The Fall of House Saris

Vesaria woke to screams.

Not the startled kind of a nightmare—this was terror made real. Steel clashed. Hooves thundered. Smoke burned her throat.

She bolted upright, heart hammering.

This couldn't be real.

The walls of her chamber shook.

Somewhere in the distance, a woman shrieked.

The door burst open.

Lira, her maid, stumbled in, face pale. "My lady, they've broken through the gates!"

Vesaria threw off her covers. "Who? Who has?"

"The Northmen!" Lira gasped. "They—they're in the keep! The guards—"

A crash cut her off as something heavy slammed against the door.. A warning. They were close.

Vesaria didn't waste time.

She snatched a dagger from her dresser—small, elegant, meant for decoration but sharp enough to cut flesh. Then she threw a cloak over her shift and moved.

Lira grabbed her arm. "We have to go. Now."

Vesaria's pulse pounded. "What's happening? Where's my uncle?"

Lira hesitated, her throat bobbing. "H-he went to speak with them."

Speak.

No. He wouldn't negotiate. He'd fight. He had to.

The next moment, something heavy struck the walls, sending dust raining from the ceiling. The keep was crumbling under the assault.

Lira's grip tightened. "Please, my lady, we don't have time. There's a passage—"

A scream echoed from the corridor. Too close.

Vesaria followed as Lira tore through the smoke-filled halls. The stench of blood filled the air.

Bodies lay strewn across the stone—guards, servants, people she had known. Some had died with weapons in hand. Others mid-run, cut down where they stood.

Move. Keep moving.

The passage was ahead. A narrow doorway tucked behind a tapestry, leading into the hidden tunnels beneath the manor.

Relief hit her too soon.

A shadow loomed in the smoke.

Before Vesaria could react, a hand shot out—grabbing Lira by the hair.

The girl screamed.

Vesaria whirled, dagger raised, but Lira shoved her backward. "Go!"

The warlord's soldier yanked Lira away, her terrified eyes meeting Vesaria's one last time before she was dragged into the dark.

Vesaria's breath hitched. No.

She could fight—she could—

Heavy boots pounded closer.

She ran, tears building in her eyes.

What in the name of the gods is happening? she thought, the reality of the attack crashing over her.

The southern border of the kingdom had long been a quiet place, but the Northern raiders—barbarians infamous for their ruthless raids—had been a thorn in the kingdom's side for years.

Now, it seemed, the rumors of their approach were horrifyingly real.

Her stomach twisted, but she forced herself to move.

Vesaria pressed herself against the cold stone, forcing herself to think. Where could she go?

Her uncle's chambers.

She needed to find Uncle Orlin—he would have answers, a plan, anything.

Footsteps thundered down the halls behind her.

The Northmen were coming.

She slipped through the corridors, keeping to the shadows. The scent of burning wood stung her nose, but she pressed forward.

Then she turned a corner—and froze.

Two guards stood outside her uncle's chamber, swords drawn. They barely had time to react before a massive figure crashed into them.

A battle axe arced through the air and bit deep. Blood spattered the walls.

Vesaria clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a cry. She wanted to run, but her legs refused to move.

Then the warrior turned.

He towered over her, clad in dark leathers and thick furs. Silver rings threaded his braided hair, his beard sharp, his face hardened by countless victories. Cold, crazed eyes locked onto hers.

She turned—to flee—

A hand seized her wrist.

The next second, she was slammed against the stone wall, breath knocking from her lungs.

He grinned, eyes gleaming with sick amusement.

"Didn't expect a rabbit in the halls," he rumbled.

He pressed against her, yanking down her cloak to reveal the thin shift beneath.

Vesaria lunged. The dagger's edge bit into his forearm.

The barbarian roared, staggering back. Blood dripped down his skin, but the shock lasted only a second before rage took over. "You little—"

Another hand clamped around her wrist, crushing the dagger from her fingers.

A second warrior. Bigger. Meaner. His grip was iron, his expression unreadable.

"Fiesty little thing," he muttered. His free hand fisted in her hair, yanking her head back. "Khan will want this one."

The first man wiped his bloody arm against his furs. "Not before I get a taste."

Vesaria barely had time to react before his rough fingers caught the hem of her shift, dragging it upward. His other hand slid to her thigh.

"No—" she snarled, kicking wildly.

His lips crushed against her throat, teeth scraping her skin. His free hand found her breast through the thin fabric, fingers tightening—

Then, suddenly, he was ripped away.

The second warrior shoved him back with a scowl. "Enough."

The first man's breath was ragged. "The fuck, Varik?"

Varik barely spared him a glance. His grip on Vesaria was unyielding. "The Khan will have her first."

That was all it took.

The first man bared his teeth but stepped back, breathing hard. His gaze lingered on her hungrily. "But if he gets bored of her—"

Varik didn't answer. He simply yanked Vesaria forward.

No. No! She wasn't going to be taken like this.

"No—" She kicked, thrashed, fought.

