Jordar Corinth dragged himself out of the stool and stumbled across the grimy floor of the tavern and towards the door. As he moved, he patted his pockets and coin purse, smiling. Tobacco smoke hung over the room like a toxic veil, and as Jorder shuffled between grumbling patrons and out into the open streets of Corinthia he sucked in a great breath of fresh air. Free from the stifling humidity and darkness of the Tavern, his head began to clear. The familiar throb of a hangover hammered at the back of his skull, and as he made his way down the quiet stone street, he smiled. The gods loved Jordar Corinth. They surely did, because that was the fourth time he’d fallen asleep in a tavern without being robbed. It would’ve been too easy. He would have robbed him, if he saw himself sleeping like that. It was an amateur mistake, really. He cast his eyes skyward as he walked, savoring the early morning sunlight. The clouds streaked the sky like tiger stripes. His hand slipped into his pocket, wrapping around the withered and folded piece of paper. It had made quite the journey to reach him. Pressed between books, hidden under the floors on ships. Of course, Jordar had to scale the wall of a house and steal it, but he had retrieved the map. The Riventomb.

  House Riven were Bannerlords to House Corinth who had long been renowned for their knights. Their horsemen were some of the finest in all of Durendane, and their greatest Knights were buried in Cairns which littered the southlands, hidden, just waiting for discovery. Rumors were abound of knights buried with magic swords and enchanted armor. Jordar had never found any magic blades, nor anything more magical than that perfect resplendent coinage for which he lived. Many men in this world searched for magic, but Jordar had already found it. Every man carried a little magic in his coin purse. It could bring a man to reveal his secrets, or kill his own kin. To turn against his nation, to serve men he detests.

  Yes, in Jordar’s experience, gold was the most powerful sorcery mankind had devised.

  Corinthia had all the grandeur of the Free Cities, and the civility of Durendane. As the legend goes, the Corinths sailed north shortly after the Landfall. Their oracles saw the future Kingdom formed by the Knights and knew that they stood to gain. Corinths have always had an eye for coin. There was a reason their House Sigil bore a golden chalice. Their house words echoed in his mind.

  Know Your Place. Jordar indeed knew his. He hadn’t quite reached it yet, tenth in line for the seat of House Corinth. But it would be his. He knew it. It was fate, he was practically already the head of the House, it was just a matter of informing the rest of House Corinth of that fact. Jordar’s eyes swept over the marble columns and high arches. Corinth appeared a city out of legend. Gold capped rooftops, and billowing banners hanging from everywhere the Corinths could find room.

  The streets were thick with the sounds of music and speech, the braying of mules and the various animals that hauled their cargo through Corinthia. Many wagons were moving towards the gates already, hoping to sell their foreign goods in other towns, deeper into Durendane. But just as thick with the fresh fruit and cooking meats, there was an undertone of grime. He could smell the smoke and sweat of industry. The acrid stench of cow patties and horse manure spread through the streets of Corinthia. The city sprawled out across the coast, as densely packed as an anthill. Like ants, tens of thousands of workers and soldiers spilled through the city streets. There were cracks in the veneer of Corinthian superiority, but that could be a good thing. Cracks made for good hand holds. As Jordar wandered the sprawling city streets, he kept an eye out for any familiar faces. He knew he was not the only one searching for the Riventomb in particular. House Riven’s original resting place, chosen some seven hundred years ago, had been as lost to history as Dragons or the recipe for Balefire. Some things were never learned again, best left hidden. But Jordar would decide for himself what was worth hiding, when he got into the Riventomb.

  Jordar pulled his hood over his head, his mind awash with ideas of what he might find within the Riventomb. If the stories were to be trusted, there could be hundreds of magical artifacts down there. Most often, the stories were not to be trusted however. Jordar supposed he’d be happy just finding a sword that had a name. A named blade would fetch him a price, either from an ambitious young Riven looking to reclaim something or from a collector. Hell, Jordar knew some Lords who’d pay him for it just to flaunt it about in front of a Riven. His ambling through the streets brought him into the Market Quarter, where the stench of foreign spices choked the air. Slavery was technically illegal in Durendane, but as he moved towards his objective he spotted several Zairosi and Hekrosan merchants leading lines of chained foreigners, in shades from across the world. The only thing they had in common was their brand, two pillars side by side.

