I followed her toward the table. As we approached, the couple rose in unison—not out of deference to a prince, but with the easy, ingrained respect of old comrades who had once bled shoulder-to-shoulder for Selene. The man was a towering beast of a human, easily six-foot-five, with a bodybuilder's frame and muscles so thick they looked like they could crush stone.
His dark brown eyes were steady and hard, and his weathered face carried the deep lines and scars of decades spent in battle. Beside him stood an older woman with striking silver hair that fell just past her shoulders and a pair of vivid green eyes that seemed far too sharp for her age.
She was tall and lean, built like a scout or ranger, wiry, and clearly still dangerous. Their auras hit me like twin furnace doors swinging open: Fifth Circle, both of them, steady and deep, the kind of power that had been tempered by decades rather than rushed through shortcuts.
The man inclined his head first. ''Prince Arthur.''
His voice carried the rough burr of the northern marches. ''I am Torvald Blackthorn, a warrior. This is my wife, Lirael, an archer and a scout of the highest skill.''
Lirael studied me the way a fletcher studies an arrow, measuring straightness, and whether I'd fly true or snap on release. Her scar pulled slightly when she spoke. ''Selene told us a great many things about you, Devourer Prince. Most of them sounded like tavern tales. Seeing you now… I begin to believe a few of them.''
I let a faint smile curve my lips. ''Good. I prefer belief to doubt when I'm about to ask people to risk their necks for me.''
Torvald chuckled, low and dry. ''Straight to it, then. I like that.''
He gestured to the empty chairs across from them. ''Sit. The ale here is swill, but the conversation might be worth it.''
We took our seats. Selene remained standing behind my right shoulder, one hand resting lightly on the pommel of her sword. Asmara positioned herself near the hearth, arms crossed, watching the room like a hawk. I leaned forward, elbows on the scarred table. ''Selene says you two are the best warriors she's ever crossed steel with. That was high praise from her.''
Lirael arched a brow. ''She always did exaggerate when she was trying to recruit.''
Torvald snorted. ''What she means is we retired five years ago, bought a homestead up near the Frostfang foothills. Sheep, mostly. A few goats that think they're wolves. Peaceful. Boring, some days.''
His eyes met mine, steady. ''Then word reached us that a prince with claws and a hunger for kingdoms was raising banners south of Tidewater. And that the Black Briar bastards were already sharpening knives for him.''
I held his gaze. ''Fifteen thousand of them, last count. Maybe more. They're expecting me to come charging in like every other fool noble who's tried to reclaim Bleakmarch.''
Lirael leaned back, fingers drumming once on the table. ''And you're not?''
''Not yet.'' My voice stayed calm. ''I don't waste lives for spectacle. I want Bleakmarch, yes. But I want it held, not just conquered for a season before the next warlord takes it back. That means building something that lasts. It means people like you, people who know what real war looks like, not parade-ground nonsense.''
Torvald exchanged a glance with his wife. Something unspoken passed between them, the kind of silent conversation only decades together can forge. ''Five hundred silver a season,'' I said, repeating the offer I'd made Darius. ''Double the guild standard. Command posts in the future, if you want them. And when the dust settles… land. Titles.''
The couple's eyes widened in shock as Evangeline, Selene and Asmara smiled, but I ignored it. ''A stake in whatever comes next. But understand this: standing with me means standing against everyone who wants to see the Devourer Prince fail. There will be blood. There will be nights when sleep is a luxury. And there will be days when the only thing between you and death is the promise that I'll keep getting back up.''
Lirael tilted her head, studying me again. ''You talk like a man who's already died once.''
I let my claws extend just enough to catch the firelight, slow, deliberate, no threat in the motion, only a reminder. ''Close enough.''
Torvald laughed again, this time with real warmth. ''Gods, Selene wasn't exaggerating.''
