The brothel reeked of rose oil and sweat, a cloying sweetness that clung to the back of Kael Varynth's throat as he lounged against silk cushions. His fingers traced idle circles on the bare thigh of the woman draped over him—Lyria, her name was, or perhaps Lyrinne. He'd forgotten. Not that it mattered. Her sighs were practiced, her moans polished like silver, but her hands trembled as they brushed the scar running from his collarbone to his jaw. Fear or arousal? Both, he decided, smirking. Fear was useful. Arousal was currency.
"You're staring, my lord," she murmured, her lips grazing his ear.
"At the door," he corrected, nodding toward the heavy oak slab across the dimly lit chamber. "Not at you."
A flicker of irritation crossed her face, quickly smothered by a coy smile. Men like Kael didn't visit the Veiled Orchid for conversation, but he'd paid triple her usual rate to keep her mouth busy with answers, not pleasure. The brothel's madam had assured him Lyria was the sharpest ear in the city—a whore who remembered every drunken confession, every muttered plot. And Kael needed secrets tonight.
The Kingdom of Veridion was crumbling. The Hollow King, enfeebled by rot and rumor, hadn't left his obsidian throne in a year. His court fractured into squabbling factions: the Dawn Pact with their puritanical laws, the Shadow Magnates hoarding gold and grain, and the Bloodsworn, fanatics who carved runes into their skin and whispered of burning the realm to ash. Kael's father, Lord Cedran Varynth, led none of them. He was too busy drowning in wine and regret, mourning the wife who'd died birthing his daughter. His legitimate heir—a simpering fool who'd gotten himself skewered in a border skirmish six months prior.
Which left Kael, the bastard son, the secret whispered in taverns. The son Cedran refused to acknowledge, even as his House teetered on ruin.
"The merchant," Kael said, tilting Lyria's chin toward him. "Rellan Torvain. He dined here three nights ago. Who owned his attention?"
Lyria's gaze darted to the door. "The guards… they'll cut my tongue if I speak of patrons."
Kael slid a dagger from his boot—a slender thing, its hilt inlaid with onyx wolves—and pressed the flat of the blade to her cheek. "And I'll cut far more than your tongue if you lie. Who did he meet?"
She swallowed. "A woman. Hooded. Not one of ours. They argued. Something about tariffs in the Iron Pass."
Tariffs. Kael's mind raced. The Iron Pass was the only trade route linking Veridion to the eastern kingdoms. Control it, and you controlled the flow of spice, steel, and secrets. Rellan Torvain oversaw the Crown's coffers, but whispers claimed he'd been skimming gold to fund a private army. A treasonous endeavor—unless someone powerful protected him.
The door creaked open. A hulking figure filled the frame: Jarek, the brothel's enforcer, his knuckles still bloody from some earlier dispute. "Time's up, my lord," he sneered, emphasizing the title like an insult.
Kael stood, adjusting his black doublet embroidered with silver thread—a mocking nod to House Varynth's colors. He tossed a pouch of coins onto the bed. "For your silence," he said to Lyria, then leaned close. "And if you breathe a word of this, I'll return and show you what happens when I'm not paying."
Outside, the streets of Eldervale swam in mist and malice. The city clung to the edge of the Crimson Sea, its spires clawing at a starless sky. Kael moved swiftly, his boots silent on the cobblestones. He'd learned to walk without sound in the gutters, where noise drew cutthroats and worse.
A hand seized his cloak.
"You're late," hissed a voice. Seraphine, his contact in the Dawn Pact, emerged from an alley. Her pinched face glowed pale in the dark, her robes the color of dried blood. "The shipment from Sellidor Province was intercepted. House Kaelthar's men. They're blaming your father."
Kael snorted. House Kaelthar—vultures circling a dying beast. They'd long coveted Varynth's ancestral lands, the fertile valleys ripe for plunder. "Let them blame him. The old man's too drunk to notice."
