The hall was cast in a half-light—cold rays of dusk pressing through the stained glass, crawling across the marbled floor like fractured veins. A fireplace crackled in the corner, but it failed to warm the vast stone expanse of Faolinshire Castle's drawing chamber.
Brooklyn Harperwood stood tall at the hearth, his silhouette outlined in amber and shadow. The fire danced along the edges of his fitted coat, tracing the harsh lines of his figure. His amber eyes, half-lidded in thought, were fixed on nothing in particular. He looked like a statue—carved from rage held just beneath stillness.
Behind him stood the old butler, Anderson. Time had etched its mark upon him in the form of bowed shoulders and thinning silver hair, but his voice still carried a calm that few could match.
"The countryside burns, Your Grace," Anderson reported, the parchment trembling lightly in his gloved hands. "This morning alone—seventeen homes razed, forty-seven unarmed dead. The palace crest of Iverlyn was seen flying above the ash."
Brooklyn didn't turn. A single finger tapped slowly against the mantelpiece.
"And yet no declaration. No letter. No messenger. They act in silence."
Anderson nodded gravely. "Their silence is bloodshed."
A muscle in Brooklyn's jaw ticked, barely perceptible.
"I should have known they'd crawl from their dens while we sat idle in this peace."
He finally turned, and the light of the fire caught the cold glint in his eyes. "Cowards don't speak before they bite. They lunge for the throat first."
The room seemed to shrink beneath his words.
Anderson remained still, letting the anger settle. "Shall I summon the council?"
"No," Brooklyn said sharply. Then, after a pause, more controlled, "Summon the generals. Tonight."
The butler hesitated, catching the weight of that single word.
"Tonight, Your Grace?"
Brooklyn moved across the chamber, his boots heavy against the stone. He reached the tall windows and looked out at the lands below. The sky was bleeding red.
"Iverlyn doesn't deserve our hesitation. Not this time. Not again."
He turned slightly. "I want the cavalry armed. Archers supplied. No lanterns. We ride when the moon crests the trees."
"Yes, Your Grace," Anderson bowed. "I shall prepare them."
"And Anderson," Brooklyn added, voice lower, almost a growl, "If there are any flames left by morning, I want them extinguished with iron."
The butler nodded, then exited swiftly, his steps brisk despite his age.
Brooklyn remained at the window, unmoving, the dying light of day cutting across his face. In his gaze was not just vengeance—but memory. And something far darker.
He whispered to no one.
"They thought Faolinshire forgot how to burn."
The moon hung low like a tarnished blade in the ink-black sky, shrouded faintly by drifting smoke rising from distant fields. Along the southern border of Faolinshire, where forests once hummed with quiet wind and birdcall, now only the iron-footed march of war could be heard.
A thousand riders thundered down the charred paths, the clatter of hooves and clinking armor ringing like a dark hymn. At their front, under a banner stitched with a black wolf against red silk, rode the Duke himself—Brooklyn Harperwood. No helm hid his face. His amber eyes blazed like forge-coals in the torchlight, unflinching and cold as winter steel.
Behind him, the forest parted to reveal the first sight of Iverlyn's forward stronghold: a mid-sized fortress draped in the silver and violet crest of the enemy house. But it wasn't prepared. Brooklyn could see it even from a distance—the outer patrols were sparse, the walls barely lit, and the gates still open. They had not expected retaliation. Certainly not in the dead of night.
General Laiken, a lean, hawk-eyed man with a crooked scar over his lips, pulled his steed alongside Brooklyn's.
"My lord," he said, voice low, "this will be a slaughter. They're still sleeping in their silks."
Brooklyn did not look at him.
"And I intend to wake them."
His voice was like thunder pressed into silk.
A soldier galloped up with a report. "The archers are in position behind the western ridge. Fire on your signal, milord."
Brooklyn raised a gloved hand and gestured forward. "No fire."
The messenger blinked. "But—"
"They'll see it," Brooklyn cut him off. "We ride in shadow. No warning. No mercy."
He turned again toward the sleeping fortress. A breeze carried the scent of pine, char, and distant blood. His hand rested on the hilt of his blade, the one passed down from the first Duke of Faolinshire—a slender but cruel weapon with blackened steel. A wolf's fang was etched at its guard.
Brooklyn's eyes narrowed.
"Ride."
Like lightning across dry grass, the cavalry surged forward.
The fortress did not know what hit it. Within minutes, the wooden outer gates splintered inward beneath the force of Faolinshire's battering rams. Men screamed, half-armored, dragging themselves from tents and corridors only to meet swords drawn with precision and wrath.
Brooklyn dismounted at the heart of the chaos, his cloak sweeping behind him like the trailing wing of some dark beast. He cut down a halberdier with a single swing, moving with the controlled fury of a man not just fighting—but purging.
He passed a group of Iverlyn soldiers trying to regroup at the eastern wall.
"You shouldn't have lit those fires," he muttered before sending one of them sprawling with a brutal backhand of his gauntlet.
General Laiken joined him soon after, blade slick with blood. "They're falling apart. No coordination. It's not even a battle, it's a collapse."
"Good," Brooklyn said. "I want it to be remembered as one."
The courtyard was now theirs. The Iverlyn banner was torn down and burned, its violet colors curling into ash. Brooklyn watched it fall into cinders and then turned to the remaining resistance deeper in the keep.
