Prologue

I wasn’t always an attack dog.

Once, I was a soldier. A weapon, yes—but one with a choice. I fought on the front lines, shoulder to shoulder with people who mattered. We bled together. We survived together. For a time, I was part of something bigger than myself. A team. A cause.

But wars end.

And in my world, mages aren’t celebrated when the killing stops. They’re controlled. Feared. Shackled in quiet ways.

When the fighting ended, they didn’t send me home. They sent me back to the Tower.

The Tower was home.

It was where I grew up. Where I studied. Where I learned to master the storm inside me. It’s where my mentor still lives, and where the only people who ever truly accepted me for what I am still walk the halls. I belonged there.

But belonging never mattered to my father.

That was when he came calling—Martinet Laundervan, steward of the northern borderlands, tyrant in everything but name. He didn’t ask. He summoned. And I obeyed. Not out of loyalty, not out of love, but because the leash was already around my neck.

He didn’t want a son. He wanted a showpiece. A mage to parade. A weapon with the right blood in his veins.

I wasn’t welcomed back. I was reclaimed.

Now I carry out his will—his threats, his punishments, his wars.

Not for a kingdom.
Not for justice.
Just for him.

And every time I draw my blade…

I remember what it felt like to be free.

Chapter 1

Steel met steel with a sharp, ringing clang. The bandit grunted with effort, his wild swing betraying desperation as the flickering campfires threw erratic shadows across his battered blade. His eyes were wide, teeth clenched, breath coming fast as the fear of death set in.

Lucas, calm and unshaken, met the blow without flinching. His sword moved with practiced ease—an extension of his will rather than a mere weapon—parrying the strike with cold precision. Sparks showered between them. In the same breath, he twisted at the waist and countered, driving his blade low in a brutal arc. The edge tore across the bandit’s hip, ripping flesh and spilling crimson into the mud.

The ground beneath them was a mire of muck and blood. It sucked at their boots, each step a battle of its own—as though the earth itself wanted to drag the fighters down into its grasp. All around them, the camp lay in ruin. Corpses sprawled across the clearing, some still smoking from Lucas’s fire magic, others frozen stiff where they stood, their limbs snapped like brittle branches from summoned frost. The flames cast the scene in a grotesque orange glow, and the stench of charred flesh mingled with the iron tang of blood until the night air itself seemed poisoned.

The bandits’ den, hidden deep in the wilds and far beyond the reach of any kingdom’s law, reeked of rot. The stench of unwashed bodies mixed with spoiled food, sour ale, and mold. Tents of stitched leather and scrap cloth lay shredded and smoldering. Trinkets scattered across the mud—stolen jewelry, rusted coins, cracked weapons—mute testimony to the travelers who had never made it home.

Lucas stood amid the wreckage, tall and silent—the lone victor in a battle that had claimed every other life. His eyes swept across the devastation, not in triumph but in grim calculation. This was a no-man’s-land, forsaken by order, where only fire and blood held sway. Even the Arcane Army, with its legions and banners, rarely dared to cross into these mountain passes.

A gurgling moan broke the stillness.

The bandit lay sprawled in the mud, clutching his torn hip as blood spilled between trembling fingers. “Please… mercy,” he whimpered, eyes wide with terror, teeth chattering as the cold night sank its claws into his broken body.

Lucas loomed over him like a specter of war. Though he hadn’t moved, his nearly seven-foot frame seemed to blot out the stars. His square jaw was set in stone, his brown eyes flat and unfeeling, betraying no hint of pity. Semi-pointed ears twitched faintly at the man’s whimpering cries—a subtle reminder of the half-elven blood that coursed through his veins.

Power coiled around him like a storm. Arcs of raw energy shimmered faintly across his skin, racing down his arm into the sword. The blade hummed in resonance, alive with purpose, eager for judgment.

His voice cut through the night like sharpened steel. “I’ll show you as much mercy as you showed that village—the women and children.”

