Chapter 9 Vlorn
NINE
VLORN
The single bell chime cuts through the fortress, sharp and urgent.
Not the thunderous war bells that summon all to battle, but the quiet, coded tone that means something worse—betrayal from within.
One measured stroke echoes through stone corridors and seeps into sleeping chambers, carrying news that makes veteran warriors reach for weapons before their minds fully wake.
The sound reaches me even through the thick walls of my private chambers, jerking me from restless sleep. Dreams of silver thread and gray eyes dissolve into cold reality as instinct takes over.
I roll from my bed, bare feet hitting stone that bites with mountain cold. The chill shocks me fully awake, banishing the last wisps of dreams that have grown too frequent since a certain seamstress entered my fortress.
My hands move without conscious thought, muscle memory honed by decades of midnight alarms.
Sword first—the weight of the blade steadies my mind while my body catches up to consciousness.
The steel whispers against leather as I draw it, testing the edge with my thumb.
Sharp enough to split hairs, as it should be.
Blood beads where I press too hard, crimson reminder that everything in my world has edges.
Leather pants slide over my legs with practiced efficiency. Boots follow, the thick soles muffling my footsteps on stone. The chest piece takes longer—complex buckles and straps that require attention even in the dark—but I’ve done this dance a thousand times.
No time for full armor, but the steel plate will turn aside most blades and all but the strongest arrows.
The corridor beyond my chambers buzzes with activity when I emerge. Torches flicker in their sconces, casting dancing shadows that make every alcove a potential hiding place. Guards move with purposeful haste, their faces grim masks in the orange light.
Mail rings softly as they adjust weapons, and I catch the underlying scent of fear-sweat beneath the familiar fortress smells of stone and smoke.
They press themselves against the walls as I pass, fists over hearts in salute, but their eyes remain alert, scanning shadows for threats.
“Report,” I growl at the nearest captain—Korvin, his compact frame vibrating with nervous energy.
“Intruder in the high tower wing, Warlord. Caught outside the human’s quarters.” His words are crisp and professional, but I catch the undertone of concern that he’s trying to hide.
Not for Zoraya—for what my reaction will be.
Dread pools in my stomach, followed immediately by heat that has nothing to do with exertion. Someone was hunting her. Again. The second attempt in as many days means the conspiracy isn’t just bold—it’s desperate.
My jaw clenches hard enough to make my teeth ache.
The ceremonial shackles I placed on her wrists were supposed to mark her as mine, under my protection.
But marks of ownership mean nothing if I can’t enforce them, and every failed attack makes me look weak to warriors who follow strength above all else.
“Casualties?” The word comes out rougher than intended.
“None, Warlord. The intruder was taken alive.” Korvin’s relief is visible. He knows what happens when my people are hurt on my watch.
“Where?”
“Corridor outside her chamber. Malthak and Lorun have him secured.”
My boots strike stone with measured beats as I climb toward the tower, taking the spiral stairs three at a time. The narrow passage forces me to slow despite my urgency, and every second stretches toward catastrophe.
If they’ve hurt her—if she’s lying in a pool of blood because I wasn’t there to prevent it—
The thought cuts off sharply. I can’t afford such thinking when lives depend on clear decisions. But the fear remains, coiled in my chest and demanding satisfaction.
The sound of my ascent echoes off the curved walls, announcing my approach to anyone with ears to hear. Let them listen. Let them know the Iron Warlord comes hunting.
I reach the corridor where her chamber sits, and relief crashes through me.
Two of my most trusted warriors—Malthak and young Lorun—kneel beside a struggling figure they’ve pinned to the stone floor.
The intruder wears dark clothes that would blend with shadows, but now he’s exposed under the torchlight.
More importantly, there’s no blood on the stones. No signs of violence beyond the capture itself. No indication that the assassin reached his target.
Zoraya is alive.
The relief is so intense, it’s almost painful, followed immediately by rage that someone dared make another attempt. The fury builds in my chest, demanding outlet, requiring satisfaction.
I force my breathing to remain steady, my expression to show nothing but cold calculation. These warriors watch my every reaction, looking for signs of weakness or favoritism that might be exploited later.
