Chapter 1: Chapter One

Ivy vines crawled up stone walls. Crimson leaves hid the damage of tendrils reaching between the mortar, and if Armaila had not known better, she might have mistaken the building for a castle instead of a baron’s house.

Like the house, she covered her distress with a smile as her mother pulled the wagon to a stop. Large grins far more genuine than her own greeted her. Baron Josef wore tightly woven linens with expensive dyes worth a fortune great enough to provide a family with many warm meals, and it made Armaila feel uncomfortably poor in her simple green dress. Her mother had saved for months to buy enough cloth to make it.

The baron’s son extended his hand and Armaila took it reluctantly. It was warm and familiar, but wrong.

“Gregory,” she said, remembering her smile.

“Darling.” He gently kissed the back of her hand before helping her down.

Baron Josef threw his arms wide and forced them both into a hug while laughing. “Mikayla,” he said, turning his attention to Armaila’s mother. “Your daughter is a vision of loveliness.”

He was a large man with a voice that boomed like a summer storm. They followed as he led the way inside, throwing the heavy oak doors open with ease.

The interior of the house contained several tapestries on the walls, many which showed the history of Erithor. Scarlet thread against gray skies depicted battles, paying homage to heroes of days gone by, and others showed legends from Erithor’s earliest days.

Armaila entwined her arms with Gregory's, as she had been taught to do, while their parents argued over guest seating.

“I can hardly believe the wedding is so soon,” he mused, handing her a rose from a nearby vase.

“Yes.” It took Armaila a moment to remember she was still supposed to smile.

“I've made arrangements for us to live in the old cottage by the lake, the one we talked about.”

“It's very nice,” she agreed. “The roses there are beautiful.”

“I knew you liked them,” he said, letting his formality waver for a moment. “I already had more planted. They’re dark red, your favorite.”

Armaila had to admit that even though she wasn't in love with him, Gregory knew her as well as she knew herself. Sometimes better. “Thank you,” she managed to say.

“Is something wrong?” A frown creased his forehead. “I can talk to Mr. Miller about the cows—”

“It's this dress,” Armaila said. “It's much too tight.” That wasn't altogether untrue. When her father was alive, Armaila had grown up in breeches and tunics, not ankle-length skirts that choked the breath out of her. It was after his death that her mother had become obsessed with her future and refining her into a proper lady.

An awkward silence fell and Armaila took a moment to admire the tapestry in front of her. A dragon flew over Normar, the capital city, and several more sat on the ground. “This is new, isn’t it?”

Gregory nodded. “Father purchased it in Stonebrook on his last visit. It’s from a collection showing the legendary era of dragon riders.”

“When I was a child, I wished dragons were real.”

“I’m glad they’re not.” Gregory’s face contorted with disgust. “They ravaged, killed, and plundered.”

“What about the dragon riders?” Armaila asked. “They protected the kingdom.”

“Like a fox in a hen house.”

Armaila breathed a sigh of relief when the rehearsal finally began—it meant the afternoon was almost over and she could go home. A handful of guests arrived, a shadow of what it would be on the wedding day.

“Armaila Farland, do you take this man to be your husband until the winds of time part you?”

“I…” She took a deep breath, and Gregory squeezed her hand, but it only made it harder to say the words. “I do.”

The crowd clapped and Josef smiled and nodded, his booming laughter filling the room. “One more day and this will be real,” he said.

Armaila remained quiet on the ride home, taking a seat in the back of the wagon where she didn’t have to face her mother.

Mikayla busied herself with supper preparations as Armaila stabled the mare and did the evening chores—perhaps the last time she would be allowed to do manual labor. Such tasks were below the wife of a future baron.

The meal consisted of potatoes with herbs, cuts of pork cooked in apple sauce, and fresh buttered bread, all of which were Armaila’s favorites. She dished the food onto her plate readily.

“I swear,” her mother said with a sigh, “you’re growing more like your father every day.”

He had died two years ago. At first Mikayla had refused to let Armaila out of her sight, and even now, she hovered over her nearly every waking moment. Her insistence on Gregory being a suitable and safe match was a force not to be argued with. Armaila had tried, and failed, many times.

After dinner, Armaila feigned a yawn and excused herself to her room. “I must rest for tomorrow.”

Mikayla smiled. “It will not be as terrible as you think. Gregory is good man, and you will make an excellent baroness.”

She ignored her mother’s words as the door closed behind her. Her room was small with a single cot and bedside table, kept immaculate as was proper for a young lady her age. Underneath the cot, safely tucked behind a stack of linens, was a burlap sack filled with her most precious belongings.

She had been considering the plan for months and had little time left to choose. Running away meant she would have to find a way to support herself, but it also meant she would be free to make her own decisions.

Beside the sack was a longbow and twelve perfectly fletched arrows. They were a present from her father four years ago, and her mother had let her keep them.

