Chapter 1 The Priory

Early spring sunlight spilled over the Priory grounds, thin and pale after three months of harsh winter. Frost still clung to the shaded corners of the yard, but the earth had softened just enough to hold a footprint. The adepts had been buzzing since dawn. Today would be their first day of combat practice outside since winter began.
Gray had been waiting for this day.
Nearly two score boys spilled into the yard, laughing, stretching, and complaining as Gray walked with purpose. They ranged from twelve to nineteen summers, and the younger ones clustered around Brother Hagen, eager to begin the lesson. Gray’s breath curled in the cool air, steady and unhurried.
Weeks earlier, when the brothers were busy preparing winter stores, he had quietly slipped a heavy wooden club among the practice weapons. It was thick and knotted, far heavier than any of the others. He had carved the handle himself, shaping it to fit his grip.
He had placed it there for this day.
Across the yard, he spotted Droan and Vargin squaring off as the boys chose their partners. Droan swung his practice sword in wide, lazy arcs, cracking jokes between each motion. Vargin laughed too loudly at every one, eager to match Droan’s bravado. The two had tormented Gray for years, until Gray grew. And grew. And kept growing.
Now Gray stood almost a full head taller than either of them.
Droan was a handsome, fair-haired boy, his features just sharp enough to make him look almost pretty. His skin was the fairest in the Priory, a trait that earned him no shortage of northmen jokes.
Vargin’s windswept sandy brown hair, framed a face that still carried the softness of childhood. A small, rounded nose made him look younger than his years, deepening the awkwardness he tried but failed to hide.
Both boys were lean, their frames shaped by the steady muscle of Priory labor. They were of average height and wore their hair short, a style made popular by Brother Gil.
Normally Gray would practice toward the middle of the line with the boys his age. Today he walked past them, to the obvious relief of some, and continued to the end where the oldest boys stood.
He approached without hurry. The club rested over his shoulder.
Droan noticed him first and smirked, until Gray stopped directly in front of him.
“Find another partner,” Gray said.
Droan blinked. “I… uh… Vargin and I were…”
Gray cut him off. “You can stay and get the beating instead, if you wish.”
Whatever retort Droan had died in his throat. He swallowed, nodded once, and backed off without another word.
Vargin stood alone now. He looked at the wooden club, then at the seriousness in Gray’s eyes. He glanced left, then right, seeking support. Havik, standing nearby, met his eyes with mild interest but did not move to help him. Vargin’s face paled as Gray planted himself in front of him.
Gray smiled, not kindly. “I have been waiting for this,” he said quietly.
For a moment, Gray considered smashing the club against the fence railing to show what it could do. But that would draw every brother within earshot, and Vargin was afraid enough already. His trembling hand on the practice sword confirmed it.
Brother Hagen was leading the lesson today. He raised his voice to address the adepts, as he moved down the line to the younger boys. He explained the day’s drills and the adepts formed two long rows facing each other. Gray never looked away from Vargin.
The boy to Vargin’s right carried a wooden shield. Gray did not turn toward him, nor did he shift his eyes.
“Give him your shield,” Gray said.
The boy slightly hesitated, then handed the shield to Vargin as if compelled by instinct alone.
Brother Hagen raised his arm. “Ready.”
Every boy took their stance. Gray did not.
“Begin.”
Gray moved instantly.
He marched forward with bloodthirsty intent and swung the club in a full, sweeping arc. The air whistled around the wood, as he put all of his strength into the blow.
Vargin barely got the shield up in time.
The impact cracked like thunder.
The shield exploded into three jagged pieces. Vargin was hurled backward as if struck by a charging ox. Practice swords fell silent close by. Boys turned, their stances faltering as heads snapped toward the sound. Some froze mid‑swing, others lowered their weapons without realizing it. A few stepped back instinctively, eyes wide, as if expecting Gray to turn his fury on the next nearest target.
On the ground, Vargin threw aside what remained of the shield and his sword as he scrambled backward in panic.
“I yield,” he shouted, voice cracking. “I yield.”
“You cannot yield,” Gray said calmly. “I do not have a weapon,” as he dropped the club at his feet and took a slow step forward.
“Get up,” he commanded.
