Heritage of the Ashborn

Before the Breaking

The Blade

Baila held her sword before her face, cutting the space between her eyes as shadows seeped into the metal.

Darkness licked the blade’s edge, dancing like ink in water.

The silver hissed. Then stilled. An insidious smile turned her mouth.

This would be lethal, tipping the entire war in King Vaerin’s favor—for good.

She drew in the dungeon’s dark air, sour with rot and iron.

Across from her, General Dren stood unmoving as his steel-gray eyes remained fixed on the blade with disciplined disinterest.

Her attention shifted to the prisoners. The three young men sat in a puddle of water.

The skin of their wrists grew purple from their bindings, and Baila liked the sounds their teeth made as they chattered uncontrollably in their weak skulls.

Her eyes drew to one whose features were hardened by the dungeons.

His pale bronze skin was barely visible beneath the grime, forming a contrast to the dark bruises that bloomed along his jaw and collarbone.

Baila craved to stick the blade in his shoulder.

She could almost feel the way the steel would slide, then crunch into his soft body.

It would be the perfect way to break Kienna.

“Don’t worry, Jacob. Unfortunately, it’s not for you.”

Jacob looked at her fully, his amber eyes piercing her, sharp and steady despite the cold. His honey hair clung to his face in damp waves.

Footsteps carried King Vaerin to her side, his presence tightening the space around them. Red light burned faintly behind his eyes, the singe of magic never fully dormant. The scar above his lip pulled into a sneer. “No, we have far better plans for Jacob.”

Dren moved without waiting for further instructions. He slicked his long, dark hair back and hauled Jacob to his feet. Jacob stumbled, gasping as Dren shoved him toward the far corner, away from the others.

Vaerin watched him struggle, satisfied. “Bring the rest to the square when you’re finished,” the king said. “General Dren, take Jacob to my chambers. His mother will want to say goodbye.”

Jacob fought weakly, his strength long since leeched from him. As Dren dragged him toward the corridor, Jacob’s screams scraped along the stone wall. “Don’t do this—” The words were snuffed out as Dren yanked him harder, but his desperation echoed long after they were gone.

Baila didn’t follow him with her eyes, remaining solely focused on her next task.

“You know what to do,” Vaerin said, already turning away. “Train them well, but do not let your creatures get out of hand. Until I am free from the wards, our focus is to weaken our enemy. Let the prophecies play for now. I want the wards impaired first. Do not fail me, Daughter.”

The moment his heel crossed the threshold, the dungeon exhaled. Baila studied the remaining men. Their hunched shoulders. Their lowered gazes. The way their bravery had withered now that it meant something.

Sedition, she thought. Always the weak rising against the strong.

They tried to tear River Storm apart. Whispered lies of what lay beyond the barrier. Stirred unrest near the castle, where too many had seen, and too few soldiers had intervened. Dren would have executed them on the spot, but King Vaerin preferred to make examples.

Baila knelt so they could see her clearly. “May the world forgive me for the atrocities,” she murmured. It was not a prayer for them, but for herself. “I send your souls to the leaves. May you find peace there.” The words steadied her.

She didn’t hesitate, and her blade sliced their wrists as if they were nothing but thin parchment.

They screamed as black veins pulsed beneath their skin, shadows flooding their bodies in violent waves.

Their backs arched in perfect unison as their twisted fingers clawed uselessly at the stone.

For a moment, the color in their eyes fought back.

Then it was gone, their pupils swallowing the light entirely.

Baila rose, wiping the blade clean. It was inevitable in the end.