The rain in the Capital didn't wash things clean; it only turned the city's sins into a thick, black sludge that clung to the boots of the righteous and the wicked alike.
Kaelen Drax knelt in the center of an iron cage, his knees sinking into the freezing mud. His hands, once calloused from the hilt of a commander's claymore, were now raw and chafed by rusted manacles. He didn't look up. He couldn't. Not because of the shame—he had burned through his shame three days ago when they stripped him of his silver-inlaid armor in front of the screaming crowds—but because his neck was too tired to hold the weight of his own head.
"Look at him! The Great Lion of Oakhaven!" the auctioneer shrieked, his voice cracking with a manic, performative glee. The man, a rat-faced merchant named Gills, slammed a brass-tipped cane against the bars of the cage. Clang. Clang.
The sound reverberated inside Kaelen's skull like a funeral bell.
"Three weeks ago, he was deciding which of your sons lived or died on the front lines," Gills yelled to the gathered crowd of aristocrats and vultures. "Today, he's just meat. High-quality meat, mind you. Look at the breadth of those shoulders. Look at the scars. Every one of them is a story of a battle he won for a country that's now spat him out!"
Kaelen closed his eyes. He tried to tune out the voice and focus on the cold. If he focused on the cold, he didn't have to think about the parchment tucked into his sister's hidden floorboard back home—the deed of sale that would ensure she and his parents wouldn't starve this winter. He had signed his life away for thirty pieces of gold and a promise of immunity for his kin. It was the only tactical maneuver he had left.
"We start the bidding at five hundred crowns!" Gills shouted.
"Six hundred!" a nobleman in a silk doublet cried out, his eyes gleaming with the sick desire to own a man who had once been his superior.
"Seven-fifty!" shouted another.
The bidding climbed, but Kaelen remained a statue of salt and sorrow. He felt the phantom itch of a wound on his side—the place where his second-in-command, Thorne, had slipped the needle between the plates of his armor. Sedatives, he had realized too late. By the time the enemy breached the walls, Kaelen had been a pupet, unable to lift his sword, watching through a haze as his men were slaughtered and the blame was pinned squarely on his "drunken negligence."
"Two thousand crowns!"
The crowd gasped. That was the price of a small estate. Kaelen finally lifted his gaze, blinking through the stinging rain.
At the edge of the torchlight stood a man who didn't belong in this muddy square. He was tall, wrapped in a heavy traveling cloak of midnight blue that looked thick enough to ward off a blizzard. But it was the mask that caught the light—a seamless plate of polished silver, molded into the haunting, expressionless visage of a weeping saint.
"Two thousand, going once..." Gills began, his hands shaking with greed.
"Five thousand."
The voice didn't come from a throat; it sounded like it came from the earth itself. Deep, resonant, and carrying the unmistakable chill of the Northern tundras.
The square went deathly silent. Even the rain seemed to quiet down. Five thousand crowns wasn't a bid; it was an execution of the competition.
"Sold!" Gills screamed, nearly tripping over his own cane as he scrambled to unlock the cage. "To the gentleman in the blue!"
The masked man stepped forward. The crowd parted like the Red Sea. He didn't look at the auctioneer. He didn't look at the gold he was handing over in a heavy, leather satchel. His hidden eyes were locked onto Kaelen.
As the cage door creaked open, Kaelen felt a hand grab his collar. He was hauled out and shoved toward his new master. He stumbled, his legs weak from days of confinement, and fell to his guard on the cobblestones right at the masked man's feet.
Kaelen expected a kick. He expected to be spat upon. Instead, he felt the heavy weight of a dry, warm cloak being thrown over his shivering shoulders.
"Stand up, General," the voice whispered. It was so low only Kaelen could hear it. "You're making my investment look fragile."
Kaelen looked up, squinting against the silver reflection of the mask. "I am... no longer a General."
"To the world, perhaps," the man replied, his gloved hand reaching down to grip Kaelen's arm with surprising strength, hoisting him to his feet. "But I didn't buy a traitor. I bought the only man who knows the secret paths through the Blackspire Mountains."
Kaelen froze. His heart, which he thought had died in that cage, gave a frantic thud against his ribs. Only two people knew those paths. One was dead. The other...
"Who are you?" Kaelen rasped.
The man didn't answer. He signaled to a waiting carriage—a black, unmarked coach pulled by two massive warhorses. "Get in. We have a long way to go before the sun rises, and the Southern King's hounds realize I've taken his favorite scapegoat out from under his nose."
Part 2: The Lion in the Den
Inside the carriage, the air smelled of cedar and expensive tobacco—a sharp contrast to the stench of the slave pens. Kaelen sat on the velvet bench, feeling utterly out of place. He watched the masked man sit opposite him, perfectly still, legs crossed with the casual grace of royalty.
"You're North-born," Kaelen said, his voice regaining some of its former steel. "I can tell by the way you carry your shoulders. You've spent time in a saddle, not a parlor."
The masked man laughed—a short, dry sound. "Observation. Good. At least the drugs didn't rot your brain entirely."
"How do you know about the drugs?"
The man reached up, his fingers find the hidden latches of the silver mask. "Because, Kaelen... I'm the one who sent the merchant to Thorne to suggest them. I just didn't expect Thorne to be so greedy that he'd sell you to the highest bidder afterward."
The mask came away.
Kaelen felt the blood drain from his face. The man before him had hair the color of pale moonlight and eyes as cold as a frozen lake. A jagged scar ran from his left temple down to his jaw—a souvenir from a blade Kaelen himself had wielded three years ago at the Battle of the Broken Bridge.
"Valerius," Kaelen breathed. "The Ghost Prince."
"In the flesh," Valerius said, a cruel, beautiful smile touching his lips. "The kingdom you served for twenty years branded you a traitor. The kingdom I was born to rule branded me a corpse. It seems we have much in common, General."
Valerius leaned forward, the flickering light of the carriage lamp casting long shadows across his sharp features. "I didn't buy you to be my slave, Kaelen. I bought you to be my map. My father has gone mad on his throne, and my brothers are burning the North to the ground. I'm going back to stop them."
"And why would I help you?" Kaelen spat. "I spent my life keeping your kind out of my lands."
Valerius reached into his coat and pulled out a small, blood-stained ribbon—a hair tie Kaelen recognized instantly. It belonged to his youngest sister, Elara.
"Because," Valerius said softly, "I am the only one currently paying the guards who 'protect' your family's farm. If I stop paying... well, I imagine Thorne would love to finish what he started."
Kaelen's hands curled into fists, the chains rattling. "You monster."
"I am a desperate man, General. And desperate men make for very effective masters." Valerius leaned back, his eyes narrowing. "Now, tell me. Are you going to keep bleeding for a King who betrayed you, or are you going to help me burn his world down?"
The carriage hit a bump, and for a moment, their knees touched. Kaelen didn't pull away. He looked at the man who had been his greatest nightmare, now his only savior, and felt the first spark of a terrifying, new fire.
"I'll help you," Kaelen whispered. "But the moment my family is safe, I will kill you myself."
Valerius grinned. "I'd expect nothing less."