“Apologies, Ser Dahlen,” Bren’s father said, handing her squalling brother to her mother and then kicking the wooden sword into the corner. “She has foolish dreams of joining the Bright Company.”

A shadow passed over the paladin’s face as he leaned back in his chair. “I’m afraid that may not be possible anymore,” he said hollowly. “The Company was broken on the field of Manoch Tir, scattered to the winds, along with the rest of the armies under our queen’s banner.”

Bren gasped. The Bright Company had been defeated? What had happened to Uncle Merik?

Her father paled at the paladin’s words. “Grim tidings,” he whispered, and he put his hand on the edge of the table to steady himself. “My brother is in the Company.”

“He may yet live,” Ser Dahlen said. “Many of us escaped when we knew the day was lost.” He frowned, staring at something only he could see. “For nothing would have been gained by a final charge into that field of fire.” He closed his eyes, and Bren saw for the first time his weariness. Lines scored his young face, and from the dark circles it looked to her like he hadn’t slept in many days. She could imagine his finely-wrought armor gleaming in the morning sun, but now it was dented and crusted with mud and filth, the image once embossed into his cuirass obliterated by a heavy blow that had partially caved in the metal.

Bren’s mother went to her and gathered her into an embrace. She smelled of sweet cedar woodsmoke and lavender, the familiarity steadying Bren’s racing heart.

“I was worried about you,” her mother told her, then pulled back and looked her up and down. She was a thin woman, her hair mostly gone to gray these last few years, but Bren knew the strength in her. She could spend all day in the fields, then set the house in order and have a hearty meal on the table by the time Bren and her father returned in the evening. Her mother’s hand drifted up to brush aside a lock of dark hair that had fallen across Bren’s eyes.

“You’re a woman now, and it will be a dangerous time to be out alone. Ser Dahlen”—and here she inclined her head towards the warrior, who was watching them with his lips pursed—“said that there will be bands of broken men slipping over the mountains for months. A great battle was lost in the east. So from tomorrow, you must stay inside.”

“I can protect myself. I’m not afraid.”

“Your . . . mother is right,” said the paladin. The pause was noticeable, as if he had not come to grips with the idea that Bren was truly her mother’s daughter. “Those who survived Manoch Tir will be desperate, and whatever oaths they once swore were sundered with the defeat of their lords. Many will consider themselves brigands now, not soldiers.”

“Is Queen Alyssa truly dead?” Bren whispered. Her legs felt so weak she wanted to sit, but she hesitated coming closer to the paladin.

“She was on the field,” the paladin replied with a grimace. “One soldier told me he saw her fall. But another claimed her Wardens brought her to safety after the Velaschin shattered our middle. I do not know who among the great names still live. The ones that still draw breath are being hunted.”

A coldness filled Bren’s gut. The farmers and shepherds who lived in the seven valleys rarely spared a thought for the crown that claimed dominion over these lands. They had been part of the kingdom of Felaesia for a century, but the kings and queens in distant Chalice had ruled with a light touch, whatever edicts they passed from the Petaled Throne rarely affecting the lives of the peasants here. Would these new overlords be cruel? How would the fall of Felaesia change the seven valleys?

“Who are these invaders?” Bren asked. She’d heard of the Velaschin before, but only as a distant trading people. They were famous for their goods crafted from obsidian, which they somehow treated to make as strong as steel, and even sharper. Goodman Pelas had bought a Velaschin hand-ax and showed it to her, and at the time she’d been awed by how light it was and how well it chopped, despite its apparent delicacy.

The paladin did not answer her for a moment, and since his eyes were still closed, she thought his exhaustion might have overwhelmed him. Then he sneered, shaking his head. “The Velaschin are liars. They spoke of friendship while secretly making ready for war –”

A series of thumps came from outside the farmhouse, and the ground trembled. The paladin’s eyes flew open. “They are here,” he said heavily, rising again from his chair. There was a bleakness to his voice, but no fear or anger, and Bren scrambled out of his way as he strode past her. For a moment, the paladin hesitated, his hand hovering over the handle, and then after drawing a deep breath he pushed open the door and stepped outside. His large body blocked most of the view, but Bren saw a flash of color beyond him before the door closed again, along with the movement of something huge.

No one inside the farmhouse dared to speak. Even little Helat had stopped sobbing, shoving his thumb into his mouth and laying his head against her father’s chest. Bren and her parents looked at each other with wide eyes, waiting for some indication of what was happening. She was expecting to hear screams or shouting, the clash of metal, but there was only silence.

“Brenna!” her mother hissed as she started to creep towards the window, but Bren ignored her. Very slowly she cracked open the wooden shutters, just enough so that she had a view of the yard . . . and who had pursued the paladin to their doorstep.

Her breath caught in her throat, the edge of the shutter nearly slipping from her trembling fingers.

Three warriors faced the paladin in a rough semicircle, their gauntleted hands resting on the hilts of swords driven point-first into the earth. The blades were black and glistened in the last red rays of the day. Their armor was dark as well, and vastly different than what the paladin across from them wore: while the silvery sections of his plate seemed to flow together into a unified whole, their armor almost seemed at war with itself, all brutal angles and barbed ornamentations. Their faces were hidden inside spiked helms fashioned to resemble the heads of roaring monsters, but that was not what terrified Bren.

