The North was a place where the Sacred Flame went to die. Here, near the border of the Montes Glauci, the air was thick with the scent of pine resin, wet iron, and the pervasive, heavy smell of woodsmoke that clung to everything like a second skin.
Gerry Waddell sat on a rotting log at the edge of the Iron Remnant camp, the mud of the frontier caking his heavy boots. At sixteen, his frame had filled out with the hard, lean muscle of a man who had never known a day of rest. His hands, calloused from both the plow and the hilt, worked a whetstone against a notched longsword.
He wasn't fighting for the "Divine Will" of Praeven, nor for the "Ascendancy" of Bree. He was fighting for a small, two-room cottage in a fishing village three days' ride away.
He closed his eyes for a moment, and the din of the mercenary camp—the clashing of practice blades and the coarse jests of men who lived for coin—faded. In its place, he heard the quiet hum of Irenne's voice. Irenne Funke, the girl who had been his sun when the world was nothing but shadow.
They had been children when they met, daughters and sons of servants, playing in the dirt while their betters played with lives. But childhood had ended the moment Irenne's belly began to swell. The Funke family had reacted with the fury of the "pious," looking to marry her off to a rising knight to scrub away the scandal. They saw Gerry as a stain on her future.
But Gerry Waddell did not break.
He remembered the night they fled, the cold wind biting at them as they traded the "safety" of their families for the uncertainty of the road. He had worked as a dockhand, a tanner's assistant, and a stable hand, often going days without food so Irenne could eat. Eventually, the blade became his trade. It paid better than the plow, even if the cost was a piece of his soul.
"Hey, Waddell! Quit dreaming of your wife and get to the sparring ring!" a scarred veteran shouted, kicking at Gerry's boot.
Gerry stood, his eyes cold and focused. He didn't just fight to win; he fought to survive. Every strike he landed was a penny for a new cloak for Irenne; every parry was a meal for the child they were raising in defiance of every noble law in Praeven. He was a "cracked vessel" according to the priests, but as he stepped into the ring and disarmed his opponent in three brutal moves, he knew his strength was more real than any prayer.
~
Three hundred miles away, the atmosphere was a suffocating contrast of silk and silence.
The evening air at the Braun estate was crisp, carrying the faint scent of river water and expensive wax. Mary Anne Braun paced in the shadowed corner of the family library, her hands twisting the fine folds of her gown. The high shelves of leather-bound books seemed to lean in, listening.
Thornn, the Braun family's former knight, leaned against the hearth. He was a man of shadows, his dark eyes calculating as he watched the girl he had once seen as a mere music prodigy.
"Thornn," she began, her voice trembling just enough to betray her controlled facade, "I need you to find something for me... someone."
"Someone?" Thornn asked, raising an eyebrow. He already suspected—anything Mary Anne asked for usually came with complications.
"A woman... Shalonda Isom. I need to know who she is, where she came from, and what became of her son," Mary Anne said carefully, avoiding Thornn's gaze. She didn't mention the King's confession. She didn't mention the "Secret Son." She let the knight think it was a womanly curiosity, a lingering question about a former maid.
Thornn's lips curved into a faint smirk. "A woman? You don't ask for 'some lady at court'... this is different. Why do you care about her?"
Mary Anne paused, words catching in her throat. She thought of the King's tears and the power that secret held. "I... I just need to know. It's... important." She swallowed, forcing herself to look away. "Not everything needs to be said, Thornn. Just bring me the truth."
Thornn nodded once. "Very well. Consider it done."
~
Over the next few days, Thornn quietly asked questions, following the faint trail of gossip and whispered stories through Praeven. He avoided the cathedrals and went to the places where the Tsvirkunov merchants traded secrets like spice.
"Shalonda? Oh yes, I know her," one maid whispered when Thornn asked discreetly at a tavern near the South Wharf. "She was a single mother, married into a good family—the Nicholas house. Everyone thought she abandoned her eldest... the boy... to focus on her new life with the Captain."
"Abandoned?" Thornn murmured, noting the half-truths.
