He was the last warrior of the old gods, she was born with the power of the new. In a war for the soul of a kingdom, two enemies will find their biggest battle is resisting the other.
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Trigger warnings - strong language, violence, sex and re...
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The king groaned as he tugged his creaking leg over the edge of the ship and clambered over. His feet slapped into the wet sand. The night was young. Stars trembled in the violet sky that hung above the shadowy peaks in the distance. Carved into the base of the Kolassi mountains was a large scattering of homes, their golden fires flickering in the darkness. He stood for a moment, taking in the sight unhappily. Nye was not the scrambling of a few huts but a flourishing city, thriving alongside the ferocious beasts that called those mountains their home.
The King was tired. A seven-year war would do that to a man. War stripped the marrow from a man's bones, the warmth from his heart. The King was not the man he was. After the Archid army had been scorched off the world in Clesia, the King had taken the golden kingdom as his own. But he'd never kept it in his possession for long, always another came. Brought with them more death, more war. The stories had been true. Only a Chrysos could rule Chrysia. The scripture was a curse upon his head. And the many tribes of Nordland had grown fractured, frustrated as battle after battle came their way, as enemy after enemy came for their king and their land.
As he fought for the golden lands, he heard tales of a new settlement growing in the harshest region of Nordland. Stories spoke of a warrior so fierce, he'd defeated all who came to take the land they'd cultivated, who'd lured the beasts from the mountains. Rumours didn't concern him but whispers of tribes abandoning their land for this one, of chieftains who'd refused to recognise his rule who were now honouring a new king, those whispers rattled him more than he'd ever reveal to those closest to him. So he had come to discover for himself, to see the truth about this city they called Nye.
Before he could take a step, they appeared. Surging through the man high grasses, spears aimed at his heart. The few warriors who'd accompanied him crept closer, swords high, their faces weathered by war and loss.
A warrior stepped forward, powerfully built with onyx hair and equally dark eyes. Her silence was unnerving.
"And this is how you greet visitors to your lands?"
"Only those as likely to bring an army as a welcome party."
The King chuckled, running his hand across his face. The salt of the ocean spray clung to his skin like moss to a stone.
"Well, we've travelled far. So if you intend to kill us, please do it quickly or at least provide us with ale and a good meal first. If your... king is who I believe him to be, he would never begrudge a man one last drink."
She said nothing, but her eyebrow twitched slightly. She mumbled something to a younger warrior by her side and then nodded.
"Follow us."
***
The King's chest tightened with every step through the great hall. His hands fisted at his sides. It was a vast space, larger and taller than any hall he'd presided over. Hundreds of warriors watched him, and as he walked through, his own small band of men gained just as many glances. He recognised many of the faces - tribes who'd fled his land rather than surrender to his rule, warriors who on bended knees had sworn fealty to him, all now loyal to another. Merrily supping his ale, feasting on his meats. They observed him as he sliced through the heart of the room, cruelty and ice glinting in their eyes. Across the walls, furs draped, serpent scales twinkled and blazing torches hung from structures of bone and fang.
