Prologue
The City of Verandia was rotting.
For the past two years, the great Emperor of Titus has brought his war machines and laid siege to Verandia. The Emperor himself had declared that Verandia had made itself an enemy of the empire by refusing to send its princess in marriage to his son as a treaty. What came back was a knife of an insult. King
So, therefore, the Emperor had barred the city and stopped anyone from going in or out. Verandia was at war with one of the mightiest kingdoms on the continent. And they knew there would be no salvation from the might of Titus.
As days turned into weeks, starvation was rife. Dung of pigeons sold for twelve silvers in the market. Some women resorted to boiling and eating their children. Others simply starved. Gravediggers carted bodies every day that had fallen in the earlier days, to the dung hill on the far eastern hill, piling them high. Soon, the hot blistering summer winds turned the corpses into bloated, rotting carcasses, stinking of plague and revoltion over the city. Hundreds turned into thousands.
Infection set in. Flies came in black clouds, drawn to the promise of feasts. The wells were next. Rain washed the rot downhill—liquefied flesh, purge, blood thinned by all the power of the God of Pestilence—and carried it into cisterns leading to fountains. The water grew cloudy, then bitter. Still, they drank it. Children fell ill first, their small bodies unable to hold back the flood of fever and vomiting. Mothers followed, too weak to rise from beds damp with sweat and malnutrition. Those fool-headed priests muttered blessings over them and wiped their hands on their robes, praying fervently.
A fool’s work for something rife that had too deeply set in.
Some people, in despair, ran screaming through the streets, demanding the king grant them justice from Titus. Their coward of a king had hidden himself away in his crumbling palace. Rebels had broken through the palace gates and gutted most of the cattle and sheep. Fights broke out over a piece of heart or a whole leg.
Rage brewed, and with rage came murder. Hungry robbers fell upon houses, murdering anyone who stood in their way. Any hoarded food was ripped from hands, and they left trails of blood streaming. Warring factions of syndicates fought over sections of the city. Their king was no more. Sin had turned bloated. The citizens feared the robbers more than the impending army.
Driven to desperation, some of the people had managed to sneak past the faction’s guards patrolling the city and surrendered themselves to Titus. Better be a fed slave with food in your belly than an arrogant ingrate with swollen pride. When this was discovered, the rebel leaders demanded a demonstration. They rounded up seventeen families and sliced them into bloody pieces, those who were suspected of gold they had supposedly swallowed. They bricked up any escape routes, and the remainder of the hopeful, perished.
It was, a war to destruction.
Behind the Emperor came five hundred thousand legionnaires, ready to gut the city. Some of the captains had managed to storm the Northern tower and murder zealot guards inside it in order to bring order back. It was the main gate to the portcullises and postern doors. In a storm, they managed to take the Old Quarter, locking in their position to take the City.
The warring factions did not unite for a single cause against their enemy. Swollen with their pride, they refused to set aside their petty rivalries, and tens of thousands of desperate rebels died under the sword of Titus.
*************
But all was not lost...
Together with thirty fellow citizens, Raea had barricaded herself in the palace dungeons.
Merri stirred against the burlap sacks they used as sleeping blankets. “Raea...? Are you still breathing?”
Given the rasping, heaving, cloying silence around her, she was frightened that her sister had relapsed. Two others had already died in the three days. To avoid plague from spreading, the strongest men had pushed the bodies through the sewers that led in a steep fall down the wall of the palace.
Darkness stirred. For days, they had not seen daylight. What little food they had squirrelled away was painfully shared among the twenty-eight remainders. Merri’s joints had turned to lead after the painful sleeping position she’d been in.
“Raea!” Her voice came desperate. “Talk to me!”
Someone stroked her coarse hair. “Hush!”
Merri knew she’d better shut up. Irritable women had kicked those who started to cry, and they knew they were dangerously close to a fight breaking out. The men had managed to keep their hands to themselves and overcome their lusts. Screaming would do all of them no good to alert the robbers. They had all seen too many unjust trials.
“Quiet.” Another rasp came. Merri jerked as a hand brushed her waves. She felt another blissfully warm body wiggle beside her. Relief rushed through her, and she wrapped her thin arms around Raea.Thank the Gods.
