Six Months Earlier
Ale sloshed in Alester's cup as his hand tightened around it.
The tavern stank of smoke, sweat, and cheap drink, but he barely noticed. His thoughts were elsewhere—on blood-soaked mud, broken steel, and the body of his uncle, laid out cold and butchered like carrion.
Ser Arnault was dead.
His armour stripped. His mace stolen. His body left to rot.
Alester's jaw clenched until it ached. Why did you send me away? If Uncle Arnault had kept him close, if Alester had ridden with him that day, things might have been different. The thought burned hotter than the ale in his throat.
The tavern door slammed open.
A hush rippled through the room as a man stepped inside, his tabard marked with the white eagle of House Mallory. His gaze swept the crowd before he spoke.
"Is Ser Alester here?"
Alester turned on his stool, eyes hard. He rose to his feet. "What do you want?"
The man met his stare evenly. "Lord Mallory summons you to the castle."
Alester frowned. "Why?"
"I do not know."
For a moment, Alester considered refusing. Then he drained his cup, set it down, and stretched his stiff shoulders.
"Very well," he said. "Let's go."
Outside, the air was cool and sharp. Alester whistled, and his horse—Milk—lifted his head from where he had been tethered nearby. The pale stallion trotted over, ears flicking.
Alester swung into the saddle with ease.
"Godspeed," he said to the messenger.
Then he was gone.
Milk surged forward like an arrow loosed from a bow. The road blurred beneath them. Within minutes, the castle of House Mallory rose ahead, its modest walls perched atop a low hill.
From the battlements, a guard called out, "Who goes there?"
"Alester," he answered. "Former squire of Ser Arnault. I was summoned by Lord Mallory."
The gates creaked open.
Heavy breathing sounded behind him. Alester glanced back to see the messenger finally arriving, doubled over in his saddle.
"By the Nine," the man panted. "Your stallion must be blessed by Solarion himself."
Alester laughed. "He isn't."
As if offended, Milk suddenly pranced and tossed his head, nearly unseating him.
"Milk," Alester muttered, gripping the reins, "you stop that, or I'll cut your balls off."
Milk froze.
The messenger stared. "You're right, Ser Alester. Fast—but unruly."
Alester responds. "I am not a Ser." and then He rode into the courtyard.
He dismounted and patted Milk's neck. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it."
Milk snorted softly, as if forgiving him, then wandered off toward the stables.
Alester turned and spotted Ser Liam, the castle's master-at-arms, slumped against a wall—fast asleep. He had been one of Ser Arnault's closest friends.
Alester stepped closer and snapped his fingers near Liam's ear.
Ser Liam jolted awake. "Alester! By the Nine, I was having a fine dream."
"Of course you were," Alester said dryly. "How have things been?"
Liam's expression darkened. "Good… until what happened between Ser Reynolds and your uncle."
Alester stiffened. "What do you mean? What happened?"
Liam hesitated, then spoke quietly. "You didn't know? It was Ser Reynolds who ambushed and killed Ser Arnault."
The words hit like a blow.
"A knight?" Alester whispered. Shock gave way to fury. "I was told it was bandits. Where is he?"
"He fled into the Stormwood," Liam said. "That's likely why Lord Mallory summoned you—to tell you the truth."
Alester's hands curled into fists. Reynolds—honourable, loyal Reynolds. A lie.
Footsteps echoed on the stairs. Alester turned as Lord Mallory descended, grey-haired and broad-shouldered.
"By the Nine," Mallory said warmly. "You've grown, Alester. You look just like your father—Lord Stoneskin."
The words struck deep.
Alester's jaw tightened. He had spent his life trying not to resemble that man.
Mallory noticed. "Forgive me. I shouldn't have said that."
"Why did you summon me, Lord Mallory?" Alester asked coldly.
"First," Mallory said gently, "don't call me lord Mallory. Call me Jon. You were a son to Arnault, and he was my dearest friend."
Alester said nothing.
"Your father is coming," Jon continued. "He intends to take Arnault's body back to Stonehard. He asked if you were here—and if you would remain until he arrives."
Disbelief washed over Alester.
Now he wants to see me?
"I will never meet that man," Alester said. "Is that all?"
Jon nodded sadly. "Yes."
"Then I take my leave."
Alester turned and strode back toward Milk. He mounted quickly, ready to be gone.
"Wait," Ser Liam called. "Where will you go?"
Alester looked south. "To the Stormwood."
Liam sighed. "You're just like Arnault. Go, then—but remember this: never let your emotions rule you."
Alester nodded once.
Then he rode out of the castle.
Three Days Later
Alester sat beneath the wide branches of an old tree, the River Tristian flowing gently beside him. The water shimmered in the fading light as he skipped stones across its surface.
One rock bounced again and again—nearly reaching the far bank—before sinking with a soft plunk.
"Fuck," Alester muttered. "That was close."
A snort came from behind him.