"Aye," said another voice, a noblewoman sipping wine in a nearby booth, her words sharp with envy. "She's lucky she married Jacob Nicholas. A Captain of the Knights! Some of us wondered why he'd take a maid with a bastard, but rumors grow like weeds in this city. They say the boy was a devil, always fighting, always looking for trouble."
Finally, a familiar name emerged from a local fisherman who had seen the boy grow up.
"That boy... Gerry Waddell," the man murmured, eyes clouded with respect. "He helped the fishing town years ago when the Breen raiders came. Then he disappeared. He didn't just 'abandon' his mother; he was chased out by that Captain. He took his girl, Irenne, and they made a life out of nothing. Skilled, dangerous... a good man. But his origins? He's Shalonda's son, through and through."
Thornn returned to Mary Anne as the moon hung low over the Braun estate.
"He exists," Thornn said, his tone steady, revealing only the facts. "Shalonda's son. The boy who grew up in the fishing town, helped them, then became... what they say now—a mercenary. He is alive, and he is skilled. But Lady Braun, he is not alone. He has a wife. A child. He has built a fortress of a life in the mud."
Mary Anne's pulse quickened, her lips parting as she tried to mask the thrill under calm composure. The fact that he had a family didn't discourage her; it made the challenge more exquisite. He was a man with something to lose—which meant he was a man who could be manipulated.
"I need to see him," she whispered, almost to herself. She imagined him now—not as a faceless bastard, but as a warrior forged in the very struggles her class ignored. A son of the Sacred Flame living like a Breen mercenary.
Thornn's eyes held a quiet intensity, unreadable. "Very well. I can find his camp. But be careful, Lady Braun... curiosity has a way of leading people into danger. And a man who fights for his family is the most dangerous kind of wolf."
Mary Anne nodded, already consumed by thoughts of the man she had glimpsed in her mind's eye. She didn't care about his wife. She didn't care about his "modest home." She only saw the hidden crown he didn't know he wore, and the fire she intended to light within him.
~
The rain in the fishing village was different than the rain in the mercenary camp. Here, it didn't just smell of mud; it tasted of the Lake of Lumber—salt, old wood, and the promise of home.
Gerry pushed open the heavy oak door of his cottage, his cloak dripping a trail across the scrubbed stone floor. He was exhausted, his muscles aching from a week of guarding Breen merchant caravans through the mountain passes, but the moment he saw Irenne, the fatigue vanished.
She was sitting by the hearth, a single candle burning low. She wasn't sewing or cooking. She was holding a piece of parchment, her knuckles white.
"Gerry," she whispered, looking up. Her eyes were red-rimmed. "A messenger came from the town. My mother... the fever has taken hold. The physician says she won't last the week."
Gerry crossed the room in two strides, pulling her into his arms. The smell of her hair—soap and woodsmoke—was his only true sanctuary. "I'll take you there," he said firmly. "We'll leave at dawn."
Irenne pulled back, looking toward the small curtained alcove where their children slept. The rhythmic, soft breathing of the little ones was the heartbeat of the house. "How? Look at the sky, Gerry. The roads are turning to rivers. The children... they're already coughing from the damp. If we take them out in this for three days of travel, they'll catch the same fever. But there is no one here to watch them. Everyone is working the winter harvest or huddled away."
Gerry looked at his hands—hands that knew how to kill, but were helpless against the weather and the distance. In the world of the nobility, a Princess like Marcy would have a dozen wet nurses and a carriage lined with fur. But in Gerry's world, a dying mother meant a choice between the safety of his children and the grief of his wife.
"I can't leave you to go alone," Gerry said, his voice dropping to a low growl of frustration. "The roads aren't safe. Breen deserters are everywhere."
"And I can't leave my mother to die alone," Irenne replied, a tear finally breaking and tracing a path through the dust on her cheek.
They stood in the silence of their "cracked vessel" of a life, unaware that the very nobility they feared was already knocking on their door.
~
A few hundred yards away, tucked into the lee of a collapsed fishing hut, Thornn sat motionless. He had followed the scent of the secret all the way to this village. He watched the light in the window of the Waddell cottage, his dark eyes taking in the modesty of the place.
