Chapter 4
FOUR
VLORN
Dawn breaks cold over Ironhold, and I haven’t slept.
The War Hall waits—a cavern of black stone carved into the mountain’s heart. Braziers burn along the walls, casting everything in shades of amber and shadow. The massive iron table at the center is already littered with maps, supply reports, patrol logs.
Evidence of our slow bleeding.
I arrive before my captains, as I do every morning. Survey the damage in solitude before I have to show strength in front of my warriors.
Three supply caravans have vanished in the past month. Gone without a trace, no survivors, no bodies. Just empty roads and abandoned wagons.
Patrols returning bloodied or not returning at all. Five warriors lost last week. Seven the week before.
Weapon shipments arriving with broken blades, cracked hafts, sabotaged leather. Subtle enough to pass initial inspection but deadly in combat.
We are being destroyed from within.
And I have no proof of who the culprit is. Accusation is deadly. I have to be sure.
Footsteps echo in the corridor—my captains arriving. I straighten, rolling my shoulders back, and let my face settle into the mask I wear for them. Unshakable. Unbreakable. The Iron Warlord who fears nothing.
They file in one by one. Hadrun first, reliable as sunrise. Then the others: Gorak, Thraz, Korvin. War Captains who’ve served for years, who’ve bled beside me, who I should be able to trust.
Should.
The room stinks of sweat and old blood and smoke—the smell of warriors who’ve been drilling since before dawn. Leather creaks as they shift weight. Hands rest on weapon hilts—casual, but ready.
Thraz is the last to enter. His eyes meet mine for a fraction of a heartbeat before sliding away. His tusks gleam in the brazier light. He positions himself at the far end of the table, closest to the door. Escape route secured.
I watch him take his place and say nothing.
“Report,” I order, voice cutting through the silence.
Hadrun steps forward. “Another patrol hit last night. Eastern pass, near the old quarry. Three dead, two wounded. Attackers knew exactly where they’d be.”
“How?”
“Patrol routes are decided at morning briefing. Someone’s leaking information.”
The table goes silent. Warriors shift weight, glance at each other. Gorak’s hand drifts to his axe haft. Malthak crosses his arms over his scarred chest.
“An inside leak,” Malthak says slowly. Old bastard with more scars than skin. “You’re accusing one of us?”
“I’m stating facts.” Hadrun’s voice doesn’t waver. “Someone is feeding intel to our enemies. Someone with access to command briefings.”
More muttering. Accusations brewing beneath the surface.
I straighten and address the room. “New protocols. Gates locked—no one in or out without my personal approval. All messengers stopped and searched. Guard rotations doubled and randomized. No one knows their post until an hour before shift change.”
“That will cripple our communications with—” Gorak starts.
“I don’t care. We’re being bled from within. Until I find the wound, we seal everything.” I let my gaze sweep across every face. “Traitors will die screaming. Slowly. In front of the entire clan. Make sure everyone understands that.”
Nods. Grim acceptance.
“Dismissed.”
They file out slowly. Thraz lingers near the door, speaking quietly with Gorak. Their heads bend close together.
I watch them without appearing to watch.
Hadrun waits until we’re alone. “You’re sure about the girl?”
“I’m sure someone wants me to doubt her.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“No.” I move to the window, looking out over the training yards where warriors drill in the weak morning light. Spears clash. Shields crack. The sound of preparation for war. “But my instincts say she’s not the problem.”
“Your instincts?” Hadrun’s voice is carefully neutral. “Or something else?”
I don’t answer. Don’t turn around.
After a moment, he sighs. “I’ll dig deeper. Find out who’s spreading the rumors about her.”
“Do that. And, Hadrun—I want to know who had access to her corridor last night.”
He pauses at the door. “Something happened?”
“Someone tried her door. Guards didn’t stop them.”
Hadrun’s expression hardens. “I’ll get names.”
He leaves, and I’m alone with maps that offer no answers and a restlessness that won’t stop clawing at my ribs.
The day bleeds into evening in a blur of fortress business.
I review defenses personally. Walk the walls. Check weapon stores. Interrogate the wounded from last night’s patrol—they saw nothing, heard nothing, just darkness and steel.
Every task reinforces the same truth: my hold on the clan is fracturing.
And I can’t stop it.
By the time the sun sets behind the mountains, exhaustion wars with restless energy. Instead of eating or sleeping, I climb to the high tower.
To her corridor.
Four guards stand at attention outside Zoraya’s chamber when I arrive. Different faces than this morning—I had the previous shift taken to the dungeons an hour ago. They’ll be questioned thoroughly. Painfully.
These new guards snap to attention, fists over hearts.
“Leave,” I order.
They exchange glances. “Warlord, the standing orders—”
“Are mine to change. Leave. Now.”
They retreat quickly, relieved to be elsewhere.
I approach the door and stop.
Fresh scratch marks gouge the wood at chest height. Deep enough to splinter the grain. Deliberate.
Cold spreads through my chest, then fire.
Below the scratches: a symbol carved into the surface. A wolf’s head with jaws open.
The same symbol on the shackles around Zoraya’s wrists.
The same symbol I had burned into that iron two days ago.
Someone marked her door. Someone with access to this corridor. Someone bold enough to threaten what’s mine under my own roof.
I trace the carving with one claw. The blade was sharp, the hand skilled. This wasn’t vandalism. This was a message.