I can’t marry Gregory.

Armaila left through the window with the sack and bow secured to her back. Dusk was not far off, but there was still enough light to get far enough away to make camp and escape unnoticed early the next morning. She would go on foot—the single mare they had was too valuable to take from her mother.

Armaila made it some distance into the forest when her foot caught on something and she stumbled forward. She grimaced and wiped blood away from her hand to get a better look. The cut was shallow, a jagged red line running down her index finger and stretching across the length of her palm. Painful, but otherwise not serious.

She knew the forest well, but in the failing light she had failed to notice a broken pine bough peeking up through fallen red needles. She gritted her teeth and continued forward, determined to put more distance between her and Greenfields before nightfall.

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The bow and quiver over her back was a familiar companionship she had long missed. Her father had given her twelve arrows because it was her twelfth birthday, and since his death, she was careful not to break any of them.

Most young women Armaila’s age would be thrilled to be engaged to a man with as much importance, and wealth, as Gregory. Armaila could not imagine a life resigned to such dullness.  She had spent the past several months waiting for the fast-approaching day with the enthusiasm of a man set to be hung.

A sharp clang of metal stopped Armaila in her tracks. The sound was out of place far from town so late in the evening. Her mother’s warnings of dangerous men flooded her mind.

Armaila hoisted herself into the study branches of a gnarled pine beside her, wincing as the gash on her hand stretched. The tree was long dead and she took caution grabbing its withered branches. A squirrel chattered urgently from a hill a short distance away, soon growing into a ruckus of many of the small creatures.

A figure in a dark cloak crested the hill and stopped. They slipped behind a tree with their back to Armaila, holding a sword. The blade was long and slender, unlike any of the weapons the local men carried.

Two more figures followed on horseback. Dark-gray cloaks trailed behind them, making them difficult to spot in the growing darkness, and the horses were worked into a sweaty lather.

The first figure leaped from behind the tree as one of the horses passed. Their cloak was deep green, equally difficult to see. It trailed behind as they drove their sword into the animal’s chest.

Armaila inhaled sharply as she watched the scene unfold, terrified to make a sound.

The rider yelled a slew of curses as they fell, slashing at the air before crashing into a crumpled heap. They struggled to their feet but favored their right leg.

The third figure dismounted and the two figures in gray encircled the one in green on foot.

They were almost directly below Armaila now. She crouched close to the branches, seeking cover from the needles. Mother would kill me if she knew.

Local bards told many tales from far-off corners of Erithor, but she had only heard pieces here and there, never allowed to listen for any length of time. She had never seen a real fight, not with weapons.

A burlap sack peeked out from under the green cloak as the figure swung and dodged. The other two worked together, one slashing while the other attempted to reach whatever was inside the sack.

“You will not survive this,” said one of the figures in gray. A man’s voice. “Give it to me now and your death will be painless.”

The figure in green spat and the fight continued.

Armaila watched in awe at their skills—all three were well-trained in combat. Are they soldiers? None of them wore the signature blue and silver of Erithor’s army.

The two figures in gray gained an advantage, forcing the third figure back and landing at least two blows to their left arm. One reached for the sack again and a burst of light filled the forest.

Armaila looked away, blinded by the unexpected flash. The two figures in gray cloaks lay several paces away, one of them against a tree with their leg bent at an odd angle. The figure in green drew a dagger and crouched over the closest body, slashing the man’s throat before he could struggle to his feet. A pool of blood formed around him.

The figure against the tree struggled to their feet and ran as best they could, dragging their blood-soaked left leg. The remaining horse had already fled, leaving them to hobble on foot as they escaped. A significant trail of crimson was left behind.

Armaila expected the figure in green to pursue them, but they made no such motion. They wiped their bloody dagger on the body. Like the sword, it was a magnificent blade, foreign to Armaila. They took a few strained steps before collapsing onto the damp soil.

Armaila waited several minutes before climbing down. She drew her bow, aiming it to the side out of fear of accidently releasing it.

The figure turned their head and Armaila was surprised to see a woman.

“Who are you?” Armaila demanded, tightening her grip on the bow.

“I mean you no harm.” The woman grimaced and clutched her stomach. Blood soaked her abdomen and left arm, but it was difficult to judge the full extent of the damage. “You must go before they return.”

Armaila took a step back, eyeing the half-exposed sack warily. “Why do they want you dead?”

“There will be more of them soon,” the woman repeated, shaking her head. She pushed the sack forward and her words became strained and deliberate. “They must not find this.”

She closed her eyes but her chest continued to rise and fall. It was unlikely she would survive long in her condition, regardless of the men in gray cloaks.

Armaila selected a long, dry branch from the ground and used it to pry open the folds of the sack. Inside was a smooth, gray object about the size of a large squash from her mother’s garden. There was another sword, different from the one used in the fight.