Alester twisted around and sighed. "Sorry for waking you."
Milk lay stretched out on the grass, belly exposed, eyes half-lidded. Alester walked over and leaned against the horse's broad side, resting his head against the warmth of his flank.
Before long, both man and horse slept.
Dawn crept slowly across the riverbank.
Alester stirred and sat up, rubbing his eyes. Milk was still asleep. He reached out and tugged gently at the stallion's ear.
Milk snorted and surged to his feet, nearly knocking Alester over.
"Fuck me," Alester muttered, stumbling back.
He patted Milk's neck. "We're almost at Stormwatch. After that, we enter the Stormwood—and pray that coward Reynolds is still hiding there like a rat."
Milk snorted as if in agreement.
Alester mounted, and they rode on.
By midday, Stormwatch came into view—a large town just outside the Stormwood, its wooden palisade rising proudly against the treeline. Alester remembered Uncle Arnault's lessons: Stormwatch had been founded by King Tristifer, fourth King of the Stormlords, meant as a settlement for hunters and woodcutters brave—or foolish—enough to live near the cursed forest.
"Faster, Milk," Alester urged.
The stallion obeyed, and within minutes, they stood before the gates.
"Halt!" a voice called from the walls. "Who seeks entry to Stormwatch?"
Alester looked up. "I am Alester. I wish to enter Stormwatch to gain access to Stormwood."
"For what purpose?"
"A rogue knight murdered my uncle," Alester said flatly. "I was told he fled into the Stormwood. I mean to hunt him down."
There was a pause.
Then: "Open the gate."
The gates creaked wide.
Inside, an armoured man stepped forward. "Halt and dismount."
Alester obeyed.
"I am Ser Will," the man said. "Captain of the Stormwatch guard."
Alester nodded. "Why did you let me in so easily?"
Ser Will studied him for a moment. "Because the knight you're hunting is named Ser Reynolds."
Alester's eyes widen. "Yes, it is."
Ser will respond. "Then he is already here."
Alester froze. "Here?"
"In our dungeons."
Shock flashed across Alester's face—then something dangerously close to joy. "How did you catch him?"
"Poaching," Ser Will said. "Only hunters with permission from Gamekeeper Jonothor may hunt in the Stormwood. Reynolds did not have that permission. If he has also murdered a fellow knight… then the headsman's axe will serve him well."
"May I see him?" Alester asked. "He stole my uncle's armour and mace. He must know where they are."
Ser Will sighed. "Your uncle was a knight?"
"Yes."
"Very well. Follow me."
The dungeon was cold and damp, the air thick with mould. Torches flickered weakly along stone walls lined with iron-barred cells.
Ser Will stopped before one.
Inside sat Ser Reynolds—stripped of armour and blade, his once-proud bearing reduced to a slumped shadow.
Ser Will rapped his fist against the bars.
Reynolds stirred. "Ser Will," he said, barely glancing at Alester.
That stung.
"Reynolds," Alester snapped. "Do you know who I am?"
Reynolds looked up. Recognition flickered. "Lord Stoneskin… what are you doing here?"
Alester's fury ignited. "I am not Lord Stoneskin. I am his bastard son—and the squire of the knight you killed."
Reynolds' eyes widened. "Alester… what are you doing here?"
"You murdered my uncle."
"I did no—"
"Don't lie to me!" Alester roared. "Ser Liam told me. And he would never lie about this."
Reynolds swallowed. "I didn't kill Ser Arnault. But he was a sinner—an affront to the Nine."
"That's a lie!" Alester hissed. "You dishonour his name."
He drew his sword. "Open the cell, Ser Will. Let me end this."
"No," Ser Will said firmly.
"Why?"
"Because he is still a knight in the eyes of the Nine. His words cannot be dismissed outright."
"He's a murderer and a poacher," Alester spat. "How can anything he says be trusted?"
Ser Will nodded. "You're not wrong. But he will die tomorrow—by the headsman's axe. I won't have blood spilled in my cells."
Alester forced himself to breathe and sheathed his blade.
"Can I stay?" he asked quietly. "I want to see it done."
"You may," Ser Will said. "But there are no rooms to spare."
"All I need is a tree."
Ser Will nodded.
As they left, Reynolds screamed after them. "I'm telling the truth! Ask Ser Liam!"
Alester didn't turn—but doubt stirred, unwelcome and sharp.
That night, Alester lay beneath a tree with Milk beside him, staring up at the stars.
"Milk, do you think the Nine truly watch us?" he asked softly. "Or do they not care at all?"
Milk slept on.
Alester smiled faintly and drifted off sleeping like a bear.
Hours Later.
"Alester."
He opened his eyes to see Ser Liam standing over him.
"Has the execution begun?" Alester asked, sitting up.
"Soon," Liam said. "I expected you in the square."
"I'm a heavy sleeper."
They set off together.
The town square was large. At its center stood a raised platform with a heavy wooden stump on it.
