It had not been the first time he had considered murdering her.

Haldrych Ameldan slumped in his silver inlaid chair, scowling at the burning fireplace. A letter of introduction curled and blackened as flame consumed the parchment to a husk. The wax seal of the Gomentrude family boiled, hissed, and melted away.

Shadows writhed about the corners of the bed chamber, matching the darkness of the young man’s mood. His soft fingers played along a sword balanced on his knees, smearing the mirrored finish. The blade’s bronze edge shone - pristine and unmarred - never having struck beast nor foe.

His other hand, untouched by callous, toyed with a silver goblet filled with Olubrian wine. He’d ordered it heated over the kitchen fires for exactly fifty heartbeats, and brought to his chambers at a run.

Words in Laexondaelic weaved across papyrus stacked beside the goblet; poems of great deeds told with uninspired words. Each ode ended in his sigil and signature.

Thump. Thump.

A gentle knock came from the door.

“Haldrych?” A woman’s soft voice called.

His scowl deepened. “What? Do you wish to gloat after ruining my life?”

A wounded silence followed.

His eyes shot to the arms adorning the stone walls: bronze swords, spears, shields and daggers polished to perfection by the servants. His lip curled.

He longed to wash every blade with that woman’s blood.

“Haldrych, my sweet boy,” the plaintive voice came again. “I only wish to know what I can do to make you feel better-”

“I think you’ve done enough!” He leapt to his feet, draining the goblet, and slammed it onto a side table. Pulling on his cloak, he stomped past the fireplace. The letter had turned to ash.

He threw the door open.

A startled woman gasped in the entryway. Her greying hair shook as her slight frame recoiled. Her hand had been outstretched toward the door.

“I am leaving!” he snapped, pushing past her.

“Where are you going, Haldrych? I’ll call for an escort-”

“I’m no blushing babe! Leave me be!”

“But the killings!” The woman’s brown eyes grew wide. “Haldrych, the streets are not safe-” She reached for him.

“Do not touch me, mother!” he slapped her hand away and brushed past her into the hall.

A low whimper followed him.

He neither turned, nor glanced back.

The winter air raked Haldrych’s face with its frosty bite, burning his nostrils. He pulled a white rabbit-pelt hat over his ears and spurred his stallion onward. “Faster, Marctinus.”

The handsome beast broke into a trot, his gold-shod hooves glinting through the white they kicked up. His breath misted in the air like dragon smoke. The proud steed had been a gift from Haldrych’s mother: purchased during the summer horse market for a lord’s ransom.

Its silky coat glimmered like silver as its hoofs pounded through the snow, echoing in the empty silence. His master’s jewelry shook beneath furs of ermine and white fox, all bought by his mother from the finest stone-setters and furriers in Laexondael. His gold-hilted dagger glinted upon his belt.

The Heir of House Ameldan thought he cut a fine figure, yet there were none to see him in the moonlight and thickness of night. He glanced about the empty street. Grand stone houses framed it with their courtyards barred by bronzed gates. Snow caked the road. Icicles lanced down from overhangs of stone and timber.

A pair of lean crows squabbled over refuse pulped into the frozen ground. They were the only other life about.

Haldrych looked toward the city centre through drifting lines of chimney smoke.

In the distance, the crescent moon hung over Duke Kirinius' castle, rising from an escarpment so vast that it filled the night sky. The mountain peaks north of the city - the most southern tip of the Midaggar Mountains - seemed its twin. The fortress sat unyielding atop the summit, watching its people from cloudy heights.

Unbidden, rumours of the recent killings returned to Haldrych’s mind.

The young poet scowled, patted his scabbard, and drew himself to his full height in the saddle.

He was Heir to House Ameldan. His bloodline reached back to the Tigrisian centurions.

He would not fear.

Even as he thought this, he spurred Marctinus to a quicker pace.