Raea smiled wistfully, tenderly stroking Merri’s hair. The Gods had certainly not been kind to them. For when the world began, there was nothing.
No sky to bruise with dawn.
No earth to cradle so much blood.
No screaming, no time, no hunger, no name.
There was only God—vast beyond imagination, awake within the dark.
And the dark was evil, and empty in the way mortals would later fear.
God moved within that void, not with footsteps or wings, and spoke gently.Let there be light.
All at once, the darkness split open like a great sea heaving back and making way for a blade of golden light, drawn from nothingness, brilliant and blinding, raw as a newborn star. So the darkness came to be divided, with day and night.
From thislight, He gathered it all into a great sun, fierce and burning, a crown of fire to rule the day. From gentler fragments, He formed the moon, pale and watchful, to govern the night.
With a mighty hand, He swept the stars, so they scattered like contents of a precious treasure, to be sewn into the heavens, each one a promise, each one a witness.
Thus, God created the world in six days. And he rested on the seventh day, and was refreshed.
Evermore, the heavens turned in perfect measure, like the hands of a clock. The sun rose and fell as commanded. The moon drifted through its silver vigil. The stars burned quietly, content to watch rather than speak. Earth breathed—wind through leaves, water over stone, life multiplying in soft, relentless abundance.
And still, the light always chased the darkness. Kissing it here and there playfully, and the darkness burned with a great vengeance, watching all joy closely.
For this was not the end of the beginning.
And in its beginning of wrath, it finallystirred.
Heaved. Dragged. Pulled away from the farthest reaches, and began to slither beneath the waters of the abyss, pouring its old tongue into the caverns. Words became language. Language older than any tongue. Tongues became movement...and due all in its time, a fist appeared out of that hunger.
A deep, ravenous hunger, and the first of the shadowed beings tore themselves free.
Hunger gnawed at all their bellies.
Raea’s stomach was a swollen ball, along with many others. Their limbs had turned to scarecrows, and their eyes bulged out of their skulls. Hair had been sawn off to stuff into sacks to make pillows. Only Raea had refused to cut off her crowning glory. Merri kept hers bundled up in a net. These two had allowed themselves to sleep without the comfort of a pillow.
Some of the men had been so hungry they almost wanted to eat the children. Mothers threatened to claw their eyes out. But it was true, the babies suffered from severe malnutrition, and it was sooner or later, before death would pass.
Beauty had waned long ago. The murderous rebels had used the best women for pleasure. Some of them had been killed in the process of the lust. Others called the women sleeping in the bed of the rebels “harlots” for giving their bodies over for a hunk of bread. Bread was bread. Another day fed was another day you’d live.
Raea had often been asked if she was descended from the Nephilim.
The Nephilim had been born of unity of sinful women of the earth and the mocked Fallen angels whom God had cast down in defiance against his divine authority. For her beauty was one-of-a-kind. It was singular, arresting, the sort that made strangers falter mid-sentence and forget why they had been looking at her at all. Her eyes were the most damning proof. They were too old. Toogold.
And still, the darkness had not finished with the light of the world.
Bitter remnants, unspoken castoffs, enmities without form, came all together to be woven.
Jealousy—born from watching light be chosen.
Wrath—from being commanded to yield.
Rage—from knowing it would never be loved.
Envy—from seeing mortals made in the image denied to it.
Within the shadow, something began to weave.
Not spoken into being—butknottedtogether. Not breathed into life—butscrapedfrom feeling.
Bone without mercy.
Flesh without warmth.
Eyes made only to covet.
Stepping into legend, even greater than the Fae nor its counterparts of the Nephilim, came a being so great that its powers allow it to eat life itself.
Some believed Titus wielded this with great muster, reining in the death blow to Verandia.
A few gaunt-faced woman rocked their babies wrapped in rags. Some of the burly men had grumbled at what use was keeping infants here? Their hungry screams rouse the palace, and their mothers’ milk had dried up long ago.
Raea shuffled to Merri’s rough pallet. All they could do was fall into a listless sleep, to forget the pain of slow starvation. In all the commotion of this screaming hurricane racing to the corners of the world, she had managed, through the pandemonium of those wishing to escape the city or rebel hands, houses burning, the streets running red with blood, and the traitorous syndicates massacring her people, to save some of her kin.
There was no surviving this whole.
