Wyldbound volume 4, p.1
Wyldbound: Volume 4, page 1
Wyldbound
VOLUME 4
JOSEPH MCRAE PALMER
Wyldbound: Volume 4
Copyright © 2026 Joseph McRae Palmer
www.josephmcraepalmer.com
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialog are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is fictionalized or coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
ISBN (paperback) 978-1-961782-42-6
ISBN (ebook) 978-1-961782-41-9
Cover design: Donna Cunningham@BeauxArts.design
Map illustration: My Lan Khuc (LaolanArt)
Contents
Map of the Gloamwood
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
65. Epilogue
About the Author
Prologue
Dorian Fenwood, King of the Vostok Imperium, stood on the ridge as five thousand heavy infantry arrayed before him in perfect formation. Crossbowmen flanked the wings. Cavalry waited in reserve, horses stamping and snorting. Engineers clustered near their siege equipment, checking ropes and counterweights with methodical precision.
The cream of the Vostok Army. His army.
Behind him, his personal retinue assembled: commanders in gilded plate armor, cantors with thrynn-signatures that pulsed like restless heartbeats, advisors who nodded at his every word before he'd even finished speaking. Noctis hovered at his shoulder, smoky legs trailing threads of shadow-light across the trampled grass.
Dorian's pulse quickened—not from fear, but from the exquisite satisfaction of watching a machine of his own design begin to turn. He'd conceived this. Shaped it. Spoken the words that set thousands of bodies into motion.
His father would have hesitated. Delayed. Sought consensus until the moment withered and died.
Alaric would have wept over the necessity of it.
But Dorian? Dorian had built this vision from thought to steel, and now it breathed.
Months of maneuvering. Weeks of careful screening by the Scarlet Brand. Endless councils where nobles postured and commanders bickered like dogs over scraps. He'd smiled through every tedious objection, nodded at every theatrical concern, all while Noctis wove threads through their thoughts—just enough to smooth the rough edges of dissent.
Dorian's fingers worked the leather straps of his saddle with practiced efficiency, testing each buckle twice. Strange how muscle memory lingered. He'd checked Alaric's saddle just like this—what, twenty years ago? Twenty-five? When his half-brother had barely reached Dorian's stirrup, round-faced and eager, chattering about hawks and horses and whatever story their tutor had read that morning.
"Will you teach me to jump the creek, Dorian? Father says I'm too small, but I'm not. I'm not."
Dorian's jaw tightened. That boy had worshipped him. Followed him like a shadow, hung on every word as if Dorian spoke prophecies instead of idle observations about weather and swordwork.
Gone now. Replaced by the fool prince playing at heroism in the Gloamwood, scheming with his supporters to undermine Dorian's authority. Threatening to invade the western borders with whatever ragtag coalition he'd managed to scrape together.
The saddle leather creaked under his grip.
Thomas sat in a comfortable room at Haldenmere right now. Fed. Safe. Probably playing with wooden soldiers or reading adventure tales. His nursemaid kept him occupied. The boy didn't even know he was a hostage—thought his uncle had invited him for a visit while father was away.
Dorian released the cinch. Wise. Easier that way.
Stop your invasion plans, brother. Be reasonable for once in your gods-damned life.
If Alaric pushed forward anyway, Dorian would have to decide how far he'd go. A letter describing Thomas's comfortable captivity might suffice. Or perhaps something more pointed—a threat to send him out of the country.
He wouldn't hurt the child. Not unless absolutely necessary.
Noctis shifted closer, its presence a cool weight against his thoughts. The boy remains useful only if your brother believes his welfare negotiable.
"I'm aware," Dorian murmured.
Ahead, Lord Serik Dunmarrow's voice cracked across the assembly like a whip. "Vanguard—forward!"
Drums began their rhythm. The skirmishers and scouts peeled away from the main formation, moving southwest down the Dragovad road in disciplined columns. Leather creaked. Steel rattled. Boots struck earth in thunderous unison.
Dorian swung into his saddle, settling his weight with unconscious grace.
The Rotmarsh waited. And beneath it, Thauron's prison.
Soon.
Hoofbeats approached from behind—too measured for alarm, too purposeful for idle patrol. Dorian glanced back.
Lucian Arkhon rode toward him on a bay gelding, the coordinator's ash-gray hair slicked back beneath a dark hood. His clothing bore no ornamentation, no sigil—just the understated blacks and grays of someone who preferred to move through shadows rather than stand in light.
Dorian raised one gloved hand. His bodyguards parted immediately, opening a corridor through their mounted formation.
Arkhon reined in beside him and inclined his head with the precision of a clockwork mechanism. "Your Majesty."
"Lucian."
