Chapter I

A weary band of riders cantered toward a silent grove where armed men awaited them, their faces gaunt from sleepless nights, their horses pawing the earth, snorting clouds of steam into the chill morning air. Krypsis led the men down a tussocky hill, his red mane tangled with his beard, his grey eyes scanning gathering storm clouds. The grove’s birches loomed like skeletal sentinels, watching the approach of the Codex Nox folios he carried—fragments no mortal should read, a blasphemy that could ignite another war as they were essential to the succession and ascension of many a prince of the realm.

The grove, half a mile off, lay eerily quiet, no birdsong breaking the stillness. Krypsis gripped his bow, Anocai, its worn etchings warm under his thumb, echoing a lover longed, and spurred his mare forward alone. Death felt close. he counted his heartbeats—one, two, three—each thump grounding him in cherishing life more now than ever. He traced the bow’s name, recalling laughter now a year silent. A chill gripped him, as if the grove whispered of He Who Sleeps. His thoughts steadied, though leading untrusted men weighed heavy.

“Name yourself!” a voice barked from the birch trees as Krypsis neared archer’s range.

 Krypsis braced, shouting, “Krypsis! Of the Tall Tower.” Men looked on from the hill behind him.

A moment’s silence hung heavy, then a lone rider emerged, head bowed, face hidden by a leather hood damp with dew. “Giscard,” the man called, “of that inn where we got drunk four months back. You churl!”

“Varlet!” Krypsis lowered his bow, exhaling sharply, relief flooding him. His heart slowed, the fear of death giving way to the warmth of camaraderie, though he knew Giscard’s jest masked a deeper weariness.

They met halfway, their horses snuffling and nuzzling manes. Giscard pushed back his hood, revealing a white scar beneath sly eyes, his dark blond hair matted with sweat from fever. “Feel alive now, don’t you, ginger?”

“Should’ve just shot you. Thought I was done for,” Krypsis admitted, grinning, though his eyes lingered on Giscard’s scar.

“A fine gift, then. Got mine?” Giscard glanced at Krypsis’s men as the air grew heavy with damp earth and pine, lightning cracked the sky.

“Both folios.” Krypsis patted his saddlebags, where the Codex Nox folios pulsed faintly, their leather bindings warm under his fingers, whispering fragments of forbidden chants making his heart race, thunder echoing. “At least now we know why the war between Houses Marron and Lyga ceased.”

“Cold comfort if it plunges us in another.”

“They hold words of a sleeping god. Awe is due,” Krypsis said, clutching the saddlebags.

“I’ll sleep better when we no longer hold them. Any trouble?”

“Pursuers are close—a day’s lead, maybe.” Rain thickened, slanting across a grey sky.

“The marshes, then,” Giscard said, spitting blood. “Those men you sent east?”

“Dead, if they used their rings.” Krypsis’s voice was grim, the folios’ weight heavier than ever.

“And those men know nothing?” Giscard spat blood from a gap in his teeth, hitting a rock. Dark red.

“I took possession of the Nox folios myself.” Krypsis’s hand tightened on the saddlebags.

Thunder drowned Giscard’s curse, his bloodied spit mixing with mud, as Krypsis’s gaze lingered on the distant marshes, dreading what awaited. “Tharos’s men? The ones in the marshes?”

“Aye.”

“Good. Let’s hope they don’t make it.” Giscard’s eyes darkened as a low rustle echoed through the forest, rain hammered down. “This’ll spark a war to dwarf the last. The Eastern Houses will unite against us when they learn we stole their folios. Sheer madness.”

“It’s already begun,” Krypsis said, glancing at his men—expendable, all. “Something bigger stirs, Giscard. I know it.” His words carried a weight he couldn’t name, a premonition of forces beyond mortal war.

“Yet we’re alive,” Giscard said. “A miracle, considering.”

“Where there’s life, there’s rope,” Krypsis quipped, earning a bloody grin, though Giscard’s eyes betrayed a flicker of despair.

Giscard’s voice cracked, recalling his wife’s swollen belly and gentle touch on his hair, her laughter now a distant echo in Brunne’s crumbling streets, his youngest daughter clutching her skirt when House Marron’s summons came. “If I’d known we’d steal these, I’d have fled with the family the night the order came.”

Krypsis pressed, “The Second of Fifth—haven or trap?” He glanced at his signet ring, its hidden poison a last resort for horse or man.

Giscard’s jaw tightened. “We’ve no choice but to trust the orders, but I’ll gut any messenger who smells of betrayal.” The riders’ murmurs grew sharp, their hands twitching toward knives, as if sensing the war their theft would unleash.

“What’s next?” Krypsis asked as the last rider crested the hill, his men’s voices breaking their daylong silence.

“Orders wait at the Second of Fifth. We’ll know more there.”

“A messenger?”

“Likely.” Giscard shrugged. “I’ll know when I know.”

A hoof’s soft tread broke the silence. Tharos emerged, his pipe’s ember glowing like a predator’s eye, pale eyes glinting with greed in the storm’s gloom. His voice cut sharp and cold. “How many?”

