Chapter 2
Garrion POV
The road to the King’s palace stretches endlessly, each hoofbeat of my horse a dull reminder of chains I cannot break.
I ride not as a free man, but as a hound summoned to heel, called to do his bidding once more.
If I refuse, if I act on my own judgment, he will scold me for breaking the chain of command, as though protecting my people from bandits before the snows fall is a crime.
Winter in the North is merciless. If the bandits are not cleared now, they will come for our stores, our homes, our children.
And then fighting them off will consume every waking hour.
I need at least one winter where my people can sleep without fear of being cut down in their beds.
The city walls rise in the distance, pale stone against the horizon.
I slow my horse, reaching for the mask that has become my second skin.
Lightweight steel, painted black, it slides into place with a familiar chill.
I was sixteen when my father forced it upon me.
“Too beautiful,” the ladies whispered, as though beauty were a curse.
In the North, beauty is weakness. The cold strips it away, the brutality devours it.
So I wear the mask still, even now, a shield against their stares, a barrier against their schemes.
It has served me well, scaring off suitors, silencing talk of marriage.
I do not want a wife. I do not want a child.
My life belongs to the North, to the men who fight beside me, to the land that bleeds beneath my boots.
As I pass through the city gates, the air shifts. People murmur, voices hushed, eyes averted. Mothers pull children indoors, shutters slam closed, and the streets empty as though I carry plague upon my shoulders. I have grown used to it, the fear, the whispers but it gnaws at me all the same.
The palace looms ahead, its towers strangled by vines that creep upward like veins.
It is a monument to excess, built not to shelter but to flaunt.
Gold and marble, banners and stone, all meant to remind the people of their King’s power.
Yet I know the truth. He does not care if they starve, so long as his plate is full and his goblet brims with wine.
I tighten my grip on the reins, exhaustion pressing down on me like armor too heavy to bear.
My thoughts drift northward, to the biting winds and the quiet strength of my people.
To the hearths that burn low but steady, to the land that asks for nothing but loyalty.
Home. I long for it with every step closer to this palace, even as duty drags me further away.
“Lord Darkmoor, His Majesty is expecting you.”
The guard’s voice is clipped, formal, and without warmth.
He gestures sharply, and I follow, boots echoing against the polished stone as I am led down the long corridor.
Each step feels heavier than the last. This will not be a private summons, it will be a public scolding, a spectacle meant to remind me of my place.
The doors to the throne room swing open, and I am swallowed by its grandeur.
Tapestries line the walls, their woven threads depicting victories long past, battles fought by men who are now dust.
Gold gleams from every surface, catching the sunlight that pours through the glass ceiling above.
The air itself feels heavy, thick with the weight of wealth and power flaunted in excess.
At the far end of the hall sits King Dorian, draped in silks, his crown catching the light like fire.
His son, Dorrian the Second, stands at his side, a shadow of arrogance already etched into his young face.
Aside from them, the throne room is empty, no courtiers, no advisors, no audience.
Just me, the King, and his heir. The emptiness makes the silence sharper, more dangerous.
I move forward, each step deliberate, until the weight of their gaze presses me down.
I kneel on one knee, bowing my head low, the mask cold against my skin.
“My King,” I say, forcing the words past the bitterness lodged in my throat.
I try to summon respect for this man, though every fiber of me resists.
The silence stretches, taut and suffocating, before the King speaks.
“Lord Darkmoor, it has been far too long since you have graced us with your presence,” King Dorian’s voice rings out, smooth and commanding, echoing across the gilded chamber.
I bow my head lower, forcing civility into my tone. “I came as soon as I received your summons, my King.” The words taste like ash, but flattery is the only shield I have here.
“Yes, yes, rise, my boy,” he says, gesturing with a languid hand. His smile is indulgent, but I know better than to trust it.
“I would like to congratulate you on clearing your territory of bandits,” he continues, his voice dripping with praise. “Perhaps you could show the rest of my generals how it is done.”
I incline my head, careful to keep my voice even. “I have done only what was necessary to protect the people, my King.” Pleasantries do not come naturally to me, but I force them out, each word a blade dulled for survival.
The King leans forward, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “I would like all the people of my kingdom to see that I reward loyalty to the crown.” His tone is sweet, almost fatherly, but I know there is always a catch.
“Your praise is all the reward I need, my King,” I reply, hoping to end this charade before the trap is sprung.
“Nonsense!” His voice booms, and he claps his hands together, the sound sharp as steel. “I have found you a wife.”
