From the highest tower of Walton's castle which served as the palace of the kingdom of Miraolden, seventeen-year-old Prince Liam watched the horizon swallow his kingdom. Black smoke rose in thick columns from the outer villages, carried on a wind that already stank of pitch and death. Below him, the capital’s streets churned with fleeing citizens, their cries rising like a tide against the stone walls and the great iron-banded gates still held, but for how long?Liam’s hand was tightened on the pommel of his sword, no longer the boy who sparred with blunted weapons under the watchful eye of the master-at-arms. Today he was the heir, and the kingdom expected him to bleed for it.A horn sounded three times from the walls, serving as a signal that Robert Hawks’ vanguard had reached the outer ditch.Liam turned and ran down the stairs, boots clanging on stone as he passed servants loading carts with silver plate and ancient tapestries, their faces gray with terror. In the great hall he f

The ship dropped anchor in the harbor of Korthos the chief port of Etoibard, on a morning thick with sea-mist and the smell of fish guts. Liam had lost count of the days, he remembered counting twenty-eight, perhaps thirty. His body ached from the chains, his skin was salt-crusted and his stomach gnawed at itself, but his eyes were clear and sharp when the hatch above him finally opened.Rough hands hauled him up the ladder into blinding sunlight. He blinked, squinting at the sprawl of white stone buildings climbing the hills from the water, red-tiled roofs gleaming like scales. The harbor teemed with galleys and merchant cogs flying a dozen banners as the large bronze bell tolled.“Move, princeling,” growled the sailor who had brought him extra water weeks ago. There was no kindness in the voice now, only business.They marched him down the gangplank in a line of ten slaves, all shackled ankle to ankle. Liam’s bare feet hit the hot planks of the quay, then the rough cobblestones beyo

One month had passed since Laim’s arrival in Korthos; one month of blood, sand, and the roar of crowds that grew louder with every victory. The city had begun to claim him as its own. Taverns toasted “Laim the Unbroken”; children scratched his name into alley walls bookmakers adjusted odds in his favor for the first time.But in the cells beneath Jarrett’s Arena, nothing had truly changed. The straw was still foul, the food barely enough to fuel the next fight and the chains though lighter remained still.Laim sat on the edge of his pallet, sharpening a small shard of flint against the stone floor. Garrick watched him from the doorway of the adjoining cell with arms folded.“You’re brooding again,” the old fighter said.“I’m counting,” Laim replied quietly. “Thirty-one days. eighteen fights, if you count the scraps in the yard. Not one coin toward freedom.”Garrick spat into the straw. “Jarrett’s stringing you along. Every win fills his purse, not yours.”Laim’s eyes were hard. “Then

Two months remained on the bargain when the unthinkable happened.Laim faced a champion called Torvald One-Hand, a hulking raider from the frozen isles who had lost his left arm to a bear and replaced it with a spiked iron ball on a short chain. The fight was savage but straightforward, Torvald’s raw power against Laim’s speed and cunning. The crowd loved the contrast; the scarred foreign slave against the northern monster.For the first half, Laim danced and cut, opening shallow wounds on Torvald’s legs and sides, wearing him down. The raider swung his iron ball in wide arcs, each miss shattering sand into sprays. Laim’s old thigh injury ached, but held.Then came the mistake.Torvald feinted a wild overhead swing. Laim ducked inside, sword thrusting for the heart. But the raider had anticipated. The iron ball whipped around in a short, vicious hook. It caught Laim full on the left side, just below the ribs.Laim felt his ribs crack in two, perhaps three. The impact hurled him across