The hallway leading to the Marquis’s solar was a gauntlet of ghosts.

  Casimir Kovac walked past the portraits of his ancestors, their oil-painted eyes judging him from the shadows. There was his grandfather, Lord Commander Eryk, leaning on a warhammer that had cracked the gates of the Iron Citadel. There was his great-uncle, holding the severed head of a goblin warlord. Pictures of his father and brothers were also there. Also immortalizing their great deeds, and then, at the end of the hall, the empty space where his own portrait should have hung.

  He stopped at the heavy oak door. The wood was black with age, reinforced with iron bands that looked more like prison bars than decoration. He smoothed the front of his velvet doublet, though he knew it wouldn't matter. To his father, he could be wearing jagged plate armor or beggar’s rags; the disappointment would be the same.

  Casimir took a breath, held it for three seconds to steady the tremor in his hands, and knocked.

  "Enter."

  The voice was a low rumble, barely louder than the crackle of the hearth, yet it vibrated through the wood.

  Casimir pushed the door open and stepped inside. The solar was stiflingly hot, the fireplace roaring despite the mild autumn afternoon. The air smelled of stale pipe tobacco, dry parchment, and the sharp, metallic tang of ink—the scent of the Kovac domain. Marquis Kovac sat behind his desk, a slab of black granite that looked like a tombstone. He didn’t look up. His quill scratched aggressively against a sheet of vellum, the sound like a knife sharpening on stone.

  Casimir closed the door softly. He didn't speak. He knew the rules: silence until acknowledged. He moved to the side table where a crystal decanter of wine sat catching the firelight. He poured a glass, the clink of crystal loud in the oppressive quiet. He needed the wine. His stomach was a tight knot of acid, and his throat felt like he had swallowed sand. He took a sip. It was a rich vintage from the Southern Vineyards, costing more than a peasant earned in a lifetime. It tasted like ash.

  "Father," Casimir said, unable to bear the scratching quill any longer. "To what do I owe the summons?"

  The scratching stopped.

  The Marquis slowly set the quill down. He was a mountain of a man, his shoulders broad enough to block out the window behind him. A scar ran from his temple to his jaw, a souvenir from the Border Wars that pulled his mouth into a permanent, cruel sneer.

  He steepled his fingers—thick, calloused digits that had crushed throats and signed death warrants with equal indifference.

  "You are twenty years old today, Casimir."

  Casimir leaned back against the wall, swirling the wine in his glass. He tried to project an air of bored detachment, a shield he had spent years forging. "I wasn't aware you kept track of such trivialities. Did you get me a gift? Perhaps a marriage proposal?"

  The Marquis ignored the deflection. His dark eyes, hard as flint, finally snapped up to meet Casimir’s.

  "At twenty," the Marquis said, his voice flat, "your brother Stefan had already broken the siege at High-Hearth. He came home with a jagged spear wound in his shoulder and a knighthood from the King himself."

  Casimir took another sip, larger this time. "Stefan always did enjoy throwing himself at sharp objects."

  "At twenty," the Marquis continued, his volume rising just a fraction, "Jan commanded the vanguard during the Salt-War. He secured the southern trade routes and brought three merchant cities to heel."

  The Marquis stood up. The chair scraped loudly against the stone floor. The room seemed to shrink.

  "And you?" The Marquis walked around the desk. "You have done... nothing. You consume my wine. You wear my silk. You waste my air. You are a parasite, Casimir. A gilded leech."

  Casimir felt the heat rise in his neck. "Hard to earn accolades in peacetime, Father. Unless you wanted me to start a border skirmish for your amusement? Or perhaps I should have stabbed the cook, just to keep my blade wet?"

  The Marquis moved.

  For a man of his size, he was terrifyingly fast. Casimir saw the shift in his father’s shoulder, the tightening of the heavy wool tunic, but instinct wasn't enough to save him.

  The backhand connected with the force of a falling tree.

  Crack.

  The world tilted violently to the left. Casimir stumbled, his hip slamming into the side table. The crystal goblet flew from his hand and shattered against the stone hearth, splashing crimson wine across the bear-skin rug like a spray of arterial blood.

  Casimir caught himself on the edge of the desk, gasping. A high-pitched ringing screamed in his ears. His vision swam, black spots dancing in the periphery. He touched his tongue to the inside of his cheek and tasted the hot, copper flood of blood.

  He stood there, breathing hard, his hand trembling as he wiped a trail of blood from his split lip. The urge to reach for the dagger at his belt was a screaming siren in his mind—a desperate, animal instinct to defend himself. But he suffocated it. To draw steel on the Marquis in his own solar was a death sentence.