The bandit’s whimpers rose, frantic and broken. He tried to crawl, pushing with his one good leg, but blood loss drained his strength. His limbs failed him. The mud clutched at his body and pulled him back down.

Without hesitation, Lucas stepped forward and drove the glowing blade into his chest. The man’s breath left in a choked gasp. His wide, terrified eyes dimmed and went still.

A sadistic cackle shattered the silence.

“That was cute. If you really wanted to be evil, you should’ve burned them.”

The shadows at the camp’s edge twisted as a figure stepped into the firelight. A woman in a crimson overcoat, her pale skin gleaming like polished bone beneath the moonlight. Jet-black hair, tied into a flowing ponytail, shimmered in the flickering light as she moved with unsettling grace. A leather vest hugged her form over a loose white shirt, while black trousers and scuffed travel-worn boots gave her a mercenary’s practicality. In one hand, she twirled a cracked, jagged sword, as though it weighed nothing at all.

“If I’m going to keep fighting with you,” she said, smirking, “your father really needs to get me better gear. Your sword’s got magic in it. Mine? Junk.”

With casual disdain, she tossed the broken blade onto a nearby corpse pile. It landed with a hollow clang.

“At least I’ve still got my claws.” She flexed her fingers, nails catching the firelight like little blades, her grin widening as her glowing red eyes swept across the battlefield. “Now then… time for my favorite part.”

The firelight danced across her pale face, cutting deep shadows that sharpened her dangerous beauty. She was beautiful, yes—but in the way of a blade: precise, cold, meant only to cut.

Her eyes locked onto movement. All softness drained from her features.

A scream tore through the night as a bandit—hidden beneath the wreckage of a collapsed tent—scrambled to his feet. Panic seized him. He tried to run, but before the cry could fully escape his throat, her body dissolved into mist.

She reformed behind him in an instant, one arm snaking around his throat, the other jerking his head to the side with unnatural strength. Fangs flashed, glinting in the firelight, before plunging deep into his neck.

The man gurgled helplessly as she drank—slow, deliberate, unrelenting. His struggles weakened until they stilled, his life leaving him in shuddering gasps.

A low moan escaped her throat. “Mmm… I don’t get to drink freely like this very often.” She licked a crimson trail from her lips, voice honeyed with satisfaction. “Thank you for bringing me on this trip, Master.”

Lucas didn’t flinch. He’d seen her feed too many times for horror to move him now. His voice was calm, almost weary. “I’m not your master, Merci. That would be my father. He holds both our chains.”

He lowered himself onto a nearby stump, the weight of battle settling into his shoulders at last. For a moment, he allowed himself the simple act of breathing.

Merci, unbothered by gore or personal space, slinked behind him and draped her pale form over his shoulders. Her arms coiled loosely around his chest, her cool skin brushing his warmth. The faint perfume of blood clung to her like silk.

“Why so doom and gloom?” she purred, voice soft and teasing. “I just watched you cut loose… it was beautiful.”

Lucas turned his head, meeting her gaze—crimson at first, then flickering to glowing sapphire, like a living gemstone caught between hunger and mischief. He didn’t flinch. He never did.

“Those were bandits,” he said, voice low and steady, like distant thunder. “Of course I let loose, as you call it. They don’t deserve kindness. Only a swift end.”

But something flickered behind his eyes—regret, perhaps, or the ghost of a time when he had hesitated before dealing death. When fire and frost had been shields, not scythes. That time had long since passed.

Merci tilted her head, curious, her eyes shimmering like oil across water. “Funny. You say that like kindness is still something you believe in.”

Her gloved finger traced the edge of his jaw, pausing at scars—some faded, others fresh. Each one told a story, each one a mark of who he had been… or what he had become.

The fire cracked. Somewhere in the dark, a frozen corpse gave way with a soft crunch, collapsing inward.

