The Piliakilnis loomed above him. It’s ancient mass squatted along the banks of the River Balundan, a silent, hulking behemoth that promised little good for those who entered through the fort’s colossal gates with an armored guard for an escort and their hands bound together to prevent any trouble.

Such a man was Ilarion iz Balundan—Rion stas Ranka, Laros sta Spilans, or any other of a host of names by which he was known. At the age of thirty, his black hair was showing the first signs of gray...