Chapter 1 The Weakest Man in the Room
"Watch where you're going, scribe. Or are those fancy records too heavy for your weak arms?"
Darius Valeborn set the stack of ledgers on the scarred wooden counter without hurry. The drunk mercenary loomed over him, breath thick with cheap ale and yesterday's meat. Three of the man's companions laughed from the corner table, mugs raised like they expected a show.
"Ledgers are just paper," Darius said, voice even. "They don't bite back. Unlike some."
The mercenary blinked, then snorted. "You hear that, lads? The prince thinks he's funny. Third son of a cursed line, scrubbing ink in the Ashen Threshold like some common dog. Tell me, Your Highness, does it sting? Knowing every kingdom laughs at the weakest Valeborn?"
Darius met the man's bloodshot eyes. He didn't smile. He didn't flinch. "Stings less than a blade in the gut. You've got three fresh scars on your left side and a limp you hide when the caravans roll in. Rough month?"
The room quieted a notch. The mercenary's hand twitched toward his sword hilt. "You spying on me now?"
"Hard to miss when you bleed on my logs." Darius tapped one page. "Last caravan out of Red Hollow lost two wagons. You reported three. Interesting math."
One of the companions whistled low. "Leave it, Garr. Man's not worth the trouble."
But Garr wasn't done. He leaned in close, voice dropping to a growl. "I could end you right here. Snap that pretty neck and no one would blink. Weakest prince. Pathetic."
Darius tilted his head slightly. "You could try. But then who'd fix your numbers before the border patrol checks the books? They'd hang you for the missing grain. Sit down, Garr. Drink's on me if you drop it."
The mercenary stared at him for a long beat. Something in Darius's calm stare made the big man shift. He muttered a curse, spat on the floor, and stomped back to his table. The laughter from his friends sounded forced now.
Old Mira, the trading post owner, shuffled over with a rag. "You got a death wish, boy? Talking back to that one."
"Not a death wish," Darius replied, picking up his quill again. "Just tired of rewriting the same lies every week. The Hollow caravan really lose two wagons or three?"
Mira glanced around before leaning closer. "Two. But Garr's got friends in the guard. Best leave it."
Darius nodded and dipped his quill. He already knew. He'd seen the tracks three days ago, the broken axle marks, the extra hoof prints that didn't belong to any registered caravan. Patterns. Always the patterns. People thought him slow because he moved slow. They never noticed how much he saw while they talked.
Hours slipped by in the low murmur of traders and guards. Darius worked through the logs, marking discrepancies no one else would catch for months. A missing spice shipment here. Strange troop movements near the eastern ridge there. Small things. Quiet things. The kind that could topple bigger schemes if anyone cared enough to look.
"You really a prince?" a younger trader asked later, sliding coins across for his toll slip. "Heard stories. Failed every magic test. Blood curse and all."
Darius stamped the paper and slid it back. "Stories get longer every year. Pass safely."
The trader hesitated, then shrugged. "Stay invisible, eh? Smart in these parts."
Invisible. Darius had perfected it. Seven years since his family sent him away with nothing but a horse and the clothes on his back. The curse that was supposed to make him weak had done something else instead. He felt power slide off him like water on oiled leather. No one needed to know that part.
Evening light turned bloody through the dusty windows when the doors slammed open again.
This time it wasn't drunk mercenaries.
Six armored soldiers marched in, imperial crest gleaming on their chests. A thin man in fine robes followed, scroll in hand, nose wrinkled at the smell of the place. The entire trading post went still.
"Darius Valeborn," the envoy called, voice carrying like he was addressing a court. "Third son of the Valeborn line. By decree of the Imperial Court of Eldrath, you have been selected."
Darius set his quill down slowly. The room watched him. Garr and his friends had gone very quiet.
"Selected for what?" Darius asked, calm as ever.
The envoy unrolled the scroll with a flourish. "For marriage. To Mara, the Plague Incarnate. First of the Seven Calamities."
A few gasps rippled through the traders. Someone dropped a mug.
The envoy continued, lips curling. "Consider it an honor. Your bloodline's final service to the empire. The ceremony will take place at once. Refusal is not permitted."
Darius looked at the man. Really looked. Then at the soldiers behind him, hands already on weapons. He felt the subtle shift in the air, the way fear spread like spilled ink.
Marriage. To the being no human had ever touched and survived.
A sacrifice. Not an alliance. Not even a joke anymore.
He stood up behind the counter, movements unhurried.
"Well," Darius said quietly, "that's new."
The envoy sneered. "Pack nothing. You won't need it where you're going."