Two long years ago, what seemed to be a lifetime, theagorahad been filled with merchants, booths open to anyone who had plenty of coin to spend. Merchandise had been displayed everywhere like a treasure chest as the stallholders had shouted.
“Milk, curds, whey!”
“Sweet figs! Figs, figs, figs! Fresh, sweet figs!”
Baskets of various fruit, vegetables, olives, and spices were spread on a carpet. Tempting smells of cinnamon, vanilla and herbs wafted from either syrup cakes or grilled lamb skewers served with a mint yoghurt. What Raea wouldn’t give for a bite!
Women had brought sacks of wheat, which had been harvested from the Valley of Gold and used for the lightest pastry and cakes. Boys heaving baskets of fresh, salted fish onto their shoulders had been sent out from the fish booths to lure customers. Fine linens and wool had been hung on racks beside the weaver. He’d charged a sizeable amount for whole pelts of wolf and bear.
Between the wine-seller and the banker, Raea had been searching for Merri.
Merri had driven herself under a set of racks holding wineskins. The smell had been frightfully odorous as she peeked out. The wine-seller booth had been surrounded by sealed gray urns of wine. The proprietor had ladled samples into clay goblets for his customers to taste. His wine ranged from the scorching Thorn Mountains across the expanse of the Black Sea.
A bald man paid silver coins for the heady, bitter wine, and the wine-seller had counted the money before he gave the amphora. The wine-skins remained untouched.
Merri had smiled and squirmed deeper under the rack, so her body was hidden. No one would find her.
Ajingleof a purse and splashing of silver on a table had made her head snap around in fright. It was the banker. In his hand, he’d held a set of golden weighing scales to which he added lead weights. Verandia’s currency was of gold ingots. To change the gold into smaller coinage, they would have to change their bars to silver coins—drachmas.
Merri had watched as the banker added a pile of silver to the scales until it levelled to the exact weight of the gold. He’d written something on a sheet of parchment before sliding the coins into a pouch and holding it out to the customer.
Suddenly, Merri had been yanked by her ankles and had found herself dangling like a limp puppet in the air. She’d screamed, her arms flapping wildly.
“Found you. I win!” An upside-down canine grin had bared at Merri.
She’d scowled and crossed her arms. “No fair.No fair!"
Raea had set down her little sister. “You’re too easy to find. Think higher in thestoa, or in the shadows.”
Merri had sulked. “How did you find me?” She’d stamped her little foot indignantly.
“Your legs stuck out.”
“I can’t win!” she’d whined. “Thestoais too high!”
The marketplace had been set inside a massive cavern. The soaring cavern of pale rust was supported by Roman pillars calledstoa.
“Remember it for next time.” She had winked at Merri. “Come, I’ll treat you to some dates. Mama’s at the jewellers.”
Merri’s sulks had disappeared in an instant. She squeezed her big sister’s hand as they’d weaved through the bustling crowds. Raea had smiled down at her sister. Unlike her, Merri had been eight moons with an attitude all wrapped in a fine wool whitetoga.Intricately woven bands of gold were clinking on her chubby arms, striking against their matching onyx long hair.
Their older brother, Elon, had been jealous because all his family had black hair. Only he had red hair, read as a scorching fire with hints of brown, copper, and gold. Some family members had asked if the firstborn had really been their mother’s.
Her mother had believed Elon was a pureborn just as her daughters were—undeniably, irrevocably so. He bore the same proof written into the flesh: Star-shaped birthmarks, dark as silver spilt on the skin, as if the heavens themselves had pressed a thumb there and never lifted it away. As he, like all in his family, had the silver-dipped star birthmark. A flesh-in-blood family.
At night, when the house had fallen quiet and the world beyond their windows had seemed to hold its breath, their mother would come to them with stories spoken in whispers. She had told them the mark meant they were chosen—not by kings or gods, but by something older still. That it bound them to one another in ways the world could not unmake. That even if names were changed, even if borders fell, the star and the crescent would remain, proof of who they were and where they came from.
It had been deemed a curse many a time for her.
Merri was swamped by Raea’s cloak as she’d reached down and plucked her up onto her shoulders. “Keep up, little sister!”
Merri had squealed in delight and clung to Raea’s neck.
