The sound of carriage wheels clattered on the stone, sharp, fast, and arrogant. A black coach, devoid of any crest save for the golden scales of the Judiciary painted on the door in peeling gold leaf, rolled out of the shadows.

  It was moving dangerously fast. The driver whipped the horses, forcing them into a gallop. They thundered under the archway just as the portcullis teeth lowered to head-height.

  "Open it back up!" Horgar yelled, scrambling out of the way to avoid being trampled. "By the Saints, open it up!"

  The carriage skidded to a halt, the wheels locking and sparking against the cobblestones. The door flew open before the vehicle had fully stopped.

  Lord High Justiciar Harlon stepped out.

  He was a man made of parchment and ink, thin and dry, wrapped in robes of severe grey wool that seemed to absorb the torchlight. He held a pocket watch in one hand, snapping it shut with a loud click.

  Casimir let out a breath he didn't realize he’d been holding. He dismounted, his boots crunching on the frost, and walked to meet the official.

  "You cut it close, Lord Justiciar," Casimir said.

  "The Law is never late, Lord Kovac," Harlon said, his voice dry as rustling leaves. He didn't look at Casimir. He was looking at the wagon, his nose wrinkling as the scent of unwashed bodies and volatile lamp oil washed over him. "Though it seems larceny is quite punctual. Your brother Stefan will be... surprised... to learn of his contribution to your cause."

  "Stefan is a patriot," Casimir lied smoothly, keeping his face blank. "He would want his supplies used to secure the realm. I am merely facilitating his generosity."

  Harlon hummed, a noncommittal sound that conveyed deep skepticism. He gestured to his footman, who scrambled to set up a portable writing desk on a stack of crates, illuminating it with a handheld lantern.

  "The Marquis has informed me of the arrangement," Harlon said, dipping a quill into a travel inkpot. "You require the Crown’s seal on your appointment."

  "I require assurance," Casimir corrected, stepping into the light. "That when I return in the spring, the land remains mine. I want no clerical errors. I want no 'lost' documents."

  Harlon looked up, his beady eyes glittering. "You speak as if your return is a certainty. A bold assumption for a man leading a funeral procession."

  "Just stamp the paper, Harlon."

  Harlon produced the heavy brass stamp of the High Court. He melted a stick of red wax onto Casimir’s document—the Deed of Stewardship Casimir had brought with him—and pressed the seal into it with a firm, practiced hand.

  "It is done," Harlon said, handing the parchment back. "You are now legally the Steward of Blackwood. You have the right to high justice, low justice, and the collection of tithes. However..."

  Harlon paused. He didn't step back toward his carriage. He smiled, a thin, bloodless expression.

  "There is a matter of protocol."

  "Protocol?" Casimir narrowed his eyes. "I have the seal. I have the men. What protocol?"

  "A Steward cannot administer the King’s Law without a Scribe of the Court present to record the judgments," Harlon said smoothly. "Especially in a territory that has yet to fully integrate with the Kingdom. We cannot have a Lord acting as judge, jury, and executioner without oversight. The Crown requires transparency."

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

  Harlon turned back to the black carriage, raising his voice. "Auditor Kaminska. Please step forward."

  The carriage door opened again.

  A boot hit the cobblestones—not a delicate slipper, but a sturdy riding boot.

  A woman stepped out into the dying light. She was young, perhaps twenty, wrapped in a heavy riding cloak of deep blue wool that marked her as a servant of the Crown. Her hair was pulled back in a severe, practical braid the color of spun copper, revealing a face that was striking not for its beauty—though she was sharp-featured and fair—but for its utter lack of expression.

  She carried a leather satchel slung over one shoulder, a scroll case at her hip, and a distinct lack of fear.

  "This is Roza Kaminska," Harlon said, introducing her as one might introduce a piece of furniture. "Junior Auditor of the High Court. She will accompany you to Blackwood to document your stewardship and ensure all tithes are calculated in accordance with Royal Decree."

  Casimir stared at her. He looked at Harlon. Then he laughed, a harsh bark of sound. "You’re joking."

  "I never joke," Harlon said.

  Casimir stalked toward the Justiciar, ignoring the way Horgar and the gate guards flinched. "I am taking eleven broken men to a frozen ruin surrounded by Orcs. We have barely enough food for the winter. This is a siege, not a tax audit. I cannot babysit a court official."

  "I do not require babysitting, Lord Kovac," Roza spoke for the first time.

  Her voice was cool, precise, and annoyingly calm. It cut through the wind better than Harlon’s whisper.

  "I can ride. I can cook. And I can write," she listed, ticking the points off on gloved fingers. "If you intend to govern, you need a ledger. If you intend to die, the Crown requires a witness to verify the loss of assets. I am there to ensure the inventory is accurate."

  She looked him up and down. Her grey eyes lingered on his bruised face, then drifted to his split lip, and finally to the rusted sword at his hip. She wasn't intimidated. She was assessing him. Like a butcher assessing a side of beef that might have gone bad.

  "It is a suicide mission," Casimir warned her, stepping into her personal space. He smelled of wine and blood; she smelled of soap and old paper. "There is no glory where we are going. Only cold and blood. You will die, Auditor."

  "Then it will be a short audit," Roza replied without blinking.

  Casimir ground his teeth. He looked at Harlon, who was watching with malicious glee.

  This wasn't protocol. This was a spy. A minder sent to ensure that if Casimir did somehow succeed, the Crown would have a leash on him immediately. Or perhaps she was being punished, too? Sent to the North to disappear just like him?

  But he had the seal. He had the explosives. And the Gate Captain was looking at the portcullis with increasing panic as the winches began to slip.

  "Fine," Casimir spat. "But she rides in the wagon with the explosives. If she complains, toss her off."

  "I have my own horse," Roza said calmly.

  She whistled sharply.

  From behind the carriage, a groom led out a mare. It was a roan, heavily muscled and looking far healthier than Casimir’s stolen gelding. Saddlebags were already strapped to its flanks. A light crossbow was sheathed in leather by the stirrup.

  She was prepared. She had known about this assignment longer than he had.

  Roza mounted with a practiced ease, settling into the saddle and gathering the reins. She looked down at him, her face impassive. "Shall we depart, Lord Kovac? The gates are closing. And I would hate for your tenure to end before you leave the city limits."

  Casimir swore under his breath. He swung back onto his horse, the leather groaning.

  "Open the gate!" he shouted at Horgar. "Wide! Before we’re locked in!"

  The heavy chains rattled. The massive iron portcullis groaned, rising just enough to let the high-piled wagon pass.

  "Move out!" Casimir signaled Kaelen.

  The whip cracked. The draft horses leaned into their collars, and the wagon lurched forward.

  They rode out. The transition was instant and violent—from the smooth cobblestones of the city to the hard-packed, frozen dirt of the King’s Road. The wind hit them instantly, howling across the open plains, stripping away the lingering warmth of the city.

  Casimir didn't look back. He didn't look back at the luxury, the warmth, or the father who had sent him to die. He looked North, into the deepening dark where the stars ended and the clouds began.

  Behind him, the great iron gate slammed shut with a boom that echoed like a hammer striking a coffin nail. The torches on the wall flickered, then turned their backs to him.

  The world ended at the edge of the torchlight. And the exile had begun.