Gray stared down at Vargin sitting on the ground. Gray’s shoulders rose and fell with slow controlled breaths, his eyes fixed on his old tormentor.
Havik approached Gray.
“This does not concern you,” Gray said, his voice low.
“It does,” Havik replied, “because he is one of us.”
Havik was a touch shorter than most boys his age, though his build made him seem larger. Where Vargin and Droan were lean, Havik carried real weight in his shoulders and arms. His long black hair, bound in a single braid in the northern fashion, fell straight down his back, a stark contrast to his otherwise ordinary features. Nothing about his face stood out. He was not handsome, nor homely, but the breadth of his chest and the strength in his arms made him hard to dismiss.
Then Havik did something no boy had dared in months. He stepped directly in front of Gray, breaking his line of sight to Vargin.
“You want to take his place?” Gray asked. The question was more threat than inquiry.
“If I must, I will.” Havik sighed, not stepping back.
“You cannot beat me,” Gray growled.
“This is not about winning, Gray.” Havik took another slow step closer. The ring of boys around them tightened, breathless and wide-eyed. “I am not asking you to forgive him for what he has done. I am asking you not to become what he was.”
For a heartbeat, the yard held still.
Then a voice cut through the tension.
“What is going on here?” Brother Hagen barked, pushing through the circle.
Gray turned, noticing the gathering of adepts circled around him. Without a word, he walked away. Boys scrambled to clear a path, parting like water around a ship’s bow. He reached the practice line and kept going. Some of the boys watched his back as he headed toward the dining hall.
Havik answered the brother with perfect composure. “Nothing, Brother. We were discussing yield etiquette in battle.”
Hagen narrowed his eyes but could not find fault. He looked from Havik to Vargin, then turned to see Gray’s back.
“Back to your positions. All of you.” Hagen waved his arm. He then looked back to Havik. “Where is he going?”
“I think to the privies.” Havik shrugged.
The boys scattered and reformed the lines. Brother Hagen returned to a spot in the center of the field.
Vargin pushed himself upright, still dazed. “Thanks…” he muttered.
That was all that escaped his lips before Havik’s fist cracked against his cheek, snapping his head sideways and dropping him back to the ground.
Vargin cupped his face, stunned. Havik crouched beside him, his voice barely above a whisper. “You tormented him for years,” Havik said. “And you refuse the beating you earned tenfold? Have some honor, Vargin.”
Vargin’s shoulders sagged. He lowered his gaze in shame.
Brother Hagen strode back over, oblivious to the fresh injury. Had he seen the punch, Havik would already be on his way to Brother Gil’s study.
But Hagen only glanced between them and grunted. “Up. Both of you. Practice resumes.”
Havik reached out to Vargin and helped him to his feet.
“I told you it was only a matter of time,” Havik said.
Vargin nodded as he stood and rubbed his face. “I’m not so sure he didn’t want to kill me.”
Havik looked down the path and watched Gray enter the dining hall. Truth be told, Havik was not sure either.
Droan took his place across from Vargin ready to begin the drill. He looked down at the broken shield and whistled. “Could you imagine what you would look like if you didn’t have the shield?”
            “I’m not sure I want to,” muttered Vargin.
***
Gray sat alone at one of the long wooden tables in the dining hall, his food untouched as he replayed the morning’s events. The hall was warm, filled with the smells of roasted roots and barley stew, but none of it settled his stomach.
He was ashamed.
Not of confronting Vargin. That part he had planned, justified, rehearsed. He had told himself it was to teach a lesson, to settle a debt of years of torment in a single undeniable stroke.
But when the club struck the shield, something inside him shifted. A tightness crept up his throat, the kind that came when he remembered being small and helpless.
Gray’s jaw tightened.
He had not wanted to teach Vargin a lesson. He had wanted to hurt him, badly. He had wanted to see fear turn into pain, and to be the one who held the power.
And that frightened him.
Havik’s words echoed in the quiet of his mind.
“I am asking you to not become what he was.”
That line stung more than any punch ever had. Havik had stepped between them, not for glory, not for bravado, but because, as he said, Vargin was one of them.
Gray stabbed a piece of turnip with his knife.
Why had no one ever stepped in for him?
When he was younger, small and pudgy, when every day felt like a gauntlet, why had no one ever said a word to stop the torment?