Arkhon's gaze swept across the assembled host, lingering on the cavalry reserves, the siege engines, the tight formations of crossbowmen flanking the column. "A glorious host. The Imperium has never fielded such strength in peacetime. Your vision made manifest."
Dorian's lips twitched. Flattery from Arkhon carried weight precisely because it came so rarely. "How are the arcanists fitting in?"
The real question hung unspoken between them: Are they ready? Will their spellments hold?
Everything depended on those arcanists and their specialized enchantments. Tools designed for a ritual no one had attempted in recorded history. Constraint equations balanced against volatile thrynn flows, decision-tree matrices woven into artifact cores—mathematics so complex even the Chorus Arcanum's brightest minds would need weeks to unravel them.
By then, it would be far too late.
Arkhon shifted in his saddle. "All accounted for. Riding in carriages near the rear guard. They're..." He paused, dark green eyes flicking toward Dorian. "Not pleased. The road's rough, and they're unaccustomed to life beyond city walls."
"I don't care about their comfort." Dorian's voice dropped to iron. "Only that they perform the task they've been ordered to."
"Understood." Arkhon's expression didn't change, but something flickered behind those calculating eyes. "The Chorus Arcanum officials are already making pests of themselves. Requesting cargo inspections, demanding interviews with cantors. Standard oversight protocols, but aggressive."
Dorian's jaw tightened. Involving the Chorus had been unavoidable—no way to transport this many cantors, this many arcanists, without drawing their scrutiny. But gods, he'd hoped for more time before they started sniffing around.
"I don't care about the officials," Dorian said, fingers working the reins absently, "so long as they don't stick their noses where they shouldn't be. The true nature of the ritual must remain concealed as long as possible."
"Of course." Arkhon paused. When he spoke again, his voice dropped to barely above a murmur. "Your Majesty... may I speak plainly?"
Dorian gestured permission.
"Awakening Thauron." Arkhon's words came carefully, each syllable weighted. "The Worldcoil will not be pleased. It is a primordial force, not a... compliant servant. There is no guarantee it will view you with favor."
Dorian turned his head slowly, meeting Arkhon's gaze with the full weight of his stare. "I have studied the records for years. Combed archives no one else has touched since before my grandfather's reign. I am confident in my plans." He leaned closer, voice soft as silk over steel. "If you're too fearful, you may leave. I'm sure I can find some minor posting for you. Border patrol, perhaps."
Arkhon stiffened. "No, Your Majesty. I only mean—what we're attempting has never been done. We have no precedent, no assurance it will even work." His throat worked. "Regarding Thauron, I confess I am a coward."
"I am a six-core cantor." Dorian straightened in his saddle, letting the words settle between them. "With access to knowledge lost to most of the world. With the magical resources of an entire kingdom at my command. And with Khorvazhul the Golden sworn to our cause." He smiled thinly. "There is nothing to fear."
Arkhon leaned closer, voice dropping to a whisper meant only for Dorian's ears. "And what happens when Khorvazhul learns your true intentions?"
"He will learn." Dorian's smile didn't waver. "Eventually. There's no avoiding it. We only need to delay that discovery long enough for me to act." He gathered his reins. "Now. Anything else?"
"No, Your Majesty."
"Then ride with the vanguard. Keep the arcanists comfortable enough to function. Nothing more."
Arkhon bowed from the saddle and wheeled his horse away.
Noctis's presence brushed against Dorian's thoughts. He doubts.
"He always doubts," Dorian murmured. "That's why he's useful."
The vanguard's drums faded to a distant pulse as Arkhon disappeared into the column. Dorian stared after him, but his thoughts had already moved elsewhere.
Thauron.
The name itself carried weight. Resonance. Power that predated kingdoms, that shaped continents through the simple act of dreaming. When Nyx had forged the Hallow World, she'd bound the Worldcoil beneath the Gloamwood—not out of mercy, but necessity. Thauron had grown too willful, too creative, threatening to unmake her carefully ordered creation.
But what Nyx had bound, Dorian would claim.
The ritual formulae filled his mind like sacred text. Constraint matrices balanced against thrynn flows. Decision trees woven through artifact cores. Mathematics so elegant they bordered on art. When he succeeded—when, not if—Thauron's essence would flow into him. Creation and destruction. The ability to remake reality itself.
Ashkarra first. That cursed wasteland where the Sha'khari bred like vermin, where the Black Bloom gathered strength every thousand years. He'd scour it clean. Rebuild it from bedrock up. Save his people from that cyclic nightmare once and for all.
Then the rebellious counties. Then Alaric.
Then the world.
Noctis stirred against his consciousness. The excavation delays you.