Seraphine's nails dug into his arm. "This isn't a game. If the Pact withdraws support, your father's House falls. And you with it."
"My father's House," Kael repeated, smiling faintly. "Not mine."
He left her sputtering curses and turned toward the harbor. The Salted Dagger tavern loomed ahead, its sign swaying in the wind. Inside, a fire roared, casting shadows on faces he knew too well: smugglers, spies, sellswords with prices etched into their sword belts.
"Varynth!" A red-bearded man slammed a tankard on the table. Borin, captain of the Night's Whisper, a pirate who'd once sailed under Kael's command. "Heard you've been sniffing around Rellan Torvain. Careful—that one's got friends in high places."
"Higher than yours?" Kael slid into the seat opposite him, swiping the tankard. The ale was piss-warm.
Borin grinned, gold teeth glinting. "High enough to drop you off a cliff. Rellan's been cozying up to the Bloodsworn. Word is, they've got a new prophet. Some zealot preaching about a 'purifying flame.'"
Kael's pulse quickened. The Bloodsworn's last prophet had led a revolt that left half the southern provinces in ashes. If they'd found a new leader…
A serving wench sauntered over, her bodice laced tight. Kael caught her wrist as she reached for his empty tankard. "What's your name, love?"
"Mira," she said, batting lashes thick with kohl.
"Mira." He pressed a silver mark into her palm. "Tell the barkeep his ale tastes like gutter water. And tell me…" He lowered his voice. "…who paid for the cask of firewine in the corner."
She hesitated, then whispered, "Men from the Kaelthar crest. They've been here all night."
Kael's smile turned razor-sharp. House Kaelthar, again. Coincidence? Unlikely. He stood, tossing another coin onto the table. "Borrin, ready your ship. We sail at dawn."
"To where?"
"Where else?" Kael strode toward the door, the pieces of his gambit slotting into place. "The Iron Pass."
But as he stepped into the night, a chill pricked his neck—the sense of being watched. He glanced up. In a second-story window, a hooded figure stood silhouetted against candlelight. A woman, her face veiled, one hand resting on the hilt of a dagger.
And she was smiling.
The hooded woman's smile lingered in Kael's mind like a poison. He knew better than to chase shadows—paranoia was a luxury for men with heirs and titles—but instinct hummed in his veins. He melted into the crowd, slipping between merchants hauling midnight cargo and drunkards staggering toward the next vice. The Salted Dagger's patrons spilled into the street, their laughter sharp and hollow. Kael ducked into a side alley, pressing his back to damp stone, and waited.
Three breaths. Four.
No footsteps followed.
Too cautious, he chided himself. The woman was likely a courtesan hired to unsettle him, or a spy for one of the lesser Houses. Still, her timing gnawed at him. The Bloodsworn, House Kaelthar, and now a veiled watcher? The threads were tangling, and Kael preferred his webs orderly.
He circled back to the docks, where the Night's Whisper lay anchored, its black sails furled. Borin's crew lurked on deck, sharpening blades and dicing with bone-carved knuckles. They nodded as Kael boarded—no bows, no titles. Bastards and outlaws shared a language older than loyalty.
"We're not sailing to the Iron Pass for scenery," Borin grunted, tossing Kael a rusted spyglass. "What's your play?"
Kael leaned against the ship's rail, the salt wind tugging at his hair. "Rellan Torvain's been diverting Crown gold to the Bloodsworn. If they're arming again, they'll need supply lines through the Pass. And House Kaelthar's intercepting shipments to frame my father." He smirked. "Which means they've already lost."
Borin frowned. "How?"
"Because now I know both their secrets."
The Bloodsworn's fervor made them predictable. They'd strike the Iron Pass to control trade, slaughtering anyone in their path. House Kaelthar, hungry for Varynth land, would let the fanatics weaken Cedran's forces before swooping in as "saviors." But Kael had no intention of letting either scheme unfold. Let the Bloodsworn and Kaelthar carve each other to ruin. He'd pluck the bones clean.
