Chapter 1 - The Dead Man’s Doorstep
The first thing Eris Vale noticed was the blood.
It trailed through the snow like a ribbon of rust, splashed across the pine needles and frozen bramble that edged her clearing. The scent hit her next—iron, sharp and wild, already tainting the night air. Something had bled a long way to die here.
She sighed, adjusting the shawl around her shoulders. Of course. The one night she actually had tea steeping.
A raven perched in the crooked birch tree above her gave a soft, knowing krak.
“I see it,” she muttered, stepping forward. “And no, I don’t want to help.”
The body lay at the edge of her wards, just close enough for her to smell the death on it, just far enough to not technically count as “on her property.” She eyed the flickering sigils in the snow, carved carefully into bones and buried under moss and quartz. Her wards pulsed dimly, holding steady. Whatever this was, it hadn’t breached them.
Yet.
The man had collapsed face-down, one arm twisted beneath him, the other still clenched around something in his fist. His cloak, once a noble’s green, now soaked and black with blood, was torn down the back. Claw marks. Wolves? Bandits?
No. She squatted beside him and sniffed the air again.
Poison. And something fouler still.
She reached out and the wards shivered. Not with fear. With recognition.
The object in his hand called to her.
Cautious, Eris rolled the body over, brushing snow and blood aside. His face was older than she expected—lined with exhaustion and streaked with ash, the kind of wear that comes from years of running and too many betrayals. His chest still rose, shallow and fast. Not dead yet. But close..
Then she saw the weapon.
It wasn’t a blade so much as a relic about the length of her forearm, the hilt carved from ivory bone etched with ancient runes that pulsed a sickly green. The kind of artifact she’d spent a decade trying to forget.
Soulbound. Forbidden.
Eris took a slow breath, steam rising from her lips. “Oh no. No no no. You brought that here?”
The man’s eyes snapped open.
Green. Fever bright. Bloodshot.
“You… Bonebinder?” he croaked.
“That’s not a name I answer to,” she said coolly, already considering whether she had time to incinerate both him and the dagger before anything woke up beneath the soil.
“You must… take it,” he rasped, forcing the hilt toward her with trembling fingers. “Vow… vow to”
Eris backed up a step. “Absolutely not.”
“Truth… buried… in the bones…”
And with that, he sagged. The last of his breath left him in a rasp, and his hand fell open.
The dagger rolled to her feet.
The air went still.
No birds. No wind. Even the trees seemed to hold their breath.
Eris stared at it.
She should leave it there. She wanted to leave it there.
But her fingers moved anyway, reaching down gods curse her—and curling around the bone hilt.
The moment her skin touched it, magic flared. Cold and sharp as a grave nail, it surged up her arm and wrapped itself around her spine. The forest shivered.
And then-
“Took you long enough.”
The voice didn’t come from the clearing.
It came from inside her mind.
Eris swore, dropped the dagger, and took three quick steps back. But the voice remained dry, amused, with the arrogant tone of someone who’d never been told no.
“I’ve been stuck in that blade for two godsdamned weeks. Is this what passes for rescue these days?”
She groaned. “Fantastic. A cursed soul with an attitude.”
“Prince Auren of House Calendre, at your service.”
Eris closed her eyes and muttered a very old, very rude word.
Tonight, apparently, the gods had decided she was entertaining again.