“Strip the hood,” I order, my voice carrying casual authority that makes smart warriors obey without question.
Malthak jerks the dark fabric away with efficient brutality, revealing a face I recognize. The shock hits me, followed by rage so pure, it threatens to overwhelm rational thought.
Bren Stonecutter. Barely twenty summers old, one of the supply runners who carries messages between the fortress and outlying settlements. I’ve spoken to him personally a dozen times, commended his reliability, trusted him with sensitive information about patrol routes and supply schedules.
His face streams with sweat despite the mountain cold, and his eyes dart between my warriors. But underneath the terror, I see something else that makes my blood run cold.
Defiance. The kind of stubborn hatred that would rather die than yield, that views capture as a temporary setback rather than final defeat.
He’s not just terrified. He’s disappointed that he failed.
“Bren,” I speak his name with quiet menace, and watch him flinch, “how long have you been playing both sides?”
No answer beyond heavy breathing and the desperate calculation of cornered prey.
I begin to circle him slowly, letting my boots ring against stone with each deliberate step. The sound echoes off the narrow walls, multiplying until it seems armies approach from all directions. Bren’s breathing grows more ragged with each circuit I complete around his kneeling form.
“Who sent you?” I keep my voice soft, conversational. The kind of tone I use when discussing the weather or the quality of ale. The kind that makes smart warriors check their weapons and pray they’re not the target of my attention.
His jaw works, muscles standing out beneath sweat-slicked skin, but no words emerge. Only a thin whining sound that might be the beginning of a plea or a prayer to gods who stopped listening to his kind long ago.
I stop directly in front of him, close enough that he has to crane his neck back to meet my eyes. Close enough that he can see the fury burning in them, the promise of what happens to those who threaten what’s mine.
“Let me explain how this works,” I continue in that same pleasant tone. “You were caught outside her door with a blade in your hand. That makes you either an assassin or a fool. Either way, you’re going to tell me who sent you.”
Several guards have gathered at the ends of the corridor, drawn by the commotion but keeping their distance. They know what I’m capable of when someone threatens what I protect.
“The only question,” I continue, drawing my belt knife and examining its edge in the torchlight, “is whether you tell me now, while you still have all your pieces attached, or later, after I’ve started removing them.”
The blade gleams in the dancing flames, honed to razor sharpness and thirsting for blood. I’ve used it for interrogation before, know exactly how much pressure to apply, which cuts cause the most pain with the least permanent damage.
“Supply routes, patrol schedules, fortress weaknesses—you’ve had access to it all.” I let the point hover near his face, watching his pupils dilate with terror. “How much did you sell to Oryx? How many of my warriors died because of information you provided?”
The questions hit their mark. Guilt flashes across his features before he controls it, but I catch the tell. He’s not just a would-be assassin—he’s been feeding intelligence to our enemies for months, maybe longer.
“I can start with fingers,” I muse, letting the blade drift closer to his face.
“Small bones break easily, heal poorly. The screaming carries nicely in these stone halls.” I pause, studying his terrified expression.
“Or we can skip the pleasantries and go straight to the parts that will make you beg for death.”
Bren’s eyes go wide, white showing all around the irises. His mouth opens and closes soundlessly, but there’s something else in his expression that makes my gut clench with sudden unease.
Resignation. Acceptance. The look of a man who’s made his peace with dying.
“Your choice.” I raise the blade toward his face with deliberate slowness. “But choose quickly. My patience has limits, and you’ve tested them by being here.”
He opens his mouth—whether to speak or scream, I’ll never know.
Instead, his body jerks violently, back arching off the stone floor with sudden, terrible force. Foam bubbles from between his lips, pink-tinged and foul-smelling, carrying the bitter scent of almonds and something else. Something wrong.
“Poison!” Malthak shouts, but I’m moving before the words register.
I drop to my knees beside the convulsing figure, trying to grab his thrashing limbs and hold him still. But it’s too late. Whatever he bit down on—capsules hidden in his tusks, certainly—has done its work.
The poison moves through his system with ruthless efficiency. His tusks are small things, barely more than decorative points, but they were clearly modified for this purpose. Hollow channels drilled through the ivory, filled with toxins and sealed with wax that dissolves under pressure.