The words strike me like a blow. My body stiffens, every muscle locking in place. He did what? I am a Lord. It is my right to choose whom I marry, and when. That choice is mine alone or so I believed.
“You flatter me, my King,” I say carefully, forcing a smile that feels more like a grimace. “Perhaps you might bestow this honor upon another, one more deserving.” My words are honeyed, my tone deferential, but inside I am seething.
The King’s smile widens, cruel and knowing. He has no intention of releasing me from this snare.
“Your family has served mine with fierce loyalty,” King Dorian begins, his voice smooth, almost indulgent. “You paid a high price when you were sixteen, and I have not forgotten. Allow me, then, to repay you.”
His smile widens, predatory. “Lord Tharion Blackthorn has agreed that his youngest daughter, will make a fine bride for you. From what I hear, she is quite pretty.”
The words echo, but all I hear is the pounding of my own heartbeat in my ears, drowning out the chamber’s silence.
“The wedding will be held in a month’s time, at their home in Amberfall,” he continues, his tone light, almost cheerful, as though announcing a festival rather than a sentence. “Tharion is positively thrilled by this alliance. Imagine it, his bloodline bound to yours, the South and North united.”
He gestures, and a servant steps forward with a goblet brimming with wine. I take it, my hand stiff, the cool metal biting against my palm. I raise it to my lips, though the taste is ash, my mind still reeling, struggling to process the weight of what has been forced upon me.
“But there is more, my boy,” the King says, leaning forward, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “As a wedding gift, I will not call upon your services for two winters. Two full winters without summons. That should give you ample time to get a couple of heirs out of her.”
The words strike like iron chains, binding me tighter than any battlefield command. I force myself to remain still, mask hiding the storm beneath, though inside I feel the walls of the palace closing in.
Two winters. The words echo in my mind like a foreign language.
I have never been granted so much time at home, never been allowed to breathe without the weight of summons pressing down on me.
Perhaps, just perhaps, this could be a reprieve.
A season to rest, to rebuild, to remember what it feels like to live without war gnawing at my heels.
I steady myself, masking the flicker of hope with careful calculation. “May I ask a bold favor, my King?” My voice is measured, respectful, though inside I brace for the strike.
King Dorian leans forward, his eyes gleaming with indulgent curiosity. He nods, granting me permission to speak.
“Can we make it three winters?” I say, forcing the words past the tightness in my chest.
“I have always wanted a large family.” The lie tastes bitter, but I let it linger on my tongue.
The thought of children makes my skin crawl, the idea of heirs a chain heavier than any battlefield armor.
I was the only child, and I know too well the burden that comes with being born into expectation.
The King’s smile widens, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “Fantastic. Perhaps if you have a daughter, she can marry into the crown.”
The suggestion slithers through the air, venom disguised as generosity. My jaw tightens beneath the mask, my body rigid though I force myself to remain still. Over my stone-cold body.
Inside, the thought burns like fire. He would bind not only me, but my bloodline, my children, if ever I had them, into his web of power. The King sees families not as people, but as pawns, pieces to be moved across his board of politics and war.
I bow my head lower, hiding the storm behind the steel mask. “As you wish, my King,” I murmur, though the words are hollow. My loyalty may be demanded, but my soul is mine, and I will not surrender it, not to him, not to his crown, not to the future he imagines for me.
The moment I am dismissed, I ride like hell, spurring my horse until the wind claws at my cloak and the pounding of hooves drowns out every thought.
Freedom tastes bitter when it is only borrowed.
My men are waiting for me, we are five days’ ride from Amberfall, and part of me longs to turn north instead,to vanish into the cold embrace of home.
The King’s punishment would be less painful than the chains of a marriage I do not want.
By the time I reach camp, night has fallen. The fires burn low, casting long shadows across the tents. Mika, my second in command, is already waiting, arms crossed, his sharp eyes catching every detail.
I dismount with a huff, muscles aching, and rip the mask from my face. The steel feels heavier than ever, as though it carries the weight of the King’s decree.
“Wow,” Mika drawls, smirking. “Looks like you had a great time with His Majesty.” His tone is teasing, but I am in no mood for jest.
“He wants me to marry Lord Tharion’s youngest daughter,” I spit, the words venomous, tasting of iron and rage.
Mika bursts into laughter, clapping me hard on the back. “Congratulations, my lord!” he chuckles, walking away with a grin, his laughter echoing in the night.
I stand there, mask dangling from my hand, the firelight flickering against its black steel. His laughter fades, but the weight of the King’s command does not. It clings to me like frost, colder than any northern winter.