Was it because he was a newcomer? Because he had not belonged? Was he not one of them?
He scoffed at the thought. Six years later, and he knew that he was not.
He forced himself to eat. A hearty portion of barley stew, thick slices of bread, and a helping of greens. He had long ago grown used to the kitchen staff slipping him extras. He had spent a lot of time in the kitchens. At first, it had been a place to hide, then a place to work. He earned favor and protection with his efforts. The cooks were among the few who had shown him kindness, and now they were genuinely his friends.
He had nearly cleaned his plate when the door at the far end of the hall burst open.
The boys were returning from practice.
The noise rose instantly, laughter, groans, and clattering boots. Gray kept his head down, finishing the last of his bread. But something made him glance up.
Vargin. He was walking straight toward him.
The left side of his face was a mess, swollen and purple, already bruising deep. Guilt flooded Gray’s chest, unexpected.
Vargin slowed as he neared the table. The hall’s noise dimmed, as if boys sensed a moment brewing and instinctively quieted. Gray set his spoon down and waited.
Not in challenge. Not in anger. Just waiting.
Vargin stopped a few steps away, shifting awkwardly, unsure of what to do with his hands.
Gray met his eyes. Calm, unreadable, nothing like the fury from earlier.
“What do you want?” Gray asked softly.
Vargin drew a slow breath, then spoke with surprising steadiness. “I am sorry for cowering in the practice field. I am ready to stand against you if you desire it. Would you like to step outside?”
To Vargin’s credit, his voice was fairly calm. It confused Gray, and for a moment he wondered if this was some kind of trap.
“Why would you do that?” Gray asked. His tone was not hostile, only curious.
“Because,” Vargin said, and his throat worked as he swallowed. “I deserve the beating you wanted to give me for how I treated you years ago.”
Gray studied him. The bruise on Vargin’s cheek was dark and ugly, but the boy’s eyes were steady. There was no mockery in them, no attempt to win favor from the watching boys. Only quiet acceptance.
“I see no need for that,” Gray said, and the dining hall came to life once again.
Relief washed over Vargin’s face. Gray picked up his spoon and returned to his plate, taking another bite. When he realized Vargin had not moved, he looked up, raised both brows, and said around a full mouth, “What?”
“We were given the rest of the day off,” Vargin said. “A bunch of us are going to Silverspire. Do you want to come with us? We will need to be back before dawn.”
Gray looked around. No one was staring anymore. The tension had dissolved the moment it became clear there would be no fight. Boys were lining up for food, gathering at tables, talking over one another. Everything inside Gray screamed no. The feeling of a trap made his scalp itch.
He chewed a few more times, swallowed, and set down his spoon. He thought this to be a very bad idea, but only a coward would say no.
“Aye. Let me fetch a few items.”
Gray rose before the moment could stretch any further. If he was going to Silverspire, he needed a few things from his cell. He left the hall, crossed the courtyard, and hurried to the dormitory. He grabbed his coin purse, a couple of manuscripts, and a heavy cloak almost as an afterthought. Then he made for the stables and caught up with Vargin just as they reached the stalls.
There were three adepts already waiting, and when Gray walked up beside Vargin the stable went silent. The others shifted, glancing between the two of them as if unsure whether to greet Gray or brace for another fight.
The group consisted of Vargin, Havik, Droan, Basir, and now Gray.
Droan was the first to speak, though his voice lacked its usual swagger. “Well. Looks like we are five.”
Basir tightened a saddle strap and kept his eyes down, but Gray noticed the way his hands moved a little faster than usual. Havik gave Gray a small nod, neither welcoming nor warning, simply acknowledging that he was there.
Gray ran a hand along the neck of the horse assigned to him. The mare flicked an ear but did not shy away. He felt the others watching him, waiting for some sign of how this would go.
He mounted without a word.
Vargin cleared his throat. “The road is clear this time of year. We should make good time.”
Gray only nodded.
The boys exchanged glances. No one seemed eager to ride beside him, but no one wanted to look afraid either. After a moment, Havik nudged his horse forward and took the lead, setting a steady pace toward the gate.
Gray fell in behind him.
The others followed.
