CRUEL IRON BIT into Ulrem’s wrists. Worse was the humiliation of captivity. He lay on a dirt floor in some dark womb of a tent, with voices all around him. Luathi by accent, belting soldier’s drinking songs and laughing. It did not have the sound of celebration; that would come later.

He worked at the chains, feeling his way blindly along them. His fingers probed for brittle or damaged links, something he might use to break free. Working in grim silence, teeth bared in a seething rage he dare not voice, Ulrem discovered that Caolais, or whoever his gaoler was, was no fool. The iron was well-forged, and the chain true.

There was a gap in his memory, a void like a missing tooth that he could not help but pry at. It unnerved him, to lose time. Those were dead hours, for surely he had been at the very brink of the dark waters. How many arrows had he caught? He remembered five, but through the cloud of fury dimly remembered, he may never know the truth. And the dagger. His fingers found the spot where the Luathi king’s dagger had plunged up under his ribs. Caolais was no fop: he struck with the efficiency of a cold killer who respected the danger of his foe. Ulrem’s lung had been punctured, he thought, or worse.

Whatever other injury Caolais dealt him after that was superficial. Were Ulrem any other man, he would already have been dead.

But he was no mere man. Long had he fled from that ugly truth, refused to look it boldly in the eyes. No man. That last dignity had been taken from him, and the thing that remained thrust into the whorl of the fates themselves. Like the chains, he could not escape what he was.

An Inheritor. The scion of Imaahis, and many others who came after. One link in a chain stretching back to the foundation of the world, in whom was vested a terrible power.

That power was curled in his hand now: the ring of Imaahis, in whose strange and woven gold dwelt the slumbering souls of the men who came before him. Should he draw on their power, Ulrem knew he might break the iron, might free himself… but at a cost. Exhaustion would soon follow, and the more of that power he drew, the worse the toll. Still healing from his wounds, Ulrem would not risk exhausting himself to break free. What use was it, if he bargained wrong and collapsed? No. His strength must be maintained, so that when the time came, he could punish the one who dared to cage the Lion.

He let out a breath and settled in. His anger he put aside, and in its place was an empty coldness: the hollow heart of the man who held certain murder in his heart. They might send him to to the black hells before the night was through, but he would not go quietly. They would hear the roar of a true king, such as all of Celba had not heard in long centuries.

The soldiers sang, and men passed back and forth outside noisily. The hour grew late, for the camp gradually quieted, though not as entirely as his camp surely was. There was a lingering rowdiness, a general unevenness, and a tension to the noise. Men argued who passed one another, slinging insults, rather than greeting comrades.

In the darkness, Ulrem grinned.

The only warning he had of Caolais’ approach was a sudden silence outside, as complete as it would have been in his own camp. The singing ground to a halt, the conversations choked off. The flap of the tent was thrown back, and three dark figures stooped in. The first, Ulrem knew to be Caolais. Unlike his two companions, the Luathi High King went unhooded, and wore a golden circlet about his head that pinned back his fair hair at his temples. He wore a sword at his hip, and carried a lantern. His gait was full of confident swagger.

No fear, now that the Lion was in chains.

The other two, Ulrem saw only as sketches. One was a man by the broadness of shoulders, and the sheer bulk. He too wore a sword. Another bodyguard, surely, to replace the one dispatched to hell. And the third figure… a woman.

Sorcery, hissed the voices of the ring, slithering up into his mind. Lies are wound about her as surely as a crown. She reeks of ravens’ promises.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” Ulrem said.

The hooded man reached for the sword at his hip, but Caolais raised a hand to stay him. “He seeks to unnerve us.”

Ulrem spat and tensed the chains that bound his hands behind his back. They creaked and ground, but did not give.

“Looks like any ugly bandit, my lord,” said the hooded man. “Surely he bleeds the same.”

“No,” said the woman. “He does not.”

“Look at his eyes,” Caolais said, hoisting his lantern. There was something like awe in it; an appreciation for the unusual and strange. “What land breeds men with golden eyes, Vora?”

“No land,” answered the woman. “Those are the eyes of Imaahis.”

“You speak of legends and myth,” grumbled the king. “Is it true then? The ring?”

Vora nodded. Ulrem caught a flash of pale, pointed chin under the cowl of her cloak. “It is as the Morignon bid me say. Look upon a wonder! He is an Inheritor! For years, we heard it whispered on the wind. The ring he bears was long lost, but now it is found.”

The three were silent for a long while. Ulrem glared at them, barely able to keep a cage around the fury boiling within. The ring was stirred to wrath, a bright heat on his hand. It tempted him with strength, with the power to shatter the iron and slay his enemies.

But not yet. Not yet.

