The side hall of Blackwind Keep was warm with the glow of a charcoal brazier, yet no fire could drive away the chill that clung to every man's skin.Two women, recently captured, stood before the gathered outlaws.
The one in front carried herself with quiet poise.Her silk gown—embroidered with silver irises—was dust-stained and torn at the hem, and her hair had loosened from its pins, yet none of this dimmed the air of refinement that clung to her like a mantle. Even here, in a bandit's den, she stood tall, the calm of someone accustomed to command. She looked to be about twenty, her features delicate, her eyes a shade of soft hazel that now rested steadily on Finn Adler as he entered.
Behind her, the maid was a quivering shadow—pale, trembling, clutching her mistress's sleeve as if it were the only thing keeping her alive.
"So you are the new master of this place?"The woman's voice was clear, like water striking stone—neither pleading nor defiant, merely measured.
Finn did not answer.He drew a chair and sat opposite them, studying her, his gaze lingering briefly on the silver-stitched gown that no ordinary traveler could afford.
She read his eyes and spoke before he could."I am Lady Isolde Vance of Silverwood Prefecture. My family is prepared to pay a ransom—one generous enough to satisfy you and your men—in exchange for our freedom."
"Silverwood… the Vance family?" Finn repeated, turning slightly toward Halvar Bearhand.
Halvar leaned close, lowering his voice."Milord, the Vances hold some land and a small troop of guards. Not weak, but not much to fear either. They're far from here—their reach won't touch the mountains."
In other words: nothing to worry about.
Finn nodded slowly. His lack of reaction did not escape Lady Isolde's notice.Her expression remained serene, but she sighed softly and played the card she had held in reserve.
"It seems the name of Vance carries little weight in these wild reaches. Then allow me to offer another—my mother was born of the Tenebris Syndicate."
Tenebris.
The word fell into the hall like a stone plunging into still water.Halvar's broad face paled a shade. The name alone was enough to stir unease in any man who had spent his life on the frontier. He shot Finn a wary glance, as if to ask whether their new lord understood the danger that name implied.
Finn did.He searched his memory and found it: the Tenebris Syndicate—an empire disguised as a merchant house, its influence spider-webbed across the entire Savage Reach.Even the Gilded Saber, rulers of the mountains, were said to owe them favors.A giant cloaked in the silks of trade, its true hands dipped deep into the underworld.
Trouble.The kind that burned everything it touched.
His fingers tapped the armrest, once, twice. The only other sound in the chamber was the soft crackle of coals.Lady Isolde mistook his silence for fear, and pressed her advantage.
"Well?" she asked. "Now, perhaps, we can discuss the terms of my ransom—"
"Or," Finn said suddenly, his tone so quiet it might have been a passing thought,"we could kill you both and bury the bodies behind the hill."
The words landed like a blade sliding from its sheath.Isolde froze, her composure fracturing by a hair's breadth.She searched his face, finding there no lust, no greed, no heat of cruelty—only a terrifying stillness. He meant it.This was not a bluff.
Her maid whimpered and collapsed, half-fainting to the floor.
Then the night shattered.
A shout echoed from the courtyard, followed by the clash of steel and the screams of dying men.
"Ambush!"
Halvar's hand flew to his axe. Finn rose at once, his brow furrowed. They hurried outside.
The courtyard was chaos.A dozen men in black leather armor moved like shadows among the torches, cutting down the Blackwind outlaws as if reaping grain. Several bodies already bled into the dirt.At their head stood a young nobleman in embroidered finery, flanked by an old man whose presence was cold and heavy as a drawn blade.
And guiding them—Faelan the Waverer, the very deserter who had been thrown into the keep's dungeon days before.
By the time Finn reached the gate, the battle was all but over.Seven or eight of his men lay dead. Not one of the attackers had fallen.
The richly dressed youth spotted Lady Isolde at once, pale but unharmed beside her maid. A flash of covetous delight passed through his eyes before he turned to Finn, surveying him with the lazy disdain one might give a stray dog.
"So, you're the new lord of this rabble?"His voice was smooth, bored, and soaked in arrogance. "A child playing at brigandry."
Faelan the Waverer hastened to bow and flatter."Master Tybalt, that's him! He killed Lord Marcus and seized the keep!"
Tybalt Tenebris—third son of House Tenebris—did not even bother to acknowledge Finn beyond a glance. His expression said plainly that the man before him was beneath notice.
He gestured lazily with the tip of his riding whip toward Finn."I'm here for two matters," he said. "First, Lady Isolde comes with me. Second—"He paused, letting the silence weigh down the courtyard before smiling, that condescending curve of the lips reserved for those who believe themselves gods among insects."Blackwind Keep will now serve under my protection. From this day forward, half your income goes to me, Tybalt Tenebris. In return, I ensure your continued existence in the Gryphon's Roost Mountains."
The declaration rang like a decree. Not an offer, but a command.
Halvar trembled with fury, yet the weight of that name—Tenebris—rooted him in place. None dared speak.
Finn looked at the corpses of his men. At the arrogant youth standing amid their blood. At the whip still lazily hanging from his fingers.
Then he laughed.
It was not a mirthful sound, but a cold one—like frost cracking stone.
"Is this how you play me?" he murmured.
The last trace of warmth fled the courtyard.
And Tybalt Tenebris, for the first time that night, felt a flicker of unease.