes.
Unlike Pendarans, though, most Dobans were peaceful scribes and scholars.
“Where are you two going?” I asked as Thorne and Dalric flanked me on the path.
Thorne squinted, amused. “To find out what the hell you did.”
I smirked and didn’t argue. They wouldn’t be admitted to Warlord Ellison’s quarters anyway. Would Ellison want to discuss my upcoming departure?
My father had ordered me home in a few weeks. I planned to request command of a Regulation unit. I also expected my father to remove the Seal … though I wasn’t sure I wanted that anymore.
I had no wish to return to being Prince Calix Warrick.
The Seal had honed my warcraft powers—I didn’t want to lose them now. Though I missed the other powers I’d possessed before my father gave me the Seal, my training had changed me. No more accidental fires. No more latent simmering at the edge of my veins. No magic I couldn’t control.
In truth, no magic at all.
We hurried in silence toward headquarters, following the path that wound near the forest. Regulation soldiers joked that Cairn Hold’s training grounds were so close to the Dreadwood to serve as a buffer between Lirien and the monsters rumored to live there.
Jokes aside, they weren’t wrong.
The Dreadwood was for the lawless. Monsters—human and beasts alike—dwelled there. No one who entered came out alive. The forest was forbidden. The fortress at Cairn Hold had been built after the fucking Viori began their raids several hundred years ago, meant to safeguard the Pendaran border.
Even the soldiers rarely ventured from the path.
Light filtered through the brilliant gold- and red-leaved trees, dappling onto mosses and twisting vines. Beautiful, really.
Hardly the nightmare legends spoke of, but I restrained a shudder. The only time I had set foot inside the forest, near Doba’s border, it hadn’t gone well. I didn’t want to remember that now.
We were halfway to headquarters when the forest went unnaturally quiet.