Lucas didn’t answer right away. His gaze wandered toward the mountains beyond the camp, jagged peaks looming like silent witnesses. Then, almost to himself, he muttered, “Maybe I don’t believe in kindness anymore. But that doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten what it looked like.”

…

The path to the estate wound upward, slick with ice and shadow. Lucas walked it with steady steps, Merci drifting behind like a dark echo. Ahead loomed the fortress-stronghold of Martinet Laundervan—steward of the northern borderlands, the king’s iron fist, and Lucas’s father.

His title demanded respect. His presence demanded obedience. To Lucas, both tasted like ash.

The estate was carved into the mountain like a scar. Tall, narrow windows stared like unblinking eyes. Walls of black stone and frost-bitten iron lent it more the air of a dungeon than a home. Every step closer was a step backward into chains Lucas had never fully shed.

His expression remained unreadable, but inside him a storm churned.

“You think your daddy’s gonna be happy to see us?” Merci teased, sing-song. “We did just fix his little bandit problem… for now.”

“Why don’t you take a walk in the sunrise?” Lucas muttered. “Without my magic to keep you alive.”

Merci clutched her chest in mock offense. “Oof. Harsh. I thought you might actually be mad at me.”

He didn’t reply. His silence was weight enough.

The double doors of the estate groaned open, spilling them into a hall that was part banquet chamber, part throne room, and entirely a monument to Laundervan’s ego.

The ceiling arched high, frescoes painted in smug color—battles Laundervan had never fought, treaties he had never signed. Black stone columns loomed, each flanked by statues of him in increasingly heroic poses. Chandeliers of iron and gold swung overhead, casting fractured light across floors so polished they reflected back lies.

Faded banners lined the walls, each stitched with Laundervan’s crest: a black buzzard perched atop a fractured crown. A scavenger’s symbol dressed in royal airs.

At the far end, atop a modest dais, sat his throne. Mahogany carved, steel trimmed, jagged feathers sprouting from the back. It wanted to be regal. It looked desperate.

Lucas strode forward, boots striking stone with steady rhythm, unimpressed by thrones or the men who sat on them. Merci trailed, crimson coat swaying. “Scavenger chic. Bold choice,” she whispered.

“Fitting,” Lucas replied.

Martinet Laundervan sat stiff on his throne, forcing intimidation.

“Lucas,” he said, voice flat. “How was your hunt?”

Lucas didn’t answer. Instead, he tossed a burlap sack onto the dais steps. It landed with a wet, sickening thud.

A guard opened it, recoiled pale.

“Was that really necessary?” he muttered.

Merci grinned, fangs flashing. “Absolutely.”

Lucas allowed a thin smile. “Merci’s idea. She thought you wouldn’t believe us otherwise. So we brought proof.”

“Lucas…” Laundervan’s voice carried his name like a warning.

Lucas’s tone remained level. “My dear father, what would ever give you the idea I meant you—or my stepmother—harm?”

Laundervan rose, slow and deliberate. “You mock me, boy.”

Merci smirked. “Master, why would we ever—”

Her words cut into a scream. She collapsed as Laundervan spat a command word. Silver implants buried in her flesh flared, agony burning through her body.

“Leave my sight, filth!” Laundervan’s voice boomed.

Merci staggered up, crimson eyes burning with pain, and slipped from the hall in silence.

Lucas did not follow.

He stood his ground, shoulders squared, jaw set. Power gathered around him, the storm within straining against its leash. His eyes glowed electric blue, the very air trembling with pressure.

“Father,” he spat, the word venom.

Laundervan paled, stumbling back onto his throne.

“Don’t forget,” he hissed, “I keep your phylactery, boy.”

Lucas’s glare blazed hotter. “The Templars can’t get here fast enough.”

He turned, lightning crackling faintly in his wake.

“You’ll regret threatening me, boy!”

Lucas didn’t turn. His words were cold steel. “Go rut with swine, old man. At least they’d offer you more affection than my mother ever did.”

Silence. Laundervan’s knuckles whitened against his throne. He would not forget this.