The Blackmoors were known as the most feared of the four great houses, though this reputation had not always been theirs. Before their rise, before their name carried weight enough to silence rooms, the Blackmoors had been nothing more than common folk.

  The first of their line was a blacksmith.

  Haul Blackmoor was a powerful man, broad-shouldered and lean, with long blond hair pulled back from his face and a short, unkempt beard. Soot clung to his skin and clothes alike, ash worked permanently into the lines of his hands. At twenty-eight years of age, his body already bore the wear of labor. His father had died when Haul was still a boy, cut down during a raid that left their village burned and broken. What remained of Haul’s life was forged in fire and iron.

  Now he lived in the city of Duskreach.

  It was a city of grandeur and cruelty in equal measure. The king’s castle rose impossibly high, its black stone spires vanishing into the clouds above, as though the earth itself had tried—and failed—to swallow it whole. The city below knew only extremes: the wealthy and the starving, the powerful and the forgotten. There was no middle ground in Duskreach.

  Often, as Haul worked his forge, his eyes would drift upward toward the castle as it drank in the sunlight. I would love to have my own kingdom, he would think, before swiftly burying the notion. Such dreams were dangerous. A commoner did not rise to rule. A commoner knew only his craft.

  Coal. Hammer. Anvil.

  Iron rang beneath his blows as he shaped swords and axes for the king’s army, each strike practiced, each movement familiar. It was during one such day that his gaze caught on something softer than steel.

  A woman.

  She moved through the street with quiet confidence, long brown hair falling freely down her back, her eyes a striking shade of tanzanite. Haul found himself staring longer than he should have, the world around him momentarily forgotten.

  “Aye! Get back to it,” a soldier barked, stepping into his line of sight. “The king needs these weapons.”

  Haul blinked, then nodded. “Right.”

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  He returned to his work, though his thoughts betrayed him, lingering on the woman’s face even as his hands continued their labor. When the last blade was finished, he gathered the weapons, handed them to the guards, bowed as custom demanded, and began the walk home.

  The city was alive with movement, voices rising and falling like waves. There, once more, he saw her—walking through the inner city. Without thinking, Haul followed. Each time he drew close, she drifted farther ahead, unaware of his presence. The crowd swallowed her again and again until he finally stopped, realizing the futility of it.

  He turned for home.

  As he walked, he imagined a life beside someone like her, a life that felt impossibly distant from the one he knew. When he reached his small dwelling, he entered, collapsed onto his bed, and fell into sleep.

  He dreamed of a crown upon his head, of her standing at his side as queen.

  Birdsong woke him with the dawn.

  Morning came as it always did. Haul rose, left his home, and returned to the forge, where steel once again met flame. It was not long before a soldier appeared, standing stiffly before him.

  “The king has called for you.”

  Confusion stirred, but Haul did not resist. He followed the guard through the city and into the shadow of the castle itself. At the gates, the soldier gestured ahead.

  “Through those doors. Into the king’s hall.”

  Haul nodded and obeyed.

  Inside, the hall was vast and cold. Granite floors stretched beneath six towering black statues, each gripping a different weapon. At the center lay the insignia of House Duskreach—a bat, carved deep into stone. At the far end, the throne loomed.

  It was fashioned from pure obsidian and rose fourteen feet above the floor, skulls piled at its base like trophies. King Duskreach sat upon it, his gaze sharp and unyielding.

  “Haul Blackmoor,” the king said, his voice carrying effortlessly through the hall. “When I appointed you city blacksmith, I expected excellence.”

  He motioned forward, and the guards advanced.

  “Now tell me,” the king continued as weapons clattered to the floor at Haul’s feet, “do these strike you as well-crafted?”

  Haul knelt and lifted one of the blades. The flaw revealed itself instantly. His stomach tightened. He looked up at the king, shame plain on his face.

  “My lord,” he said quietly, “I humbly apologize. I meant no insult.”

  The king stroked his long black beard, shifting slightly on the throne. “No insult, you say. Yet had I gone to battle with these, the blood of my soldiers would rest on your hands. Do you understand that?”

  Haul bowed his head. “I do, my lord.”

  Silence followed—thick, suffocating. At last, the king clenched his fist.

  “This cannot go unpunished.”

  Haul did not speak.

  “Bring me the brand,” the king commanded.

  When it was returned, glowing with heat, the king regarded Haul coldly. “Killing you would serve no purpose. Humiliation, however, endures.”

  The guard seized Haul, lifting his shirt and pressing the brand against his flesh. The smell of burning skin filled the hall.

  Haul screamed.