Prologue

The West Gate of Bellenorian loomed like a stone titan, its passage reserved for the elite.

“Halt!” The command was sharp, backed by the rattle of iron. “Show your token, merc, or find a gutter to sleep in.”

Raikonen didn't offer a verbal reply. He reached into his weathered satchel and pulled out a dull, dark disc. The guard didn't even look closely; he saw the dark hue and assumed the worst. “Wood-tier? You’ve got a lot of nerve. Take your filth to the North Gate with the rest of the peasants.” He punctuated the insult with a shove to Raikonen’s chest.

Raikonen remained an anchor in the wind. He didn't stumble. He didn't grow angry. He simply fixed the guard with a pair of eyes that looked as though they had seen the end of the world and found it boring.

“Are you deaf?” the guard hissed, his hand dropping to the pommel of his blade. He stepped into Raikonen’s personal space, radiating the heat of unearned authority.

The senior guard approached, squinting at the commotion. His gaze drifted to the token in Raikonen’s hand, and his breath hitched. The color left his lips instantly. “You absolute fool,” he hissed, grabbing his partner’s arm. “That’s not wood. That’s the Kin-Slayer sigil. Look at the star-count!”

The atmosphere shifted instantly. The bravado evaporated, replaced by a visceral, bone-deep terror. Both guards stood frozen, their armor rattling against their shaking frames as cold sweat broke across their brows. Raikonen let the silence fester for a moment, then stepped forward. The guards parted like the Red Sea, held back by an invisible wall of dread.

“I’m dead,” the first guard whimpered into the dust. “I’m a dead man.”

He had reason to fear. Kin-Slayers were the ghosts in the machine of the world. They were the apex predators of the mercenary trade, men who would butcher a king as easily as a commoner if the gold was right. In the whispered tales of taverns, they weren't called assassins—they were called catastrophes.

Inside the Guild Hall, the air was thick with the scent of cheap ale and old blood.

“Welcome back, Kin-Slayer,” Royce called out. The old man was as slick as an oil spill, his eyes darting with a greedy intelligence.

Raikonen reached the counter and dropped a burlap sack. It landed with a wet, heavy thud. He slid his token alongside it. Royce opened the bag, the copper scent of fresh death filling the air. He pulled three heads out by the hair, lining them up like trophies.

“The Groimor patriarch and his heir. Efficient as always,” Royce mused, then paused at the third, smaller head. “And this? A little extra-curricular activity?”

“The son,” Raikonen replied, his voice a low rasp.

“A shame. The contract didn’t cover the brat. No bonus for wasted effort, Rai.”

Raikonen leaned in, the lamplight catching the hard lines of his face. He placed a gloved hand on the small head. “Loresian law states that upon the death of the patriarch and his first-born, the title skips to the next male. For a few seconds today, this boy was the Head of the Clan. I’ve brought you two leaders, Royce. Pay me.”

Royce stared into Raikonen’s cold eyes, then burst into a jagged, nervous laugh. “By the gods, you rotten-bloods would find a way to coin-flip your own mother’s funeral.” He tossed a jingling sack of gold onto the counter. “One-twenty. Twenty for the ‘patriarch’ in short-pants.”

He slid a fresh scroll across the table. Raikonen opened it, his eyes scanning the ink. “Gillian Solice. Wyvern Rider.”

“The irony is delicious, isn’t it?” Royce leaned in, whispering. “Gillian is the one who paid for the Groimor heads. Now, someone wants his.”

Raikonen didn't smile. He didn't even blink. He simply stowed the parchment. “I don’t give a fuck.”

He turned to leave, his boots echoing on the stone floor.

“Give my love to Alice!” Royce shouted after him, his frantic cackle following Raikonen out into the cold evening air.

**

The air in the outskirts smelled of rain and harvested grain—a sharp contrast to the metallic tang of the Guild Hall. Raikonen’s boots crunched on the dirt path, his shadow lengthening as the sun dipped toward the horizon.

“Uncle Rai!”

