Chapter Two
Xandril
The reach is dying and it’s my fault. My failure.
Standing at the window in the shadow of my ill-gotten throne, I can see it slipping through my fingers—barren hills, abandoned farms, icy fingers of the Wilds reaching out to claim what’s ours.
Months after deposing Farandir, winter’s grasp still shows no signs of loosening.
Our wounds from the battle have healed and scarred, the fallen long-buried, but the fields remain frozen and fallow, our people struggling for every scrap.
Not a blade of grass has grown on those graves.
Taking the throne from the stem-soaked traitor who ruled before slowed the damage, but we haven’t been able to stop it, let alone reverse it.
One failure after another has proven I’m not strong enough to turn the tide, and no amount of regal power can stop the whispers that a twisted beast like me has no right to rule, that the reach is crumbling because a disgraced Wilds-touched bastard wears the crown.
Whether those whispers are from my subjects or my own mind, they sow doubt all the same.
“Are you listening?” Valenar asks from his place hunched over our plans. Plans that I now realize have no hope of succeeding.
How did I ever convince myself I could do this?
Being unstoppable on the battlefield is one thing—being able to inspire loyalty among the lower ranks is hardly a skill when I was born amongst them—but outside the barracks and field tents?
What reason does anyone have to follow me?
I’m a soldier, not a king, and we were fools to think we could trick the throne into thinking otherwise.
My second-in-command exhales heavily, jabbing at the map of our borders. “If the Wilds continue moving at this pace—”
My hands grip the window’s ledge, wood splintering under the force. “You don’t have to remind me.” The words are harsher than I intend, so I add, “I know what’s at stake.”
Val waits a beat, his tail twitching, sweeping the floor at his feet and rustling the dried leaves that gather under the withered throne tree.
“Restoring the reach to its former glory is obviously going to take more than brute strength and force of will,” he says, his voice calm.
“The throne will want to see you’ve been accepted by the people…
To do that and heal the lands will take… finesse.”
“Which is why it should be you on the throne.” The argument is rote at this point, repeated without even thinking. As usual, it falls on deaf ears.
“You are the leader the reach needs,” Valenar insists. “Perhaps once you’re convinced of it, the throne will be too.”
I shift, breaking my gaze from the fields. “You have a better chance convincing the snow to melt.” The gravel in my voice is too close to despair, but Val is quick to counter it.
He steps closer, forcing my eyes to his. “When have I steered you wrong?”
“Let me count the scars,” I muse, getting a chuckle from him.
“Truly, though. I know you don’t believe me, but I’m not fit for the crown. It is your destiny, my friend. Don’t shy from it.”
I grumble under my breath, claws digging deep gouges into the window sill.
“What if it’s too late?” I ask, voicing the concern I’ve been keeping to myself since we started planning our coup against Farandir. It’s always been a possibility that the reach is too far gone for a rebound, but it’s something we’ve left unspoken between us until now.
“It’s not,” Val says firmly, abandoning our plans to join me at the window. “Not yet.”
It’s hard to imagine the frozen wastelands beyond this castle ever returning to the rich and vibrant farmlands that once existed there. With the chill of endless winter seeping deep into my soul, it’s hard to envision the sun shining, even harder to remember its warmth.
“As long as this tree stands, there’s still hope,” he says, a challenge in his feline eyes that dares me to argue.
As worthless as I feel, he’s right. Crownwood still stands; its roots still span the reach. While the canopy is bare, the leaves all dried and gone to dust, the tree is only dormant, waiting for spring to return before sprouting new leaves.
“Come on,” Valenar says, tilting his head away from the window. “Let’s go grab some steel. Your mind always works better when your feet are in the dirt.”
“That’s the best idea you’ve had in a month,” I say, already feeling lighter as we walk in the opposite direction of the throne.
“The best one you’ve heard, you mean,” he teases. “I’ve had one stroke of brilliance after another, you’ve just been too distracted to notice.”
He’s joking, but it hits a little too close to the heart of things. What kind of king can’t even pay attention to his most trusted advisor?
The air outside the keep is sharper than the moist chill that permeates the halls. In the open bailey, it feels like the air is angry for the lack of sun and knows to take it out on me. Each breath makes my chest hurt, knives slicing through my lungs.