Dust was fast approaching and Armaila weighed her options. I have no choice but to return home, she decided. The woman needed her help and it was too dangerous to continue her escape.

She put the object from the sack into her own, surprised by its significant weight. Then, she carefully slipped her hands underneath the woman, lifting her like a sleeping child. In contrast to the strange object, the woman was exceptionally light, especially for someone of a tall stature.

Armaila was able to move faster than she had initially expected. She stopped short of her house and placed the woman beside a small pond, sheltered by a ring of alders. It was far enough that her mother was unlikely to discover the woman.

It would be impossible for Armaila to explain where she’d found the woman without admitting to her mother that she had gone into the forest, and that was a battle she was not ready to fight. Long shadows crept between the trees and she ran the remaining distance to her home.

Before stepping inside the small farmhouse, Armaila looked down at her dress.

Bloody fire! A dark stain of crimson marred the bodice.

The front door was no longer an option. She slipped around to the back of the house and crawled through her bedroom window, the same way she had left.

“Armaila, is that you?” her mother called from the opposite end of the house. Footsteps followed.

Armaila’s breath caught in her throat. She pushed the sack and bow back under her bed and grabbed a nightrobe to cover her soiled dress, then folded her arms to hide her injured palm.

The door swung open and Mikayla narrowed her eyes. It gave her face a sharper appearance than normal, enhanced by a flickering lantern she held.

“You know it is not safe to be out alone at dark,” she said, plucking a red pine needle from Armaila’s hair. Given the pines that grew in their yard, it was not irrefutably incriminating.

Armaila hung her head, feigning remorse. “I was reciting poetry for the wedding and I didn’t realize how late it was.”

The words softened her mother somewhat. “Sleep well,” she said. “Tomorrow is an important day.”

Armaila returned to the woman later that night with the strange object, once darkness had completely fallen and she was sure her mother was asleep. She had not moved.

The woman put her sword down when she recognized Armaila in the lantern light. “I owe you a debt for your help,” she said. “My name is Florine.”

“Armaila.”

Florine raised an eyebrow at the name. “Armaila… Farland? The daughter of Karl and Mikayla Farland?”

Armaila hesitated. “Yes,” she said. “My father passed two winters ago.”

“It saddened us all to hear the news.” Florine struggled to her feet, holding her injured arm. “It’s a matter of great urgency that I speak with your mother.”

“I…” Armaila didn’t know how she would explain finding the woman.

A branch cracked in the distance. Florine drew her sword and motioned for Armaila to snuff out the lantern. In the darkness, footsteps thudded faintly and whispers caught on the wind. Armaila’s skin grew cold as she remembered the fight earlier.

“There’s no time to waste,” Florine finally said when night returned to silence.

Armaila led the way through the forest with a brisk pace. The front door was unlocked, as always, and it pushed open with ease. A lantern sprang to life from her mother’s room a moment later.

“Armaila, what in seven mountains are you—” Mikayla’s words died in her throat when she saw Florine. “You.”

“Hello, old friend,” Florine said. She made a strange gesture with her hands, entwining her fingers together like a child’s shadow puppet.

“Leave my family alone.” Mikayla’s gaze turned to Armaila and then back to the woman. “Do not speak of the past here.”

“The rumors of war are true,” Florine said. “The Legion is near and I suggest you put out that lantern before they do.”

To Armaila’s surprise, her mother did.

“In regards to the past, His Majesty has sent his own guards for that matter,” the woman continued. “They will be here soon but my task is… the same as it once was.”

“I do not want Armaila involved in this.” Fear edged Mikayla’s voice.

“I will go, but be prepared to receive your orders.”

In the moonlight, Armaila saw the woman reach for the door. “Wait,” she said. “It’s not safe and you’re wounded.”

“I will manage.”

“You should stay here tonight.”

“Absolutely not,” Mikayla said. “It is the night before your wedding and I will not have it ruined by a f—” She stumbled over the last word. “By Florine.”

“I will honor your wishes, Mikayla,” Florine said. “You have my word.”

Armaila’s mother sighed. “Only for tonight,” she said. “You must be gone by morning and keep that thing away from my daughter.”

Florine made a motion to set down her sack, but she grunted in pain and the object slipped from her grasp. Armaila instinctively reached for it and stopped it from rolling with her hands.

“Is it broken?” Florine asked, concern visible on her face even in the dim lighting.

“Get away,” Mikayla hissed at the same time, pulling on Armaila’s arm.

The thing was heavy but stone-like, but the underside of it was warm. Armaila set it down quickly.

“I think it’s fine,” she said.

Mikayla tugged Armaila toward her bedroom. “If you there is only one time you listen to me, don’t go near that thing again. Forget you ever saw it.”