We returned to the keep just after dusk.

  The snow had melted slightly, then refrozen during the day, leaving the road slick and treacherous. The hooves of our mounts echoed against stone as we passed under the old iron portcullis, still rusting where the Empire had left it years ago.

  The guards saluted. Tired eyes, frostbitten fingers. Men who’d seen too many winters and too few reasons to believe spring would come.

  I dismounted with a grunt, joints stiff from the cold. Jonas handed the reins to a stablehand, brushing snow from his cloak.

  "See that the men eat and rest," I said. "Double patrols. Quietly. No questions asked."

  He nodded once and strode off.

  I paused under the archway, one hand resting on the cold stone.

  The keep loomed above, a squat, angular thing of gray stone and stubborn endurance. No banners. No stained glass. No golden spires.

  Just walls.

  Just function.

  Like the man it now belonged to.

  Inside, the warmth hit like a hammer.

  Fires burned in the great hearths, their light dancing along the rough-hewn walls. Servants moved like shadows, stoking flames, hauling logs, filling kettles. The scent of stew and wet wool mingled in the air.

  And beneath it all, a constant rhythm — footsteps, orders, the scrape of boots, the clink of tools.

  The heartbeat of a keep.

  It had taken me months to understand the full weight of what it meant to be a lord here.

  It wasn’t about titles or blood or the ring on your finger. That nonsense belonged to the gilded nobles further south — the ones who ruled from velvet chairs and marble towers, their hands soft, their words sharp.

  Here, in the North, a baron was something else.

  A leader.

  A war-watcher.

  A wall.

  And the wall could never sleep.

  "Welcome home, my lord," Merren said as I entered the council chamber.

  He was already seated at the table, a mug of something steaming at his elbow, maps and ledgers spread before him like the pages of a battlefield.

  Ellia sat nearby, quill scratching furiously as she recorded grain counts and livestock tallies.

  "Hope you bring better news than the frost’s forecast," Merren added, not looking up.

  I pulled off my gloves and sat heavily.

  "Burn the forest west of Split Rock."

  That made him pause.

  "You find what you were looking for?"

  "No. I found something worse."

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  I described the wagon. The bodies. The thing that had worn a deer's skin and hunted with hollow eyes.

  Merren listened in silence, his face drawn, his fingers curling slowly around his mug.

  When I was done, the chamber felt colder than the courtyard.

  "That far south already," he muttered.

  "They're probing."

  "Scouts."

  I nodded.

  "Thought we had more time."

  "So did I."

  Ellia set down her quill. Her hands were ink-stained, trembling slightly.

  "If the Abyss is moving," she said quietly, "shouldn’t we send word to the Capital? Or at least Varane?"

  "And say what?" I asked. "That a retired border knight saw a monster in the woods? That a dead wagon full of black-veined corpses means a Prince of Hell is coming early?"

  I shook my head.

  "They won't believe me. Not yet. The south still sleeps under silk and honeyed lies."

  And if I was honest with myself…

  I wasn’t ready either.

  I leaned back in the chair and let the silence stretch.

  My thoughts turned inward, deeper, to the bones of this world.

  Virelya.

  A continent too large and too old, carved by the hands of gods and men alike. Ruled not by kings alone, but by powers older than crowns.

  Three major factions governed most of the land:

  The Aurelian Empire, brittle and proud, its nobility bloated on lineage and blood rituals.

  The Free Cities of Varane, where gold held more weight than blood, and innovation outpaced law.

  The Xeylon Theocracy, cloaked in divine authority and riddled with prophecy-fueled madness.

  Each jealously guarded their own systems of magic, martial schools, and knowledge.

  Each waited for the others to fall.

  And behind it all—

  The Abyss.

  Not a place. Not truly.

  A wound. A whisper. A thing that waits beyond the Veil for cracks to widen. It didn't march with armies. It bled into the world — slow, insidious, inevitable.

  Its greatest servants were the Princes of Hell — seven ancient beings who once wore names and faces but had long since become something more.

  Azazel, the Sovereign of Corruption.

  Lilith, the Empress of Lust.

  Belial, the King of Wrath.

  And four others I had only glimpsed in footnotes and nightmares.

  In the novel — Chronicles of the Crown — they rose one by one, each claiming parts of the world, each twisting the land around them into reflections of their madness.

  Aiden’s journey wouldn’t begin until they had claimed footholds.

  But now?

  Now they moved early.

  And I was alone at the edge of it.

  A knock came at the chamber door.

  A boy stepped in — no older than twelve, red-faced from the cold.

  "My lord," he stammered. "It’s your son."

  I stood.

  I found Ryel in the practice yard, stripped to his tunic, his breath steaming in the cold.

  He was working through the first three forms of the Broken Moon — slowly, hesitantly.

  His footwork was tight. His blade angle was wrong.

  I didn’t speak. I just watched, arms crossed, breath steady.

  When he noticed me, he froze mid-form, face red with effort and embarrassment.

  "I—I didn’t hear you come in," he said.

  "I wasn’t hiding."

  He lowered the practice blade, eyes flicking away.

  "I wanted to be better," he muttered. "Before you saw."

  I stepped into the yard, took the blade from his hand, and weighed it.

  Heavy. Off-balance. Standard ironwood core. Nothing special.

  "You think I'd care if you weren’t perfect?" I asked quietly.

  He looked up. Surprised. A little ashamed.

  "I care that you keep trying."

  I handed it back.

  "Again. Start with the breath."

  He set his feet, shoulders square.

  Breathed in.

  Out.

  The sword moved.

  Clumsy. But better.

  Later, as we walked back inside, he asked:

  "Is it true? What the servants said? That you killed a beast out there?"

  I hesitated.

  Then nodded.

  "Something corrupted."

  "Like the ones in the old tales?"

  I nodded again.

  He was quiet for a long time.

  Then:

  "When the Academy opens next year... will you let me go?"

  I stopped walking.

  The wind stirred, carrying with it the scent of ash and snow.

  "You want to?"

  He hesitated. Then nodded. Firm.

  "I want to be strong. Like you."

  My throat tightened. Old guilt. Older pride.

  I rested a hand on his shoulder.

  "Then you will be," I said.

  "And you’ll be better than me."

  He looked up, eyes bright, mouth set.

  I believed him.

  Gods help me, I did.

  That night, after the keep had quieted, I stood alone on the battlements, staring north.

  The world was stirring.

  The Abyss was rising.

  And the heroes weren't ready.

  But I was.

  Gods help the bastards who came for my land.

  For my son.

  For what little good remained in this world.

  Because I was steel.

  I was fire.

  I was the wall.

  And the wall never falls.