For three more days, we marched deeper into the breathtaking, sun-drenched paradise of the Vineburg Duchy. And for three days, I watched my financial empire completely collapse.

  Riding Coin Biter, I pulled up my HUD. The numbers were no longer just red; they were practically bleeding.

  Nearly three and a half million gold in the negative. If Dankmar Ironvine’s capital didn't hold the wealth of the gods, we were all going to die. The army knew we had left two million gold in the mud at Vinesend. The mood among the Vanguard had shifted from restless to downright venomous.

  And as always, an angry, starving army takes its frustrations out on the weakest link.

  They didn't dare strike at the Kings, and they were too afraid of my Shadow-Weave Coat and Cinderbrand. So, they targeted the only person lower than a broke Merchant: a Northern Bastard.

  Mary Berg, the Ice Queen of Falkenberg, marched on foot alongside the heavy infantry. She didn't ride a horse. She didn't wear a royal crest. She wore simple, heavy dark leather and carried her massive ice-forged bastard sword.

  As the column squeezed through a narrow, beautiful terrace of emerald vines, a group of starving Gothic knights and heavily armored Moonclaw mercenaries pushed past her.

  One of the mercenaries a massive, cruel man with rusted chainmail deliberately slammed his heavy shoulder into Mary, sending her stumbling into the dirt.

  "Watch your step, bastard," the mercenarys spat, kicking mud directly onto Mary’s boots. "If the King hadn't left that gold in the dirt, we’d be eating roasted boar right now. Instead, we’re marching next to an illegitimate freak who eats scrap metal. Feral trash."

  Mary didn't draw her sword. She didn't scream. The Northern girl just slowly pushed herself up from the dirt, wiping the mud from her cheek with a perfectly stoic, deadpan expression. She was used to it. In her mind, the mud was where a bastard belonged.

  But a heavy, iron-gauntleted hand suddenly clamped down on the Rust-Bringer's shoulder, gripping the rusted chainmail so hard the links began to snap.

  Duke Gutrum Falken loomed over the mercenary. The Wolf of the North didn't yell. His gray eyes were as cold as a Falkenberg winter.

  "You will march at the rear of the column," Gutrum stated, his voice a low, terrifying rumble. "And if I ever see you look in this girl's direction again, I will remove your eyes. Move."

  The mercenary paled, scrambling away into the ranks.

  Gutrum turned to Mary. He didn't embrace her in front of the men his rigid, suffocating honor forbade him from treating his bastard like a trueborn princess in public. "Come with me," he said gruffly.

  He led her away from the marching column, stepping into the quiet shade of a towering, ancient willow-vine tree overlooking a shimmering violet river.

  Once they were out of sight, the stoic mask that Mary had worn for twenty years finally cracked.

  She looked up at the towering Duke, her dark eyes shining with unshed tears and profound, exhausting sorrow.

  "Why did you protect me?" Mary asked, her voice trembling slightly. "He was right. I am a bastard. I am the stain on your honor. I am the reason the Lords of the North look at you with pity."

  "Mary " Gutrum started, his chest aching.

  "Why, Father?" Mary interrupted, the word Father breaking in her throat. She stepped closer to him, desperate for an answer she had sought her entire life. "I have loved Lady Paula Falken since I was a child. She is kind, and she is beautiful. Why wasn't she enough for you? Why did you have to lay with another woman? Why couldn't I just be born true?"

  Gutrum closed his eyes, leaning his heavy head back against the trunk of the willow tree.

  It felt as though a blade were twisting directly into his heart. He looked at Mary's dark hair, her fierce, honorable eyes, and her quiet strength. She was the absolute best of the North.

  He wanted to scream the truth. He wanted to drop to his knees, take her face in his hands, and tell her: You are not my shame. You are not a mistake.. But he could never reveal the rest of that dark truth.

  "There is a truth to why things are the way they are, Mary," Gutrum whispered, his voice cracking with absolute, devastating agony. "But it is a truth I cannot give you. I made a sacred vow to my sister, Lisa Falken. On her deathbed, I promised her I would never speak of it to anyone. Not even to you."

  Mary looked down, a tear finally slipping down her cheek. "So I am just a secret you have to keep. A burden you have to defend."

  Gutrum let out a shattered breath. He reached out and gently, hesitantly, placed his massive, calloused hand on top of Mary’s dark head, stroking her hair.

  "You are my daughter," Gutrum said fiercely, his voice vibrating with absolute love. "You may not have my name, Mary Berg. But you have my blood. And you have my heart. Never doubt that."