“My surgeons pulled eight arrows from your hide,” Caolais said, shaking a finger at him. “I thought I’d killed you in the ruins. Yet you live. This is the power of the ring?”

“And more,” said Vora with the quiet tones of one who dared not wake a slumbering threat. She lowered her hood, and Ulrem recognized her as the witch who had fooled him in the tower. Her eyes were as cold and black as river water in winter.

“With that ring, I could bind Luathon into one nation. No more high kings or low kings; only the throne of Caolais of the line of Dar’Adarc.” He held up a fist as he spoke, perhaps imagining the ring on his own finger. Then he looked to Ulrem. “I could unite all of Celba.” At this, the Lion smiled back at Caolais, though it was not a grin of friendly regard. It was one predator seeing another.

“Your ambition outruns you,” said Vora sharply. “It is not your place, Caolais.”

“Speak another insolent word, bitch,” said the hooded man, “and I will cut your tongue out and send you walking back north as naked—” Vora’s hand shot out in a claw, as if clutching for the big man’s throat. Though three strides lay between them, he gagged and clawed at his neck. His eyes bulged as she worked some spell Ulrem could not see on him. The ring raged against the presence of sorcery.

“Enough,” Caolais said. The witch turned her evil eye to him, but the High King of Luathon did not flinch. She dropped her hand. The bodyguard gasped and reeled backward.

“Toir. If you anger her again, I will give you to friend Vora as a plaything.”

“My lord,” rasped the big man, bowing his head.

“Fetch me the ring, Toir.” Caolais’ voice was thick with anticipation. “Tonight will mark a new chapter.”

“You must not!” hissed the witch. “It is forbidden!”

“Forbidden?” laughed Caolais. “Your queen has no hold over me. This is Luathon, not Morignon, girl. My word is law here. Not your mother’s.”

Toir worked his way behind Ulrem. He crouched, reaching for Ulrem’s ironbound hand.

Now! seethed the ring, feeding him fire. Now we stand and conquer! Unleash the flame!

He drove the echoes aside, an effort that would have left him gasping as a younger man, and drove his head back into Toir’s lowered face. The man snarled and spit a stream of curses.

Caolais made for his sword, and Ulrem let the first glimmer of power slide up his bones, wreathing his muscles in golden light. The promise of strength unending, of the fury of his youth fresh and close again. He set his back against the chains, driving upward. They held, but the power was greater yet. He need only draw deeper, and they would break.

“Hold, Caolais of Dar’Adarc!” cried Vora, throwing herself between the two kings. “The Queen of Ravens bid me carry him a message.”

“Then speak it!” snapped the king. Toir, the bodyguard, was breathing in great heaving gales behind Ulrem. He stank of copper asnd blood.

“No. It is for his ears alone,” said Vora.

“I don’t care. Speak it and be done. Then I take the ring.”

The witch shook her head. “If you force my hand, the Morignon will curse House Dar’Adarc. She will offer no more guidance to you or your sons, and set the winds against all of Luathon. This she has spoken.”

Caolais’ face twisted sourly. His pale eyes flitted between the witch and the man in chains, and each time they held a little less fire. Ulrem saw his resolve buckle.

“Out of respect for your mother, then,” said the king of Luathon. “But after you have delivered your message… then he is mine.”

“Then he is yours,” said Vora coolly.

Caolais searched her eyes, and then gestured at his bodyguard. “I will not wait long, witch.” They pushed out through the tent and into the night.

Ulrem held the ring’s power tight, like a hawser in a storm. The echoes of the ring hated sorcery. They despised the trickery, the dishonesty, and the inevitable corruption that came of meddling with the forces that lay beyond man’s natural ken. Ulrem felt the same: he had known those who studied such secrets, and few ended as aught but monsters.

But the woman before him seemed to be no twisted creature of the night. She was slim and young, though he knew enough of sorcery to distrust his eyes. She held out a hand between them. A small light sprang up in her palm, a writhing little tongue of flame. Not bright enough to glare, but plenty to see by.

Vora’s eyes were a shocking violet.

“My mother sent me with three messages,” she said. “Two I have given, but the third I fear to voice.”

Ulrem waited. The ring’s light was working at the wounds faster now, a pervasive sting as it reknit flesh. He felt stronger by the moment, but there would be a reckoning; the longer he waited, the worse it would be.

“I know you can break those chains,” Vora said.

“Would you turn them to serpents, and set them against me?”

He was surprised to see shock at that idea. She masked it quickly, however, and said, “In Morignon, we keep the old ways. We remember the old tales. My mother has watched for the signs since she was a girl, and my grandmother wore the Raven Crown.”

“Speak your message,” he said heavily. “I grow sick of this tent, and I am long weary of prophecy.”

