Harken was a career soldier — twenty-two years in the Iron Company, the most reliable mercenary outfit east of the Spine Mountains. Reliable didn't mean lucky. At the Battle of Ashford Crossing, a demon-blooded ogre put a morningstar through Harken's chest. He should have died in the mud with the rest of his squad. Instead, he heard a voice — smooth, amused, and very, very close — asking if he'd like to live. He said yes. He didn't ask the price. The wound closed. The ogre burst into flames. Harken walked off the battlefield alone, with a scar that pulses when he lies and a patron who communicates through nightmares and helpful suggestions. The voice calls itself Malachar and claims to be a minor fiend of no consequence. Harken doesn't believe that for a second. But the power is real, the healing is real, and the favors Malachar asks are getting harder to justify.