It didn't matter.

She was hauled through the corridors, past the bodies of her people, past the wreckage of her home.

The main hall was worse.

The great chandelier had fallen, shattered glass glittering across the floor. Statues of her ancestors were toppled, defaced, burning.

A towering figure draped in fur lounged in her uncle's chair.

Khan Azgar.

The Warlord of the North.

His dark hair, braided in a warrior's fashion, framed a face of cold confidence. At his feet, her family cowered like wounded animals, their faces etched with fear and defeat.

A bloodstained sword rested across his lap.

The brute shoved her forward. She stumbled, but caught herself.

She raised her head to look into frosted blue eyes.

Vesaria had only heard whispers of him. A conqueror, they called him. A warlord who united the fractured clans of the north beneath his banner, who turned scattered raiders into a disciplined army. A man who razed kingdoms not for plunder, but for dominion.

Now she saw him for herself.

He was watching her. Not her uncle, not the trembling servants pressed against the walls—her.

She swallowed her panic. She would not cower.

His men laughed and jeered as they dragged in the last of the castle's defenders, forcing them to their knees.

Rage coiled tight in her gut. If she had a blade, she'd bury it in his throat.

She forced her voice steady. "You've won your battle. Take what you came for and leave."

A ripple of laughter passed through the gathered warriors, the sound coarse, amused.

Azgar exhaled, as if her words mildly entertained him. "Bold words for a woman with no sword."

Vesaria lifted her chin. "I have no need of a sword to recognize a coward when I see one."

The hall went deathly silent.

One of the warlord's men stepped forward, scowling. "Insolent wench!"

A backhand, swift and brutal.

Pain exploded across her cheek. She fell, head ringing.

Gasps from the servants. A choked sob from her aunt.

Vesaria clenched her teeth, blinking through the pain. She would not cry.

Azgar raised a single hand, and the warrior fell silent at once.

"You speak too freely, little rabbit." His voice was a low rumble of warning. "Best learn your place."

She glared at him, eyes burning with fury. "I'll see you dead first."

A smirk curled his lips. Amusement. Interest.

"You have a sharp tongue, little lady." His tone was almost indulgent. "It will serve you well in the north."

Something in those words made her stomach drop.

She swallowed the copper taste of blood, blinking away the stars in her vision.

Her uncle chose that moment to speak, voice thin and desperate. "We have given you everything you asked for—"

Azgar's gaze slid lazily to him. "And you have given wisely. Your tribute is… acceptable."

Tribute.

The word sent a chill through Vesaria, though she did not understand why. Had her uncle given the brutes treasures from their coffers?

She glanced at her uncle. His face was ashen, his hands trembling at his sides.

He would not look at her.

Something was wrong.

Vesaria turned back to Azgar, her heart hammering. "You have your gold, your spoils. If you are satisfied, then leave our lands."

Azgar chuckled. "Satisfied?" He leaned forward slightly, those piercing blue eyes locking onto hers. "For once, I think I am."

Her breath caught as he rose to his feet in one smooth motion, stepping down from the dais with the ease of a predator descending upon its prey.

She held her ground.

Gods, he was enormous.

Azgar stopped before her, so close she could feel the heat radiating from him, the scent of steel and leather thick in the air between them.

Before she could react, he reached out and seized her by the waist, hauling her over his shoulder like she was nothing more than a sack of grain.

Vesaria screamed, thrashing. "Put me down, you barbarian!"

He ignored her.

No. No, no, no.

The horror crashed into her like a tidal wave.

She was really being taken.

Not just dragged from her home—but stolen.

A memory struck her—the first soldier who had grabbed her, his breath hot against her skin, his grip bruising. She had known, then, what he wanted. What men like him did to captured women.

Would she spend the rest of her days locked away in some frozen land, passed between these warriors like a cup of mead?

Panic clawed at her throat. Her breath hitched.

She couldn't allow that.

"Uncle!" she shrieked, twisting in Azgar's grip. "Uncle, help me!"

She raised her head, trying to see past the thick furs and leather that pressed against her cheek.

She reached out desperately, her gaze locking onto her uncle across the hall. "Uncle! Help me!"

Lord Orlin surged forward, sword in hand—

A northern warrior slammed the hilt of his axe into his gut. Orlin crumpled with a choked gasp, his sword clattering to the floor.

Her aunt shrieked. Her cousins tried to run to her, but more warriors blocked their path, blades drawn.

"No!" Vesaria clawed at Azgar's back, her nails raking across hardened leather, but he didn't even flinch.

His men laughed as he strode through the hall, carrying her like a trophy. "Squirm all you like, little lady. You belong to the North now."

The icy night air hit her skin through the doors. Smoke and fire painted the sky red.

She was thrown onto the back of a northern horse, her wrists bound, forced to watch as the flames consumed everything she had ever known.

Terror still gripped her, but beneath it, rage burned hotter than the fire.

She would never bow to these savages.

She would escape. Even if it killed her.