  The pillars of House Corinth. Jordar thought as he weaved his way through the crowd. Pillars were sturdy. He found himself wondering if he might reach the seat of his house by standing atop them. After all, there were only nine others in line ahead of him. Tenth couldn’t be far from the seat, not when every other option was so…lacking. The House hadn’t yet realized the strength of Jordar Corinth, but they would someday. He found himself glancing towards the white castle that dominated the center of the town, its construction an odd marrying of styles from Durendane and the Free Cities.

  It should be me. I’d take the best care of it. Not that bloviating kiss-ass Hectar, or that fop Karl. Me. It should be me. Jordar seethed at the thought of Karlos Corinth. With his bright clothes, and his preened hair. He was more peacock than man, like some massive bird shoved haphazardly into the flesh of a boy. With age, he had not been hardened but softened. Jordar could remember when Karl Corinth was a feared name, when that knight fought in every tournament up and down Durendane, just to prove himself the finest- and now he spent his days drinking wine and obsessing over the newest fashion. The man had hired a man to explore the Free Cities and bring back to him the finest garb.

  He wears the clothes of barbarians in the house of our forefathers.

  As he pushed through the crowd, dodging pickpockets and beggars alike, Jordar came face to face with his objective.

  The Millstone was something between a fighting pit, a bar, and a whorehouse. Jordar was not sure what the proper name for the structure was. Its door was its namesake, a massive millstone which was dragged to and fro by some form of pulley system Jordar had never been given the chance for a proper look at. As a boy, he recalled Karl telling him that it was a member of House Ember who initially designed the pulley system, and that it was meant for the Marble Keep. But it was gifted to the owner of The Millstone when House Ember was sent north to build the Emberhold. The entire purpose of the fort’s construction had long since been forgotten to time. Jordar wondered if the Corinths secretly doubted their Oracle. If they obeyed her, but held some secret reservations about swearing fealty to the Azalus family. Jordar wondered if he would have uprooted his family and crossed the seas on the whims of a woman who claimed to read truth from things like tea leaves and sticks. The people of the Free Cities had always been a superstitious bunch- but that was part of freedom, and they were fiercely protective of it. He shook himself from his musings and cut through the crowd, knocking a pattern on the glass window of The Millstone’s door. In a few moments he saw the gnarled face of the doorman, Ysiah. He listened to the pulley within start its labor as he tapped his foot. He’d found the machine fascinating but altogether too slow. Had it been his castle, he’d have stuck with a portcullis. As he waited, Jordar let an idle hand wander to his coin purse. As his hand reached his hip, he realized it was gone. With a sobering flash of surprise, he swung his hand down to his other side- not there either. He turned around and caught a glimpse of the boy- he was fast, but not half as clever as he thought. Jordar managed to catch him just a few steps as The Millstone rumbled open behind him.

  “You’ve got quick hands.” Jordar mused. “Quick on your feet too. Use the second before I take the first.” He said coolly. The boy paled, snow with legs. Jordar wrenched his coin purse from the child’s hand as he scrambled away, tearing into the darkness of a nearby alleyway like a scared alley cat.

  “Snared the crane, did you?” Ysiah grumbled as he stepped out of The Millstone, the raucous sounds of debauchery debasing the street with their presence. He always grumbled, the man seemed a volcano perpetually on the verge of eruption.

  “What?” Jordar asked.

  “The little thief. He’s been getting bolder. I’ve seen him snatch the odd apple, or coin off a drunken man- but a man of House Corinth?” He raised an eyebrow. “Then again, you are tenth in line.”

  Jordar grit his teeth, but wiped the look away.

  “Boldness is to be appreciated.” Jordar said, striding towards his old friend.

  “Aren’t your House words ‘Know Your Place’?” He asked, as he and Jordar approached the entrance of The Millstone.

  “A man’s place is known in his heart. It isn’t determined by birth.” Jordar replied. Ysiah choked down a laugh.

  “Way I see it, a man’s place is usually determined by his coin.” Ysiah yanked the lever to shut the door as the two men were enveloped in the iron stench of blood and salty sweat. Jordar heard a man’s death rattle in the fight pits as another story came to end.

  But mine merely begins. His hand returned to the map in his pocket. It was not the swords of Riventomb he desired. There was something of much greater value within.

