The great hall of Blackwind Keep reeked like blood left too long in the sun—thick, cloying, nearly solid in the lungs.
Torches guttered along the stone walls, their flames throwing shadows that writhed and twisted like serpents. The wavering light revealed the gathering of seventy, maybe eighty brigands. They were a rabble in torn leathers, mud and grime caked into their skin, the stench of smoke and slaughter clinging to them like second skin. Yet now they crouched silent, heads bowed, their eyes darting like beaten curs. Fear pressed against their throats, holding them still, forcing their gazes toward the lean figure standing by the high-backed stone chair at the front.
The corpses had already been dragged away, but the stink of blood lingered. Harsh salt rubbed into the stones could not smother it—the iron tang hung in every breath.
Finn Adler did not sit. The chair of his father, cold stone carved with symbols of rule, loomed behind him. He rested one hand lightly on its armrest, his presence alone carrying more weight than the throne itself.
His eyes swept the crowd—hardened men who had killed and plundered in the Savage Reach, now cowed like children before a tutor. His voice was not loud, but it cut cleanly through the crackle of fire.
"Marcus Thorne and Silas Crowe conspired with outsiders. They poisoned the keep's lord and sought to usurp his seat. They and their loyalists have been punished."
A pause. His gaze, sharp and cold as drawn steel, raked the hall.
"From this day, I, Finn Adler, claim the lordship of Blackwind Keep. Does anyone dispute it?"
Silence.
No cough, no murmur. The memory of the courtyard—Marcus's fist shattered, Silas slain like a rat—still clung to their minds like a nightmare. Whatever ambitions had stirred in their hearts had been ground to dust in blood.
"Pay homage to the lord!"
Halvar Bearhand, still bandaged and pale, knelt first, his great bulk folding in a motion that carried loyalty rather than defeat. His voice boomed, raw and earnest, filling the hall.
Behind him, Faelan the Waverer flinched as if stung, then scrambled to follow suit. He pressed his forehead low, his voice ringing even louder than Halvar's: "Pay homage to the lord! We swear our lives to your service!"
Sweat glistened on his brow, reflecting the firelight in oily beads.
One man kneeling broke the dam. The rest toppled like wheat before the wind, voices thundering as one.
"Pay homage to the lord!"
The cry filled the hall, violent unity forged under blood and fear.
Finn's gaze lingered on Halvar. He nodded once. "Halvar Bearhand, loyal and steadfast. From this day, you are deputy lord of Blackwind Keep. The defense of these walls is yours."
Halvar's head snapped up, eyes wide, brimming with disbelief and fierce pride. He slammed his forehead to the floor. "My lord! My thanks!"
Finn's eyes drifted across Faelan, brushing over him as one would a bug on the wall—without weight, without notice. That single indifference pierced deeper than any rebuke. Faelan pressed his face harder against the stone, shivering like a man awaiting execution.
Reward and punishment delivered.
Now came the spoils.
The corpses of Marcus and Silas yielded several hundred gold coins. But the true treasure lay in the keep's vault.
"Cassian," Finn commanded, his voice steady. "Go to the vault. Leave silver for daily use. Bring every gold coin. Then take men to the Whisperwind Clan. With Silas dead, everything he owned is ours now."
Cassian Vex bowed, a shadow swallowing his presence. Then he was gone, noiseless as smoke.
Soon, a chest taller than a man's waist was hauled into Finn's chamber. When the lid creaked open, the room blazed with golden light. Coins spilled in tidy stacks, each gleaming disc a promise of power.
Together with the looted spoils, the count stood at one thousand seven hundred and thirty.
Finn rested his hand on the cold metal. He drew a breath. "All of it. Recharge."
The chest dissolved into nothing. On the interface hovering in his mind, the number at the corner spun like a mad wheel, digits climbing until they stilled at a sum that pleased him.
The wheel of chance shimmered before him.
The basic draws—white and green icons—already felt lacking. His needs had outgrown them.
[Would you like to combine 10 Basic Draws into 1 Intermediate Draw?]
"Yes."
At once, the wheel flared brighter. The common icons faded. In their place emerged three new sigils, each burning with deep blue light like stars against the void.
[The Aegis of the Unbreakable Vow] [The Raging Tide Method] [The Windstrider's Art]
Finn's heart thumped faster. Rare Aura disciplines—any one of them could anchor a clan, their worth measured in blood and crowns alike.
He converted a hundred basic draws, forging ten intermediate chances.
"Begin."
The wheel spun, its weight heavier than before, blue lights churning like a tide. Slowly, it stilled, the pointer locking onto an icon formed of countless overlapping shields.
[Congratulations! Reward: The Aegis of the Unbreakable Vow (Rare)]
Without hesitation, Finn chose to extract.
Power flowed, not like a flood, but like hammer strikes. A steady rhythm beat through his flesh as though unseen smiths were reforging him upon an anvil. His bones thickened, dense as forged steel. His muscles hummed, fibers woven tighter, tougher. Even his skin seemed to shimmer faintly, a translucent sheen like polished stone under light.
The Inner Force within him meshed with his flesh, not merely fueling but fusing, until body and power were one indestructible whole.
This was solidity distilled—unyielding, absolute.
His foundation deepened, firm as the mountain roots.
Seven intermediate draws remained, and thirty basic. He chose patience. He banked the intermediates, saving them for when necessity struck, and turned his will toward the lesser wheel.
"Seven basic draws."
Light shimmered.
[Reward: The Thirteen Warlords' Iron Form (Uncommon)] [Reward: Heavy Steel Armor (Common)] …
A chain of rewards unspooled, bolstering his reserves further. The Iron Form was another formidable body-refining Aura, its resilience complementing the unyielding protection of the Unbreakable Vow.
The surge of strength should have left him exultant. But as his muscles thrummed and his senses sharpened, reality pricked like cold water.
He delved into the remnants of the boy's memory.
The Gryphon's Roost Mountains were not a wilderness of scattered raiders. Above the eighteen strongholds loomed a greater power—the Gilded Saber Clan. Every keep, every band, every den was bound by tribute. Protection tax, they called it.
And the tribute of Blackwind Keep was due in three days.
Finn's gaze slid to the system's counter. Only a few dozen coins remained. He thought of the vault, now hollow, its wealth drained into his veins.
Money. Gone.
Strength surged in his flesh, power brimmed in his bones, but without coin, without tribute, the blade of the Gilded Saber would fall swift and merciless.
The walls of Blackwind had new roots. But the shadow overhead had only grown darker.