The ride unfolded quickly and without incident, but the quiet between the boys made every hoofbeat feel louder than it would have. Gray kept his seat well enough, yet it quickly became clear that of the five of them, he was easily the weakest rider. His mare shifted under him with every uneven cue, and he bounced more than he meant to whenever the pace changed.
It was not surprising. He was two summers behind Havik, Vargin and Droan, and one behind Basir. Privileges came with age at the Priory, and the older boys had been riding longer than he had. It was only last summer that Gray had been moved from the dormitory to his own cell, a small mark that he was old enough to be trusted with more responsibility.
Droan eased his horse up beside him, reins loose in one hand, posture relaxed in a way that made Gray’s stiffness feel even more obvious.
“You are fighting the saddle,” Droan said, not unkindly. “Let her move first. Then follow.”
Gray frowned. “I am following.”
“Not really.” Droan nudged his horse into a slow canter. “Watch.”
The horse lifted into the three‑beat gait, smooth and rolling. Droan’s body moved with it, hips loose, shoulders steady, letting the rhythm carry him. He looked back at Gray.
“Your turn. Ask her forward.”
Gray gave a hesitant squeeze with his legs. The mare surged into a canter, and the world lurched. His balance pitched back, then forward, and for a moment he felt like he might slide right off. Droan reached out and steadied his arm.
“Do not grip with your knees. Sink into the saddle. Your horse thinks you want it to charge. Let your hips follow the stride.”
Gray tried again. The mare’s gait rose and fell beneath him, uneven at first, but then he found the rhythm. His hips loosened. His hands steadied. The motion became less like bracing against a wave and more like riding it.
Droan nodded. “Better. Keep breathing.”
Gray exhaled.
“Good. See. She will trust you more if you trust her.”
Ahead of them, Havik glanced back, saw Gray managing the canter, and gave a small approving nod before turning forward again.
Soon they were riding into Silverspire.
The group passed through the main square and stabled their horses at the Cathedral. The building belonged to the Priory, and the brothers who served here often spent time at the Priory itself. As far as Havik knew, the Cathedral was overseen either by Father Ansel or by Brother Gil, though he had never been entirely sure which of them held authority.
Once the horses were cared for and settled, the boys gathered in a loose circle to decide where to go. Taverns were the topic, and the debate quickly narrowed to two: the Thirsty Whale by the docks, and the Last Drop in the Shambles.
Gray pointed across the square at the Duck and King. “What is wrong with that one?”
The boys went quiet. Havik shifted his weight, then answered.
“They have a fee to enter. Usually, a copper a head. It keeps… people like us out.”
That surprised Gray. He had been in the Duck and King several times and had never once been asked to pay an entry fee. For a moment he considered offering to cover the cost for all of them, but the thought felt spineless, as if he were trying to buy his way into their company.
Basir quickly steered the conversation back to taverns. He wanted to go to the Thirsty Whale, certain there would be a few good dice games. Sailors, especially those deep in their cups, were famously terrible dicers.
It was decided. They would visit the Whale first. Gray mentioned that he needed to stop by the scribe and would meet them there. Vargin immediately offered to accompany him.
“That’s not necessary,” Gray argued.
“As long as you do not plan on copying scrolls, it won’t be a problem,” Vargin said, trying for a light tone and almost managing it.
Havik snorted. “Well, be quick about it. Basir does not have much coin, so we might not be there long.”
He turned and headed toward the Whale, Droan and Basir on his heels.
Gray saw no way of dismissing Vargin, so he made for the Silver Quill. It was a short walk, just past the Duck and King tavern. The shop’s sign showed an open book on one side and a silver quill resting in an inkpot on the other. Gray stepped inside, Vargin following close behind.
“Well met, Master Gray. I did not expect to see you for a few weeks.”
The older man behind the table carried himself with a quiet ease. His silvered hair was neatly pulled back, his smile genuine, and his fingertips were stained with ink from a lifetime at the desk. His forest green doublet was well made but practical, and a slight, habitual stoop hinted at long hours bent over manuscripts.
“Had a chance to get out of the Priory and I took it. Master Oswin, I would like you to meet Vargin, a fellow adept.” Gray almost said my friend but stopped himself.
Oswin squinted at Vargin. “That is a right devil of a mouse you have there.”
Gray drew breath to explain, but Vargin spoke first.
