Seeds of Doubt

The dawn that crept over Iron Hold's battlements felt lifeless. Pale light spilled through the narrow window of Ruvan's chamber, revealing a city smothered in coal smoke and restless silence. He sat hunched on the edge of his straw-stuffed mattress, staring at the rough stones beneath his feet, rubbing sleep grit from his eyes that refused to close all night.

Solrend lay across his knees, its oiled cloth wrapping already stained from his sweating palms. He kept feeling its faint pulse, like a second, corrupted heartbeat throbbing through his bones.

Kellan was awake too. He sat by the window, one boot propped against the sill, chewing bitterleaf with slow, deliberate bites. Its sharp herbal scent filled the room, mingling with sweat and cold iron.

"Can't sleep?" Ruvan asked, his voice hoarse.

Kellan's gaze flicked to him, piercing in the dawn light. "Did you?"

Ruvan shook his head. Shadows clung to his eyes. Each time he blinked, visions lingered – black chains coiling around his wrists, Maeven's thin lips curling into a smile that reached too far across his narrow face.

Kellan spat the bitterleaf stalk onto the stone floor. "That man's a snake."

Ruvan didn't argue. He set Solrend aside and buried his face in his hands, pressing his palms against his eyes until colours bloomed in the darkness. "He has power. Knowledge. Maybe… maybe he can teach me to control this curse before it controls me."

Kellan barked out a laugh – short, sharp, humourless. "Teach you? Ruvan, Maeven doesn't teach. He extracts. He takes everything useful and throws away what's left."

Ruvan's gaze snapped up. "You speak like you know him."

The mercenary turned away, staring out at Iron Hold's sleeping streets. Smoke rose from forge towers in slow grey coils, drifting over rooftops tiled with cracked red clay. His shoulders were tense beneath his worn leather jerkin. His fingers drummed restlessly against his thigh.

"I do," Kellan said quietly. "I fought for him once. Years ago."

Ruvan waited, sensing these were words Kellan rarely shared. The silence stretched so long Ruvan almost spoke, but then Kellan sighed, his breath fogging the glass.

"I joined his warbands when I was fifteen. Thought I'd be a hero. Thought I'd earn gold, glory, a place to sleep that wasn't a piss-stinking alley. Maeven promised us all that and more."

His jaw tightened. "He spoke of unity. Purity of purpose. A realm forged in discipline and fear, where no one starved because everyone was owned."

Ruvan swallowed. "What did you do… in his warbands?"

Kellan's eyes darkened. "We burned villages that refused tribute. Took what we wanted. Left corpses frozen in the snow. And Maeven… he watched from the hills, hands folded behind his back like he was admiring a harvest."

The silence turned thick. Ruvan felt the words sink into his bones, each one heavy as iron. "Why… why did you stay?"

"Because I was hungry. Because I was scared. Because I believed him when he said only the strong deserved to live." Kellan's lips curled into a bitter smile. "Then came Skardun."

He ran a hand over his unshaven jaw, eyes flickering with memory. "It was a mining town, built around deep iron veins. They refused Maeven's tax. Said they needed their steel for winter tools, not tribute blades. So he ordered us to make an example of them."

Kellan's voice broke for a moment. He swallowed hard. "We slaughtered them. Men, women, children. Their blood turned the snow black. I remember the smell – hot iron and piss and burning hair. I left that night. Took a horse, rode until its heart gave out, then walked the rest of the way into exile."

Ruvan felt sick. "You… you regret it."

Kellan let out a shaky breath. "Every day." He turned, his gaze sharp and unflinching. "That's why I'm telling you this. Maeven doesn't care about you, Ruvan. Or your power. Or your damned broken sword. He cares about what you can do for him. And when you've given him everything he wants… he'll discard you like rotted meat."

Ruvan gripped Solrend's hilt through the cloth, feeling its quiet thrum of agreement – or maybe it was hunger. Part of him wanted to deny Kellan's words, to cling to hope that Maeven's generosity was real. But another part, deeper and older, whispered that Kellan spoke only the truth.

"What do you want me to do?" Ruvan asked softly.

Kellan crouched before him, their eyes level. His stare was hard, but beneath it burned a fierce, loyal fire that Ruvan didn't know he had earned.

"Stay vigilant," Kellan said. "Listen, but don't believe. Learn, but don't trust. And if he tries to bind you to his will…" He drew a thumb across his throat in a quick, sharp gesture. "End him before he ends you."

Ruvan shivered. The dawn light creeping across the floor turned shadows long and thin. For a moment, he saw chains in those shadows – black iron links winding around his limbs, pulling him down into the dark.

He blinked them away. Only Kellan remained, watching him with silent resolve.

"Thank you," Ruvan whispered.

Kellan rose and clapped a calloused hand on his shoulder, rough but grounding. "Don't thank me yet. We're not free of this place, or its master. Not by a long stretch."

⸻

They left their chambers soon after, descending winding stone stairs into the keep's lower halls. Guards watched them from shadowed alcoves, their iron helmets gleaming dully in torchlight. Ruvan felt each gaze pricking his skin like needles.

At the foot of the stairs, Elion waited. His healer's robes were freshly laundered, staff strapped across his back.

"Where have you been?" Kellan demanded.

"Researching," Elion said simply. "I spoke with one of Maeven's scribes. There are records here about Solrend – old texts from before the First Sundering. They speak of it as a seal forged from corruption to bind corruption."

Ruvan frowned. "Seal? I thought it was a weapon."

Elion shook his head. "It's both. But it wasn't meant to slay the devourer. It was meant to imprison it."

A cold tremor ran through Ruvan. Solrend pulsed against his hip, heavier now, as if the blade itself resented the truth spoken aloud.

"Come," Elion said. "We should eat before the morning council. Maeven expects you rested."

They walked the silent corridors towards the dining hall. Banners bearing Maeven's sigil – a serpent devouring its tail – hung from the arches overhead. The serpent's eye seemed to watch him wherever he walked.

Ruvan glanced sideways at Kellan. The mercenary's expression was guarded, jaw clenched tight. But when their eyes met, Kellan gave a small nod – a silent promise that whatever came next, he would face it with him.

Doubt burned in Ruvan's chest, sharp and cold. But so too did purpose. He would learn Maeven's secrets. He would master Solrend's truth. And when the time came to choose between being a puppet or breaking his own chains…

He would choose freedom.

Whatever it cost.

⸻

They entered the great hall as servants carried out platters of spiced grains, fried lichen cakes, and boiled eggs dusted with black salt. Maeven sat at the head table, dressed in a robe of storm-grey velvet lined with midnight blue fur. His gaunt hands rested on a cane carved from charred bone.

His eyes flicked up as Ruvan approached, gleaming with predatory amusement.

"Good morning, my young ash-bearer," he said, his voice smooth as oiled iron. "Did you sleep well?"

Ruvan forced himself to meet that gaze, refusing to bow. "Well enough."

Maeven's smile widened. "Then let us begin."

And as Ruvan sat, feeling Solrend's pulse beat like a funeral drum against his hip, he vowed again in silence:

I will learn your secrets, Maeven.

And when I do… your chains will break before mine ever bind.