  Ysiah had led him to a door. Ironoak in construction- an expensive import so far south. They only grew in snow. They were on a balcony here that overlooked the gambling den, the fighting pits, and the bar. Jordar could not help but take notice of the guard with the crossbow, watching over the entire interior. He was not the only one. There were men with swords interspersed throughout the building. Night Women worked their way through the crowds, finding men and separating them from their coin. Women were perhaps the one thing that Jordar found consistently held more sway over men than coin. So much so that men were willing to part with it for their company. He had never understood such desperations. He glanced back at the door. He had knocked a minute ago, and every second longer the door was shut he considered leaving and heading for the tomb on his own. But just as his impatience overwhelmed him, the door swung open, and he was met by the owner of The Millstone. Stonley Corinth, Jordar’s first cousin and ninth in line for the seat of House Corinth. He shared the diminutive height of their Emeraldi ancestors, and the fair hair and eyes of Durendalian South. His hair surrounded his head almost like a coif, draping down roughly to his mid-back. At a glance, he could be mistaken for a woman.

  “Don’t waste my time.” Jordar warned. “I was the one who went through the work of getting the map!”

  “I had to get that old fool to buy it.” Stonley said dismissively, waving his hand.

  How am I of this stock? Jordar wondered. Shaking his head, he motioned towards the door.

  “Care to invite me in?” He asked, eager to escape the heavy smell of battle and the humidity caused by so many debaucherous scum packed into the same building.

  Jordar followed Stonley into his office as he listened to the sound of a whipped slave sobbing. Stonley removed his gloves, tossing them onto a nearby table as the door slammed shut behind them and the entire room was drenched in silence. It was like a piece of the Marble Keep dragged into this hellhole. Silken sheets and curtains that blocked out the sights, and so heavy they even helped to dampen the sound through the window. The carpet was so lush that Jordar knew many people would consider it fit for a bed. Stonley was a Corinth though, and Jordar knew he wouldn’t so much as let his dog sleep on it. It was something that seemed to infest every corner of their house, this desire for softness, to hide from conflict. It could be the death of them.

  War is the fire that makes men steel. Jordar thought, and as he watched Stonley shoo a bruised servant girl from the room, he bit the inside of his cheek. He did still need some assistance.

  “Well?” Stonley asked.

  “Well, what?” Jordar smirked. “Have you forgotten the Magic Words?”

  “The Wanderer abhors lies. A lie of omission is yet a lie.” Stonley tried to sound intimidating, but the man looked more a boy from Jordar’s height. The god of Knights, Jordar knew, also abhorred beating women. But perhaps Stonley had merely missed that chapter.

  “But the Keeper finds delight in secrecy.” Jordar replied.

  Stonley knit his face into a facade of fury, and as he clenched his fist Jordar wondered if the little man might try to strike him.

  “Would you please show me the map?” He asked, now placid. Jordar grinned.

  “Why yes, little cousin I will.” Jordar smiled with a liar’s sweetness. He enjoyed the angry twitch in Stonley’s eye as he reached into his pocket with agonizing slowness to drag out the little withered slip of paper. The map to the Riventomb, the key to the fortunes of a dozen or more generations of dead family. Technically kin of House Corinth. Second cousins though, practically strangers Jordar told himself.

  He unfolded and presented it with a grand flourish. Stonley approached and inspected the map closely.

  “I’ll gather my best guards-” He began.

  “No!” Jordar said, perhaps too hastily. Stonley raised an eyebrow.

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  “Then they will know the location of the tomb. Soldiers, even good ones, speak.” He said. Stonley smiled, nodding.

  “You’re not as stupid as you look!” Stonley remarked, as if it were a grand discovery. He tapped the map twice, so hard that Jordar worried the old, yellowed, thing may rip.

  “Are you certain it's there, though?”

  “If it were certain, I wager the Rivens would have found it long ago.”

  Stonley shrugged.

  “When shall we depart?” He asked, stroking his chin.

  Jordar looked around the room. It was such a rich looking thing. A room fit for a lord.

  “Why not now?” He asked, with a smile.

  The next days on the road were an agony. They had managed to slip out of the gates of Corinthia without any issue, but Stonley had evidently never camped outside. The man was on the verge of leaping out of the saddle at every cracking branch and unseen noise. He’d refuse to step in mud, or sleep on the ground, so they’d had to bring a mule for his bedding. Stonley would of course find any reason to trouble Jordar, and he often found himself needing to hunt for the both of them.

  By their fifth night on the road, Jordar wondered if he should have gone alone. Under the shade of oak trees they rested on the side of the road. Stonley’s shortsword, a thing of finery with a carved pearl hilt and a blade made of Riversteel- as blue as the deepest ocean water. Pink and green were the colors of House Corinth, but white and blue were those of Zairos- said to be where their oracle hailed from.