  "I have killed men for less insolence," the Marquis said quietly. He wiped a speck of Casimir’s blood from his knuckles with a handkerchief, looking at it with mild distaste. "Do not mistake my patience for affection. It has run dry."

  Casimir spat a glob of blood onto the floor. He straightened up, though his head was still spinning. "Message received."

  "Good." The Marquis dropped the bloody handkerchief onto the desk. "Because I am done waiting for you to become useful. I have found a place for you."

  He reached for a rolled parchment at the edge of his desk and unfurled it. It was a map of the Kingdom, but the Marquis’s finger didn't point to the fertile valleys of the south or the trade cities of the coast.

  It pointed North. Past the cities. Past the forts. To the jagged, white edge of the known world.

  "The King has granted me stewardship of the lands beyond the Frost-Gate," the Marquis said. "A settlement called Blackwood. The locals have stopped paying taxes. They claim the forest has turned against them."

  Casimir moved to the desk, his jaw aching with every pulse of his heart. He looked down at where his father pointed.

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  "Blackwood?" Casimir’s voice was rough. "Father, that’s not a fiefdom. That’s a grave. The Whispering Pine-Barrens are overrun. The Orc tribes there—"

  "—Are a threat," the Marquis cut in. "A threat a true Kovac would welcome."

  "You want me to bring a border town to heel with what army?" Casimir looked up, incredulous. "My personal guard is six men. Two of them are drunkards and one has a limp."

  "I have petitioned the Crown for a garrison. Fifty heavy infantry. Veterans of the Salt-War."

  Casimir paused. Fifty men. With fifty heavy infantry, holding a fortified town was possible. It was a legitimate command. A chance to actually build something.

  "When do they arrive?" Casimir asked.

  "They march in the spring."

  The silence that followed was heavy and suffocating. Outside the window, a crow cawed, a harsh, mocking sound.

  "Spring," Casimir repeated, the word tasting like bile. "Winter is three weeks away. You’re sending me to hold an indefensible ruin against a mobilized Orc tribe, cut off by snow, for four months. With six men."

  "I am giving you a chance to prove you are not a waste of blood," the Marquis said, his face an impassive mask of stone. "Secure the village. Re-establish the tithe. Survive the winter. If the garrison arrives in the thaw and finds you alive, I will sign the Deed of Stewardship. You will be Lord of Blackwood in your own right."

  Casimir stared at the map. It was a trap. A blatant, elegant execution.

  The Marquis gets to claim he gave his son a Lordship—a generous gift. When the Orcs inevitably butchered Casimir and his six guards, the Marquis could mourn the 'tragic loss' and send Stefan or Jan to retake the land in the spring with the real army. Casimir was just the bait to test the waters.

  He looked at his father. The Marquis was already reaching for a fresh parchment, dismissing him.

  Casimir had two choices. Refuse, and be disowned—cast out of the city with nothing, likely to be killed by his father’s political enemies within a week. Or take the suicide mission and pray he was smarter than the winter.

  "I’ll do it," Casimir said.

  The Marquis raised an eyebrow, the first sign of surprise he had shown all day. "Oh?"

  "On one condition."

  Casimir reached across the desk. He ignored the throb in his cheek and the blood drying on his chin. He pulled the unsealed Deed of Stewardship toward him. "You sign the Writ of Appointment now. And the Transfer of Authority."

  "The title is contingent on your survival," the Marquis warned, his voice dropping an octave.

  "Then you have nothing to lose by signing it," Casimir countered. He kept his hand on the parchment, staring his father down. "But I want the Royal Seal affixed. And I want it witnessed by the High Justiciar before I ride out tonight."

  "You do not trust your own blood?"

  "I trust you to do what is best for the family, Father," Casimir said softly. "Which is why I want the witnesses. If I’m going to die for your expansion, I want the legal assurance that my ghost will own the land my bones are buried in."

  For a second, the Marquis looked at him—really looked at him—with something that wasn't quite pride, but was certainly calculation. He saw the desperation, but he also saw the spine.

  "You have your mother’s stubbornness," the Marquis said. He dipped his quill into the inkwell. "Very well. I will summon the Justiciar. But know this, Casimir."

  He signed the document with a flourish and shoved it back across the desk.

  "If you are still within the city walls when the sun rises, I will hang you as a deserter."

  Casimir took the parchment. "I wouldn't dream of staying."

  He turned and walked out. He kept his back straight. He didn't slam the door. He waited until the heavy oak latched shut behind him before he let his shoulders slump, his breath coming in ragged, terrified gasps.

  Casimir leaned against the rough stone of the corridor wall, the heavy oak door latching shut with a finality that echoed in his chest.

