Chapter 2

Faerson Manor, the Kingdom of Wuthia, 1126

Richard Laenas (Marak Faerson)

The autumn wind carried the dry rustle of fallen leaves from the oaks and chestnuts that lined the manor grounds. The sun still hung high, casting a mottled light across the flagstones where I moved with my sword. My boots slid and struck upon the worn surface, marking out a rhythm in time with the whistle of steel through the air.

I had shed my cloak to hang upon the balustrade, the better for freedom of motion. A simple linen shirt clung damply to my frame; the fabric darkened at the chest and sleeves with the labor of my practice. My hair, dreaded and bound back with a leather cord, swung with each turn of the body, each sudden cut and parry. The style gave me a stark, martial aspect—no courtly affectation, but a practical decision, for no strand fell to trouble my vision as I fought the ghost-opponent before me.

I pictured one of the Wild Men as my opponent. Better understanding of their movements and fight style ever since me and my siblings fought them in the Plasevain Woods.

My blade, though plain and unadorned, was keen and well-balanced, a knight’s weapon rather than a lordling’s ornament. My movements were not clumsy, but precise, which spoke of diligence and growing mastery. Each motion flowed into the next with the quiet inevitability of a stream finding its bed. I was honing my skills on a mastery level at this point.

Now and again, I paused, holding still as though listening to some counsel only I could hear. The caw of a rook overhead broke the silence, and I answered with a sudden lunge, the tip of my sword thrusting forward like a striking hawk. I withdrew, breathing hard, mist rising from my lips in the cool air.

From the manor’s high windows, one of the servants might have been watching—the faint outline of a figure framed against the glass. I, however, kept my gaze upon the empty yard before me, eyes sharp, expression set. For me, the courtyard was no longer just a patch of stone within familiar walls, but a field of battle yet to come, a proving ground where each stroke drawn in practice prepared him for the world beyond my estate.

After the crazy journey and events that plagued my family recently, I knew I needed to improve my skills. That, and sword practice, kept my mind off the constant whispers in my head. The ones I heard from the night of the Crimson Moon’s festival. The ones that urged me to indulge in my uncontrollable lust and urges. It had become more rampant ever since that night. I tried to drown it out with other things, but only my focus on the sword kept the whispers quiet.

But it didn’t stop my body from hungering for the pleasure of the flesh.

I wanted to fuck all the time now.

Anyone or anything was fair game at this point. Yet, I managed not to fall prey to this hunger. I needed to remain in control for both my sake and my family’s sake. We have come too far to succumb to our family darkness. The same darkness that took away both of my parents and made my siblings run away from everything we ever knew. For their sake, I needed to remain in control.

Still.

The hunger was strong, and everyone around me was quite tempting.

The weight of the sword finally grew heavy in my hand, the ache in my arms telling me I had gone long enough. I drew in a breath of the cold autumn air and let it out slowly, watching the mist rise like smoke from my lips. Leaves clung damp against the corners of the courtyard, and the stones beneath my boots were slick with morning dew. Enough practice for today.

I lowered the blade, wiping its edge against the hem of my shirt before sliding it back into its scabbard. My hair, damp with sweat, tugged against the leather binding as I rolled my shoulders. The courtyard fell quiet again, save for the distant chatter of crows in the trees. I picked up my cloak and headed to the manor.

Pushing open the heavy oak doors, I stepped back into the warmth of the manor. The change struck me at once—the smell of woodsmoke, the faint tang of baked bread, and the clatter of servants moving about their work. My body welcomed the shift, though the heat of the hearth made the sweat on my skin prickle uncomfortably.