We can reach her. Protected or not.
The guards didn’t report this. Which means they saw it happen and said nothing. Or they’re too afraid to admit they failed.
Both options end the same way.
I pull my belt knife and scrape a sample from the gouge marks. The angle of the cuts, the depth—I’ll compare them to every warrior’s blade if I have to.
The conspiracy runs deeper than I thought.
I ease the door open without a sound.
The room is dark except for dying firelight. Shadows dance across the walls. The window shutters are closed, barred from inside.
Smart.
Zoraya sits on the bed with her back against the wall, sewing awl gripped in her hand. Staring at the door with eyes that don’t blink.
She hasn’t slept. Shadows bruise beneath her eyes. Her hair is tangled, falling loose around her shoulders. The awl hasn’t left her grip. She hasn’t closed her eyes once.
But she’s still alert. Still armed with her pathetic little weapon.
Still ready to fight.
She’s been guarding herself all night. Against threats I should have prevented.
My chest constricts with unexpected emotion.
She notices me in the doorway and goes rigid, the awl rising slightly. Then recognition hits, and some of the tension leaves her shoulders.
“You.” Her voice is hoarse from exhaustion. “I thought you were—” She stops herself.
“Who did you think I was?”
“Someone who wants me dead.” She doesn’t lower the awl. “Which, given the circumstances, could be almost anyone.”
I step into the room and close the door behind me. Her eyes track my movement, wary but not afraid. Alert.
“You heard the marks made on your door.”
“Hard to miss.” She shifts position slightly, keeping me in sight. “One of your warriors paid me a visit last night. The guards let them try my lock.”
The calm way she says it makes my jaw clench. No hysteria, no tears. Just acceptance of reality and determination to survive it.
Her gray eyes are steady on mine. “How many of your people want me dead?”
The question is blunt. Direct. No games or manipulation—just a woman trying to understand the threats she faces.
“Unknown. But enough that you’re not safe here.”
She gestures toward the scratched door. “At least here I know what I’m facing.”
The practical acceptance in her voice hits harder than fear would. She’s not asking for rescue or protection—just information to help her survive.
“It’s defensible. One entrance. One window with solid bars. Guards I trust.”
“The guards you trusted were watching my corridor.”
The reminder stings because it’s true. “These are different.”
“We’ll see.”
I secure the door behind us and check the window latches personally. Old habits from years of expecting assassination attempts.
Zoraya settles into the chair, pulling her knees up and wrapping her arms around them. The position makes her look smaller, younger. Vulnerable in ways that have nothing to do with size.
But the awl stays in her grip.
“Tell me about the banners Brakka brought,” I say.
Her expression shifts. “You want me to mend your battle flags?”
“I want to know what you saw when you looked at them.”
She’s quiet for a moment, thinking. “Tears that were too clean. Too precise. Like they were cut with a very sharp blade rather than torn in battle.” Her voice gains confidence as she speaks. “The damage patterns were wrong for combat damage.”
“How wrong?”
“Combat tears follow stress lines in fabric. Metal striking cloth creates jagged rips, frayed edges. These were clean cuts, made when the fabric wasn’t under tension.” She meets my eyes. “Someone sabotaged those banners. Recently.”
The confirmation hits like a blow. Not just supply problems and patrol losses—someone is systematically weakening every aspect of our defenses.
“Could you fix them?”
“The cuts? Yes. But I’d need to know what they’re supposed to do first. I can see where the patterns are broken, but not what breaking them accomplishes.”
Intelligence mixed with honesty. She knows her limitations but understands her strengths.
“The banners carry protective wards. Nothing as complex as the battle standard, but important for unit morale and minor battlefield protections.”
“Unit morale?”
“Warriors fight better when they believe their banners carry their ancestors’ blessing. Whether the magic is real or not matters less than whether they believe it.”
She nods slowly. “So fixing them isn’t just about the magic—it’s about showing your people that the damage can be repaired.”
“Exactly.”
“And having a human repair them sends what message?”
The question shows she understands the political implications as well as the practical ones.
“That depends on whether you succeed or fail.”
“And if I fail?”
“Then we’re no worse off than we are now.”
“And if I succeed?”
I study her face light. “Then you become either an asset worth protecting or a threat worth eliminating.”
The honesty makes her flinch slightly, but she doesn’t look away.
“Those seem like the only two options I’ve had since I arrived.”
Before I can respond, shouts echo from somewhere deep in the fortress. Angry voices, running footsteps. The sound of steel being drawn.
I’m on my feet instantly, hand moving to my sword hilt.
“What—” Zoraya starts.
“Stay here. Bar the door behind me.” I’m moving toward the exit. “Don’t open it for anyone but me.”
“How will I know it’s you?”
“You’ll know.”
I pull the door open and step into chaos.
Warriors run through the corridors, weapons drawn, voices raised in alarm. Someone shouts orders from the direction of the barracks. Steel rings against steel in the distance.
Not an attack from outside.
This is internal.
The conspiracy has moved from shadows into open action.
I draw my sword and run toward the sound of combat, leaving Zoraya barricaded in chambers that may or may not be safe.
Behind me, I hear the heavy bar drop across the door.
Good. She follows orders when they make sense.
The corridor ahead fills with the clash of weapons and the screams of wounded warriors.
Civil war has come to Ironhold.
And I’m about to discover who among my captains has been planning my destruction.