“Both, My Lord,” Giscard said, the title slipping out. He winced, catching Krypsis’s glance. Tharos wasn’t to be called ‘lord’ among the men.

“Where are the others?” Tharos demanded, his voice edged with habitual scorn, his tone sharp with House Lyga’s command.

“They’ll rejoin us at the First of Five,” Krypsis said.

Tharos turned his horse, white clay pipe clenched in his teeth, his voice low, “Trust is a blade that cuts both ways, Krypsis,” and rode back to the grove without another word.

Krypsis and Giscard exchanged a look. “That man,” Krypsis murmured, “could stab you and make you believe it was a kindness, all with those kindly eyes of his.” His voice mixed disgust with wary respect for Tharos’s cunning.

Giscard chuckled, though his eyes were grim. House Marron’s two captains followed the prince of House Lyga into the grove, its canopy offering scant cover, rain seeping through as the men huddled, their breaths steaming in the chill, wary of both pursuers and their own. After a sparse meal, they sought sleep in the damp cold.

Before dawn, a rustle and stumble jolted Krypsis awake in the dead of night. He snapped his fingers twice, and a moonlit figure approached—his hollow face shadowed by a hood, his nose twitching with that incessant sniff that had one man threatening to slice it off. “Last watch,” he said, voice low. “We ride soon. Hot food’s ready. Rabbit, with root stew.”

Krypsis nodded, shrugging off the cold mist. He fed his horse the last barley, thoughts drifting to roasting meat, sucking marrow, and passing out drunk by a fire. Tightening his saddle straps, he chuckled at the sound of his mare still urinating. What a life.

The men scraped rabbit stew from a pot, firelight flickering on scarred faces. Giscard dipped bread, nodding to Mor’s hidden path. The camp nestled in a hollow, its damp earth slick with dew, the air thick with the scent of smoke, a fleeting refuge from the road’s perils.

Krypsis leaned against a tree, watching the men’s breath rise in the chill air as they absorbed Giscard’s words. One spat into the fire, cursing the endless rabbit, while another sharpened a dagger, his glare fixed on Tharos’s silent form. Tharos, the Lyga prince, lurked nearby, his pipe’s ember flickering as he glanced at the folios with a sly, calculating stare, his pale eyes sharp, his stillness unnerving.

.

As the sun warmed their backs on the road, Krypsis rode up to Giscard. “How do you know this path?”

Giscard hesitated, exhaustion loosening his tongue. “My father and I herded sheep here, long ago.” He gestured toward a distant valley where their summer farm might still stand, his eyes clouded with memories of a simpler life, before House Marron claimed him.

“You, a shepherd? Milking teats, churning cheese?” Krypsis grinned, though his jest masked his own longing for a simpler future.

Giscard smirked. “Careful, Ginger. I’m the one paying those cutthroats behind us.” They shared a laugh, the moment lightening their burden, though Giscard’s hand lingered on his sword, a reflex born of years surviving betrayal and war.

Days of hard riding brought them to a mountainous pass. Now, as horses grazed on daylilies and wild grasses, two men—thieves who’d chosen life over grislier fates—returned with a buck slung between them, its blood staining their ragged tunics. Tharos, usually idle, shed his haughty air at the sight, setting aside his pipe to dig a firepit, his hands blistering, eyes gleaming with rare purpose. The promise of meat stirred something primal. The men’s cheers were hoarse, their hunger sharpening their voices, though some cast wary glances at the forest’s edge, sensing unseen eyes. Ancient magic lingered in those oldest of places. All felt it.

“What brings you here?” Giscard asked Krypsis, eyeing the group he just left.

Krypsis nodded toward a wiry man boasting of his first kill, antlers raised above his head as he danced his wild pagan dance. “That one. Where’d you find him?”

“Lord Lyga’s pick,” Giscard said, his tone laced with unease. Not so long ago they were still sworn enemies, after all.

Tharos paused digging, eternal pipe between his teeth, and nodded with a sly grin, his eyes glinting with a secret amusement that chilled Krypsis.

“He mentioned how he… took his last victim, after?” Tharos’s voice was cold, relishing Krypsis’s shock, his words a deliberate jab at Krypsis’s faltering ideals.

Krypsis glanced at the man, disgust rising. “Why him?” His voice trembled with the conflict between necessity and morality, a struggle Tharos seemed to exploit.

“He’s perfect,” Tharos said, getting back to digging, his lecturing tone dripping with superiority. “Your morals blind you to what’s needed, Krypsis. Wars aren’t won with good deeds.”

“Beasts, all the same,” Krypsis muttered, his faith in redemption fraying.

“Morals have caused more harm than beasts ever will,” Tharos shot back, his dismissal a challenge Krypsis couldn’t answer.

“Need wood for a fire,” Giscard said, breaking the tension. “Krypsis, keep them in line—no gambling, no brawls.” His voice was steady, but his eyes betrayed the strain of holding the group together, a burden he only bore for his family’s sake.