"Set course for the Pass," Kael ordered. "And send a raven to Seraphine. Tell her the Dawn Pact's shipments will be 'rescued' by Varynth loyalists—for a thirty percent tariff."
Borin barked a laugh. "You'll beggar the Puritans."
"They'll pay. Piety starves faster than greed."
As the crew scrambled to weigh anchor, Kael retreated to the captain's quarters. A map of Veridion sprawled across the table, its edges singed from years of candle smoke. He traced the Iron Pass—a jagged scar through the mountains—and marked the villages most likely to side with the Bloodsworn. Coin could buy compliance, but fear bred permanence. He'd need both.
A knock rattled the door.
"Enter."
Mira, the tavern wench, slipped inside. Her kohl-lined eyes gleamed in the lamplight, and she carried a tray of wine and figs. "The barkeep said you'd want refreshment… my lord." Her tone dripped mockery.
Kael arched a brow. "You followed me."
"You tipped generously." She set the tray down, hips swaying as she rounded the table. "And I've always wondered what a lord's bastard tastes like."
He caught her wrist, yanking her onto his lap. Her breath hitched, but her smile didn't falter. She smelled of ale and ambition. "Spying for Kaelthar?" he murmured, nipping her earlobe.
"Only if you're into that." Her fingers trailed down his chest.
Kael laughed, low and dark. He'd met her kind before—women who traded secrets like kisses, their loyalty a currency flipped as easily as a coin. But Mira's boldness intrigued him. Most spies feigned innocence; she wore her treachery like perfume.
He slid a hand beneath her skirt, fingers skimming the inside of her thigh. "Tell me what Kaelthar promised you."
"A room in their estate." She gasped as his teeth grazed her neck. "Silk gowns. Jewels."
"And all you had to do was seduce a bastard?" He chuckled. "They undervalue you."
Her nails dug into his shoulders. "They undervalue you."
In one motion, Kael flipped her onto the table, maps crumpling beneath her. Her laugh was a challenge, her legs hooking around his waist. She fumbled with his belt, but he caught her hands, pinning them above her head.
"You'll have to do better than that," he purred.
"Or what?" She arched against him. "You'll kill me?"
"Eventually." He kissed her, rough and claiming, and she melted like wax. Her moans were sharper here, less rehearsed. Kael preferred honesty in bed—a rarity in a world of masks.
Afterward, as she dressed, he tossed her a pouch of silver. "For your silence. And your service."
She caught it, weighing the coins in her palm. "Kaelthar will ask what I learned."
"Tell them I'm a desperate fool chasing glory in the Pass." He fastened his doublet, watching her reflection in the grimy cabin mirror. "And that I bed like a starving wolf."
Mira grinned. "That part's true."
As she left, Kael's smile faded. Let House Kaelthar think him reckless. Let them march their armies into the Bloodsworn's fire. By the time they realized the Bastard of Varynth had outmaneuvered them all, it would be too late.
The Night's Whisper cut through the waves, dawn bleeding crimson on the horizon. Kael stood at the prow, the wind biting his face. The Iron Pass loomed ahead, its cliffs bristling with ancient watchtowers. But as the ship rounded the coast, a column of smoke caught his eye—thick and black, rising from a village on the shore.
"Raise the black flag," Kael ordered.
Borin hesitated. "We're not pirates anymore."
"Today we are."
The crew hoisted the skull-and-sword banner, and Kael unsheathed his dagger. The Bloodsworn liked to burn villages as offerings to their god. Let them see how their god liked fire met with steel.
But as the ship neared the shore, a figure emerged from the smoke—a woman in a charred gray cloak, her face streaked with ash. The same hooded watcher from Eldervale. She held a dagger in one hand and a severed Bloodsworn banner in the other.
When her eyes met Kael's, she smiled again.