CHAPTER 1 – The Teeth of Rebellion
Hollow Teeth Ravine, Gravenmarsh – Year 0 of the Rebellion
The rain fell like knives on stone.
Kael crouched on a ridgeline of jagged black rock, wind clawing at his cloak. Below him, the imperial convoy trundled through the Hollow Teeth Pass—five wagons loaded with grain, coin, and conscripts, guarded by two dozen men in dull steel. Their banner was crisp: the gold lion of Vellgaard snarling on crimson silk.
He could smell their overconfidence.
"Three minutes," Myrren whispered beside him, pulling the hood of her oilskin tighter. She lay flat on her stomach, crossbow steady in the crook of her shoulder. "Rocks are slick. If your boys fall on the charge, it's over before it starts."
"They won't fall," Kael muttered.
Behind him, shadows moved: thirty outlaws and former militia, half of them ragged, half of them starved, all of them angry. None wore matching armor. Some didn't wear armor at all. But they had blades, bows, and something more important—something Kael had given them.
Direction.
He rose slowly, letting the storm wash over him.
"This is where we begin," he said, voice low and calm. "We take the food they stole, the gold they hoarded, and the lives they thought wouldn't fight back."
No cheers. Just grim nods.
Kael turned toward the path leading downward. "No mercy for the shield-bearers. The conscripts are ours. Free them. Feed them. If they want to fight—let them."
Dren, a wiry man missing two fingers, tapped the hilt of his rusted axe. "And if they don't?"
Kael didn't blink. "Then we feed them anyway. This isn't their war. Not yet."
The sound of hooves drew closer—imperial scouts riding ahead. Kael raised his fist. One signal.
Silence.
Another.
And then—
The mountain screamed.
From the cliffs above, his archers loosed a volley of barbed arrows. Two scouts went down before they could shout. Then the outlaws surged like wolves down the pass, Kael at the front, cloak snapping like a torn banner. The convoy guards had just enough time to draw steel before the first wagon driver's throat was slit.
Kael drove his blade into a soldier's gut, twisting, then pulled the dying man's shield free as he dropped. Another came at him—a younger one, with fresh armor and panic in his eyes. Kael caught his sword with the shield, kicked him in the stomach, and brought his dagger across his throat in one brutal motion.
It was fast. Not clean. Never clean.
By the time the last wagon was seized and the imperial captain impaled on a broken wheel-spoke, Kael stood drenched in blood and rain, staring down at the crates of gold and sacks of grain.
"Burn the wagons," he said. "Take the food. Leave the gold in the road."
Dren blinked. "What?"
Kael pointed at the bodies. "Let the next patrol find it. Let them know we don't steal like rats—we cut like wolves."
He turned as the conscripts—barely more than boys—were led from the prisoner cage. One of them, dirt-smeared and missing teeth, stared up at Kael with wild eyes.
"You're him," the boy whispered. "You're the one from the stories."
Kael met his gaze. "No," he said. "The stories aren't enough."
Then he raised his makeshift banner—iron blade hilt bound in scorched red cloth—and planted it in the mud beside the corpse of the imperial captain.
And for the first time, the Hollow Teeth whispered his name like prayer.
Kael. Ashmark. Sovereign.