Prologue
A thick scent of smoke and sweat hung in the air over Valkareth.
In his private quarters overlooking the kingdom, Lupus Ironhart stood with both hands pressed against the aging corners of a map. His general and guards surrounded him, waiting like a pack of wolves. Lupus dragged his fingers through his straw-colored hair, his gray eyes narrowing as lightning split the sky.
The flash illuminated the scar that cut over his eye, serving as a reminder he had carried his entire life. He had come too far to keep his kingdom merely intact. He would not stop until every throne bent to him.
"They'll think this is a betrothal," he said evenly to the general at his side. "Let them."
He straightened and stepped onto the balcony. Below, iron clinked against iron, chains rustled, and soldiers shifted in disciplined rows. They were a brute force that was forged, not born, and they belonged to him.
Thunder rolled across the darkened sky as Lupus glanced back at his general, who lowered his head in silent submission.
"Prepare the borders."