Night fell, and the men roasted the buck. Giscard drew a cross in the sand, picturing his wife’s face, perhaps now a mother, when two men returned from perimeter watch, whispering to Giscard of two large fires in the valley below. Giscard’s nod was calm, but his scarred hand tightened on his bread, his mind racing—fires meant pursuers close behind, perhaps those drawn by the folios’ theft.

Krypsis caught the look. “Sit, eat!” he called. “We saved you marrow.” The men laughed, but Giscard’s gaze lingered on their fire.

“She might’ve given birth,” Krypsis said softly. “A son?”

Giscard nodded, throwing the last of his wine into the fire, the hiss breaking the quiet. “We ride before dawn,” he said, standing, shoulders heavy as he walked off.

Whispers of the valley fires spread. Tharos’s glare silenced them, his pipe’s ember flaring like a warning. “Speak of our deeds, and you choke,” he warned, his voice like ice. Marten, his wiry enforcer, smirked, flint eyes chilling the boldest. His hands were always restless.

Stars and moon shrouded by clouds, the valley fires’ pulsing glow masked by endless pine, the men ate and drank in uneasy silence, minds on silver and pardons instead. A few went to stand guard, the rest scattered to sleep.

They stayed ahead of those below and after three hard days in the saddle, the great tower of the First of Five appeared, its spires gleaming with the wealth of Katash’s sacred oil. Though visible from miles away on clear days, unrelenting rain veiled it until they were nearly upon her.

Giscard, scouting ahead, watched carts laden with the ceremonial oil roll from the lower city’s grand arch, his gut churning—Tharos’s plan reeked of ambition, not survival. Had House Lyga lured them into a trap, using the folios as bait? The tower had three gates: one to the others, one to the lower city, and one to the Forest of Katash.

Under the second gate’s cover, Giscard waved Krypsis to stay mounted, his hand resting on his bow, his silence a mirror to Giscard’s unease. The night before, with Tharos asleep, Giscard had confided his doubts. “Pursuers on our heels, and he wants to linger in the First before the Second? Madness yet again,” he’d said. His friend was of a similar mind.

Krypsis had nodded, sharing his friend’s dread, forged by years of war and loss. “We’re doing this?” he asked as he and his horse came up shoulder to shoulder to Giscard. They watched more of their band appear over the horizon. All of them were there, their Lyga prince included.

Giscard hailed a merchant and purchased skins of cheaper oils while there was still time. “Unless you have a better idea.”

“It is already late. I’m not sure we’d make it.” Krypsis eyed the sun’s slow descent as Giscard handed him some of the skins. “Just in case?”

“Just in case. We’ll make it, though.” Giscard’s nod sealed their desperate plan to flee through the forest.

“Then give the word.”

“Now!” Giscard spurred his horse.

The others, still far off, watched the two head for the forest, with their silver, the folios and the promise of pardons. Seeing no choice but to follow the captains once more, they all gave chase.

Along the smooth towering walls of the First of Katash they rode. Through the fields wide open before that great city, did they gallop until the forest loomed large in the distance, its red oaks vying with clouds up high. Travellers from the Second of Fifth watched on as these riders sped past and warnings came from those who knew the hour well. To no avail.

They were nearly two hours into their journey when Giscard let the others catch up. Resting his horse in a glade, he told Krypsis to keep a steady eye on the prince and prepared himself for the worst. It never came. Tharos was the first to arrive in the glade and spoke not a word. He took his horse to where Giscard’s grazed on what little grass there was to be had and looked at where the road continued back into the forest. Krypsis kept his eye steady. Giscard watched the others approach. Silence from them, too. Men shared their water with their horses. Men stood looking up, claw-marked trunks looming in the forest’s shadow, drinking the last of their water. They watched Giscard walk up to the forest’s edge. There, the captain ran his hand over claw marks on a trunk, too deep for any beast he knew. He looked back. Tharos watched him too now. There was no turning. The Shadows awaited—ancient as the Codex Nox, born before its pages were split among the old tribes that vanquished He Who Sleeps. It began raining again. Soon, sunset would cast jagged shadows on sodden earth.

The captains handed out skins and got back into their saddles. “Use them if twilight draws too near.” Next, Giscard held a fist in the air, one of its fingers bearing a ring they all owned. “These, on your horses.”

“If the forest doesn’t kill us, they might just,” Krypsis said.

Off they set.

When twilight came, seventeen horses thundered down the path, foam-flecked, riders shouting. Great roots forced them to weave, the canopy quivering as Shadows shrieked, their claws scraping stone like knives on bone. The gate’s light flickered ahead.

“Hada!” Giscard roared, sweat stinging his eyes, hair plastered to his neck. “Faster!” His voice boomed, a desperate call to outrun fate. He jabbed his horse with his signet ring, poison spurring a final burst of speed. The others did the same, closing the gap as black lightning split the fading day, heralding night’s advance.