Page 86 of Of Kings and Thieves

To see his enemies’ lifeblood spill, hear their dying groans.

In dreams, Bloodsong called out to him, yearning to taste red rain,

Until the day the Iron Raven would make the usurpers pay in pain.

I frowned. “Iron Raven” was a term I had only heard once before, the night I’d met the rest of the Ironguard.

Through our bond, I posed the question to Col, curious about the meaning behind the name. His surprise flooded my mind.

The Iron Raven... it’s an ancient legend about my family. Centuries ago, the kings of Iron Deep had the power to transform into a giant raven with control over the air and sky. With a flap of its wings, it could summon powerful winds and storms. Its cry compelled all who heard it to obey.

Over time, the magic faded from our bloodline. But legends say it will be awakened once more when the true heir wields Bloodsong in a time of dire need. Then the Iron Raven will rise again to defeat the kingdom’s enemies. I always thought it was just a myth.

A thrill raced through me at the implications. Could Col truly possess such power locked deep within?

Sing it for me, he said.

I sang the verse again, imagining the possibilities—the Harrow’s forces scattering in terror, his reign ended for good. And Col, finally ascending his rightful throne without The Harrow’s scheming.

* * *

The whispers began weeks before the first pillar of smoke appeared on the horizon.

At the banquets, I noticed the servants exchanging tense looks when they thought no one saw. Guards hovered near the doors and windows, hands resting on sword hilts, eyes darting about restlessly.

One evening, a crash rang out from the kitchens, followed by the overseer’s angry shouts. The servants around me jumped, one losing her grip on a platter. Its clatter resounded through the silent hall.

“Clumsy fool,” a guard snarled, cuffing her. She scurried away with eyes downcast. But not before I glimpsed the simmering resentment in their depths.

Others might dismiss these small signs, but to me they whispered of the coming fire.

So as I sang the ancient verses daily, I listened to the growing murmurs of unrest, like the first tendrils of a wildfire soon to sweep the land.

Over the next few weeks, The Harrow continued hosting lavish banquets overflowing with excess, but outside the castle walls, unrest was simmering.

Whispers reached my ears of the people protesting, riots breaking out, rebels attacking supply wagons—the beginnings of an uprising. It seemed The Harrow’s cruelty and greed had finally pushed the citizens of Iron Deep too far.

I took savage satisfaction in these whispers, hoping the chaos would provide the opportunity Col and I needed to break free.

In the meantime, we endured The Harrow’s pomp and pageantry side by side, exchanging subtle touches and meaningful looks. Our true communication happened through our bond, the connection between our rings growing stronger by the day.

During my isolation, I channeled all my energy into perfecting the ancient ballad, fantasizing about the day I would turn its power against The Harrow, watching his empire crumble.

Then one day, the scream of the wind outside my tower prison did little to muffle the sounds rising from the city below. Through the narrow window, I caught glimpses of gray smoke smudging the sky. The acrid scent lingered even up here, stinging my nostrils.

Pressing myself against the open window, I strained to hear and see what was happening. Shouts and cries melded together in a roar that spoke of rebellion. The clash of steel rang out now and then, along with screams of pain or fury. I pictured soldiers trying to beat back the tide of rage spilling through the streets. A savage pleasure flared in my chest at the image. Let them feel a taste of the suffering they’d inflicted.

The people of Iron Deep were rising up against The Harrow at last.

“Do you hear that, you bastard?” I hissed, though whether I meant The Harrow or the gods themselves, I could not say.

Drawing myself up, I began the song again, my voice ringing clear and true.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

The next morning, the sun filtered through a smoky haze. I awoke with a start. My skin tingled, and a dull throb pulsed between my legs—the lingering effects of the intensely erotic dream I’d been having of Col.

Fuck, I missed him. Missed the feel of his calloused hands on my skin, his lips trailing down my neck, his cock filling me so completely I thought I might burst. We’d been kept apart for weeks now, only truly able to communicate through our rings. Unable to touch beyond the stolen moments at the banquets where his hand could brush mine.

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