Threads of the Tapestry

The same evening in Leoham

Lothar’s heart hammered in his chest, lungs burning as he sprinted toward the keep like a raging bull. Orcs scattered as he and Mira tore through the streets, eyes widening in shock as some leapt aside on instinct, fearing the human whose face was carved into a mask of absolute fury.

The sentries at the outer palisade barely had time to react. Spears were raised, shields half-lifted, confused glances exchanged.

“Thegn Lothar—what is—”

He was past them in a breath, Mira right behind him.

The great doors of the keep exploded inward as Lothar slammed his shoulder into them. The crash echoed like thunder, wood splintering under a force few believed a single man could muster. The sentries stared, stunned—then surged after him, urgency snapping them into motion.

Something was very wrong.

***

Meanwhile, within the keep of Leoham

He had her now—but it had not been easy.

Thalric held a blade to Baldomar’s throat, forcing Karga to heel. That moment was all Caerth needed. He drove her to the floor, pinning her wrists as he laughed, daring her to cry out. One sound, and her husband would die.

Karga writhed beneath him, jaw clenched, eyes blazing. Caerth leaned down, dragging his tongue along the soft skin of her neck, savoring her helplessness. He drew back just enough to watch her struggle.

This would be business and pleasure.

The crash of the doors shattered his focus.

It was a mistake—one he would pay for dearly.

Karga surged, drawing on fury she did not know she possessed. She snapped her head forward, smashing her forehead into the bridge of Caerth’s nose.

Crack.

Caerth screamed, clutching his face as blood poured freely. He released her wrists, staggering back to his knees. His companions turned just in time to see Karga already moving.

She kicked hard—straight into Caerth’s groin.

He folded with a wet, choking sound, vomiting across the floor and onto her leg as she used the momentum to shove herself free. Thalric raised his sword, ready to drive it through Baldomar’s chest.

Karga cried out and grabbed the chamber pot beside the bed.

She hurled it.

The pottery shattered against Thalric’s face, shards cutting deep as urine splashed into his eyes. He reeled back, roaring, clawing at his face and spitting filth from his mouth.

The third attacker rushed her.

Karga ripped up an end table and swung it with a feral shriek. The blow clipped his outstretched hand, sending his sword skittering as he slipped in Caerth’s vomit and collapsed awkwardly atop him.

Before he could recover, the table came down again.

Wood met bone.

Teeth, tusk, and blood painted the wall as his body went limp.

The chamber door flew open.

Relief crashed over Karga as Lothar stormed in, Mira at his side.

Thalric barely had time to turn.

Lothar’s right cross snapped his head sideways. The impact stiffened him instantly; his knees buckled as he crumpled, skull striking the bedframe before he hit the floor. Blood streamed from the gash in his brow. He was not getting up.

Mira rushed to Karga, gripping her shoulders and pulling her away from the carnage. Karga’s gaze never left Caerth, who lay curled and whimpering.

She watched as Lothar seized him, lifting him bodily and slamming him against the wall. His hand closed around Caerth’s throat like iron.

Sentries flooded the room—then froze.

Caerth’s mouth worked soundlessly. His limbs flailed, growing weaker as the whites of his eyes flushed pink, then red. Lothar squeezed, teeth bared, hatred pouring from him in waves.

There was a sharp, high-pitched sound.

Then nothing.

Lothar released him.

Caerth slid down the wall and collapsed in a heap.

Lothar stood there, breathing hard, hands shaking as adrenaline roared through him. At his feet, the last attacker twitched.

Lothar brought his boot down.

Again.

Again.

Again.

The skull gave way. The body twitched once more—then stilled.

Nothing remained but a husk.

He turned to his mother.

Mira eased Karga into his arms, and the moment the danger truly sank in, she broke, sobbing into her son’s chest.

Mira turned sharply to the stunned sentries. “Get these things out of here. Now.”

They obeyed at once, dragging the corpses into the corridor. Some spat on them as they went.

Karga looked to Baldomar—still alive, still breathing.

She collapsed, sobbing, wondering if anything would ever be the same.

***

Shortly after, outside the keep

From the palisade, Allowin watched as bodies were dragged into the courtyard. His eyes fixed on Caerth’s broken form.

Confirmation.

He drew his hood closer and melted into the gathering crowd, smiling faintly as he recalled the state of the corpse.

Good.

Caerth had been a liability—volatile, reckless, dangerous to everything Allowin sought to build. In truth, he admired Lothar: young, brilliant, fierce yet restrained. The perfect leader.

Which was precisely why he could never be chieftain.

Political—even theological—opposition aside, Lothar was simply too competent. Not as needy in the way Allowin required.

Eumer, by contrast, was ideal—for Allowin at least.

An orc of pure lineage. Hungry for prestige. Easily guided. A crown in need of a hand.

Allowin would be that hand.

Lothar would remain—a blade to be wielded. After all, a debt now existed. A debt he intended to collect.

Allowin traced the hilt of his concealed dagger as he slipped through the darkening streets, mind already weaving its next design. Strings tightened. Pieces aligned.

From a nearby alcove, he gazed toward Eumer’s estate.

“And so,” he murmured, “we offer this lamb to the slaughter.”

***

Inside Eumer’s estate 

Adda, lady-wife of Eumer, passed Rodolf’s bedchamber and smiled at the sight of him sprawled uncovered, one arm dangling off the bed. Even at nineteen—an accomplished huscarl—he still trained until exhaustion claimed him.

She reached for a blanket.

Then paused.

No breath.

No rise or fall of his chest.

Only stillness.

Cold dread flooded her veins. Her hand trembled as she touched his shoulder and rolled him gently onto his back.

She looked.

And screamed.