"We move in," he ordered. "Find their command room. If the noble sons are still here, I want their heads—not their surrender."
An hour later, the fortress had fallen in full.
Brooklyn stood in the ruined war room, strewn with maps and overturned goblets. The body of a lord—one of Iverlyn's nephews—lay near the hearth, throat split open. Brooklyn didn't even glance at it.
He picked up a scorched piece of parchment from the table. On it, a sketch of the southern lands—his lands. With circles marked in red ink.
"They planned this weeks ago," he said. "We were just slow to see it."
Laiken rubbed the back of his neck. "What now, my lord?"
Brooklyn walked to the window and stared at the valley below, still burning with the aftermath of the siege. Distant cries rang out—a mix of victory and death.
"This was only a border post," Brooklyn said quietly. "The real war begins at Iverlyn's heart."
He turned, voice colder. "We march east. I want to tear the velvet from their throne."
And far beneath the stone walls, beneath the boots and blood and banners, Faolinshire howled to life once more.
The sun had risen over Iverlyn.
Its light, soft and golden, seemed almost misplaced—like a delicate veil draped over carnage. Once-pristine towers now jutted toward the sky in broken defiance, their marble skin cracked and bleeding ash. The eastern gates of the capital palace hung wide open, torn from their hinges, the lavish purple tapestries now trampled into the dust beneath Faolinshire's boots.
It had taken less than two days.
Brooklyn Harperwood stood at the edge of the royal courtyard, surrounded by silent stone and dying embers. A steady breeze rustled the scorched standards that had once flown proudly over Iverlyn's kingdom, now replaced by the black wolf banner of Faolinshire.
Behind him, the army moved like phantoms—efficient, wordless, composed. His men had not suffered even a fraction of what had been anticipated. There were no casualties to count. No wounded to mourn. Not even a skirmish within the walls had lasted longer than a breath.
It had been too easy. And Brooklyn hated that.
Anderson approached him, boots clicking softly against the palace stone, his black overcoat billowing in the morning wind. Despite the chaos they had marched through, the old man looked immaculate—as if untouched by blood or soot. A parchment was tucked under one arm, but his eyes were fixed solely on the Duke.
"It's done," he said calmly. "The palace is secured. All resistance has ceased. Iverlyn's court lies either dead or in shackles."
Brooklyn didn't answer at once. His amber eyes scanned the broken spires, the lavish halls gaping like hollowed bones. Statues had crumbled, paintings burned, fountains choked with shattered armor. And yet, for all the devastation, something gnawed at the back of his mind.
A stillness. A silence he did not trust.
Anderson spoke again. "Shall we begin withdrawal, Your Grace? Or would you prefer we set the capital aflame before we leave?"
Brooklyn finally turned to him, voice low. "No fire. Not yet."
Anderson blinked. "Sir?"
Brooklyn's gaze drifted toward the tallest wing of the palace—the eastern spire, miraculously untouched. Its glass windows, though dusted with soot, still shimmered faintly in the morning light. Something about that untouched silhouette unsettled him. It stood like a memory, or a warning.
"I want the halls searched," he said at last. "Thoroughly. Every vault. Every chamber. Every locked door. If it gleams, we take it. If it breathes, we cage it."
Anderson raised a brow. "You suspect survivors?"
"I don't know what I suspect," Brooklyn muttered. "But I don't like how quiet this victory came."
He stepped forward and touched the cracked stone railing overlooking the city. "Iverlyn was arrogant. But not foolish. Their walls were strong, their reach wide. They must have had contingency—an escape, a decoy, something."
Anderson nodded thoughtfully. "Very well. I shall send in the scouts and elite guard. The eastern wing appears to be largely intact."
Brooklyn's eyes lingered on it. "Start there."
As the butler turned to relay the orders, General Laiken joined them, sheathing his bloodless sword. His usual smirk had faded, replaced by the look of a man still expecting a dagger to appear in his back.
"They ran too fast," he said. "I've fought border wars since I was seventeen. This wasn't defense. It was surrender dressed as a fight."
Brooklyn gave a slight nod. "Because they were hiding something."
Laiken looked out across the city. "Or someone."
Brooklyn's gaze narrowed, but he said nothing.
The scouts returned hours later. Two squads came back with ornate treasures—gilded scrolls, locked ledgers, a sealed vault filled with ivory coins and ancient relics. One found a sealed door with a chain spell etched into it. They'd sent for the mages to break it open.
The last squad returned empty.
Except for one thing.
A ring.
An oddly simple silver ring with an obsidian jewel at its crown, handed over to Brooklyn in a red cloth. No emblem, no crest. Just the black gem that seemed almost warm to the touch.
Brooklyn stared at it for a long moment, lips pressed into a firm line.
"Where was this found?"
"A chamber below the main stairwell, Your Grace. Hidden under the flagstones. No door, no light. But… something about the air down there—it didn't feel right."
Anderson glanced toward Brooklyn. "Shall I send a specialist?"
Brooklyn closed his fist over the ring. "No. I'll go myself."
Laiken frowned. "You? My lord, there may still be traps."
Brooklyn's eyes burned. "If something still breathes down there, I want to look it in the eye."
He descended into the palace alone, footsteps echoing through the ruin, toward the one place untouched by sword or fire. He didn't yet know why, but something had stirred inside him—something ancient, something cold.
Something that told him the war was not over.
Not yet.