Lord of Chains

Iron Hold's inner sanctum loomed before them like the gaping maw of a slumbering giant. Twin obsidian gates towered over the broad marble steps, flanked by guards in full blackened plate. Their halberds gleamed under torchlight, and the dragonfire sigil of Lord Maeven burned crimson on their breastplates.

Ruvan's chest tightened as he walked between them, Solrend's hidden pulse thumping at his hip like a second, corrupted heart. Elion moved at his side, face pale but composed, while Kellan sauntered ahead with feigned ease, though his hand hovered near his blade.

They entered a vast receiving hall carved from polished ironstone. Slender pillars lined its length, etched with curling runes that glowed faintly blue. Nobles and officers lined the walls in hushed clusters, their silks and armours shimmering beneath chandeliers lit with moonstone orbs.

At the far end upon a raised dais sat Lord Maeven.

He wore layered robes of black and ember-red, embroidered with golden phoenix sigils that flared across his broad shoulders. His dark hair was tied back in an intricate knot, revealing harsh cheekbones and eyes like frozen pitch. A thin circlet of molten-forged iron crowned his brow, engraved with flames devouring a serpent's body.

He leaned forward on his throne, fingers steepled beneath his chin, and studied Ruvan with quiet intensity.

"Step forward, boy."

Ruvan obeyed, each footstep echoing like a hammer against anvil in the silent hall. When he reached the base of the dais, he sank to one knee, bowing his head. Elion followed suit behind him. Kellan remained standing, arms folded, expression carefully blank.

Lord Maeven's voice, when it came, was low and measured. Controlled. Like a blade sliding slowly across whetstone.

"Ruvan of Ashenwind," he said. "Bearer of the broken seal. Heir of a village burned to ash."

Ruvan flinched at the words. How did he know—

"I see questions swirl in your eyes," Maeven continued, almost amused. "How do I know your name? Your village? Your… burden."

He rose from his throne, descending the dais steps with predatory grace. His robes whispered against the polished floor as he circled Ruvan like a hunting cat.

"You stand in my domain, boy," he murmured, voice pitched low so only Ruvan could hear. "Iron Hold is the crucible of the world's rebirth. Nothing enters these walls without my knowledge. No secret remains hidden from my gaze."

He paused before him, and Ruvan dared to lift his eyes.

Maeven's gaze was cold, fathomless. A gaze that had watched men die by the thousands and felt nothing beyond grim necessity.

"I have heard," Maeven said, "that you carry the sword known as Solrend."

The silence in the hall thickened like congealed blood. Nobles leaned forward, their expressions hungry and fearful in equal measure.

Ruvan swallowed, forcing words past the tightness in his throat. "I… I carry it."

Maeven tilted his head slightly. "Show me."

Ruvan hesitated. Solrend pulsed against his side, its hunger coiling up his arm. The Silent King's whisper flickered through his mind: All must burn before life begins.

With trembling fingers, he unwrapped the cloth binding and drew the broken blade just enough for its dark metal to gleam under moonstone light. Gasps rippled through the onlookers.

Maeven regarded it with narrowed eyes, then smiled faintly – a smile that did not touch his gaze.

"Beautiful," he murmured. "And utterly monstrous."

He reached out, fingers ghosting inches from Solrend's edge. For a moment, the runes along its cracked surface flickered, shadows swirling beneath the steel as if recognising him.

Maeven withdrew his hand.

"Return it to its shroud," he said curtly. "That blade is both salvation and curse. You will learn this soon enough."

⸻

He turned away, ascending the dais once more. When he spoke again, his voice carried to every corner of the hall.

"Ruvan of Ashenwind. I summon you under my protection. Iron Hold will shelter you, feed you, and train you. In return, you will wield Solrend when I command it – against enemies within and without."

Ruvan's breath caught. "And if I refuse?"

Maeven's gaze sharpened like drawn steel. His tone remained calm, almost gentle.

"Then I will flay your companions alive before your eyes and cast you from these walls bound and gagged, leaving you for the devourer's agents to claim."

The words fell like hammers into the silence. Elion stiffened behind Ruvan, but said nothing. Kellan's hand drifted to his blade, though he did not draw.

Maeven's smile returned – cold and thin.

"You see, boy, this is not a plea. It is an inevitability. The devourer rises. Prophecy bleeds towards fulfillment. Your blade is key to either sealing it anew… or freeing it forever."

He gestured towards the great iron doors behind his throne. Twin guards stepped forward, their halberds gleaming.

"Escort our guests to the western barracks. Feed them. Clothe them. Prepare them for the Flamebound Trials."

Ruvan's head snapped up. "The Trials?"

Maeven's black eyes flickered with cruel amusement. "You will fight for your place here. Power without proof is worthless."

He leaned back upon his throne, dismissing them with a wave of his pale, scarred hand.

"Go. Rest. Pray to whatever gods still hear mortal prayers."

As the guards approached, Ruvan felt Solrend's pulse intensify, like a drumbeat rising towards battle.

He rose to his feet, spine straight despite the tremor in his knees. Elion stepped beside him, placing a steadying hand on his back. Kellan fell into step behind them, gaze fixed on Maeven with an expression of dark calculation.

⸻

They were escorted through torchlit corridors lined with ancient banners depicting phoenixes devouring serpents, down a spiral staircase into the western barracks. Soldiers clad in black and ember-red plate trained in small groups, sparring with blunted swords and heavy shields.

Their guide, a tall woman with silver hair tied back in a warrior's knot, gestured to three vacant cots along the stone wall.

"Rest. The Trials begin at dawn."

She turned and left without another word.

Ruvan sat heavily on the cot, Solrend clutched against his chest. The blade's whispers coiled through his mind like venom.

Chains await you, little heir. Chains and blood and endless fire.

Elion knelt before him, eyes searching his face. "What now?"

Ruvan closed his eyes. The Silent King's words burned across his thoughts.

All must burn before life begins.

He opened them again, and the hollow fear was gone, replaced by something quiet. Something cold.

"Now," he said, voice flat and unbreakable, "we survive."

Kellan chuckled darkly, slumping onto his own cot. "Gods save us all, then."

Outside, Iron Hold's forge chimneys belched smoke into a night sky already choking on shadows.

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A/N:

Thank you to all of you for reading this far, I've had a few complaints that the book is too poetic I'm going to correct that expect changes from next chapter onwards.

If you have any complaints please leave a comment or join my discord links in my bio

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Thanks