He had seen Gerry arrive. He had seen the way the man moved—not like a common thug, but with the coiled grace of a predator who had something to lose.
"He's not just a mercenary," Thornn muttered to himself, thinking of Mary Anne's growing obsession. "He's a man with a tether."
Thornn knew about the letter. He had intercepted the messenger earlier that day, reading the contents before letting the man pass. He knew about Irenne's dying mother. He knew the pressure point was being pressed.
He reached into his tunic and pulled out a small, silver whistle—a signal for the men he had stationed at the edge of the woods. Mary Anne wanted to see him. And there was no better time to meet a man than when his world was leaning on a breaking point.
~
Back at the Braun estate, Mary Anne was no longer pacing. She sat at her vanity, staring at her reflection. She had heard Thornn's report about the wife, the children, and the modest home.
To a normal lady, this would be a reason to turn away. To Mary Anne, it was a flaw in the masterpiece. She didn't see Irenne as a person; she saw her as a hurdle.
If he loves her so much that he stayed in the mud, Mary Anne thought, her fingers tracing the edge of a cold, steel letter opener, imagine what he would do for someone who could give him the world. Imagine what he would do for a Queen.
She began to pack a small satchel. She wouldn't wait for Thornn to bring him to her. She wanted to see the wolf in his den. She wanted to be the one to offer the "charity" that would solve their problem—a carriage, a nurse, a way home.
She would be their savior. And once she was their savior, she would own them.
~
Inside the cottage, the air was thick with the scent of damp wool and the metallic tang of Gerry's mercenary gear. The children, little Leo and Sarah, were tucked into the alcove, their breathing heavy and rattling—the "winter cough" that claimed so many in the fishing villages.
"Gerry, if I don't go, I will never forgive myself," Irenne whispered, her voice cracking. "But if I go and the fever takes them while I'm gone..."
Gerry stood by the window, his hand resting on the hilt of the dagger at his belt. It was a habit now, a reflex born of years in the mud. He looked out into the blackness of the storm. He felt a strange prickle on the back of his neck, the feeling of being watched that usually preceded an ambush. "I can't let you walk three days through Breen-controlled territory alone, Irenne. The war isn't here yet, but the wolves are."
A sharp, rhythmic rapping at the door cut through the sound of the wind.
Gerry was across the room in a heartbeat, his blade drawn and held low against his thigh. He gestured for Irenne to step back into the shadows of the hearth. "Who goes at this hour?" he barked.
"A traveler in need of a dry hearth," a feminine voice replied. It was melodic, refined, and entirely out of place in a village of salt and scales. "And perhaps, a neighbor with a solution to your grief."
Gerry unbarred the door, bracing his shoulder against the wood in case of a rush. But there was no rush.
Standing in the deluge was a figure that looked like a ghost of the Sacred Flame itself. Mary Anne Braun stood there, wrapped in a heavy cloak of charcoal wool lined with silver fur. Behind her, the silhouette of a massive carriage loomed in the dark, its lanterns casting a ghostly amber glow on the mud. Thornn stood several paces behind her, a silent, dark sentinel.
"You're a long way from the high estates, Lady," Gerry said, his eyes narrowed. He didn't lower his knife. He saw the quality of her clothes, the perfection of her features, and he felt a visceral surge of the hatred he held for the nobility who had discarded him.
Mary Anne didn't flinch at the blade. She looked at him—really looked at him—and for a split second, her mask of "benevolence" almost faltered. He was more striking than the gossip suggested. He had the Seymour jawline, but his eyes were hardened by a world she had only ever read about in books.
"My name is Mary Anne of House Braun," she said, her voice dripping with practiced empathy. "I believe your wife is Irenne? Daughter of the woman who served my aunt's household in the capital?"
Gerry stepped back, confused, but didn't drop his guard. Irenne came forward, her face pale. "My mother... she served the Brauns?"
Mary Anne stepped into the modest cottage, her presence making the room feel suddenly smaller and more impoverished. She looked around with a look of "pitying grace."
