The forest was old, a dense sprawl of blackened oaks and ironwoods that whispered in the cold wind like ghosts telling secrets. Sunlight barely touched the forest floor, dripping through the canopy in thin, sickly streaks. Moss clung to every trunk, and the air carried the musk of wet soil and decay. The sound of his boots pressing into the loam echoed faintly, accompanied only by the occasional rustle of unseen animals slinking through the brush.
Jinar Blaze moved like a shadow among the trees, his breath steady, eyes scanning every darkened hollow with a measured calm. The weight of his blade sat comfortable on his back. His movements were deliberate, patient, born from the unnatural composure that marked him so differently from the rest of his kin. He was young, barely seventeen summers, yet his silence and cold awareness made him seem far older.
It was there, in that hush between two heartbeats, that he saw it.
The corpse lay twisted among the roots of an ancient tree, half-buried in the black earth. The skin shimmered faintly with an otherworldly hue, a deep violet that looked bruised by death itself. Its eyes—milky, lidless—stared blankly toward the canopy, and its mouth was open in a frozen scream.
Jinar's steps slowed. His pulse did not quicken. He did not recoil. He simply crouched beside the body, watching. The color of the skin told him enough. The purple tint, the faint, unnatural stench of rot that carried an undertone of iron and cold.
A Dreadnight.
He had heard of them as whispered nightmares, creatures born beyond the Wall, ancient predators who fed not for sustenance, but pleasure. Their hunger was endless. Their kind slaughtered men for sport, devoured them alive for the sound of their agony. He had never seen one with his own eyes until now.
The edges of its wounds were blackened. The kill was recent. Jinar pressed two fingers to the soil, feeling the faint warmth still lingering there. Whoever—or whatever—had slain the Dreadnight was close, or had been not long ago.
His expression did not shift. Only his gaze hardened slightly, the faintest flicker of intrigue igniting behind his calm stare. "So they've crossed this far south," he murmured, his tone even, almost disinterested. The thought sank into him like a stone.
He straightened, brushing his hands against his cloak. The forest whispered again, leaves trembling in the high branches.
He turned toward the path back to Quarkson Hold.
The Quarkson lands sprawled over the eastern ridges, a fortress carved from gray stone overlooking a valley of smoke-colored fields. House Quarkson was old and proud, its lineage tangled with the dragons of Valyria and the bloodlines of the First Men. Lord Aerik Quarkson was known across the realm as the Seven-Star Knight, a warrior whose aura was said to press on lesser men until they knelt without command. His aura was not rumor—it was palpable, a crushing presence of spirit and power that could make a man's breath catch in his throat.
Jinar was his bastard.
That fact was not spoken often within the keep, but it did not need to be. His pale hair and mismatched eyes were enough to remind everyone that his blood was half shadow, half fire. His mother had been a minor noblewoman from the western reaches, long dead now, and his father had never publicly acknowledged him beyond the minimal courtesy due his name.
Still, Lord Quarkson had given him education, training, and a room in the keep. It was more than most bastards received.
As Jinar stepped out of the forest and onto the main road leading home, the high towers of the castle loomed in the distance, their banners snapping in the wind. The sigil of the Quarksons—a black phoenix rising from silver flame—fluttered against the gray sky.
By the time he reached the gate, the sun was already falling. The guards recognized him instantly and let him pass with only a bow of their heads. The air inside the courtyard buzzed with unusual energy. Servants hurried about, carrying trays of wine and roasted fowl, their eyes wide with the kind of nervous excitement that came when high company was expected.
Guests.
He moved through the familiar corridors of cold stone, the murmurs of conversation and laughter spilling faintly from the main hall. The scent of honeyed wine and spiced meat drifted through the air. He had intended to go straight to his father's study to report the discovery, but the sight of the banners hanging in the great hall stopped him in his tracks.
A crimson stag embroidered on black silk.
The sigil of Count Varran of the Red County.
The Count's voice carried above the hum of conversation as Jinar stepped into the hall's edge, unnoticed by most. Varran was a large man, dressed in dark velvet trimmed with silver. His laughter boomed as he toasted with Lord Quarkson at the head of the table. Beside him sat Lady Alenya, the Count's wife, her eyes sharp as a hawk's beneath a veil of silver lace.
Lord Quarkson himself looked as immovable as the mountains. His aura pressed over the hall like invisible weight. Even seated, his presence dominated, his shoulders straight, his hair tied back in a warrior's knot streaked with gray. His wife, Lady Maris, sat beside him, poised and radiant in her green gown, while their children filled the remaining seats.
Kael, the heir—broad-shouldered, proud, with their father's steel in his eyes.
Lyra, the eldest daughter—sharp-tongued and fiercely loyal to her brother.
And Elira, the youngest—a mirror of her mother's grace, though her gaze carried quiet storms.
Jinar stood apart. Always apart.
He was used to the way eyes glanced at him, then away. He didn't belong, yet he didn't care to. He preferred silence, preferred the solitude of the woods, the clean air away from politics and deceit.
But tonight, something prickled at the back of his mind. The Dreadnight corpse. The timing. The Count's unexpected visit. He watched from the shadows as Lord Quarkson raised a goblet, speaking of alliances, of border troubles, of unrest in the north.
The Count responded with charm and practiced ease, his gaze flicking toward the younger women at the table too often.
Jinar's jaw tightened, though his face betrayed nothing.
He turned to leave, meaning to wait until morning to speak privately with his father. Yet before he could step away, his father's voice echoed through the hall.
"Jinar."
Every head turned.
Lord Quarkson's eyes were fixed on him, calm but unreadable. "You've returned late. Out in the woods again?"
"Yes, my lord," Jinar said, stepping forward, his voice steady and low.
The Count chuckled, eyeing him. "Ah, the quiet one. I've heard of you. The Lord's bastard son, the strange one who speaks to the trees. Tell me, boy, do they ever answer?"
The laughter that followed was easy, but beneath it, Jinar felt the slow heat of something curl in his chest—not anger, exactly, but something colder.
"They answer those who listen," Jinar said simply.
A few courtiers murmured. The Count smiled, but there was tension behind it.
Lord Quarkson's gaze lingered on his son for a long moment, as though he could feel the depth beneath his stillness. Finally, he waved a hand. "Go. We will speak after supper."
Jinar inclined his head and turned away, but as he left the hall, he caught the faintest glimpse of Elira watching him, her expression unreadable.
He walked down the long corridor toward the northern tower, the echo of laughter fading behind him. Yet the memory of that corpse, its violet skin and frozen scream, clung to his thoughts. Something had killed it—something stronger, or stranger still—and whatever it was, it might already be watching the keep.
And as the moon rose high above the castle walls, Jinar Blaze, the bastard son of House Quarkson, felt the first whisper of the fate that would one day make even dragons bow.