The cry was a tonic. The "Kin-Slayer" vanished, replaced by a man who let two small children collide with him. He knelt in the dirt, Alice’s small arms wrapping around his neck while Rowan hovered nearby, eyeing the market basket with wide-eyed hunger.

He looked at them, and for a fleeting second, he saw his sister, Ellen. She had been the bridge between two worlds, a human who dared to love an elf. That love had been her death sentence. The Elvendum Kingdom did not tolerate "pollution" of their bloodline; they had hunted her down and murdered her shortly after Alice was born. Now, these two children—half-bloods, "taboos" in the eyes of the law—were all he had left. Every drop of blood Raikonen spilled was to pay the bribes that kept the Elven Hunters from finding this barn.

“I’m back,” Raikonen murmured, his hand smoothing Alice's hair. He stood, hoisting her onto his hip and gesturing for Rowan to follow.

They reached the barn where Old George stood, wiping sweat from his brow with a rag. He looked at Raikonen with a tired, knowing smirk. “The kids were restless today, Rai. They knew you were close.”

“Go on, open the basket inside,” Raikonen told the children. They dashed into the shadows of the barn, their giggles fading into the rafters.

Raikonen’s expression hardened. He pulled a bulging leather purse from his satchel and tossed it. George caught it with a grunt, his eyes widening at the weight. “Two hundred and fifty? Damn, Rai. Who did you have to bleed for this much coin?”

“The Groimors,” Raikonen said, staring out at the darkening fields. “It’s enough for the Council bribes. I’m only two contracts away from the pass to Voidorant. Once we're there, the Hunters can't reach them.”

George nodded, looking relieved. “Well, that’s a blessing. One more easy job and we can finally leave this rot-heap behind. Who’s the next mark? Some fat merchant?”

“Gillian Solice.”

The silence that followed was absolute. The rag George was holding fell to the dirt. He stepped forward, his eyes searching Raikonen’s face for a hint of a joke. He found none.

“Gillian... Solice?” George’s voice was a ragged whisper. “The Wyvern Rider? The man who burned a whole village because he didn't like the vintage of their wine? Rai, tell me you're joking.”

“I’m not.”

“That’s suicide!” George hissed, his hands beginning to shake. “He lives in a fortress in the clouds! He flies a beast that breathes liquid fire! You’re a man with a sword, Rai, not a legend from the old books!”

“The gold is triple the standard rate,” Raikonen said, his voice like cold stone. “It’s the only way to get the pass before the Council raises the price again. If I don't pay, they'll hand the children to the Elven executioners themselves.”

George turned away, rubbing his face vigorously. “Listen to me. If the moon turns and you haven't walked through that gate, I’m taking the children. I’ve got a skiff in the treeline. We’ll cross the Regalia Sea and head for Historia. It’s a death trap, but I’d rather they drown than watch the Hunters drag them away.”

“The sea will kill you both,” Raikonen warned.

“And Gillian Solice will kill you!” George shot back, pointing at Raikonen’s worn, notched armor. “Look at your gear! You’re going to fight a Solice in rags! You’re chasing a miracle, Rai!”

Raikonen stepped into George’s space, his massive hand coming down on the old man’s shoulder. It wasn't a threat; it was an anchor. “I’ve lived my whole life in the shadow of death. This is just another shadow. Trust me.”

Without another word, he turned and entered the barn, leaving George alone in the encroaching dark.

**

The armor came off with a heavy, metallic clatter, leaving Raikonen bare before the water. His skin was a map of jagged white lines—scars from a dozen wars and a hundred contracts. He sank into the wooden tub, the lukewarm water biting at his skin.

"Fuck," he hissed.

His hands began to tremble. Images of the morning—the Groimor family, the wide eyes of the heir’s son—surged through his mind like a fever. He clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white, forcing his breath to regain its composure. He exhaled a long, heavy cloud of steam, trying to wash the scent of copper from his senses.

"Why so tense, Rai?"