"I must announce his sentence," Ser Liam said.
He climbed the platform and blew a horn, its call echoing through Stormwatch. People poured in from every street.
"Men and women of Stormwatch," Ser Liam proclaimed, "today you will witness the execution of Ser Reynolds—guilty of poaching in the Stormwood, and of killing a fellow knight without just cause. Bring him out."
Reynolds was dragged forward and forced to his knees, his head pressed to the stump.
"I demand a trial by combat!" he shouted.
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
"You cannot deny me this right," Reynolds cried. "Justiciarius himself decreed it!"
Ser Liam hesitated. "The right exists only before judgment. You were found guilty of poaching."
"But not of murder," Reynolds shot back. "There was no trial—only the word of one man."
Silence.
Ser Liam sighed and nodded slowly. "You are correct. Who will be your champion?"
"Myself."
"And Alester," Ser Liam said, turning, "you are the accuser. Who will stand for you?"
"Myself."
"So be it," Ser Liam declared. "Regan—release him and give him your sword."
Reynolds was cut free and handed a sword.
Alester drew his own and stepped onto the platform.
"No armour?" Reynolds sneered. "You are bold."
"I need none," Alester said. "This sword was my uncle's gift."
He lifted the blade.
"And with it," he said coldly, "I will end you."
Rage took hold.
Alester charged.
Reynolds barely has time to raise his sword before Alester is on him. Steel crashes against steel, the sound ringing out across the square. Alester swings hard, reckless, driving Reynolds back a step. The crowd roars, some shouting Alester's name, others crying out in shock at the ferocity of the first exchange. Reynolds grits his teeth and parries, the impact shuddering up his arm. He speaks through clenched teeth.
"You fight like a boy."
Alester snarls and answers with another strike. "And you like an old woman."
He hacks downward. Reynolds twists aside, the blade biting into the wooden planks of the platform instead of flesh. Reynolds counters immediately, slashing toward Alester's ribs. Alester jerks back just in time, the edge of the sword grazing his tunic and tearing cloth. The crowd gasps.
Reynolds presses forward now, his movements tighter, more controlled. He thrusts once, twice. Alester parries the first but the second knocks his sword wide. Reynolds swings for Alester's head. Alester ducks, feeling the wind of the blade pass inches above his hair.
Alester stumbles back, boots scraping on the wood. He is breathing hard now, chest heaving. Reynolds circles him slowly, like a wolf sizing up wounded prey.
"You are weak," Reynolds says. "You and your uncle are the same."
Alester's grip tightens on the hilt of his sword. "My uncle taught me how to kill cunts like you."
Reynolds lunges.
Alester reacts on instinct. He steps inside the thrust instead of away from it, letting the blade slide past his side. Pain flares along his arm as the steel cuts shallow, but Alester ignores it. He slams his shoulder into Reynolds' chest.
Both men crash into the platform.
Reynolds grunts as the air is driven from his lungs. Their swords skitter across the wood, clattering to a stop near the edge. The crowd erupts in shouts.
Reynolds rolls, scrambling to his feet first. He kicks at Alester's ribs. Alester cries out as the blow lands, knocking the breath from him. Reynolds reaches his sword before Alester can stop him.
Alester forces himself up, pain burning in his side. Reynolds comes at him again, blade flashing. Alester barely manages to snatch his sword up in time to block. The force of the blow sends him stumbling back toward the stump.
Reynolds raises his sword high, ready to end it.
"Any last words, bastard?"
Alester's eyes flick to the stump behind him, darkened with old blood. He thinks of Uncle Arnault, of laughter by the fire, of lessons given patiently. Something inside him steadies.
He speaks quietly. "You took his life. Now I will take yours."
As Reynolds brings his sword down, Alester steps forward instead of back. He twists his body, letting the blade glance off his shoulder. Pain explodes through him, hot and blinding—but his sword is already moving.
Alester drives it forward with everything he has.
The blade sinks into Reynolds' stomach.
Reynolds gasps, eyes wide with shock. Blood spills from his mouth as he looks down at the sword buried in him. His knees buckle. Alester shoves him back, ripping the blade free.
Reynolds collapses onto the platform, clutching at his wound. He coughs, blood bubbling on his lips.
"I… I told the truth…"
Alester stands over him, shaking, sword dripping red. "You can tell it to the Nine."
Reynolds' hand falls limp. His eyes stare blankly at the sky.
For a moment, there is silence.
Then the crowd explodes.
Ser Liam steps forward, raising his hand. "It is done," he announces. "By trial of combat, the Nine have judged Ser Reynolds guilty."
Alester lowers his sword slowly. His whole body aches, blood seeping from the cut on his shoulder, but he feels strangely hollow rather than victorious. He looks once more at Reynolds' corpse, then turns away from the stump.
Somewhere beyond the crowd, Milk neighs.
Alester exhales, long and shaky, and walks down from the platform, Uncle Arnault's sword still in his hand.