Four days after departing Edinburgh, the ship bearing the sigil of House Ainsworth cut through the grey waters of the northern sea like a blade. Its black hull creaked under the weight of salted wind and cold spray, sails swollen and snapping as gulls circled overhead, crying like starving children. The banner—a black horse rampant upon a yellow field—fluttered proudly from the mast, stark against the low, bruised sky.
Kirkwall revealed itself slowly, as if reluctant to be seen. The eastern shore of the island rose from the sea in a series of dark stone ridges, battered docks jutting outward like broken teeth. Clusters of squat wooden buildings clung to the land, their roofs heavy with tar and sea salt. Smoke drifted lazily from chimneys, thin and grey, promising warmth that never quite reached the bones.
As the ship docked, ropes were thrown and secured with practiced ease. One by one, knights of House Ainsworth stepped onto the pier. They wore full plate armor dulled by travel, yellow cloaks snapping sharply in the wind. The dockworkers stared openly, hands paused mid-task, eyes lingering on steel and sigil alike. Knights were rare here—lords rarer still.
Cassian Ainsworth followed last.
The moment his boots touched the planks, the smell hit him like a physical blow. Rotting fish, brine, old blood, and damp wood mixed into a stench so thick it clung to the back of his throat. He resisted the urge to grimace, schooling his expression into calm indifference. A lord could not afford weakness, not even in something as small as scent.
This, then, was Kirkwall.
Within half an hour, his presence had already set the town in motion. A carriage—old but serviceable—was hastily assembled, its wheels creaking in protest as Cassian climbed inside. Knights took position around it, boots striking stone in steady rhythm as the procession made its way inland.
Kirkwall Castle loomed over the town like a watchful corpse.
It was not grand. Its walls were thick but scarred by age and neglect, stones darkened by centuries of rain and salt. Moss crept between cracks, and the iron of the gate showed rust beneath layers of old paint. Still, it was defensible, and more importantly, it was his.
Cassian disembarked and surveyed his new domain in silence. Servants rushed to and fro at once, opening shutters that had long been closed, dragging out rotten furnishings, scrubbing floors that had not seen care in years. The castle stirred like something half-awake, groaning as if displeased at being disturbed.
That night was uncomfortable.
Despite exhaustion weighing heavily on him, Cassian found no bed fit for use. The master chamber stank of mildew, and the straw mattress was infested beyond saving. With a quiet sigh, he spread a robe upon the stone floor and lay down fully clothed, staring up at the dark ceiling.
He slept lightly, one hand resting against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart.
Morning came cold and pale.
Cassian rose before the sun had fully crested the horizon. He stretched slowly, muscles pulling tight beneath his skin, then began his exercises in the privacy of the chamber—push-ups, squats, controlled movements meant to build strength without spectacle. Sweat formed quickly in the chill air, steam rising faintly from his body.
After washing and changing, he ate a sparse breakfast and sent word for the knights to assemble.
The command rippled through the castle like a struck bell.
Within twenty minutes, one hundred knights stood gathered in the courtyard. Armor gleamed dully beneath the weak sun, yellow cloaks forming a field of muted gold. Some stood straight and attentive; others shifted their weight, expressions unreadable behind visors and weathered faces.
Cassian stepped forward.
He did not raise his voice, yet silence fell all the same.
"My lord father, Duke Ainsworth," Cassian began evenly, "has deemed it fit to send me to this island—Kirkwall—to serve as its lord." His gaze swept across the assembled men. "It is not paradise. But we will make do."
A few knights exchanged glances.
"You were sent here for my protection," he continued, the word carrying a subtle edge. "As such, it is only fitting that you swear loyalty—true loyalty—to me, Cassian of House Ainsworth, Lord of Kirkwall."
He paused.
"But understand this," Cassian said quietly. "Do not offer me empty words. Swear fealty with your whole heart, and I will introduce you to a world unknown—one of power, purpose, and reward. Swear falsely, harbor treachery in your heart, and know this: you will die screaming."
The wind passed through the courtyard, tugging at cloaks.
Then a knight stepped forward.
Sir Vane was a veteran, his armor scarred and his face lined with years of campaign and cruelty alike. A crooked smile twisted his lips as he looked at Cassian with poorly concealed disdain.
"My lord," Vane said mockingly, inclining his head just enough to be insulting, "we are quite far from Scotland. No duke's shadow reaches this island." He chuckled softly. "What makes you think we couldn't simply imprison you? After all, we were sent for your safety."
A ripple of tension moved through the knights.
Cassian smiled.
It was a small, polite expression—one that did not reach his eyes.
"Thank you," Cassian said gently, stepping closer, "for your sacrifice, Sir Vane."
Before anyone could react, Cassian placed his hand flat against Vane's chest.
Mana surged.
It was invisible, but the air seemed to tighten, pressure building in a way that made several knights instinctively step back. Vane's smirk faltered as pain lanced through him—sharp, sudden, absolute.
Cassian did not wound.
He healed.
The heart within Vane's chest hardened unnaturally, flesh transforming with horrifying speed. Muscle calcified. Tissue ossified. The living organ meant to beat and flex became rigid bone.
Vane gasped, eyes wide, fingers clawing uselessly at Cassian's sleeve. Within seconds, his legs gave out. He collapsed to the stone, convulsed once—and then went still.
Silence fell like a guillotine.
A knight knelt beside Vane, pressed two fingers to his neck, then slowly looked up.
"He's dead," the knight said hoarsely.
Cassian withdrew his hand, expression calm, almost bored.
"Let this be clear," he said. "I am not weak. I am not helpless. And I am not merciful to traitors."
The implications settled heavily upon the gathered men. Whatever Cassian was, he was no longer a pitiful healer hidden behind noble blood. He was something else—something dangerous.
One by one, knights bent the knee.
Steel met stone as voices rose in unison, swearing loyalty to Cassian Ainsworth, Lord of Kirkwall.
Cassian accepted their fealty without a smile.
Kirkwall had a new master—and the island would never be the same.