Chapter 1
Prologue
The frost burned her fingers, biting at nerves already laid bare. Somewhere deep within, Nova had come to terms with any outcome this evening might bring. She had foretold such a fate for herself from the very moment she heard Alaric’s command. She wondered if he had already known then that he was condemning her to certain death.
Her thoughts were broken by Anna’s creaking voice:
— The snow’s fallen heavy today, my dear, piled up something fierce.
Nova merely gave a quiet huff in reply. There was something almost absurd in the way the woman who was leading her to her death tried to soften the moment with idle chatter, as though they were out for a walk, not on their way to the scaffold.
— You’re the first to take your fate so calmly, my dear. Usually there’s such screaming here, oh…
Irritation began to rise inside the girl, but Anna seemed in no hurry to stop:
— And when will it all end, when will she finally be sated, — the old woman muttered.
Nova held herself back with all her strength, fighting the urge to snap at her. She tried to focus instead on the crunch of snow beneath their feet, marking each step. It didn’t help.
The tension tightened, the air seemed to thin, her heart quickened. Her hands betrayed her, trembling, revealing what she truly felt. And suddenly, in her mind, there surfaced a childhood lullaby her mother had always sung in moments of fear and pain. Words learned by heart in early childhood. Words that, even now, helped her withstand panic and nightmares:
Twinkle, twinkle, little star,
How I wonder what you are!
Up above the world so high,
Like a diamond in the sky.
When the blazing sun is gone,
When he nothing shines upon,
Then you show your little light,
Twinkle, twinkle, all the night.
Then the traveller in the dark
Thanks you for your tiny spark;
He could not see which way to go,
If you did not twinkle so.
In the dark blue sky you keep,
And often through my curtains peep;
For you never shut your eye,
Till the sun is in the sky.
And your bright and tiny spark
Lights the traveller in the dark.
Though I know not what you are,
Twinkle, twinkle, little star.
Her lips moved soundlessly, imprinting the words upon the air like a prayer sent to an unseen God…
She didn’t notice when Anna stopped short, and nearly walked straight into her.
— We’re here.
Nova lifted her head. Before her stood a typical hut for this village, warm light seeping through its windows. The door opened, and a young woman Nova had never seen before appeared in the doorway. She cast a somber, intent look at Nova, then turned her gaze to Anna and said:
— Everything’s ready. We can begin.
— Thank you, Sofya. We’ll be done by dusk, God willing.
The girl’s lips twisted in reply. Before turning back into the hut, she threw over her shoulder:
— God left this place long ago, Anna. You of all people should know that.
Chapter 1
Headquarters of the Conclave of Breakthrough.
Her finger traced the rough surface of the page, trying to outline every letter she read. Her thoughts scattered, colliding chaotically in an effort to form a connection. The sense that an answer was close made her heart race, driving her blood with doubled force. Just a little more, and—
— Sloane! — Adviser Marlowe’s sharp exclamation made the girl flinch and tear herself away from the book.
— Good afternoon, Alaric.
His attentive gaze swept over her surroundings in its habitual way before settling on the folio. Nova snapped it shut at once, unwilling to let anyone pry into her interests.
— My office. Now. — The harsh tone that had accompanied every word Marlowe had spoken throughout the war had become all too familiar. It no longer startled or frightened — it provoked a dull, grinding irritation. The urge to argue hovered like an annoying fly, buzzing at the edge of her restraint, tempting her toward a foolish retort. She brushed it aside, clenched her teeth, and gave a silent nod.
It was easier that way. To bury her pride deep and accept that Alaric would never change. To him, they were still the same recruits, unable to still their trembling during their first battles against the other conclaves. With one correction: two years had passed since their selection; they had grown older, and attacks, battles, and funerals had become far more familiar than before.
In those years, Nova had distinguished herself more brightly than any of her peers, proving time and again the strength of her magic and her analytical mind. It had come as no surprise, then, when a few months earlier she had begun to be drawn into the Conclave’s organizational affairs. Usually this meant paperwork, sorting reports, or distributing provisions, but she could recall three distinct occasions when she had been allowed to voice her opinion on their plans. It sounded absurd, yet she took pride in it — for no other young mage had been permitted so close to governance.
