Dawn Of The Blood Sovereign

The palace of the High Kingdom of Buyeo smelled of incense and old blood.

Kaelen stood rigid in the center of the massive training grounds, the smooth, heavy ashwood bow cool in his hand. He wasn't using his own bow. Showing off your strength in this palace, he knew, meant you weren't staying alive for very long.

"Look how he trembles," a mocking voice boomed from the overhanging royal viewing stand.

Prince Malakor, the first-born son and undisputed heir to the throne, leaned over the ornate carved stone railing. He swirled a silver goblet of wine, his eyes alight with evil amusement. Next to him, his five younger brothers leered like starving hyenas at a carcass.

"Our little brother is weak," Malakor sneered, loud enough for all the guards in the courtyard to hear. "The target is a full hundred paces distant. I suppose it intimidates the son of a wandering concubine."

Kaelen didn't flinch. He looked at the red painted center of the wooden target on the far side of the field. He could hear the wind whistling-a gentle breeze from the east, smelling of rain. He could feel it in his very blood, more than hear it.

"Three shots, Kaelen!" the court supervisor cried out, his voice strained. He too understood what was at stake. Too good and Malakor would find an excuse to have Kaelen killed for high treason; too bad and Kaelen would be whipped like a slave for the embarrassment of the royal family.

Kaelen nocked the first arrow. He drew it only halfway back, his shoulders angled slightly forward, his grip loose and awkward.

Thwack.

The arrow landed squarely in the outer blue ring of the target. A horrible shot for a prince.

Malakor burst into peals of raucous laughter, pounding his fist against the railing.

"He's a pathetic little cur! My father thought this boy had a warrior's blood in his veins? He shoots like a half-blind peasant!"

Kaelen’s expression remained one of perfect stillness. He nocked the second arrow. It hit the white ring, even farther from the bull's-eye. Murmurs rose from the surrounding guards, some snickering, others shaking their heads with pity.

What they didn't know, or rather couldn't see, was what was pinned to the outer edges of the wooden target by his first two arrows. Two lethal black hornets that had been making their nest in the wood. He hadn't been trying for the target; he'd been taking out pests.

Only the red center remained.

"One more, outcast," Malakor bellowed from the viewing stand, his voice suddenly cold, all traces of humor gone. "Make it quick. The King is indisposed, and I grow tired of your amateur performance."

Kaelen nocked the final arrow. For a moment, he allowed himself to close his eyes. A flicker of gold light flared deep within his mind. A terrifying, ancient warmth spread through his blood. The wind no longer just carried scent; it whispered. It promised it could carry him.

He opened his eyes. His bowstring was drawn to his ear, his form perfect, rigid as iron, sharp as a diamond.

Snap.

The bowstring broke like thunder. The arrow flew with such speed it was a blur, shrieking through the air. It didn't just strike the red center-it drove through it with such tremendous force that the heavy wooden target split down the middle and collapsed into two shattered pieces onto the stone floor.

The laughter died. A breathless, suffocating silence fell over the training grounds.

Malakor slowly stood up, his goblet of wine crushed in his iron fist, the wine spilling over his knuckles like blood. His eyes were wide, filled with an intense, consuming jealousy, and a sudden, primal fear.

Kaelen immediately bowed his head, letting the bow fall to the ground at his feet. "The bowstring was clearly defective, Prince Malakor. My apologies for destroying the court's property."

"Defective?" Malakor hissed, stepping down from the viewing stand, his heavy plate armor clanking on the stone floor. "You mock me. You hide your strength, Kaelen. A prince who hides his strength is a prince who plots a coup."

Before Kaelen could answer, a royal messenger burst into the courtyard, his face pale and his breath ragged. He pushed past the guards and fell to his knees directly in front of Malakor.

"My Prince! The southern borders!" the messenger panted, thrusting a sealed leather scroll into Malakor's hand. "The southern trade caravans have been raided. The clans of the Outer Marches refuse to pay tribute."

Malakor tore the scroll from the messenger's grasp, his anger turning in a new direction. "Who dares? The border clans are a pack of beggars!"

"It isn't the clans, Your Highness," the messenger whispered, trembling violently. "It's the House of the Jade Falcon. They've consolidated the trade routes. They are led by a woman."

Three hundred miles to the south, across the jagged peaks of the Outer Marches, the air was considerably different.

The air smelled of melting snow, wet earth, and the sharp, bitter tang of burning iron. Within a massive, reinforced pavilion built of thick leather stretched over a frame of timber, a map of the entire continent was pinned to a heavy oak table with iron daggers.

Vanya stood over the map, her fingers resting lightly on the edges of the High Kingdom of Buyeo.

She wore tailored, form-fitting leather armor over silk and had a long silver dagger sheathed horizontally across the small of her back. Her dark hair was pulled back in a severe, high braid, showing off a face that was beautiful but entirely without softness. Her eyes, the color of cold jade, scanned the borders with an unwavering, restless intensity.

"The royal vanguard will be at our northern checkpoint in three days' time, Lady Vanya," her captain, an older man named Logan, reported, shifting the heavy broadsword at his hip. "Malakor will not take lightly to the loss of his tribute. He will send iron."

"Let him send iron," Vanya said, her voice low, steady, and utterly commanding. "Iron can be melted. Iron can be bought. Iron can't be eaten when the supply lines are cut."

"You're risking outright war with an entire kingdom, Vanya. The clans will follow your gold, but they fear Buyeo's numbers."

"The clans fear Buyeo because they look with their eyes open but their minds shut," Vanya said, tracing a line from the royal capital down to the desolate valley where they were gathered. "Buyeo is a rotten house. The King is dying, and his sons will kill each other to claim the throne. They're too consumed with fighting shadows to face a real war."

She picked up a falcon shaped iron marker and slammed it down onto the center of the trade route.

"We have the grain and the silver mines. Buyeo has the troops but we have the lineage of trade" Vanya looked up to her captains. "When the wolves in the palace turn on each other, the youngest most vicious wolf will be the one to take flight, and it will be in the south, because where else is there left to hide."

"Are you referring to prince Kaelen" Logan asked and then knitted his brows. "The fallen? And we would be concerned about a fractured prince."

A wolfish smile twisted the corner of Vanya's mouth until she looked like a goddess of frost, "Because a fractured prince, with a gods blood is a perfect weapon" Vanya whispered with cold ambition, "He needs to survive. I need an empire. We just haven't met yet."