The warhorns of fate don't announce themselves.
Sometimes, they arrive as a knock on a door.
I was packing to leave the capital. My satchel was half-full, mostly maps, coin, and a sealed dagger I'd hidden inside a wine flask. Arden was finishing up a sparring session on the balcony, bruises mottled across his forearms like ink stains.
Then the knock came.
Three raps.
Sharp. Confident.
I didn't need to ask who it was.
She walked in without waiting.
Ser Althea Caldwyn.
Daughter of Duke Harren of the Valecrest Marches—one of the few border duchies strong enough to remain autonomous. She was legend among knights. Anointed not through favors, but through battle. At sixteen, she crushed a mountain raid in the north. At eighteen, she beat a male knight twice her weight in single combat. Now twenty-two, she had command over three banners and held lands that even the King tread lightly around.
I'd expected someone armored.
Instead, she wore a sharp-cut travel tunic, sword strapped loosely at her hip. Her hair was tied back in a silver clasp, exposing a hard jaw and colder eyes.
"Vihan of Wyvrling," she said.
I stood straighter. "Ser Caldwyn."
She crossed her arms.
"So, you're the ghost everyone's whispering about."
"Not a ghost," I said. "Not yet."
A pause. Her gaze was evaluative, dissecting.
"You don't look like a threat."
"You'd be surprised how little I care about appearances."
That earned a flicker—almost a smile. Almost.
"I don't like you," she said, voice as calm as snowfall.
"I can live with that."
"You plan to retake your duchy, county by county," she continued. "I've heard the rumors."
"Rumors tend to exaggerate," I replied.
"And yet, here you are—bags packed, tongue sharp, walking into a war with barely a banner behind you."
I stepped closer.
"I don't need a hundred men," I said. "I need the right three."
She didn't flinch, but her fingers tightened slightly over the pommel of her blade.
"You think bold words make a commander?"
"I think understanding what you're willing to die for makes one."
A long silence.
Then she said, "You'll die fast if you move without understanding the wolves already circling you. The Duke of your former lands owns more than soldiers—he owns loyalty bought with fear. Your name is worth a sigh and a smirk, nothing more."
"I'll change that."
"Change it before you bleed on your first march."
She turned to leave. But before she did, she said, without looking back:
"I'll be watching. Not because I believe in you. But because it's always worth seeing whether a dead name can rise again."
---
After she left, Arden whistled low.
"Well," he said, "she didn't gut you. That's promising."
I sat down. My hands were shaking slightly. Not from fear. From... presence.
Althea didn't radiate rage or strength like some roaring warlord. She was cold. Measured. And yet there was something in her—like a blade drawn so slowly it hummed.
"She's not like the others," I muttered.
"She's been fighting since before you had chest hair," Arden replied. "Don't try to impress her. She'll cut you in half the second you pretend to be what you're not."
I nodded.
Good.
Because I wasn't pretending.
---
I left Arador at dawn.
No parade. No farewell.
Just Caldus, Arden, and a pair of quiet sellswords I'd paid to act as guards. They didn't ask questions. That's why I hired them.
We traveled south, through ruined lands that once bore the Wyvrling sigil. It had been stripped from every post and banner. In some towns, people still spat when they heard the name.
In others, they just looked afraid.
I didn't blame them. The current Duke—Ravien Malkorr—was a man who ruled with more fire than steel. Burned down a village once to make a point. Poisoned a rival vassal. Sent the widow a wolf's head in a box.
He held three counties with iron hands.
The other three were scattered between minor lords. We were headed to one of them—Branholdt, a western borderland ruled by Lord Egrin Vos, an aging warhound with no heirs and a crumbling manor.
Branholdt was poor, forgotten, and bleeding from years of raids and neglect.
But it was a start.
---
We arrived on the fourth day, cloaked in snow and silence.
Egrin met us in his hall.
Thin. Gaunt. Eyes sunken deep into their sockets like someone who'd seen one war too many and no victories worth remembering.
"You're the Wyvrling pup," he said, voice gravel-rough. "Thought you were dead."
"I was close."
He snorted.
"Why are you here?"
I didn't give him poetry. Just truth.
"You're losing this land. You know it. I can help you hold it. And in return, you declare fealty to me, and Branholdt becomes the first county under Wyvrling again."
Egrin laughed.
It was not a happy sound.
"Boy, I've seen a hundred lords like you. With dreams and swords and nothing else. The moment Ravien hears you're sniffing around, he'll send knights to tear you apart."
I leaned forward.
"Then let him. I want him to notice me."
Egrin's smile faded.
"You're either brave or suicidal."
"I can be both."
He stared long.
Then—finally—nodded.
"You have three days. Kill the raiders plaguing my roads, drive them out, and I'll swear the oath. Fail, and I'll feed your heart to my dogs."
---
The raiders weren't soldiers.
They were worse.
Former mercenaries turned bandits—armed, disciplined, and vicious. Their leader was a man named Rusk—a deserter from the east with a reputation for flaying prisoners alive and feeding their corpses to pigs.
Caldus scouted them first.
"They're holed up near the stone bridge. Eight men. Three crossbows. Traps in the trees."
We planned at night by firelight.
"Arden, take the left flank," I said. "Pick off the crossbowmen with your bow. Caldus and I will draw them into the gulley. The sellswords stay hidden until the signal."
"And the signal?" Caldus asked.
I smiled grimly.
"You'll know it."
---
It began with blood.
We struck before dawn. Arden's arrows hit their mark—two bandits dead before they knew they were hunted.
Then we charged.
I moved first—blade out, cloak fluttering.
Rusk came at me, massive axe in hand, teeth rotted from years of bad meat and worse morals.
Our blades met with a clang that split the morning silence.
He was stronger.
I was faster.
But not faster enough.
He slashed across my chest. I fell back, armor cracked, breath ragged.
Caldus flanked him—but was knocked aside like a child.
Rusk raised his axe.
And then the signal came.
A wolf's howl.
The sellswords burst from the trees—steel flashing, cutting into the bandit ranks.
Rusk turned—too late.
My blade found his neck.
It wasn't a clean cut.
It was rough. Messy.
The sound it made was wet and awful.
He choked on blood and curses.
And then he died.
---
We returned to Branholdt with eight heads.
Egrin kept his word.
He bent the knee.
Slowly. Stiffly.
But it was done.
The first county was mine.
---
That night, I sat alone in the hall.
The air still reeked of blood and old wine. My ribs ached. My hands trembled slightly from the adrenaline.
I didn't feel victorious.
I felt awake.
For the first time, the ghosts of my house whispered not in sorrow—but in warning.
There would be more battles.
Harder ones.
The Duke still ruled three counties.
But I had the first foothold.
And a name rising from ash.
Somewhere far to the north, I imagined Ser Althea hearing the news.
I wondered if she smiled.