The Ashen Brotherhood

The merchant died quickly, which was more mercy than he deserved.

Caelan Ashworth watched the body slump against the oak tree, blood spreading across the expensive silk. Three weeks of tracking through the Thornwood, and it ended in less than thirty seconds. Clean. Efficient. Exactly as Aldric had trained him.

"Please," the merchant had begged moments before. "I am not—"

Caelan's blade had silenced him. Traitors did not deserve final words.

He cleaned his weapon on the dead man's cloak, then searched the body. A sealed letter in the inner pocket bore the royal seal of Valdris. Caelan broke the wax and read it by the moonlight filtering through the canopy.

His blood went cold.

Commander Vane's movements require immediate investigation. Evidence suggests—

The letter ended there, unfinished. This was not a traitor's correspondence. This was a report to the king.

Caelan's hands began to shake. He read it again, forcing his mind to work through the implications. The merchant was investigating Aldric. His mentor. The man who raised him, trained him and made him into the King's Shadow.

The man who had personally assigned him this mission.

"No." Caelan's voice cracked in the darkness. "No, it cannot be—"

A sound cut through his denial. Distant at first, then growing. Not the wind. Not an animal.

Screaming.

Caelan turned sharply toward the south, toward home. The horizon glowed orange, far too bright for torches or hearth fires. The color of a city burning.

He ran.

The horse he had tied a mile back sensed his urgency and needed no urging. Caelan drove the animal hard through the darkness, branches whipping past and the glow was growing brighter with each passing mile. His mind refused to accept what his eyes were telling him. Valdris was the strongest kingdom in the eastern reaches. Walls thirty feet high. The King's Guard was six hundred strong.

The glow spread across half of the horizon now.

By the time he broke from the tree line, dawn was breaking. Or what looked like dawn—the light came from flames, not sun. The capital of Valdris burned with such intensity that Caelan could feel the heat from half a mile away.

He dismounted at a dead run, blade already drawn.

Bodies lined the main road. Citizens, guards and children. The Dragon Legion's signature—they left the dead where they fell as warnings. Caelan's boots splashed through blood as he raced toward the palace. Smoke choked the air, thick, black and tasting of ash.

The palace gates hung open, twisted off their hinges. More bodies inside. Caelan recognized faces, men he had trained with, servants he had known for years, all cut down in their nightclothes. This had been a night attack. Perfectly coordinated.

"Your Majesty!" Caelan's voice echoed through the ruined halls. "My King!"

He found him in the throne room.

King Aldren sat slumped on his throne, sword still gripped in his right hand, and was surrounded by a dozen dead Legion soldiers. He had died fighting, as befitted a warrior king. Caelan fell to his knees before the body of the man he had sworn to protect.

"I am sorry," he whispered. "I am so sorry."

He searched for three days.

The queen had died shielding her daughter in the garden. The King's Guard had been slaughtered in their barracks—someone had blocked the doors from outside and set the building ablaze. The entire council, dead. The archives were burned. Valdris had not just fallen, It had been systematically destroyed.

And Caelan had been twenty miles away, killing the one man who might have prevented it.

On the fourth day, he knelt in the ruins of the throne room, staring at dried blood on marble. His sword lay across his knees. It would be easy. One quick motion, and he could join his king in death. He had failed. There was nothing left.

"You are Caelan Ashworth."

The voice turned him around, blade raised. A young man stood in the archway, maybe twenty years old, wearing the tattered remains of a Dragon Legion scout uniform. Red hair caught the light filtering through the broken roof. He held his hands up, empty.

"The King's Shadow," the stranger continued, voice steady despite the blade at his throat. "I have been searching for you."

"You wear their colors." Caelan's words came out flat, deadly. "Give me one reason not to open your throat."

"Because I tried to warn them." The young man's jaw tightened. "I heard the attack was being planned. I departed from my unit and rode for three days to reach Valdris." His voice cracked. "I was six hours late."

Caelan pressed the blade closer, drawing a thin line of blood. "Why would a Legion scout warn their enemy?"

"Because the man who planned this was not Legion." The stranger met his eyes without flinching. "He was Valdris's own High Commander. Aldric Vane."

The name hit like a physical blow. Caelan's blade wavered.

"I heard him myself," the young man pressed on. "He gave them everything—guard rotations, the location of the king's safe room and when the Shadow would be away. He sold your kingdom for a province in the north." He took a careful breath. "My name is Rhen Thorne. My unit executed me for abandonment, but I survived. And I know you will not believe me without proof."

"Then why come here?" Caelan demanded, though his hand was shaking now.

Rhen reached slowly into his jacket and pulled out a folded parchment. "Because I took this from the Legion commander's tent before I ran."

Caelan snatched it, reading by the dim light. It was a map of Valdris with notes in a handwriting he knew as well as his own. Guard positions. Patrol schedules. The king's hidden escape routes. All in Aldric's precise script.

The throne room tilted. Caelan staggered back and his sword clattering to the floor.

"He sent you away on purpose," Rhen said quietly. "The merchant you killed—he was investigating Commander Vane. Aldric made you eliminate his only threat."

Caelan looked at his scarred hands, hands that had killed Valdris for twenty-six years. Hands that had murdered an innocent man on his mentor's orders.

"Where?" The word came out as a growl. "Where is Aldric now?"

"North. He is being inaugurated as provincial lord in eighteen days." Rhen took a step forward. "After that, he will have an army. Walls. He will be untouchable."

Caelan retrieved his blade, sheathing it with hands that no longer shook. The grief was still there, crushing and absolute. But now it had direction.

"Then we leave tonight," he said.

Rhen's eyes widened. "We?"

"You know the Legion's movements. Their patrols." Caelan turned to face him fully. "And if you are lying to me about any of this, I will make your death come true."

"I am not lying." Rhen's voice was steady. "I lost everything trying to stop this. Just like you."

Caelan studied the young deserter, desperate, honest, and either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid. It did not matter which.

"Eighteen days," Caelan said. "Can we reach him?"

"Through the Blackwood? Barely." Rhen met his gaze. "But it will kill us."

"Then we die." Caelan walked toward the shattered doorway, stepping over the body of his king one final time. "As long as Aldric Vane dies first."

Behind him, Rhen Thorne began to follow.

The King's Shadow had become something else now.

Something far more dangerous than an assassin.

A dead man with nothing left to lose.