  Mary leaned into his touch, closing her eyes, taking the small crumb of affection she had been starving for.

  Speaking of starving.

  Mary’s stomach let out a hollow, metallic groan. She flinched, holding her abdomen. The Rust-Bringers had raided her food the days before.

  "I'm fine," Mary lied quickly, stepping back. "I can wait until we breach the capital to find scrap."

  Gutrum frowned, a deep, protective anger flashing in his eyes toward the mercenaries. He reached into the deep leather pouch at his belt.

  He didn't pull out a rusted horseshoe or a broken dagger.

  Gutrum pulled out a heavy, flawless ingot of pure, high-grade Falkenberg Star-Steel. It was incredibly rare, perfectly forged metal, worth a small fortune on its own the kind of steel used only for the King's personal armor.

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  "The Rust-Bringers took your rations," Gutrum said softly, holding the beautiful, shimmering block of steel out to her. "I have been keeping this wrapped in my cloak since we left Moonclaw. I knew the Falkenberg cold in your veins would need something strong for the Firelands."

  Mary stared at the Star-Steel, utterly stunned. It was a feast fit for a king, saved specifically for a bastard.

  "I cannot take this," Mary whispered, her eyes wide. "It's too valuable. You could buy a warhorse with this."

  "I don't need a warhorse," Gutrum smiled, a rare, genuinely warm smile that chased away the shadows of his burden. "I need my daughter to have her strength. Eat, Mary. We have a capital to conquer."

  Mary took the heavy steel ingot. She looked at Gutrum, her heart swelling with an overwhelming, absolute devotion for the man who had claimed her. She bit into the pure Star-Steel, the magical metal crunching like hard candy, instantly flooding her freezing veins with brilliant, restorative energy.

  She wasn't a Falken. She wasn't a Princess. But as she stood under the Vineburg sun, eating Star-Steel with the Wolf of the North, Mary Berg knew she was loved.

  We left the vibrant, sun-drenched vineyards behind, following the wide cobblestone road toward the heart of the Duchy. But the paradise did not last.

  The air grew suddenly cold. The smell of sweet wine was replaced by the heavy, suffocating stench of old ash and pulverized stone.

  The Grand Army marched over a ridge, and the vanguard ground to a sudden, horrified halt.

  Laying in the valley below was a sprawling, gigantic medieval City. Or rather, the corpse of one.

  Old-Vine.

  It must have once been a staggering marvel of white marble and towering spires. Now, it was a skeletal wasteland. The massive defensive walls were blown outward. The grand cathedrals were nothing but jagged teeth of shattered stone pointing at the sky. And everywhere crawling over the ruins like a parasitic disease were thick, pulsating black vines. They choked the streets and dragged down the remaining statues, turning the entire city into a gothic graveyard.

  "What happened here?" King Brandan breathed, lowering Thunder-Fall. "Dankmar's own city..."

  "It wasn't a siege," Gutrum Falken stated grimly, his gray eyes scanning the sheer scale of the devastation. "This was an eradication."

  The silence of the dead city was absolute. Thousands of men held their breath.

  Then, a sound cut through the ash.

  Strum.

  A single, perfectly tuned chord from a lute.

  Sitting atop the cracked, decapitated head of a massive marble statue right in the center of the ruined gatehouse was a man.

  He was breathtakingly handsome, dressed in a tailored, patchwork coat of deep velvet and vibrant silk that was heavily dusted with gray ash. But it was his face that made my blood run cold.

  He was smiling. But it wasn't a normal smile. It was stretched far too wide, his lips pulled back to reveal perfect white teeth in an expression of absolute, unhinged, manic glee. His eyes were wide, twitching slightly, dancing with a chaotic, theatrical energy that felt completely disconnected from the horrific graveyard he was sitting in.

  "Welcome, welcome, welcome!" the bard cheered, clapping his hands together. He spread his arms wide, nearly losing his balance on the statue's head, laughing a bright, giggling laugh that echoed off the ruined walls. "Tourists! And so many of you! I'd offer you a room at the inn, but, well..." He gestured wildly to the flattened rubble. "The roof is a bit drafty!"

  "Identify yourself, fool!" Baldur Stormsong commanded, his hand resting on his sword. "You address the King of the Choirlands!"

  "Ooooh, royalty!" The bard gasped with exaggerated, mock awe. He practically threw himself off the statue, landing lightly on his feet in a puff of ash. He offered a sweeping, incredibly theatrical bow, his lute swinging from his shoulder.

