The Return to Blackhold
The journey north had taken seven days through rain and biting wind. Now, as Lord Toran and his company crested the final hill, the fortress of Blackhold rose before them-a towering stronghold of dark stone, its high walls unbroken by time or siege. The banners of the Iron Wolf snapped in the autumn gale, a welcome as familiar as his own breath.
At the gates, his household stood waiting.
Lady Elyna, wrapped in a heavy fur cloak lined with silver wolf pelts, watched with sharp amber eyes as Toran dismounted, the sleeping Prince Kael cradled against his chest. Their three children- Roran (10), Tilan (5), and Lira (7)-peeked out from behind her skirts, wide-eyed with curiosity.
"You smell of smoke and blood," Elyna said by way of greeting.
Toran exhaled, weariness settling deep in his bones. "It's been a long war."
She stepped forward, her gaze dropping to the feverish boy in his arms. For a moment, the hardness in her expression flickered. Then, without ceremony, she reached out and took Kael from him. "Gods, he's light,"she muttered, adjusting the child against her shoulder. "Like holding a bundle of twigs."
"His magic was taken," Toran said quietly. "It nearly killed him."
Elyna's jaw tightened, but she only nodded. "Lira, fetch Mistress Adela. Edric, stoke the fire in the west chamber. Roran-stop gawking and help your father with his armor."
The children scattered like startled birds. Edric, ever dutiful, sprinted toward the keep. Roran hesitated, eyeing the strange boy in his mother's arms before grabbing Toran's saddlebag with a grunt. Little Lira, however, lingered, her tiny fingers clutching Elyna's cloak.
"Is he my brother now?" she asked, tilting her head at Kael.
Elyna's mouth quirked. "We'll see. Go."
As Lira scampered off, Toran finally allowed himself to breathe. The weight of his armor-of the war, of the choices he'd made-seemed to lift slightly.
"No lecture?" he asked, falling into step beside his wife as they crossed the courtyard.
Elyna shot him a look that promised retribution. "Oh, you'll get one. But not until he's warm and fed."
---
The Dispersal of the Clans
Far to the south, in the ruins of Altheria's once-great capital, the victorious clans prepared to depart.
Lady Ysara of the Frost Serpents was the first to leave, her silver-haired warriors mounting their pale steeds with military precision. "The north is secured," she told her captains, her voice crisp. "But mark my words-mercy toward the enemy's blood will breed weakness. We'll see how long Toran's honor lasts when the boy grows."
Warlord Draven of the Blood Fangs spat into the ashes of the fallen kingdom's great hall. "Varek's gone soft," he growled to his lieutenants. "Should've burned the brat with the rest of them." His warband rode south at a brutal pace, their black banners snapping like wolves' teeth in the wind.
Only Lord Malric of the Shadow Hounds lingered, watching the others depart with a smirk. Leaning against a broken pillar, he twirled a dagger between his fingers. "Interesting," he mused to his spymaster. "Toran plays the noble savior. Ysara and Draven flee like whipped dogs. And our glorious king..."His gaze slid toward the royal pavilion. "Well. Let's see how this little drama unfolds."
His spymaster, a gaunt woman with scarred lips, murmured, "Shall we have the boy watched?"
Malric's smile widened. "Oh, I already have people in Blackhold. But let's not rush things. Toran's no fool-he'll be expecting traps."
---
King Varek stood alone in the shattered throne room, his crown weighing heavier with each passing moment. The celebrations had ended, the wine was stale, and the laughter of his lords rang hollow in his ears.
His chancellor, Orric, approached with careful steps. *
"The clans disperse, sire. Your orders?"
Varek's fingers brushed the armrest of the conquered throne-once Altheria's pride, now his by right of blood and steel. "We return to Varyndor at dawn," he said. "There's nothing left here but ghosts."
Orric hesitated. "And Lord Toran?"
A muscle twitched in Varek's jaw. Memories surfaced unbidden-two boys sparring in the training yard, sharing stolen sweets, whispering dreams of the future under the stars.
"Leave him be," he said at last.
With that, he turned away, his scarlet cloak billowing as he strode toward his waiting horse. The last king of a broken realm, riding home to a victory that tasted like ashes.
---
The Hearth of Blackhold
That night, in the warmth of the great hall, Kael finally woke.
He blinked up at the unfamiliar vaulted ceiling, then at the faces surrounding him-Toran, stern but kind; Elyna, sharp-eyed but not ungentle; and three children who stared at him with varying degrees of curiosity.
*"Who're you?" Roran demanded, poking Kael's shoulder.
Kael's lower lip trembled.
Lira, ever fearless, climbed onto the bed beside him and patted his hand. "Don't cry," she announced. "You're safe now. I'll protect you."
Edric, ever the serious one, frowned. "You can't even lift a practice sword, Lira."
"Can too!"
As the children bickered, Toran met Elyna's gaze over their heads. She sighed, but there was no real anger in it. "You'll explain everything tomorrow," she said.
"I will," he promised.
Outside, the wind howled against the ancient stones of Blackhold. Somewhere far to the south, a princess laughed as golden magic danced at her fingertips, unaware of the threads being woven.
And in the dark between, fate waited.