He touched his swollen eye. “Yes, more like a rat. My friend Havik gave it to me for being craven.”
“Well, I do not see the logic in striking a man when he is afraid, but if you still name him as a friend, who am I to judge.” Oswin gave a small sniff and let the matter drop.
He turned back toward his shelves, already slipping into the familiar rhythm of work. “I do not have any manuscripts ready for you, Gray. I thought I had more time.” He ran a finger along a row of spines, then pulled one free. “I do have a book on the Slaver War, written by an Uruk.”
Gray smiled. “That will do fine.”
Oswin handed him the book, and Gray wrapped it carefully before placing it in his pack. He turned to leave, hoping to slip out before Oswin thought of anything else.
“Gray, did you bring a lightstone with you?” Oswin inquired.
Spirits. Gray turned back and fixed a polite smile on his face. “Yes, I do have one.” He reached into his purse and drew out a dark piece of fabric. When he unwrapped it, light poured out. Even though it was midday outside, the shop brightened as if a lantern had been lit in every corner.
Vargin stared in astonishment, almost as if Gray had pulled a gold coin from the purse instead of a lightstone.
He handed the lightstone to Oswin, who set it on the table, then reached beneath it and lifted a small strongbox onto the surface.
“You can just put it on my ledger,” Gray offered.
Oswin shook his head. “Gray, an unused coin is a useless coin,” he said as he opened the box. “I fear your balance will get high enough that you might soon own the Silver Quill, and I will be working for you.”
Oswin glanced at Vargin, who stood open‑jawed, and smiled. “Of course I jest.” He placed two coins in Gray’s hand. “Enjoy your coin, or at least visit it more often. It gets lonely in this box.”
Vargin took note of the coins. Silver. And not small silvers, but silver stars, twice the weight of the smalls. He was proud to have saved two small silvers of his own, and here this merchant had placed twice that in Gray’s palm without a second thought. And there was more waiting in the box.
Gray smiled and bowed. He turned to leave, but Oswin stopped him.
“Gray, I think you might like this one.” He held a tome aloft. “The Alchemy of Wealth: Transmuting Coin to Power.”
“Read it,” Gray said. “It spends pages flattering nobles and wealthy merchants, all to say that coin is power. A long walk for a thin meal.”
Oswin nodded and set the tome back in its place. “How about this?” He reached for a smaller black book tucked beside it. “The Black Ledger: Secrets of Hidden Markets and the Weight of the Shadow Coin.”
That was enough to bring Gray back to the table.
“Interesting?” Gray asked.
“Utterly fascinating. If half of what is in here is true…” Oswin tapped the cover with a fingertip, his eyes brightening. “There are markets that never see the sun, coin that no lord or taxman ever touches, and ledgers written in inks that only reveal themselves under certain alchemical fumes or the light of the moon, if one believed such things. Entire networks of trade built on favors, secrets, and debts that cannot be spoken aloud.”
He lowered the book slightly, studying Gray over the top of it.
“It is not a guide, mind you. More of an account. Observations from someone who clearly walked close enough to the shadows to smell the ink on those ledgers. Or someone with a good enough imagination to make it all seem real.”
Vargin leaned in, curiosity overcoming his earlier discomfort. “Is it dangerous?”
Oswin gave a small shrug. “Knowledge is only dangerous when wielded without sense. This one simply reminds the reader that coin moves in many ways. Probably more ways than the Priory teaches.”
He offered the book to Gray, who accepted it with a smile. He placed it next to the other in his pack and left the shop.
Once they were outside, Gray stopped and looked at Vargin. “I would consider it a kindness if you do not tell anyone that I am selling Brother Willum’s lightstones in Silverspire.”
“I have never seen a lightstone so bright before,” Vargin said, then noticed Gray watching him intently. His throat tightened. “Oh. Done. I will not say a word.”
They walked in silence toward the Thirsty Whale. Gray now realized this trip to Silverspire with the others had been a bad idea. The certainty of it pressed hard on him. He wanted to bolt, to return to the Priory, but he knew that if he left Vargin alone with the others, he would tell them everything, and Gray would have no way to stop it. His left hand curled into a fist. The day was growing rougher with every step, and he found himself wondering how much worse it could get.