The Thrones of Iron and Salt

Copyright ©️ AngilaBThorne 2026

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, other electronic methods, or translations to another language without prior written permission. This novel belongs solely to me. So don’t steal it. I work very hard on all my novels.

“Stop! Thief!”

The man’s shouts, high and frantic, were drowned out by the shouts and gasps of the cities crowd as I sprinted down the cobbled street. I banked a sharp left, plugging into the shadows of a dark alley—these cobbled veins were etched into my memory. Still running, I shoved the small, round loaf of bread and the gleaming red apple into my leather satchel.

Using a discarded wooden crate for leverage, I vaulted onto the soot-stained district wall. My fingers found purchase on a low-hanging, protruding stone. Hauling myself up, I searched desperately for the next hold on the exposed masonry. Though I could still hear the faint, receding shouts, I neared the summit. With a final surge of effort, I jolted over the top.

Now came the descent—slow, precise. Every grip and placement was measured; a single misstep here meant a fall that would, if not end me, certainly shatter me upon the stones below.

The city sounds were distant whispers now, but the scrape of my boot on stone would carry like a thunderclap in this silence. I began the descent, my movements slow, silent as moss growing on granite. I felt for the secure anchor points, trusting only the texture beneath my fingertips, determined not to trade speed for the deadly echo of a fall.

I hit the ground hard, landing flat on the soles of my boots. The shouts from the district below were instantly muted by the thickness of the stone barrier. A slow smirk spread across my face.

I reached into the satchel and retrieved the shiny red apple. A casual toss, a clean catch, and then I sank my teeth into the crisp flesh. The juice was a miracle. Two days without a proper meal made the gamble worth the risk: sneaking past the Queen’s own gates to secure these rations, even at that significant—and entirely necessary—‘discount.’

In Vaerdia, if you’re not highborn you are exiled to live what’s called The Dredge. Below the inner cities massive walls, The Dredge isn’t just a district; it’s a slow, inescapable accumulation of everything the main city rejects. It’s built on the lowest ground, where the tidal waters never fully retreat, leaving the entire area permanently saturated.

Life here is a constant negotiation with survival. People here are resourceful, hardened, and fiercely protective. They are the scavengers, the unregistered laborers, the cast outs, and those who wish to disappear from the clean eyes of the upper kingdom. I have walked these soddened streets since I was thirteen, fighting for every dawn alone.

“That’s a fine prize you hold boy. Keep a firm grip, for when a thing is that good, the wolves circle close.”

The muffled, scratchy voice came from a lean, slender man who, arms crossed, leaned against a blackened alley wall.

“Making it a habit to harass the local townsfolk, I see?” I rasped, my voice deep.

The man smirked, his lips curling with amusement. “You know, one day your luck is going to run out, Puck.”

His audacity knows no bounds. That wretched name. “My name is Kaelen. And I think they rather enjoy the distribution I bring. It’s a spark that ignites their ash-grey existence,” I said, taking another exaggerated, savoring bite. “What can I do for you, Thayer?”

Still leaning with one boot resting against the stone, Thayer pushed off slightly. “There’s another shipment tonight in the yards. I need a shadow. Pay is two Galspars.”

“Three,” I countered, my tone unvarying, “and you have a deal.”

“Fine, but be there on time, and no tricks. I mean it, Puck.” Thayer sighed, pointing a sharp finger in my direction.

My hand, still sticky with the remnants of the fruit, rested flat against my sternum. I offered a knowing, slight curve of my lips. “Me? I’m above such childish games.”

Waving a dismissive hand behind him, Thayer melted into the darkness. “Instructions will be in its usual spot. Be there at dawn.”

I crept deeper into the shadows, the air thickening with every step away from the relative cleanliness of the inner city border. This was the march home: a descent into the muck that was The Dredge.

The first assault was never visual, but the smell: a thick, rancid blanket woven from low-tide sludge, stale refuse, and the overwhelming, oily stench of spoiled fish. It coated the throat, turning every breath into a shallow, painful negotiation.

The architecture wasn’t built; it was accrued. Shacks leaned against each other like drunken giants, constructed from salt-bleached driftwood, rusted nails salvaged from shipwrecks, and timbers blackened by the perpetual damp. Beneath my holed leather worn boots, the ground less street and more sinking mire—the tidal waters never quite fully retreated, leaving the whole district permanently saturated.

The people below the wall were cut from the same hard timber as the their shelters. These were the Queen’s cast-offs: those deemed too useless, too dangerous, or too inconvenient to the polished society within the walls. Their faces were maps of hardship: etched deep by sun, wind, and perpetual hunger. There was no idle chatter here, only necessary transactions or low, guttural warnings. They moved with a weary efficiency, their eyes constantly scanning, not for opportunity, but for threats. Ruthlessness was the currency of courtesy; kindness was a debt rarely collected.