He reached across the table, offering a callused hand. ''We're in. Not for the coin, mind you. Not even for the land. But we've spent too many years watching Verona rot from bandits and petty lords. If someone's finally willing to burn the rot out… We'll swing the torch.''
Lirael placed her hand on top of his, then extended hers to me as well. ''One condition.''
''Name it.''
''When the time comes to face the Black Briar war-chiefs,'' she said, voice like tempered steel. ''We want the front line. We've earned the right to see what the Devourer Prince can really do when the killing starts.''
I took their hands, one after the other, feeling the strength in their grips, power coiled tight, ready to be unleashed.
''Done,'' I said. ''You'll see it. And when you do… you'll understand why they call me what they do.''
Selene finally allowed herself a small, satisfied smile when my two new bodyguards had just bent the knee, not out of fear, but out of recognition. Looks like things are coming together, but I need to sort out logistics before moving forward.
Following that, everyone poured out of the guild as the century, and my new bodyguards surrounded me. Selene appeared beside me. ''My Prince, the Seventh Circle Warrior is waiting. Let's go.''
''Lead the way, commander,'' I replied with a smirk.
The older woman flashed a knowing grin as Torvald and Lirael fell into step behind the brunette. Together, the small procession wove through the growing crowd until they reached a massive brick building that rose from the street. It was impeccably maintained, every surface clean and every line sharp, clearly tended with care.
As we drew closer, the sheer scale of it pressed down on me like a living thing. The walls weren't just well-kept; they were flawless, every brick laid with the precision of a master mason, the mortar so clean it might have been painted on yesterday. Looks like the Count keeps Tidewater running smooth, I mused.
Lanterns of polished brass hung at regular intervals, their flames already dancing in anticipation of the coming dusk, casting warm golden pools across the wide stone steps that led up to a pair of towering iron-bound doors. Torvald walked just to my left, his massive frame radiating quiet readiness, while Lirael kept pace on my right.
Moments later, out stepped four dwarves when we got closer, no, not just any dwarves. These were warriors of the Eighth Circle, their presence hitting me like a physical force. Each stood barely taller than my chest, but what they lacked in height they more than made up for in raw power that made me refrain from summoning my claws.
Their beards were thick and braided with rings of dark iron and glowing runes that pulsed faintly with contained mana. Heavy plate armour, forged from what looked like black metal veined with silver, covered their stocky bodies, yet they moved like predators who had long since mastered their own mass.
The leader, a broad-shouldered dwarf with a beard the colour of burnished copper shot through with streaks of grey, planted his feet at the entrance and regarded us with eyes like chips of polished obsidian. A massive war-axe rested easily across his shoulders, its double blades etched with glowing eighth-circle runes that hummed with restrained fury.
The other three fanned out behind him in perfect formation, their gauntleted hands resting on the hilts of rune-etched hammers and axes that could probably split a mountain in half if their owners felt like it. Within seconds, the others reacted. Selene drew her sword, stepping in front of me as Torvald and Lirael readied themselves.
''What is the meaning of this!'' Selene demanded. ''This is a prince of the kingdom, not some street hooligan!'''
I felt the moment thin as wire, every breath measured against the weight of those runed weapons. No one moved, but everyone was ready to. The warrior at the entrance shifted his grip, just slightly. It was enough. If he brought that axe down, there wouldn't be time to think, only react.
Selene took half a step forward but stopped as someone shouted. ''STOP!''
The word cracked through the street like a hammer strike. Bootsteps thundered, breaking the tension before it could snap. A dwarf woman burst into view, braid half-undone, her apron still dusted with ash as though she'd come straight from a forge. She didn't slow down as she reached us; she drove herself straight between the two sides.
One hand thrown out toward the guards, the other braced toward Selene. ''Stand down!'' she barked, breath sharp but voice unshaken.
The leader's eyes flicked to her, irritation flaring. ''Explain yourself, Brunna. Now.''
She straightened despite the lingering haste in her chest, chin lifting with the authority of someone who knew she had the right to be heard. ''Orders from above,'' she said. ''Boss lady Medici herself.''