  The adrenaline that had kept his spine straight in the solar evaporated, leaving a cold, trembling void in its wake. His legs felt like water. He pressed his forehead against the cool stone, closing his eyes as the throbbing in his cheek bloomed into a rhythmic, pounding headache.

  Blackwood.

  He might as well have been sentenced to death.

  A servant—a young girl carrying a basket of linens—turned the corner. She froze when she saw him, her eyes widening at the blood smeared on his chin.

  "My Lord?" she squeaked, dipping into a clumsy curtsy. "Shall I fetch the chirurgeon?"

  Casimir pushed himself off the wall. He wiped his chin with his velvet sleeve, ruining the fabric. "No. Get back to your work."

  He didn't wait for her response. He walked fast, his boots clicking sharply on the marble floors. He needed to be behind a locked door. He needed to not be seen.

  His chambers were in the East Wing, the side of the keep that caught the morning sun. He burst into the room and threw the bolt.

  It was a beautiful room. A large four-poster bed draped in Myrish silk dominated the center. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting a warm orange glow over the tapestries depicting the Kovac family’s rise to power. On the mantle sat a silver-framed portrait of his brothers: Stefan, tall and broad-shouldered, holding a tourney helmet; and Jan, sharp-eyed and leaning on a bastard sword. They looked like gods of war.

  Casimir walked past them to the vanity table.

  He looked in the silver-glass mirror. The face staring back was pale, the eyes wide and rimmed with shock. A purple bruise was already blossoming across his left cheekbone, dark and ugly against his skin. His lower lip was split down the middle, swollen to twice its size.

  "You look like a corpse already," he whispered to the reflection. The words came out slurred.

  He poured water from a pitcher into a basin and splashed his face. The cold water stung the cut, making him hiss, but it washed away the blood. He dabbed it dry with a towel, watching the white linen turn pink.

  Stefan would have dodged the blow. Jan would have taken it without stumbling.

  Casimir threw the bloody towel onto the floor. They aren't here, he told himself. They are off winning glory in the South while you get sent to the slaughter.

  He moved to the wardrobe. There was no point in lingering on the fear—fear was a luxury he could no longer afford. If he was leaving at dawn, he had to become someone else. The "Useless Son" died in that solar. The "Lord of Blackwood" had to survive the night.

  He stripped off the ruined velvet doublet and the silk shirt, kicking them into the corner. He stood shivering in the warm room, looking at his body. He was lean, corded with runner’s muscle, but he lacked the heavy bulk of his father or Stefan. He wasn't built for a shield wall; he was built for speed. He would have to hope speed worked on Orcs.

  He began to dress. Not in the finery of the court, but in the gear he used for hunting.

  Thick woolen breeches. A linen undertunic, followed by a padded gambeson. He pulled on his riding boots—leather, oiled against the wet—and strapped a pair of daggers to his thighs. Over it all, he threw a heavy cloak lined with grey wolf fur, pinning it at the shoulder with the silver crest of House Kovac.

  He looked back at the mirror. The bruise was still there, but the silk was gone. He looked less like a prince and more like a mercenary.

  He went to his heavy oak chest at the foot of the bed and threw it open. He began to toss items onto the mattress, his mind racing through a grim checklist.

  Money. He grabbed a heavy pouch of gold crowns—his allowance saved over three years. It wouldn't buy much in the wilderness, but it might bribe a guard or buy a horse if his died. Maps. He snatched the regional charts from his desk. Weapons. He took his sword belt. The blade was a standard arming sword, well-balanced but plain. He buckled it around his waist, the weight familiar and comforting.

  Finally, he picked up the parchment his father had signed. The Deed of Stewardship.

  He stared at the signature. Marquis Viktor Kovac. The ink was still drying.

  This piece of paper was the most dangerous thing in the room. It was his death warrant, but it was also his only hope of freedom. If he died, this paper would rot in the snow with him. If he lived...

  He folded the parchment carefully, wrapped it in oilcloth to protect it from the damp, and tucked it into the inside pocket of his tunic, right against his heart.

  He took one last look around the room. The fire was dying down. The silk sheets looked inviting. He could crawl into that bed, sleep for twelve hours, and wake up to a servant bringing him breakfast.

  But if he was here when the sun rose, he would swing from a rope.

  Casimir turned his back on the warmth. He grabbed a half-empty bottle of brandy from the table, took a long, burning swig that made his eyes water, and shoved the cork back in.

  "Time to wake the dead," he muttered.

  He grabbed his travel pack and strode to the door. He didn't look back at the portrait of Stefan and Jan. He didn't look back at the life he was losing.

  He unbolted the door and stepped out into the cold corridor, heading down toward the barracks.