  When he stood back up, the manic grin was still plastered across his handsome face.

  "You may call me Rictus," he purred, his eyes darting between Brandan, Gutrum, and finally landing on me. He winked. "Just Rictus. I lost my surname in the rubble. Careless of me, I know!"

  My breath hitched.

  The Black Ledger. The entry in Dankmar's own handwriting that Gutrum had read aloud in the Basilica vault.

  They are not born of love, but of necessity. Damian, Lydia, Rictus... they are merely the scaffolding. I despise their weakness.

  This wasn't just a crazy bard. This was Dankmar Ironvine's youngest son. The discarded prince. The one the Duke had left behind in the ruins of his own city.

  "What happened to this city, Rictus?" Gutrum asked, his voice a low, demanding rumble.

  Rictus tilted his head so far to the side his neck popped. The smile never wavered, but his bright eyes suddenly went dead, flat, and terrifyingly sharp.

  "Family drama, Lord Wolf," Rictus whispered. "A little pruning of the family tree. But why speak of it, when I can sing it?"

  Without waiting for permission, Rictus struck his lute.

  The music that poured from the instrument was staggeringly beautiful. It was a haunting, melancholic melody that seemed to physically wrap around our throats. And when Rictus began to sing, his chaotic persona vanished entirely into the music. His voice was an angel's clear, sorrowful, and dripping with an ancient, agonizing grief.

  He strolled through the black, choking vines as he sang, his manic smile replaced by a theatrical mask of tragedy.

  "And what is love," the mother said,

  "that I should spare the vine?

  A rotten fruit upon the branch,

  that poisons all our wine.

  In pain I brought you to this world,

  in pain I end it all.

  An iron heart must prune the weak,

  before the tree can fall."

  Gutrum stiffened in his saddle. The lyrics were cutting incredibly close to the bone. The mother... Lady Lydia? Sparing the vine? Pruning the weak? Rictus spun around a shattered pillar, his fingers flying across the lute strings.

  "I loved you still," the daughter breathed,

  and held the killer's hand.

  The golden chalice turned to gall,

  as darkness took the land.

  Rictus's voice rose, filling the dead city with a devastating, beautiful crescendo of absolute despair.

  And so she struck, and so she struck,

  the Duchess of the Vine,

  But now the black roots choke her hall,

  where sweet must used to shine.

  Yes, now the black roots choke her hall,

  and blood is in the wine.

  The bard danced over a pile of charred bones, his eyes locking directly onto Gutrum, then onto Mary Berg standing behind the Duke.

  The Northern sword became a shield,

  beneath the iron rain.

  "Weave on wide dreams," the Falcon sighed,

  and took the Weaver's pain.

  Gutrum’s face went pale. The Falcon. The Weaver. The song wasn't just about Vineburg; it was a ghost story bleeding into the Vanguard's own hidden history. It was about sacrifice. It was about Bastards and Queens.

  Rictus stopped dancing. He walked slowly toward me, the Crimson Broker, his eyes flashing with a terrifying, knowing manic energy. He struck a harsh, heavy chord.

  "The crown is bought," the Master spoke,

  amidst the shattered bone,

  "But interest on a weeping ghost,

  will outlive any throne."

  He strummed the lute violently now, the beautiful melody twisting into something frantic and nightmarish. He threw his head back and belted the final chorus to the bruised sky.

  And so she struck, and so she struck,

  the Duchess of the Vine,

  But now the black roots choke her hall,

  where sweet must used to shine.

  Yes, now the black roots choke her hall,

  and blood is in the wine.

  The music slowed. The frantic strumming faded into a single, lingering, vibrating note that seemed to hum in the ash falling around us.

  Rictus lowered his head. He plucked one final, chilling string.

  And not a soul to dine...

  The note died. The absolute silence of the slaughtered city slammed back into place.

  The thousands of men of the Grand Army were completely, utterly paralyzed by the haunting beauty of the song, and the horrifying implications of the lyrics.

  Rictus stood in the center of the road, the beautiful, sorrowful angel evaporating. The manic, stretched grin violently snapped back onto his handsome face. He let out a sharp, breathless giggle.

  "Well?" Rictus asked, throwing his arms wide, his eyes completely wild. "Do I get a coin, or do you just want to march into the meat grinder for free?"

  I gripped Cinderbrand, my heart hammering against my fractured ribs.

  We weren't just marching toward a capital. We were marching into a madhouse. And the architect's son was holding the door open for us.