Chapter 1
The sky smells like smoke. For once, it isn’t my fault.
I stand on the edge of a rooftop, boots balanced on crumbling tiles as the royal parade slithers through the streets below. Music howls. The crowd cheers like it’s a festival.
It makes me sick.
My hand rests on the dagger at my belt. Not tonight. I’m not here for blood. Just the map. In and out. No mistakes.
The golden carriage gleams like it’s never known dirt. Horses prance, nobles laugh, the crowd bows. That’s when I see him.
Not a prince. Not a soldier.
Just a boy.
Black curls. Brown eyes. Too ordinary—yet his stare feels like a knife. My chest twists, sharp and wrong, like he sees straight through me. A Veil? A hypnotist? Or just a noble with cursed eyes?
I blink.
Dark. Shining. Unreadable.
And for one heartbeat, I forget my mission.
I leap. Boots hit cobblestone. The bakery looms ahead—the place I once called home. Perfect. Everyone’s distracted.
“Rye!” I hiss, running to my partner.
The crowd roars, fireworks crack the sky, guards shove starving children. One boy crawls for a crust of bread. A soldier grinds his hand beneath a boot. His scream slices through the air. Rage burns me alive.
Kingdom Vaelion. A crown of gold hiding a pit of lies.
“Inside!” Rye yanks me through the bakery door.
The air tastes like memory—herbs strung on hooks, counters scorched, lavender water waiting like an offering. My hand finds the floorboard. The key still waits where I left it.
Moments later, I’m underground. Torchlight flickers against damp walls. Shadows twist like ghosts.
“You sure you’re okay?” Rye murmurs.
“Do I ever sound okay?”
He almost smiles. “You don’t have to do this alone, Ash.”
Ash. Not Ember. Not Willow. Just Ash. The name I gave myself when I stopped being someone’s daughter and became someone’s weapon.
“I do,” I whisper, ending it.
The vault looms. Three locks.
First: a pin and a curse.
Second: my branded wrist pressed to the Magicians’ seal.
Third: a whisper. The voice of the forgotten.
Click.
Scrolls and maps line the shelves. I scan, grab it. Royal wax, crimson seal. A parchment that should not exist.
A list of names.
People like me.
My pulse hammers.
Then—footsteps.
Too soft for a soldier. Too heavy for a servant.
I grip my dagger. Torchlight trembles. Shadows shift. The air grows cold, my brand flaring hot under my skin.
A figure steps into the edge of the light. A whisper escapes their lips.
Not Ember.
Not Willow.
Not Ash.
My true name.
The flame in my torch gutters—
and dies.