He looked up. Sienna was leaning against the doorframe, her elven features sharp in the shadows, twin daggers resting on her hips. She was more than just a lover; she was his sister-in-law, the sister of the elven man Ellen had loved and died for. She was the only link the children had to their father’s side of the family—a side that officially viewed them as a stain.

She stepped toward him, a faint, knowing smile on her lips, and perched on the edge of the tub, completely unfazed by his nakedness.

"You're risking the kids if the hunters followed you," Raikonen grumbled.

She chuckled softly. "You give them too much credit. They don't even know I exist."

"The guards do. They’d sell an elf to the highest bidder the moment you cleared the gate."

Sienna leaned forward, her eyes flashing. "They won't see me. And if they do, it'll be the last thing they ever see." She tilted his head back and kissed him, a touch that tasted of iron and longing. "I missed you."

The damp chill of the barn was forgotten the moment skin met skin. They came together not with the tenderness of lovers, but with the frantic, starving desperation of two survivors clinging to a sinking ship.

There was a jagged edge to their hunger—a silent acknowledgement of the ghost that stood between them. She was his sister-in-law, the sister of the man who had cost Raikonen his sibling, yet she was the only one who truly understood the weight of the blood on his hands. To the world, their union was an abomination piled atop a tragedy; to them, it was the only thing that felt real.

The restraint they had maintained in the doorway snapped. The steam from the tub mingled with the sudden, fierce heat of their bodies as they collided. It was a breathless, wordless negotiation—a reclamation of the physical touch they had been denied by war and exile. In the flickering candlelight, Raikonen traced the elegant curve of her elven ears while she ran her nails over the rugged terrain of his scars, both of them seeking to drown out the judging whispers of the living and the dead. They spent the night in a feverish tangle, rekindling a fire that was as much about defiance as it was about desire, until the ghosts of the Groimors were finally forced back into the shadows.

**

Morning brought the cold reality of the sun. Raikonen rose while Sienna still slept and walked into the main room of the barn. George was already there, hunched over a bowl of porridge.

"Gods above, Rai," George grumbled. "Sienna was here? I didn't even hear her enter."

"She has a way of moving," Raikonen said, sitting down.

"She has a way of being loud, too," George muttered, gesturing to the thin walls. "Young blood... I barely got a wink of sleep. Keep your voices down next time."

"I just wanted to visit my brother’s children," a voice rang out.

George looked up and immediately choked, his porridge spraying across the table. Sienna had walked into the room completely naked, her lithe, elven form glowing in the morning light as she stretched without a hint of shame.

"For fuck’s sake, Sienna!" George roared, shielding his eyes and coughing violently. "Don't just appear like that! Put some damn clothes on! I'm trying to eat!"

Sienna just laughed, a melodic, mocking sound. "What’s the matter, George? Haven't seen a woman in a decade?"

Raikonen ignored the bickering, his mind already shifting to the mission. "Where are the kids?"

"Over at Laurel’s," George gasped, still red-faced and looking away from Sienna. "Probably helping with the herbs. Go find them before this one decides to walk out the front door without a cloak."

Raikonen walked through the village to the small cottage where Laurel lived. He found the children in the garden. Alice was spinning in her new dress, the fabric catching the morning light, while Rowan was locked in a fierce imaginary battle with his wooden stallion.

"Look! Uncle Rai is here!" Laurel called out, her face brightening with a genuine, warm smile.

"Thank you for looking after them, Laurel," Raikonen said, sitting on a bench beside her.

"They're no trouble, Rai." Her smile wavered as she looked at him. "George said... he said you're moving soon. To Voidorant?"

"That's the plan."

Laurel looked at her feet, her clean hands fidgeting with her apron. "Can I come? With you?"

Raikonen looked at her, seeing the softness in her eyes that didn't belong in his world. "No, Laurel. It’s a long, hard road. And your father would be alone."

She went quiet, her shoulders sinking. Raikonen stood, the weight of the Solice contract already settling back onto him. "I have to see the smith. I need my gear ready for tomorrow."