Vora’s chin dipped, but she did not speak. Not at first. Rather, a pale hand emerged from within the depths of her cloak. She reached for the clasp at her throat, and flicked it open. The dark, heavy fabric fell away, baring her entirely. Vora wore nothing but her skin. Her hair fell in cresting waves to her hips.

“What are you doing?” Ulrem growled. He was in no mood for women’s games. Painted across Vora’s belly in dark smears was a rune, or sigil, which he did not recognize. It was made of many intersecting lines, tracing out some pattern of madness.

“The witches of Morignon walk the world bare as the wind, and work our magic under the naked moon,” she said. “We do not hide from what we are, or will become.” Ulrem grunted, but his eyes traced the lines of her body. She hid from him. A hunger rose up, a balance to the revulsion of her sorcery.

“What magic do you plan tonight?” Ulrem said.

“My mother, the Morignon, the Raven Queen, can trace her mothers back across fourteen centuries. An unbroken chain of women, echoing across vast reaches of time. The lily-eyed queens of the Raven Throne, of dark Morignon. Do you know who my ancestor’s husband was?”

“No.”

“You.” The word hung in the air. Ulrem blinked. “You bear the ring of Imaahis, Ulrem of the Oron. You took his name: are you not the Lion? Before you, Akale the Red, and before him…”

“Aertharil,” finished Ulrem. “Lord of Celba. The Bloody Lion.”

“Now you will hear my mother’s words: You are fated to me, Ulrem of hte Oron,” said Vora. “My mother is old. Older even than you. Her power wanes, so she bore me in secret, delivered me by the dark moon. The coven stirs, and their hearts are swayed by rising shadows. By promises of power from the depths.” At that, Ulrem’s eyes hardened.

A trap, whispered the ring. Not one voice, but many, all clamoring to be heard. Dark wings circling: buzzards above walking carrion. Do not trust her! Ulrem listened to the maelstrom of anger. And within it, a single voice standing against the current. A voice that recognized this woman, or the scent of her blood. It strained, reaching for her across time.

“Why should I have you? Without your treachery, Caolais would not have captured me.”

If she was hurt by the bluntness of his words, she hid it well. Vora squared her finely boned shoulders, thrusting her breasts out at him. It was not suggestive, but confidence. “I know the path that leads you to the Throne of Celba. Not in pieces, but alloyed as one. I have seen it in the flame.”

“And what is it?”

“By your troth,” said the witch. “Make me your wife.”

Ulrem grit his teeth. His patience was near its end. “I could break these chains and kill you,” he said.

“You could. But the Morignon would give herself and her realm to He Who Rises. Much he has to offer her. Power and life unending. Already, his captains make embassy to the realms of men, delivering honeyed poison! But my mother was true to the vows of our foremothers: to await the return of the true King. For this, the covens hate her.”

“Not so true, to have so many daughters.”

“But no husbands. No man has ruled Morignon since Aertharil sat on the Throne of Celba.”

He thought about this. Morignon was the northernmost of the Celban lands, and the most hostile to his aims, for it had long been ruled by witches and sorcerers. It would be no mean feat to claim that crown… Unless a new path presented itself. He looked again at the naked girl before him, beautiful in her courage, if strange and dangerous. What vipers wound here he could not see?

“Ours will be a short marriage,” he rumbled, “when Caolais returns to cut my throat. Will you wed him, then, when my ring rests upon his finger?”

“What he desires most, Caolais is forbidden. Do you accept my accord?”

An echo, a shard of someone else’s memory that lived within him, rose above the rest. It pulled toward this strange figure, so out of place in the haphazard, dismal Luathi camp. And Vora knew of the ring; of its import. Long had Ulrem searched for answers about it, to understand its purpose and power. Perhaps the girl could be more than an ally, if she spoke true. He listened to the ring, for the deeper voice beneath the rest, the fount of ancient power, of flame and fury. And found it smoldering, quiet.

“I accept.”

Vora knelt before him, so close he could feel the heat of her spilling across his own aching flesh. She smelled of the open sky, and of flowers found only in the deepest heart of the forest. Colors for which he had no names. Vora reached out, and touched the iron chains with a finger.

He felt a thunk, and the lock gave.

“Caolais’ ambition runs deep,” she said quietly, lips brushing his ear. “But the low kings plan to cut him down once his purpose is served. He knows this.”

“He would make a show of my execution, then,” Ulrem answered. He rolled his shoulders, and felt the slight slackening of the chains. Not enough to slide away, but enough to let some blood flow back into his hands. “A demonstration of his might, and try to unify the crown.”

“Yes. But you are not alone this night, Lion.”

Outside, he heard a faint, distant howl rise in the night. It was cruel and cold… but it came from the throat of no wolf.

For the second time that night, Ulrem bared his teeth in a savage grin.

“Then let them come.”