The world returned to Prince Tarron Lorhymn in fragments.
First, there was pain.
Not the sharp kind that came with battle—the clean bite of steel or the hot sting of an arrow—but something deeper. A dull, crushing ache that seemed to settle into his bones. His head throbbed in time with the slow sway of movement beneath him.
Then came sound.
Leather creaking. Hooves against hard earth. The low murmur of voices—unfamiliar, unconcerned.
Alive, then.
Tarron forced his eyes open.
The sky above him was a pale gray, streaked with the dying light of late afternoon. Clouds drifted lazily overhead, indifferent to his fate. He blinked once, twice, his vision sharpening enough to make sense of the world.
He was slung over the back of a horse.
Bound.
His arms were pulled tight behind him, wrists lashed with coarse rope that bit into his skin with every shift of the animal beneath him. His legs were tied as well, though less tightly—enough to keep him from kicking free, not enough to numb them entirely.
A calculated restraint.
His jaw tightened.
They knew what they were doing.
Memory came next.
The hunt. The boar crashing through the brush. The sudden whistle of arrows—too fast, too precise. His guards dropping before they could even shout warning. Black-fletched shafts.
Then the trees had come alive with enemies.
Not scattered. Not wild.
Organized.
He had cut through the first wave—he remembered that clearly. Steel flashing, bodies falling. He had broken a man's arm, split another from shoulder to chest. He had felt the rhythm of combat take him, the familiar, welcome clarity of it.
And still they had come.
Too many.
Too coordinated.
A net had been cast, not a skirmish stumbled upon.
Tarron shifted slightly, testing the ropes. They held fast.
Of course they did.
"Careful, prince."
The voice came from somewhere behind him—calm, almost amused.
Tarron turned his head as much as his position allowed. The movement sent a spike of pain through his neck, but he ignored it.
Riders.
A dozen, at least. Maybe more.
All clad in dark leathers and muted armor, their forms blending into the forested path as though they were part of it. No bright banners. No insignia.
But he didn't need one.
He saw it in their discipline. In the way they moved as a single unit without command.
Black Brigade.
His lips pulled into a faint, humorless smile.
"Mercenaries," he rasped, his voice rough from disuse. "I expected better men to finish the job."
A few of the riders glanced his way, but none responded immediately.
That same voice spoke again, closer now.
"You're alive, aren't you?"
The horse carrying him slowed slightly as another rider pulled alongside. Tarron angled his gaze enough to see him—a broad-shouldered man with a graying beard and a scar that cut across his left eye. His expression was neither cruel nor kind.
Just… certain.
"Alive," the man continued, "means we did our job correctly."
Tarron studied him, his mind already working through possibilities. Leadership. Experience. Not a common sellsword.
"You killed my guards," Tarron said flatly.
The man nodded once.
"They fought well."
It wasn't mockery.
That, more than anything, made Tarron's stomach tighten.
"Then you know what I'll do to you," Tarron replied.
A faint smirk touched the man's lips.
"I'm counting on it."
Silence fell between them for a few moments, broken only by the steady rhythm of travel.
Tarron shifted again, slower this time, letting his body sag as though the effort had cost him. In truth, he was measuring. Weight. Distance. The tension of the ropes. The spacing between riders.
Not yet.
But soon.
"You crossed the border," Tarron said after a moment, his tone quieter now. "That makes this more than a contract."
"It does."
"Who paid you?"
The man didn't answer immediately. His gaze flicked ahead, scanning the path, the trees, the ridgelines beyond.
When he finally spoke, his voice had lost even the hint of amusement.
"You're asking the wrong question."
Tarron's brow furrowed slightly.
"Oh?"
The man leaned a fraction closer, just enough that Tarron could see the faint lines of age at the corners of his eyes.
"The question you should be asking," he said, "is why you're still alive."
Tarron held his gaze.
Because that was the truth beneath everything, wasn't it?
If they had wanted him dead, he would be.
The arrows that took his guards had not missed.
The net had not been for slaughter.
It had been for him.
A cold realization settled into place.
This was not ransom.
This was not revenge.
This was purpose.
"Where are you taking me?" Tarron asked.
The man straightened in his saddle, looking ahead once more.
"East," he said simply.
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you're getting."
Tarron exhaled slowly, letting his head fall slightly as though in resignation.
Inside, his mind sharpened to a razor's edge.
East meant crossing deeper. Away from patrols. Away from easy pursuit.
Whoever orchestrated this had reach.
Resources.
And patience.
The horse beneath him stumbled briefly over uneven ground, and Tarron used the motion—subtle, controlled—to twist his wrist just slightly against the rope.
It burned.
Good.
That meant there was still feeling.
Still blood.
Still time.
Above them, the gray sky darkened as the sun dipped lower, shadows stretching long across the forest path. The world grew quieter, the air colder.
The riders pressed on.
And bound though he was, Prince Tarron Lorhymn began, piece by careful piece, to plan how he would tear their world apart.