Everyone here lived under the unspoken sentence of slow decay, trapped by the high walls and the murky water. Escape was a myth whispered around weak fires, tethered only to one thing: Galspars. Enough of that cold, silvered shining metal could buy passage on one of the few outbound merchant ships that braved the coast—a ticket out of the slow drowning. Until then, they were all just waiting, clinging to their small, waterlogged territories, hoping the next high tide wouldn’t wash their shelter away entirely.

I reached the abandoned, charred hulk I called a shelter—a gutted small cottage that had once burned so fiercely it became almost structurally sound by accident. I silently slipped inside, the familiar scent of ash and mildew offering a strange comfort compared to the rot outside.

I reached into a fissure in the wall and retrieved a half-broken oil lamp. With a strike of flint, a tiny flame reluctantly caught the wick. The resulting light was pathetic, an amber dimness that illuminated just the immediate area, but it was enough.

It’s been six Lunar returns of being condemned to such a fruitless land, the space was meagerly furnished by necessity. My bed was a pile of tattered, damp dirty sheets laid directly on the rotting wood floor, its dampness mitigated only by its distance from the outer walls. Directly in front of it lay a thick, splintered wooden beam, a failed support now serving as a makeshift bench and brace.

Against the far wall stood the relic of a proper structure: a small fireplace whose stones were broken and falling away, blackened with years of sputtering, smoke-filled fires. It was barely functional, but it worked. Nearby, a single, hammered metal pot sat ready for boiling water or cooking whatever small ration I managed to acquire.

I knelt and slid my hand along a particular section of the floorboards. With a practiced tug, I lifted a square of wood, revealing my one true luxury: a hidden compartment. It was small, deep, and dry—the only reliable place to secure my single loaf of bread, a small leather pouch with a few loose Galspars, and anything else of value I might acquire. This meager inventory was the sum of my efforts, and the foundation of my continued survival.

I let out a heavy sigh, the tension of the chase finally easing in the relative safety of the husk. I untied the thin hooded cloak—once a respectable blue, now almost entirely black-spotted with accumulated grime—and draped it carefully over the foot of my makeshift sheeted-bed.

Next came the leather satchel, which I placed beside the cloak. I unlaced my inventory belt, its worn leather squeaking in protest. It held the meager necessities: a few small, stoppered vials of various powders—useful for burning, blinding, or flavoring bad stew—and then, the most precious thing I owned: my dagger.

It was a small, double-edged blade, intricately etched along its length. The grip was wrapped in black leather, contrasting sharply with the beautifully casted golden cross-guard and pommel, shaped like some deep-sea beast—a creature that lived so deep down no one alive had ever seen it emerge. Of course, I had soiled it, coating the gold and steel in a thick mix of charcoal and rendered sea-beast fat to hide its true, immaculate beauty. Having something this fine here in The Dredge was asking for trouble and questions I would never answer.

This dagger was the last tangible thing I had left of my father, of my old life. He gifted it to me on my tenth birthday, and it hasn’t left my side since. I carefully wiped the surface grime from the handle, feeling the familiar, cold weight of the gold beneath the charcoal disguise. It was both a promise, and a burden.

The stolen apple, finally devoured, did little to fill the void of two days’ hunger, but the quick burst of sugar settled me enough to sink onto the dirty sheets. I allowed myself fifteen minutes—no more—to simply rest, watching the flickering oil lamp cast monstrous shadows across the charred walls. The reprieve was brief, a luxury The Dredge rarely permitted.

Survival was a full-time job here, and I was an expert. I didn’t just survive; I hired out my skills. I was an exceptional sneak and a proficient thief, a specialist in getting in and out unseen. My real talent, however, lay in sleight-of-hand—a rapid, deceiving finesse that could empty a pocket or plant a message before the mark even registered a breeze.

My current arrangement with Thayer was a consequence of that very talent. Ofter only being in this dreaded land for one Lunar cycle, I was still new to the worst kind of desperation, I had tried to lift a pouch from Thayer. I got caught. In this blackened city, the punishment for thievery was often swift and permanent, but instead of taking my hands, Thayer had offered a choice: indebted service.

For over two Lunar cycles, I served Thayer, taking every job without question until the vague, escalating debt was finally settled. Now, things were different. I was paid, and I could choose which risks were worth the Galspars. Thayer’s work was dangerous, but it was reliable coin. Tonight’s job promised three Galspars—enough to buy better food, provisions, and perhaps even a new pair of boots to keep the mire out.

The fifteen minutes were up. I wrapped the dagger back into my inventory belt, secured my powders, and slipped my cloak over my thin shoulders. I extinguished the lamp, plunging the husk back into total darkness. Another day in the Dredge, and another day risking everything for survival.