  “I did not know you practice with the blade.” Jordar found himself smiling.

  “What good is a knight with no sword?” Stonley asked. “Would you like to hold it?” He asked. Jordar thought he could detect fear in his voice.

  “What is its name?”

  “Torrent.” Stonley replied. He passed the blade towards Jordar hilt first, reverently. He took it gingerly from Stonley. It was sized and weighted for the shorter man, but Jorder could swing it quickly. It was a weapon meant for closer combat, something he doubted Stonley would ever see, save in honor duels perhaps.

  “May I…” Jordar motioned towards a nearby tree.

  “By all means, slay your hated foe.” Stonley offered genuinely. Jordar stepped towards the branch and swung, the blade near hidden in the darkness this far from the fire. It cut cleanly, as if through butter. The blade did not even make a sound as it flew through the air.

  “This is a fine blade.” Jordar stated, glancing back at Stonley. He knew what he must look like to Stonley, clutching this sword on the edge of the stygian darkness. He stepped out of the pitch air towards the fire swiftly. Stonley held his breath, until Jordar flipped the blade around and passed it towards him, hilt first. He took the weapon in a shaking hand.

  “This tomb will make us the richest men south of the Wailing Tower.” Jordar grinned, and Stonley returned his enthusiasm. He had an almost childish smile. Cast behind the flames, hidden partially in shadow, he appeared nearly ten years younger.

  They ate their rations of dried sausage and cheese in relative silence, before the two of them finally retired to their mats for sleep. Stonley slept in a single-man tent, refusing to sleep out under the open air. Jordar did not presume the fabric would make much a difference if someone found them and decided to kill them.

  The entrance of the tomb was partially hidden by the deep rooted claws of earth and ivy. The great pale stones that once made up the entrance of what could be the Riventomb had long since crumbled away or become stained by soil and sin and time.

  Jordar nudged his horse ahead of Stonley’s. Stonley’s little gray mare gave way to the hefty black warhorse that Jordar rode- he’d won the beast in a tournament, nearly lost his arm while jousting he’d been struck so hard in the shoulder- but not unhorsed, never unhorsed. Jordar Corinth was not a man to be undone, especially not in front of a crowd.

  “It’s a little odd.” Stonley swallowed as he trotted to catch up.

  “What is?” Jordar asked innocently.

  “That a game trail leads straight to the tomb!” Stonley said, exasperated.

  “Perhaps they were drawn by carrion. Even a horse will occasionally eat meat. I once saw one devour a chicklet whole.” Jordar said.

  Stonley looked over at his horse’s mouth, a little green in the face.

  As they dismounted, the two men tied their horses to trees. The old gray donkey did not bother to travel too far from its companions, instead deciding to busy itself with affairs of munching grass. Jordar grabbed a satchel, and some fifty feet of rope. They likely wouldn’t need it, but it was better to have it and not need it than the reverse. He had not spent six days riding this far out just to be forced to turn around and return to the city for help.

  Stonley, for his part, was thrumming with excitement. Like a child on his Wakeday, he glanced from the entrance of the hall and back to Jordar.

  “This tomb has remained hidden for….for gods know how long!” Stonley grinned “They’ll remember us for this!”

  “Lead the way.” Jordar said, motioning for his cousin to move ahead. Stonley drew his blade and cut a path through the thick brush, to the ancient and rotted doors. They appeared fragile, like a single tap would send them shattering into dust. The ancient tomb was as lifeless as its occupants.

  Jordar couldn’t be sure, he thought he heard a whisper. As faint as a leaf falling in the wind.

  In here. The breeze seemed to say as a chill fell upon the woods.

  “We should hurry.” Stonley said, reaching into his bag to grab a torch.

  In a moment, the gaping maw of the tomb was illuminated by fickle firelight.

  “After you.” Stonley said breathlessly, motioning towards the entrance. Jordar obliged.

  The darkness seemed as though it were trying to consume them. Like it was pressing in around, trying to snuff the light. The doors were thick with cobwebs, and the air was heavy with age. Dust swirled about on the ground with the breeze, whistling as if the tomb was wheezing.

  Their footsteps echoed off the stone walls, ancient and eroded by rain. The stonework was simple, the entryway little more than a square room. It slanted downwards, engraved into the earth. The walls were carved with symbols that Jordar hardly recognized. They could have been words, they could have been letters or numbers or purely for artistic value. Moving deeper into the tomb, the only sounds were their footsteps and their breathing. The place stunk of soil. As the slope gradually leveled, they came to a forked hall.