"Be careful," she whispered. "I'll be waiting for you."

**

The sun hadn't yet crested the horizon when Raikonen pulled the last cinch on his saddle. The air was cold, smelling of wet hay and woodsmoke. He moved with a grim, mechanical efficiency, checking the notched edges of his spaulders—the gear of a man who spent his gold on others' lives rather than his own equipment.

“Three weeks, George,” Raikonen said, his voice a low rasp in the morning quiet.

“One month, Rai. That’s the limit,” George replied, his voice thick with uncharacteristic worry. “Then I’m taking the children to the sea.”

“I’ll be back.”

The stable doors creaked open, and Sienna rode in on her white mare, looking like a vengeful spirit in the pre-dawn gray. “I’ve already packed my grain, Rai. Don’t bother arguing.”

Raikonen’s jaw tightened. “This isn't a scouting mission, Sienna. It’s a slaughter.”

“Exactly,” she said, her amber eyes flashing with a predatory light. “And I’d prefer it if your blood wasn't the first to spill.”

He saw the iron in her expression—the same stubbornness that had been in Ellen’s eyes. He didn't argue. He swung onto his mount, and together they galloped into the mists toward the capital.

Three days later, the air grew heavy with the scent of the sea and the rot of the city. They pulled up at a derelict inn on the outskirts of Antares, intended to be a quiet place for whispers and intel. Instead, they found a graveyard.

Thirty-two men-at-arms rose from the tall grass like iron statues. The sunlight glinted off polished breastplates—too clean for common soldiers. Then Raikonen saw the banners: the Solice Wyvern and the Groimor Sigil flying side-by-side.

“It’s a setup,” Raikonen hissed, his hand dropping to his hilt. “Sienna, get out of here. Now!”

“I’m not leaving you to face thirty blades!”

“The barn!” Raikonen roared, his voice cracking like a whip. “If they’re here, they’ve sent others to the village. The kids, Sienna! Go!”

The color drained from her face. Without a word, she spun her mare around. Raikonen threw himself into the path of a charging soldier, creating a split-second opening. Sienna didn't look back; she became a white streak against the green forest, disappearing into the distance.

“The Kin-Slayer speaks!” a captain laughed, his visor up to reveal a face twisted with arrogance. “Seize the sinner! Bring me his head for the Solice vaults!”

Raikonen didn't wait. He slapped his horse’s flank, sending the animal screaming into the front line. In the chaos, he didn't stand and fight; he ran.

He led the iron-clad hunters on a grueling dash toward the heart of the forest. Every stride he took in his light leather was a taunt. Behind him, he heard the heavy, rhythmic thud-clank of thirty-two men in full plate. By the time they hit the uneven, root-choked soil of the woods, the soldiers were already faltering, their lungs burning behind metal visors as the weight of their own protection turned into a cage.

Once the foliage swallowed him, Raikonen ascended. He climbed until he was part of the gloom, looking down at the "steel monsters" below. They were blind and heaving for air.

"Split up!" the captain wheezed. "Search in fours! He can't kill us all!"

It was the command Raikonen had been waiting for.

He drifted through the canopy like a ghost of the wood. He found the rear patrol—four men struggling through a thicket. Raikonen fell. He didn't make a sound until his blade found the soft leather at the back of a soldier's neck. Before the man’s knees hit the dirt, Raikonen had already disemboweled the second and opened the throat of the third. The fourth turned, eyes wide with a terror that never left his throat, as Raikonen’s dagger found his eye-slit.

A horn blared in the distance—the discovery of the dead. Raikonen didn't retreat; he pivoted. He knew they would expect him to flee deeper into the dark, so he swung through the branches toward the front of the line.

The vanguard was pushing forward, eyes darting at every rustle of leaves behind them. They never looked up. Raikonen dropped into their midst like a thunderbolt. He was a blur of steel and shadow, exploiting the exhaustion that made their sword-arms heavy. He took the front four in a whirlwind of violence, leaving a trail of red mist before vanishing back into the emerald heights.