She had swerved around two women draped instolasfastened at the shoulder with brooches. Young children played with steel hoops, chasing them with hooked rods. Slaves made way as they had reached the fruit stall.
“Some dates for the little princess?” the owner had beamed. He dipped the scoop into the sack and filled a shallow basket with dates. He had lifted them to Merri. She squeezed out the pits between finger and thumb and chewed the sweet, ooey-gooey fruit. Raea paid him.
“Many thanks.” He bowed low.
Raea had carried Merri around the booths until they reached the jeweller’s booth, which was heavily guarded. Two soldiers stood on watch, their hawk eyes narrowed. They wore rough-spun pants underneath soft-plated armour. Their only weapons had been curved scimitars. They bowed curtly as Raea had stepped closer to the booth.
On the table had been a pair of bracelets set with bloody rubies. It had caught the eyes of envious women. Those with expert eyes could approximately bet that the bracelets weighed ten pounds in all. The rubies had been worth two thousanddrachmas.
Her mother had appeared. Her servant-girl was carrying several packages, keeping pace of two feet within her mistress. Her copper eyes had gazed over the jewellery of exquisite necklaces, rings, arm clasps, and brooches.
Sillas had been helping a high-born by opening a brass chest and lifting out a wooden tray. Crystals set in fine gold and silver had been nestled in the cloth. There were three necklaces and a brooch of fine agate. The noblewoman had picked it up, heavy in her hands, the pendant set with an oval-cut gem. ”Beautiful,” she’d whispered.
Sillas had smiled.
“How much?”
“For you? Four thousanddrachmas.”
Raea had sucked in her teeth. These were far too dear for their budget.
At most, peasants could only afford meat twice a year. Nettles were grown in the lowest reaches of the city, and were harvested to stew and eaten with chewy flatbread and boiled eggs. Raea’s family had lived under the roof of her grandmother’s house, a modest stone dwelling tucked between two taller merchant homes, its windows small but whole, its hearth always lit. It had been her grandmother’s pride, a building of their grandfather’s own hands.
They had been sheltered there. Safe. Warm in winter. But they were still their grandmother’s charity since their father had left them. Raea and all her siblings had to earn their keep every day. They had to rise at the crack of dawn to fetch food from the lower markets, hauling baskets heavy with lentils, grain, and butcher cuts up narrow streets. Scrub floors, fold linen, and run endless errands—fetching water, mending dresses, carrying messages—until their legs had trembled with it. There was no room for idleness in that house, no allowance for softness.
Still, it was nothing compared to the poor.
Raea knew this. She had seen it. Smelled it. Felt the shameful relief of walking back uphill at the end of the day. The peasants lived below the terraces, where the city dipped and darkened, where sewage pooled, and roofs sagged like tired shoulders.
And now? How were they any different?
How long ago were all those sounds! Delight, chatter, battering, deals struck. All reduced to ruin and misery.
Until the sounds of screaming from the farthest corner of the marketplace had been of a beggar screaming at the Macedonians were here. ”War! We’re at war!"
In here, the dungeons were like ice. Moisture slid down stone walls in slow, patient dollops. Barrelling winds from the tower windows stung like teeth. Somewhere water dripped—once, twice, again—each sound magnified until it felt like a shout. Footsteps clattered. Outside of the bars.
At first, they thought it was imagination. Fear made ghosts of every echo. A drip of water sounded like boots.
Clattering, frantic.
Stifled gasps were quickly smothered. Raea clamped a hand over an infant’s mouth to reduce the sobbing. She tucked the sharp piece of pottery behind her back.
A man near the front of the barricade squeezed his eyes shut. His lips trembled. He looked as though he might bolt, might scream, might do anything at all—
Something scraped—fingers, perhaps, brushing over wood.
Something dropped—a ring, maybe—and the tiny clink against stone sounded like a scream. Every head snapped toward it, faces white, every mouth going silent, pressing against their ears, their throats, their chests.
The makeshift knife cut into her palm. Her other hand flew to her chest. The air around her seemed to collapse. She couldn’t breathe.
“No,” she whispered. “Please, no.”
Stumbling chains. A sound rose and twisted through the air, echoing off the narrow stone corridors, growing nearer and nearer until Raea could feel them tremble in her ribs.
It wasn’t the sycophants.
It was him.