"She did, years ago," Mary Anne lied smoothly. "When the letter regarding her illness reached the local magistrate's post, it was flagged for my father's attention—he insists on knowing the fate of all who served our line. I was already traveling to our northern estate to oversee the winter accounts, and when I heard that a loyal daughter of the House was in such distress, I could not simply pass by."
She turned her gaze to the alcove where the children slept. "I see the little ones are ill. The journey would be their death in this rain."
Gerry's grip on his knife tightened. "And what is that to a Lady of Braun? We aren't your servants."
"No," Mary Anne said softly, stepping closer to him, her scent of expensive lavender clashing with the smell of the fish-oil lamps. "You are people in need. And the Doctrine of the Sacred Flame teaches us that those with the most must give the most. I have a heated carriage. I have a nurse among my retinue who is skilled with the winter cough. I will leave her here, with ample medicine and food, to tend your children. And my carriage will take you, Irenne, to your mother's bedside in comfort and safety."
Irenne let out a sob of pure relief, reaching out to clutch Gerry's arm. "Gerry... it's a miracle. The Flame has heard us."
Gerry looked at Mary Anne. He saw the "perfection" of her smile, the way she didn't seem bothered by the mud on his floor. His mercenary instincts were screaming trap. Nobody gave something for nothing—not in the North, and certainly not in the high courts.
"And the price?" Gerry asked, his voice a low rasp. "What does a Lady want with a mercenary and a maid?"
Mary Anne tilted her head, her eyes wide and seemingly innocent. "Price? Sir, I am a Braun. My father's charity is known from here to the Montes Glauci. If you must pay me, then pay me with a song when I return this way, or perhaps a prayer at the altar. Is the world so dark that a simple act of kindness must be a bargain?"
Gerry didn't answer. He looked at Irenne, who was looking at him with such desperate hope that it felt like a blade to his ribs. If he refused, and the children died or Irenne missed her mother's final breath, he would lose her forever.
He looked back at Mary Anne. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, and the most terrifying. He felt like a bird watching a cat offer him a golden cage to keep him out of the rain.
"Fine," Gerry said, finally sheathing his knife. "We take the help. But I stay here. Irenne goes with your carriage, but I stay with my children and your... nurse."
Mary Anne's smile widened, just a fraction. It was exactly what she wanted. Irenne would be indebted to her, and she would have days to observe the "Wolf" while his mate was away.
"Of course," Mary Anne whispered. "A father's place is with his children. Thornn, bring in the chests. We have much to do."
As the heavy trunks of "charity" were brought into the small home, Mary Anne stood in the shadows of the corner, watching Gerry. She didn't see a mercenary. She saw a King in the making. And she would be the one to crown him, even if she had to burn the fishing village to the ground to do it.
~
The carriage pulled away, its wheels churning the mud of the fishing village into deep, jagged ruts. Gerry stood in the doorway until the amber glow of the lanterns vanished into the grey curtain of the storm.
He turned back to the room. The "Angel of Praeven" had left, but her presence remained in the form of the silent nurse and the trunks of expensive supplies. Elspeth was already sitting by the children, her silhouette cast large against the wall by the dying fire.
Gerry sat at the small kitchen table, unsheathing his mercenary blade. He didn't look at the nurse. He began to sharpen the steel, the rhythmic shick-shick of the whetstone the only sound in the house.
He felt like a man who had just invited a ghost into his home. He was a mercenary, a survivor, and a man who had built a life on the belief that he owed the world nothing, and the world owed him less. Now, he was indebted to a House that helped rule the kingdom.
Outside, the wind howled through the cracks in the timber. Inside, the "nurse" watched the children with a steady, unblinking gaze, and Gerry Waddell watched the door, waiting for a danger he couldn't yet name.
Little did he know, the woman in the grey cloak wasn't just there to heal his children. And the Lady in the carriage wasn't just taking his wife to a dying mother. The web was spinning, and Gerry was exactly where Mary Anne Braun wanted him: isolated, indebted, and under her watchful eye.