That landed. I saw it ripple through them. the smallest tightening of shoulders, the faint hesitation in their stances. Brunna didn't waste it. ''The third prince has been granted the special guest status within the Baldurkar Slave House.''
She continued, each word clear and deliberate. ''By direct decree. He is not to be handled, hindered, or harmed. Any interference will be taken as defiance of the Mistress's authority.''
Silence followed as the dwarf leader's gaze slid back to me, slower this time. Measuring. Reconsidering. Then, with a low exhale, he rolled the axe off his shoulders and brought it down, not in attack, but to rest at his side. The hum of the runes dimmed, as though the weapon itself had been convinced.
''Alright, boss, we can't upset the big boss lady,'' he grumbled. ''She will challenge us to a fight again.''
Behind him, the others mirrored the motion, stepping back half a pace. Not relaxed, never that, but no longer on the edge of violence. Selene didn't lower her blade immediately until I signalled for her to do so; she did as ordered when I turned to Brunna. ''Is this mistress of yours here?''
The Dwarf woman shook her head. ''No, she is back home in the Kingdom of Baldurkar, but she hears everything.''
''What is a special guest?''
''Someone who is valued by the boss lady,'' Brunna answered. ''Now I hear you're after a powerful bodyguard and we have the best in West Verona, now come along, I'm a busy woman.''
Before I could say anything else, she led us inside as the Dwarf warriors stepped aside. The heavy door of the Baldurkar Slave House thudded shut behind us, sealing off the street noise like a coffin lid. I looked around and noticed a fancy-looking foyer with more Dwarf soldiers scattered around.
Brunna paused at a side passage, gesturing toward a smaller, reinforced door set into the wall. ''Your Highness. I have a recommendation from the boss lady, a recent acquisition. Northman stock. Quite… exceptional. She arrived only three days ago from a raid up near the Frostfang passes. Unbroken spirit, but trainable. And her Circle.''
She lowered his voice, as though the walls might gossip. ''Seventh, at minimum. Perhaps edging toward Eighth. The buyers who saw her were too frightened to bid.''
''Show me,'' I said.
She bowed and pushed the door open. A short flight of stairs led down into a lower chamber lit by a single hanging lantern. The air here was colder, damper. One large iron cage dominated the centre of the room, its bars thicker than those upstairs. Inside stood a gorgeous woman.
Gods, she was magnificent. Tall and powerfully built like the fiercest northern shieldmaidens, broad-shouldered yet unmistakably feminine, with a body sculpted by years of axe-swinging and brutal winter marches. Her full breasts strained against the remnants of her clothing, rising and falling with each controlled breath.
Her long blonde hair was woven into thick, wild braids that cascaded past her shoulders, a few damp strands clinging teasingly to her sweat-glistened forehead and neck. Her face was pure, raw temptation: high, sculpted cheekbones, a strong yet feminine jaw clenched in defiance, and those pale blue eyes that burned with barely contained fire.
Fresh cuts and bruises only accentuated her dangerous beauty, turning her into something primal and intoxicating, a warrior goddess forged in frost and blood. Even in captivity, she looked devastating. The torn sleeveless wool tunic clung to her sweat-damp skin, the ripped hem barely covering the generous swell of her hips and the powerful lines of her thighs.
Her patched leather breeches hugged every curve of her long, muscular legs like a second skin. Fur-lined boots hugged her calves, and the heavy iron manacles around her wrists and ankles only emphasised the raw strength of her limbs. She stood tall despite the chains, weight balanced lightly on the balls of her feet, every inch of her coiled and ready to strike.
The way her body tensed, the subtle shift of muscle under smooth skin, the defiant tilt of her chin… I couldn't look away. She was danger and desire wrapped in one lethal, breathtaking package, a storm of blonde braids, pale blue fire, and unyielding power that made my blood run hot.