Ghazrek
The late afternoon sun slants through the high windows of the armory, the air thick with the smell of oiled leather, cooling steel, and sweat. I unbuckle the final strap of my cuirass, letting the heavy plate fall to the stone floor with a clang that echoes my own bone-deep weariness.
"Three dead. For a feint," I say, the words tasting like ash.
I run a hand over my face, my skin gritty with the dust of the eastern passes.
The names of the fallen warriors—Vukko, Radan, Zorko—are a fresh wound in my mind.
Good warriors. Loyal. Dead for a reason I do not yet understand.
The rage is a cold, hard knot in my gut.
I will have vengeance for them. But first, I must have answers.
"Aye, Warlord," Captain Bren says from across the room, his own movements stiff as he sheds his armor.
His face is young, but the exhaustion in his eyes is ancient.
"The Ironjaws weren’t fighting for territory.
They fought to kill and to delay. They drew us out, made us chase shadows, while their main force slipped away clean.
It felt... wrong. I've never seen Ironjaws move so fast, or with such discipline. "
"Their timing feels wrong," Elder Thrakk rumbles. He entered the armory moments after our return, his face a grim mask. "It feels coordinated."
"It is," I say, my gaze fixed on nothing. "A raid on one side, spies on the other." I look up at Bren. "The human envoys?"
"Still in their camp, Warlord. But two of them rode out again before dawn. Our scouts tracked them toward the eastern approaches before losing the trail in the rocky ground near the old watchtower."
The pieces click together with sickening certainty. A distraction to draw my attention to the border, while the humans finalize their real plan. "They're still eating our food, breathing our air, and using our territory for their schemes."
I leave the armory, my mind seething in a cold fury.
I need to see my mate, to reassure myself that she is safe from the plots swirling around us.
I check the Hall of Memory first, then the great hall, but she is in neither.
I find Greta, the head cook, overseeing the final preparations for the evening's feast.
"Have you seen the Queen?" I ask.
"Oh, she was here earlier, my lord," Greta says, wiping her hands on her apron. "Puttering around the herb stores. Said she was looking for something to calm her ceremony nerves. A strange brew, needed a lot of privacy for it."
Her words, meant to be innocent, send a fresh wave of unease through me. Vesha is an accomplished alchemist, not a nervous girl brewing calming tea. Whatever she was doing, it was deliberate.
I make my way toward the human camp in the lower courtyard. I walk directly into their midst, my shadow falling over the maps they have spread on a makeshift table. They scramble to their feet.
"Lord Harwick," I say, my voice a low growl. I loom over him, letting my size and the fresh scent of battle do the talking for me. "Your little excursions into my lands end now."
Harwick swallows, his composure fraying. "Warlord, we are guests here, protected by the treaty—"
"Treaties protect diplomats, Lord Harwick, not spies," I barked.
"And your men have been riding very hard for men with no official business.
" I let my gaze drift to their boots, still caked with tell-tale mud.
"You will be attending the ceremony tonight," I command, my voice leaving no room for argument.
"You will sit and watch my queen crowned, and you will smile.
Then, at dawn, you will leave. Or I might begin to wonder what kind of diplomacy requires such secrecy. "
I leave them to their shock and make my way back to the main keep, but the conversation has only deepened my unease. Something is wrong. The wrongness has a scent to it—my mate's growing terror, the satisfaction of enemies who think they've gained an advantage, and something else...
The absence of children's laughter.
The thought stops me cold.
"Sir?"
I turn to find Nessa, one of the nursery maids, her hands twisting in her apron, her face tight with a fear that mirrors the dread coiling in my own gut.
"Warlord, forgive me," she begins, her voice trembling. "But the children... Lavi and Jorik... they're still gone. It's been too long. This isn't a game anymore."
The gut punch is absolute. The raid wasn't the main event. It was the overture.
"Organize a search," I command Bren, who has appeared at my elbow. "Check every chamber, every passage, every possible hiding place. But quietly—I don't want to alarm the ceremony guests."
"And if we don't find them?"
I meet his eyes, letting him see the steel beneath my concern. "Then we expand the search beyond the stronghold walls. Someone took those children, Bren. I can feel it in my bones."
But even as Bren rushes to obey my orders, I know we're already behind the curve. Whatever game is being played, whatever has my mate terrified and my enemies satisfied, it's already in motion.
The ceremony begins at sunset. And I must play my part, with or without answers.