A COLD WIND rolled off the sea, bending the tall grasses that grew atop the cliffs above the Firth of Thrain. The Celbans were moving now, snaking its way over the bridge that crossed the River Laur.

Ulrem sat tall upon Terror’s back, staring out at the waters. His back was still tight where the skin was healing from the wounds on his back, and there was a furious, incessant itching deep inside his chest. Breathing still hurt, and he suspected the bruised feeling would last weeks.

Beside Terror stood a mound of stones. While the army crawled over the river into Luathon under the close supervision of his captains, Donnoth and Rann, he had rode off on an errand of his own. There had been grumbling about that, for the officers were as loath as Culrann was to let him out of their sight. Indeed, the wulvere was nearby, ranging along the coast, walking with his wolves. He did not much care that Ulrem wished to be alone, but the king did not press it, and Culrann tailed him as a distant shadow.

That suited him.

Ulrem flexed his hands. He could feel the grit of the stones he’d piled at the cliff’s head. The cairn wasn’t large: one would hardly be able to see it from the waters of the firth, where a few of the Luathi galleys—his ships, now—yet lingered. They would depart by noon, sailing north to deliver their bellies of men home. His pirates had already vanished, tracking along the coast to secure the few ports worth noting in advance of the army’s arrival. Perhaps it would go smoothly. He did not know.

“You came close,” Ulrem said to Caolais’ cairn. “Closer than any, perhaps.” The wind swept up a hissing whisper in reply. Perhaps, in another life, they might have been fast friends. Brothers of a sort. But the path Ulrem walked now brooked no brothers. There was the king, and there was his men. Caolais’ pride would never have accepted a bargain. In his heart, Caolairs Dar’Adarc had never been a Low King.

Ulrem curled his fist around the ring on his hand. Fire swirled within that gold, ancient and vast: the souls of warlords and chieftains, of earth-shakers and empire-builders. Men whose ambitions had known no end, and whose shadows lay heavy on the lands they left behind.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Lands left to you, Inheritor, came the quiet voice. We are the Conquering Flame. The sword held to the throat of the world. We are the fire of Imaahis!

“Perhaps you should have taken it,” Ulrem said to the cairn, wishing he could forget the stink of blood. Longing for a peace he would never know. His bones were as cold and tired as the battered shores below.

“Do you talk to ghosts?” The woman’s voice drew the king out of his meditation. Terror whickered and stamped a hoof.

Vora sat on a small gray gelding. Bells were woven into the animal’s mane. She wore a scarlet cloak the color of fresh blood, but under it, a white gown. Ulrem grit his teeth at the sight of her.

“What is in the mind of a king?” she said.

“The thoughts of a man.”

She made an uncertain sound. “What does he think?”

“That he traded one set of chains for another.” This made her laugh, a tinkling sound that was too fragile for a man as rough and ugly as he. He felt the patchwork scars writ across his sunbattered hide, and all the years under his belt. A girl. They had sent a girl to him.

“Are those chains so heavy?”

Ulrem did not want to play at words. “You will return to your mother.” The blood drained from her face. “There you will await me.”

“This is not the accord,” she began, but Ulrem cut her off.

“You said the Queen of Morignon took the King of Celba to be her husband. What am I?”

Vora searched him, but did not speak. Her gray bent its head to the grasses. Wind tugged at the edges of her cloak. Finally, she said, “When it is done?”

Ulrem turned his golden gaze back to the dark waters of the firth. He nodded grimly.

The girl sat beside him for a long while. If she felt the chill, she showed no sign of it. One of the ships raised mast and began to track out toward the sea. A horn blared in the distance, signaling riders. The time for him to rejoin the army was close at hand.

“Then I leave you with a gift, my betrothed,” Vora said. He frowned at that word. It sat wrong on him. Yet she took his huge hand in her own. Her fingers were warm with promise, but hardly larger than a child’s. “I will tell you my mother’s vision, so that it guide you to me.”

He did not look at her, but he listened.

“Three you have. One will be bought by bitter blood and the shards of a broken sword. One you will have by marriage, and the throne will bathe in song,” she said with surprising venom. “Another will cost you a winter, delivered by treachery and prayer. And the last…will seal your fate.”

He said nothing to this. He caught Culrann’s scent on the air. The dull thud of hoofs on sodden turf not far off. They would give him no more time

alone. The war would wait for no man. Not even the Lion.

Ulrem turned Terror away from Vora, but said over his shoulder, “I gave you my word, witch. I will find you. When it is done.”

“When it is done.”