"Not for long." Dorian's hands tightened on the reins. Three weeks behind schedule. Three weeks of incompetent engineers citing structural instability, thrynn interference, workers developing strange fevers. He'd moved the entire campaign timeline forward a month just to compensate.
Now he'd oversee it personally. Drive them harder. Replace anyone who couldn't keep pace.
Nothing would stop this. Not provincial lords playing at independence. Not his fool brother and his pathetic coalition. Not the Chorus Arcanum with their regulations and oversight. And certainly not dragons who'd grown complacent in their ancient power.
The Imperium's destiny belonged to Dorian.
And Thauron would be his instrument.
Chapter
One
The darkness pressed against Caleb’s eyes like a physical weight.
He’d tried counting seconds at first. Lost track somewhere past two thousand. Maybe three. The math didn’t work anymore—numbers slipped away like water through fingers that had long since gone numb.
It wasn’t how he’d imagined this would end.
Rotmarsh mud. Ghost-light reeds. The long, desperate trudge through stillwater and rot, following half-forgotten trails and a moving promise: Old Mother Wend can help you. That had been the plan. Find Wend. Break the curse. Untangle whatever cruel knot had been tied between him and Princess Elenora—so tight that distance itself had become agony.
Instead, there was a box.
His shoulders screamed. Had been screaming for what felt like hours. The hemp collar bit into his neck every time he tried to ease the pressure, forcing him back into the half-crouch that made his thighs burn and his knees grind against the ridges carved into the floor.
Clever. So goddamn clever.
No beating. No blades. Just wood and rope and his own body weight doing the work.
He wondered—distantly—if this had been Kessarine’s idea.
The thought hurt almost as much as his shoulder.
Kessarine Valmorra. Gloamwarden. Mentor. The woman who had walked beside him through the marsh like an anchor of certainty, who had known the paths and the rules and the dangers. Who had sworn she was helping them reach Wend.
Who had led them straight into Scarlet Brand hands.
The box tilted without warning.
Caleb’s balance shifted. The collar yanked tight against his throat as gravity pulled him sideways. His bound hands wrenched higher up his back. Something in his left shoulder made a sound—not quite a pop, more like a wet creak.
He bit down on a scream and tasted blood where he’d split his lip earlier.
The box settled. Level again. Probably.
Hard to tell anymore.
Breathe. Just breathe.
But breathing hurt. Each inhale pulled against the collar. Each exhale left him dizzy in the stale, superheated air. Sweat ran down his face, his neck, pooled in the hollow of his collarbone. His clothes stuck to his skin like a second layer of flesh.
Elenora’s face surfaced unbidden—pale with pain, jaw clenched, refusing to cry out even when the curse tore at her. They’d been too close together for too long. Then too far apart. Always wrong. Always hurting. This was supposed to fix it. This was supposed to be the price they paid to make it stop.
Instead, the Scarlet Brand had taken him.
Compliance, they’d said. Cooperation. As if pain were a lesson instead of a bludgeon.
The bond to Snarla pulsed at the edge of his awareness. Northwest. Still northwest. She hadn’t moved much since morning—if it was still morning. Time had become elastic, meaningless.
She was afraid. He could feel it through the connection, a low-grade anxiety that spiked every few minutes into something sharper. Probably every time she tried to fly closer and the soldiers drove her off with arrows or spells.
He focused on that. On her being alive. On the bond still holding.
They could break his body.
They could not make him let go.
Stay away, he thought at her, knowing she couldn't understand complex concepts through the bond. Please. Just stay away.
The response came back wordless. Distressed. Stubborn.
She wouldn't leave him.
Part of him was grateful. The other part wanted to scream at her to run, to find Veridian, to do literally anything except circle this camp waiting for someone to put a crossbow bolt through her wing.
His right knee gave out.
The hemp collar caught him. Choked him. His hands jerked higher up his back and this time his shoulder did pop—not dislocated, not quite, but close enough that white stars burst across his vision in the absolute dark.
He gagged. Wheezed. Got his knee back under him through sheer animal panic.
The ridges dug deeper into his legs. Felt like they were carving furrows straight to bone.
Morwenna.
He'd been praying for hours. Silent prayers at first, then whispered ones when he'd given up on dignity. Now he couldn't spare the breath.
Please. I need help. I can't—I need—
Silence.
Not the peaceful kind. Not the twilight hush of the Gloamwood where every shadow held potential. This was the silence of abandonment. Of a goddess who'd chosen him, used him, and now left him to rot in a box barely bigger than a coffin.
The hammer struck the side of the box.
BANG.
Caleb flinched. Couldn't help it. His whole body jerked against the restraints.
BANG.
Other side. Closer to his head. The wood shuddered and the vibration rattled through his skull.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
