PROLOGUE: Ashmark's Last Flame
Ashmark Ruins, 7 years before the rebellion
The wind carried no song through the ruins of Ashmark—only the low moan of winter dragging its nails across shattered stone and charred timber. Snow fell in uneven patches, catching on the crooked ribs of what once had been a bell tower. Somewhere nearby, a horse screamed, then fell silent. The crows would find it before the wolves did.
Kael crouched by a fire no larger than his fist, tucked beneath the blackened ribs of a collapsed granary. His hands were raw, cracked open from weeks without gloves. He watched the flames like they were trying to speak.
"You should sleep," Myrren whispered. She sat across from him, sharpening a dagger that had belonged to her brother before the marsh patrols cut him down.
Kael didn't answer.
Above them, the stars had vanished behind the ash-draped sky, as if even the heavens refused to watch what the Empire had done to this place. Once, Ashmark had been a highland stronghold, a thorn in the heel of the Crown. Now it was a graveyard of memories no one would mourn.
"You're thinking of them again," Myrren said. She didn't look up. "Your mother. The others."
Kael's jaw tightened. He stared at his hands—fingers once soft with ink and parchment. Now calloused. Split. Blood beneath his nails.
"I don't remember her face," he said.
Myrren didn't speak for a long while. Then, quietly, "That's how they win, Kael. Not with swords. Not with fire. They make you forget."
The wind howled through the bones of the city.
Somewhere beyond the valley, the Imperial Standard still flew over Gravenmarsh. Kael had seen it days ago—red and gold, stitched with the twin-headed lion. A banner that stood for law, glory, and dominion.
But not here. Not in Ashmark.
Kael reached for the half-burned standard in the fire beside him—once a Crown patrol flag. He pulled it from the flames, blackened and curling. With a knife, he cut the fabric into strips. Then, from beneath his coat, he pulled a length of iron—a broken sword hilt, dulled and rusted, once wielded by the captain who'd murdered his kin.
He wrapped the cloth around the hilt. Tight. Binding fire and steel together.
"What's that?" Myrren asked.
Kael stood slowly, the makeshift banner in his hand. "A promise."
She watched him, confused.
"Someday," he said, "they'll wish they'd left Ashmark to the crows."