I take a deep breath before following Val to the sparring ground.
When we served with the Emerald Wardens together, no matter what post or camp we found ourselves at, the sparring ring was always a beehive of activity.
In my mind, the king’s guards should be just as, if not more, diligent about training and improving than the rank-and-file soldiers, yet when we make our way to the sparring grounds, we find them abandoned.
No clash of steel, no thud of training dummies being pummeled.
It’s deserted.
Val and I exchange a look, wordless understanding passing between us—this will not stand.
“Let’s—”
“No,” I cut him off. He’s going to suggest we spar before I hunt down my worthless guard.
For their sake, he thinks I should expel some of this frustration on a target who won’t take it personally.
As my advisor, he’s probably right. As my best friend, he knows it’s a waste of breath to finish his thought.
“We deal with this now,” I grumble. The Wardens would never show such disrespect, and if the situation at the borders was any less dire, I’d have a company stationed here.
As it is, the Wardens are stretched too thin, and what’s left of the king’s guard—those who survived the coup and didn’t defect in the wake of Farandir’s demise—are merely the undisciplined rabble who answer only to their feckless whims. Men whose sole loyalty lies with their own skin.
It’s a vulnerability I can’t afford with the reach in such a precarious position.
Stalking across the frozen grounds, through the empty armory, there’s no one to greet me, no one to stand in my way.
When I burst into the barracks and find them throwing bones and roughhousing around a roaring fire, my entrance goes unnoticed.
The stench of old ale fills the gaps between body odor and smoke from the hearth.
Upended tankards, blades more rust than steel strewn about, boots untied—it’s worse than I thought.
It’s not until the cold catches up to us that anyone even looks our way.
“Hey, shut the rotted—” The slurred words of the young guard trail off, his eyes widening as his jaw goes slack. The air in the room shifts, tension winding tighter as the guards turn their attention toward me one-by-one.
Val stands back, arms folded, silent.
The fire crackles.
No one moves.
“This is the king’s guard?” I ask, voice booming.
Silence.
“Not a sword drawn. Not a man in armor. You huddle around the fire like grain-fed mice, growing fat and soft, while the reach freezes and the wolf sharpens his claws.”
One of the older guards stands, trying to puff up his chest despite his glassy eyes and wobbly stance.
“With respect, we weren’t told—”
“Do you need orders to act like soldiers?” I bite back.
The older guard stiffens. No reply.
“I’m no fool—you all survived a mad king’s fall. Whether by luck or cowardice, you’ve made it here, but I am not Farandir, and you are not ready to serve under me.”
Another guard opens his mouth, but one sharp look from Val is enough for him to wisely close it again
“But you will be,” I say, equal parts threat and promise.
I turn, heading for the door where fresh snow starts to blow in. “Ten minutes. Full armor. Blades sharp. Outside.”
I stop and look over my shoulder, letting every man in the barracks feel the weight of my gaze.
“Any who don’t show will be stripped of rank. Or skin. I don't care which.”
Silence hangs heavy for a long moment, the tension threatening to boil over. These men are loyal to no one, and for the right price, any one of them might turn on me. If I don’t play this right, that price will drop significantly.
“You heard the king,” Val says, turning to follow me.
“And someone put out that damn fire,” I add as we leave.
My breath fogs as we step into the ruined arena.
What was once a great coliseum grown from Crownwood’s roots is now withered and frozen like the rest of the reach.
Part of the fighting ground is impassable, fallen limbs and piles of crumbled stone blocking it off.
Pale light filters through gray clouds and bare branches while the guards slowly gather around the edges of the fighting ring, none seeming to remember why they’re here.
“What’ll it be today?” Valenar asks from the weapons rack, drawing a pair of curved blades that bear only a trace of rust on the edges.
“Going for blood? I thought this was a friendly match,” I say, one brow raised. Seems like this is less a sparring match and more an exhibition fight.
Val shrugs, a smirk curving one corner of his mouth. “You want to show these sorry sacks what their king is made of, or what?”
My only answer to that is a low grunt as I reach past him for a heavy mace. His eyes widen a fraction, and I test the mace’s balance with a swing that narrowly misses him.
“Save it for the ring,” he mutters, sidestepping me before moving toward the center of the arena, flourishing his dual blades as he loosens up his wrists.