Prologue

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Before we begin,
for those unfamiliar, "FTR" stands for "First Time Reading".
Please feel free to register your FTRs with the friendly dragon above.
She isn't a guardian of treasure for nothing!

Enjoy reading. I will see you in Chapter 8.

--- Coris Hadrian

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The sun had disappeared behind the castle's hill. Tonight, Crosset prayed, would mark the end of the famine.

Darkness chased them, swallowing the men in the rear as they wound around leafless trees, batted aside low-hanging branches and sloshed through muddied, half-melted snow. Crossbows and pitchforks jostled on their backs, falling loose from makeshift rope harnesses.

Bailiff Johnsy's plan was straightforward—get the boy, and they would get food.

He didn't give any directions for everything in between.

Each man had given up the last of his oil to keep Draken's lamp alive, and he'd burned most of it leading them in circles. It may be wise to pour what little was left onto kindling and wait out the night, but how many more of their children, women, and elders would succumb to hunger that night?

No, it all ends tonight.

The lamplight illuminated a fallen tree on their path. Even sideways, its girth reached Draken's midriff. Draken sighed in relief at the marker, set his lamp on the log, and prepared for the climb. He'd swung one leg over the curve of the trunk when a commotion broke out behind him.

"Move it, pig! Or I'll snap your neckbone in half!"

The hulking bald man snarled as he gave the leash another vicious tug. The fat little boy at the other end of the rope lurched forward. His muddied face contorted in pain as the leash's noose cinched tight against his windpipe. Once he'd regained balance and breath, he surfaced with a sneer,

"Spare me your empty threats. You need me alive to bargain with my father."

The boy's eyes gleamed silver with bravado, but he couldn't staunch the tremors bleeding into his voice. Smirking, the man hunkered down before his hostage,

"Your body does mighty fine, I say. Skinned, quartered, butchered, diced. Fried in lard scraped from the wall of your belly. First meal in weeks for me boys—"

"—First and last, Krulstaff!"

Draken marched over as the boy blanched in terror. Krulstaff spun around. Draken told himself to stand firm as he locked eyes with the giant,

"Chione ain't even half done with us. We keep the boy safe in Crosset, his father keeps us fed through winter. That's the plan!" He explained to his troublesome neighbor for the umpteenth time. Krulstaff rolled his eyes at the Heights.

"Why don't you give me that, Armorheim?" He spat, his spade-like hand swiping for the lamp. "Unlike your son-of-a-whore in Meriton, me sons are dying while we muck around in this blithering forest!"

Blood drained from Draken's wind-battered cheeks. He snatched Krulstaff by the collar,

"Don't you dare—!"

The other men hauled Draken off Krulstaff before he retaliated.

"He's got a point, Draken," huffed Brodel the Butcher. His free arm hooked firmly around Draken's, he indicated the sniffling boy with his pig-butchering knife, "Dun need him awake. We'll move faster with this manure sack on our backs than oozing down here."

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