Fear, cold and paralyzing, finally took hold of the survivors. The remaining twenty-four scrambled together, their armor clashing as they formed a desperate, trembling circle. They had realized the grim truth: in the open field, they were an army. In these woods, they were merely prey.

The forest began to scream.

Raikonen used the terrain as a weapon. He found two massive, grey-husked beehives and hurled them into the largest cluster of soldiers. The swarm erupted. Men screamed, clawing at their visors, their formation shattering into a panicked mess.

Then came the Kin-Slayer.

He moved with a terrifying, rhythmic precision. He didn't strike the breastplates; he aimed for the 'joints'—the armpits, the groin, the hollow of the throat. Every time his stolen blade lost its edge against bone and steel, he discarded it, plucking a fresh one from the hands of the dying.

Finally, only four were left. They huddled together, their swords shaking so violently the metal rattled. To them, Raikonen was no longer a man. He was the personification of the forest’s hunger. He stepped into the light, his armor slick with gore.

A single, fluid movement took the first man’s head. The others broke, swinging wildly at shadows, but Raikonen was already behind them. Three strikes. Three wet thuds.

Silence returned to the woods, broken only by the buzzing of bees. Raikonen whistled low. His horse, trained for the sound, emerged from the brush. He climbed into the saddle, his eyes fixed toward the South.

**

The horse didn't just fall; it shattered. Its lungs burst in a spray of red mist, and it hit the dirt with a sickening slide. Raikonen hit the ground running before the animal was even still. He ran until his vision blurred, until every breath felt like swallowing broken glass. He had turned a three-day trek into a nightmare sprint of thirty-six hours, fueled by a singular, cold dread.

He reached the outskirts of the village, but the air didn't smell of wheat and woodsmoke. It smelled of rendered fat and charcoal.

The "Free City" was no longer free. A sea of Solice blue and silver choked the fields. Raikonen slowed to a staggering limp, his knees buckling. The barn—the sanctuary he had bled to protect—was a pyre of glowing embers.

Then he saw the oak tree. George’s boots dangled three feet off the ground, spinning slowly. The old man’s face was a mask of blue-grey stillness. To his left, Sienna was crumpled in the dirt, her elven grace replaced by the heavy, clanking weight of anti-magic shackles.

And there, sitting comfortably amidst the ruin, was Royce. The "slick old man" was no longer smiling—he was gloating.

Raikonen’s mind fractured. A high, ringing sound filled his ears as his eyes turned bloodshot, the capillaries bursting from the pressure in his skull. He gripped his sword so tightly that his own skin split under the pressure, blood leaking between his fingers. He let out a sound that wasn't human—a raw, jagged howl of a wounded predator—and launched his sword at Royce’s throat.

It was a perfect throw. But before the blade could find the traitor's jugular, a blur of gold-etched steel redirected it into the dirt. Gillian Solice sat atop his mount, looking down at Raikonen as if he were an insect.

“The Kin-Slayer has lost his teeth,” Gillian remarked. “Chain him.”

Raikonen fought like a dying wolf, but there was nothing left in his veins but ash. They drove him into the mud, the cold iron of the shackles biting into his wrists. Royce stepped forward, his boots crunching on the charred remains of the children’s toys.

“Do you want to visit their graves, Rai?” Royce leaned down, the heat of his breath smelling of sour wine. “There isn't much left to bury. They screamed quite a bit at first, but once the fire took hold, they sounded just like roasting meat. The Elvendum hunters paid a fortune for the confirmation. I’m a very rich man, Kin-Slayer.”

Royce’s laughter echoed off the blackened ruins.

Raikonen lunged, the chains snapping taut against his flesh. His jaw clenched so hard a molar shattered, blood leaking from the corners of his mouth. "I will kill you," he hissed, his voice a promise from the deepest pit of hell. "I will peel the skin from your bones. I will kill every soul that bears the name Solice. I. WILL. KILL. YOU!"