Behind each of the warriors was a dragon.

Her mind struggled to accept what she was seeing. Bren had heard stories, of course, about dragons with swords for teeth and scales of iron, but they had not been seen in these lands for many lifetimes – if they still existed, it was at the fringes of the world, far beyond the realms of men. Hidden deep in barren wastes or curled around the peaks of distant mountains.

And yet . . . and yet . . .

Here they were.

They crouched, long tails tucked into their massive bodies, wings folded upon spined backs, slitted yellow eyes trained on the paladin like cats waiting for a mouse to move. Two of the dragons had scales of deep forest green, while the last and largest seemed molded from the same gleaming darkness as the swords of their masters. Claws that looked capable of rending a man in half carved furrows into the ground, and leather straps were wound around their chests. These looked like some sort of harnesses, so that the warriors would have a way to mount the beasts. But what kind of men could tame dragons?

Bren’s insides felt like water. These monsters were too huge, too terrible. They should not exist, let alone fly. She realized, suddenly, that the flash of metallic color she’d seen in the sky earlier must have been one of these dragons. Or perhaps others were out there, searching for this paladin.

To his great honor, he did not try to flee or beg for mercy. Pride stirred in Bren to see the chosen of the Silver Mother meeting certain death with his head held high.

“What’s going on out there?” her father whispered from across the room. He was cowering beside the table, clutching Bren’s mother and brother tightly.

“Dragons,” she replied, surprised by the calmness in her voice. “And men.”

“Dragons?” her father repeated, sounding incredulous.

She couldn’t blame him.

“Who are they?” he pressed. “What do they want?”

Bren opened her mouth to tell him that of course she had no idea, but the words died in her throat when she noticed movement from the warrior who stood in front of the black-scaled dragon. Keeping one hand on the pommel of his strange sword, the stranger reached up and undid the straps of his helm, then pulled it off and tucked it under his arm.

Bren’s heart skipped a beat. His skin was milk-white, his cheekbones high and sharp. Hair like a raven’s wing, so black it shaded to purple, fell nearly to his shoulders, and his mouth was set in a thin line.

Bren had never seen a more dangerous-looking man.

Or one that looked so much like her.

While she’d been staring at the stranger the other two dragon riders had also removed their helms. One was a man well into his twilight years, and though he still stood tall and straight-backed his hair and drooping mustache had gone to silver. The other was a woman, and she could have been Bren’s older sister. Her lip was curled in disdain as she watched the paladin.

Slowly the warrior in front of the black dragon raised his sword, pointing the slightly curved tip at the paladin. He said something, but Bren was too far away to hear the words clearly. She could guess what it was, though, as the Silver Mother’s champion drew his own sword in one smooth motion. Light flared as his blade cleared its scabbard, then dwindled to a faint, shimmering opalescence that slid along its tapering length. Bren’s fingers tightened on the wood. It truly was moonlight sharpened into a sword, the goddess’s will made real.

As the paladin settled into a guard position, Bren wished that she could see his face. His movements were precise and assured, and she wanted to imagine he was showing no fear, despite the monsters looming behind his enemies. This was a hero from the stories, and in the stories the hero always triumphed. Bren allowed a small trickle of hope to worm its way into her heart.

Something unspoken passed between the two warriors, and they came together in a rending clash. Glistening darkness struck pearly metal, and a discordant chime shivered the air. A flurry of blows, almost too fast to follow, and then they separated again and started to circle each other warily.

The other riders watched without expression, unmoving.

Another grating shriek as the swords crossed, then a lunge that sent the paladin stumbling backwards. He caught himself quickly, and a moment later he was on the attack, driving his foe towards the great black dragon, which seemed unconcerned about what might happen to its master. Bren gasped with every ringing parry, her pulse rising as the tempo of the duel grew ever faster. This swordfighting was different than anything she had imagined. Her uncle had taught her the forms used in the Bright Company, patterns learned to protect the soldiers beside you even as they protected you. But this . . . there was no pattern here, at least that she could see. Yet it was as graceful as a dance.

And then it was over, before Bren even realized what had happened. The black blade flickered out and the paladin was late with his parry, the cut opening up his thigh. He stumbled, his leg collapsing beneath him, and the dragon rider fluidly stepped within his guard and plunged his sword into the paladin, parting his battered cuirass like it was made of cloth. Bren moaned in dismay. The paladin stood there, swaying and staring down at the length of obsidian emerging from his chest, and then the rider ripped his sword free and he collapsed, his radiant blade slipping from his fingers to tumble in the dirt.

No. This wasn’t how the stories were supposed to end.

For a long moment, the warrior stood looking down at the corpse of the paladin. Then he raised his gaze, and to Bren it seemed like he saw her peeking through the cracked-open shutters. Slowly he lifted his free hand, and then made an almost dismissive gesture in the direction of the farmhouse. Behind him, the two green-scaled dragons shifted, their great jaws opening. Deep in their gaping mouths, beyond rows and rows of monstrous teeth, red flowers of flame suddenly bloomed.

“Run!” Bren screamed, turning back to her family just as the world was obliterated by blinding light.