The Duke’s mark. A coiled serpent eating its own tail.

He had been fourteen when they gave him that brand. A page in the Duke’s household, eager and stupid, believing that service to power was the same as service to justice. He had learned otherwise the night the Duke ordered him to hold a torch while a debtor’s hands were broken, finger by finger. Herric had dropped the torch. The Duke had smiled and said, “You’ll learn, boy. Pain is the only teacher that never lies.”

Behind him, the citadel of Cinderfell began to burn.

Herric stepped forward. His blood dripped onto the throne’s steps.

“This is not an oath,” Herric said. “It is a scar. And scars can be cut away.”