  “The tombs…” Stonley said in wonder.

  But Jordar wasn’t so sure. House Riven did not speak a different language. The walls of these tombs were littered with symbols he could not place.

  Perhaps there is truth to the magic? He wondered. Stonley pointed to the furthest left hall.

  “Perhaps we should split up?” He offered.

  “If one of us triggers some trap, the other could not help him.” Jordar replied.

  Stonley nodded, accepting his answer. They both pressed on through the shadow, beneath the earth.

  In the walls were the countless resting dead. Small alcoves carved out where corpses, long faded to bone, had once been placed with their most vital weapons and tools, their most valued possessions. Death had claimed this place, and its stench clung to everything. Many Houses ascribed to the belief that one should return to the ocean that the ancient Azalan Knights had sailed across. Some houses, Riven in particular, preferred to return to the earth, their bodies eaten by the insects who fed the birds or toiled in the soils beneath the feet of men. In a way, they would support the land that held them up in life.

  Preposterous. Jordar thought. What do I owe a stone? A bug?

  His hand idled near his own simple sword as they walked, mountain ranges of goosebumps raising across his arms. With every step they took deeper into the hall, Jordar felt the eyes of the dead on his back. They found the first corpse with flesh just a ways away from the tomb.

  He had clearly been dead for some time. It was difficult to determine an exact time, the cold of the ground had in some ways preserved him. But the man had been gone for clearly more than a year.

  “We were not the first?” Stonley asked, slowly reaching his hand towards Torrent.

  “It would seem not.” Jordar mused, resting a hand on the hilt of his sword. “But he’s been gone for a while.”

  The breeze whispered again.

  This way! She called. I’m in here!

  “Did you hear that?” Jordar asked. There was an accusation in Stonley’s returning glare.

  “You child.” He muttered, moving deeper down the hall. Jordar listened to the crisp cry of steel drawn from scabbard. He moved to catch up to his cousin, and they passed another three corpses. The first man had been killed quietly, from behind. These men had not been killed in the same fashion. One was stabbed through his stomach with such force he was pinned to the wall on a rusty sword. He was clutching a rotten hand. The other man was the source of the limb, clutching his stump in his remaining hand as he lay dead upon the uncaring stone. Just another corpse, in a long line of tenants.

  They were not the last.

  Torrent clattered to the ground with a deafening cacophony as they entered the room, and Stonley retched. This room had only been meant to be a tomb to one, but there were more than three dozen bodies in this room. They were in various stages of rot, it was clear many had come before them.

  Stonley stepped deeper into the room on shaking legs. He approached the dias, upon which sat a corpse in green armor. The plate was dusty, in a state of disrepair, yet still grand in its own right. In its hands, it clutched a longsword nearly as tall as Stonley. But that wasn’t what he prized. A man was dead, slumped over the dead king’s chest.

  Move him. The Breeze told Jordar. Rescue me!

  Stonley tossed the corpse aside, revealing his prize. A ring on a chain, wrapped around the armored man’s neck. A small, glimmering thing more beautiful than any gem in the world. More beautiful than an oasis in the heart of a desert. It was not just bright, it was warm. It was loving.

  Don’t let him take me! You did all the work! You deserve me more than him. The winds whispered, and Jordar watched as dust was stirred up in the room by the errant breeze.

  “What?” Stonley asked himself, reaching slowly for the ring.

  Jordar silently scooped up Torrent from the cold stone behind him. The blade felt perfect in his hand, as if all the universe had conspired to bring it there.

  Stonley drew his hand back with a hiss. Jordar took a breath, the puff of air hanging like a cloud in miniature.

  “It’s…hot!” Stonley said, dumbfounded, sucking on burnt fingers. He turned to look at Jordar, going slack jawed in the flickering torchlight.

  “My sword.” He said stupidly.

  “Mine, now.” Jordar replied with a steely smile. Stonley looked past him, to the door, but they both knew he’d never make it.

  It’s too late for words now. The wind sang so softly, so sweetly. He knows.

  Jordar found that he agreed.

  “What are you doing?” Stonley asked, as if he couldn’t see. His voice was soaked in terror, drenched in the fear of a man betrayed. Jordar took a step forward, the single sound resounding up the halls and into the daylight. Stonley shivered in the darkness, alone.