Kingmaker – The Raven’s Bloody Crown

PROLOGUE – Ten Years Earlier

Svartvik burned. Billowing swaths of smoke rose into the air, weaving between the banks of low-hanging clouds. Orange flames danced on the roofs, tendrils reaching skyward despite the ceaseless rain. The acrid smell of burning timbers, livestock, and worse clung to the wind. It reached far out to sea, where Bergrún’s ship pulled against the tide with mighty oar strokes. She stood at the stern, her long, raven-black hair whipping in the wind. Her hands gripped the railing, her muscles taut, her gaze fixed unwaveringly on the destruction of her home—the last vestiges of her human past.

        She had tried, hadn’t she? Despite the humiliation of being looked down upon her entire life—a girl daring to have ambitions, a sharp tongue from the lowest rung of a backwater society, an outsider in looks, dreams, and nature—she’d given them a choice. No longer powerless, no longer weak, she’d offered a path forward, requiring only the necessary retribution. They must’ve known what consequences their refusal would bring. Hadn’t they felt how the power had shifted and seen the lines drawn in the sand, never to be crossed?

        She hadn’t demanded their feigned adoration. No one was forced to grovel in the dirt. In fact, very little in their pitiful lives needed to change. Still, they chose to poke a dragon in the eye, blinded by their stubborn pride and bitter prejudice. And then, when the inevitable happened, they screamed in panic. Begging for mercy, they pleaded utter ignorance as its fiery breath engulfed them.

        The deed was done, the rotten tree chopped down, and from the ashes of its smoldering timbers, Bergrún would build a better world where the random luck of birth counted for nothing against the power of will and the will of power. But first, she must leave. The fires devouring her childhood still blazed too hot. The smoke’s noxious odor stole the air from her lungs and stung her eyes, causing tears to pool in the corners.

        The witch swiped the moisture away, disgusted. Her jaw was set, her shoulders stiff. She jerked her gaze away. Behind her, the oars creaked as eight men labored to propel the ship. With their eyes downcast and their voices reduced to grunts, they were nothing but sheep—frightened animals, yet with enough sense to protect their hides. Soon their toil and sweat would move the vessel past the shallows, and she would order the mainsail hoisted.

        Her gaze sought the horizon. Beyond the restless sea lay a world of hidden secrets, daring ventures, and limitless opportunities. The wind would guide her destiny for a while, until she returned, ready to claim the rightful place her new nature demanded.