The leadership office of the Conclave of Breakthrough occupied the former apartments of the patriarch of the once-respected Ashford family, who had perished with his entire household at the outbreak of the war. Of the original furnishings, only an ornate Victorian desk of blackwood remained. The rest of the room was crammed with hastily assembled shelves, forming an improvised archive of the war’s accumulated records. Dossiers on every known enemy, on every member of the Conclave; information on battles; tallies of the dead; plans, strategies, reports — all of it was stored here. That was why access to this sanctum felt like a true distinction, one that Sloane had earned.
After uttering the new password, Marlowe shuffled inside without so much as letting the girl trailing behind him go first. Yet the absence of gentlemanly manners among the men of their order hardly seemed worth noting in the current reality. The moment Nova crossed the threshold, the door shut behind her. The stale air, heavy with dust and old parchment, struck her senses.
Marlowe went to the window and yanked aside the heavy curtain, letting in sunlight — and at least a breath of fresh air slipping through the cracks in the warped frames.
On days when Nova sorted through the archives alone, with the senior members of the resistance absent, she allowed herself to break the unspoken rule and carefully open the window, letting sunlight and the chill of the outside seep into the dreary room. It was the only way to keep from losing her mind in an atmosphere that could not be called comfortable, even by the most generous stretch.
Alaric, meanwhile, sat at the desk and began rummaging through a drawer.
— Sit down already, Sloane, — he snapped irritably, not pausing in his search.
— Yes, of course…
She pulled out the makeshift visitor’s chair they had dragged in from the dining hall and sat, folding her hands on her knees, trying to still the faint tremor of impatience. Back in the common room, the nearly formed thought awaited her — he one that might help in the search for a new experimental form of combining magical matter. Wasting precious time on another supply distribution was the last thing she wanted.
Yet Marlowe managed to surprise her. After a minute, he found what he was looking for and set a thick black folder on the desk. It bore a single word: Morana.
The gears in Nova’s mind spun faster. She tried to recall where she had heard the name, but nothing surfaced.
— I doubt you know anything about this, — Alaric interrupted. — Here — he tapped the folder sharply, making her flinch — is everything we currently know. You’ll study it, because as of this moment, I’m assigning you to this task.
— What exactly do you need me to do? — Sloane asked, suppressing the tremor in her voice.
— You’re to travel to the Russian North. As far as we’ve determined, on an island there lives a woman calling herself Morana — a Slavic goddess of death. According to our information, she has devised a ritual that grants not only immortality to a mage, but also binds to them an entity capable of fighting. You understand how tempting that prospect is for every Conclave. They won’t stop until they have it. Our task is to prevent that — at any cost. At any cost, do you hear me, Sloane?
— Yes, — she answered. She was almost proud of the firmness in her voice, even as a knot of anxiety, doubt, and nausea coiled within her.
— The Ravens found Morana first and sent Daren Thorne to obtain either the witch herself or a full account of the ritual. As you know, he’s still playing both sides, so at present we possess equal intelligence — everything that boy has gathered. He’s meant to come under our control once a certain condition is met, but there’s been a complication. I need you to go there and oversee the entire process. Gain his trust. Slow the flow of information to the Ravens — within reason. And if necessary… neutralize him. He hasn’t sent us any new reports in weeks, so I decided it was time to send someone of our own.
The thought of killing — even a sworn enemy — filled her with dread. Yet the prospect of having to work alongside him frightened her just as much.
— It’s vital that, regardless of what happens to Thorne, we obtain knowledge of the ritual — and that it doesn’t reach the other Conclaves. But Sloane — he fixed her with a pointed look — shove your ego aside and be clever. Make the boy your ally, not another problem.
Nova forced herself to ignore the implication in his words. Clearing her throat, she shifted the subject.
— What condition did Thorne set?
Marlowe sighed heavily.
— His mother. We’re to extract her from their headquarters and hide her somewhere safe. Not exactly simple, given that the entire Raven leadership seems to have taken up residence in that house. We can’t risk sending anyone there now — it would be certain death. And I’m not convinced the Thornes are worth it. But we’re waiting for the right moment. In the meantime — he pointed at her — you’ll ensure the island mission is completed in our favor.
It felt like yet another slab of concrete laid upon her shoulders. The burden of magical experiments — and their victims — already pressed heavily enough, waking her night after night in cold sweat.
And now it was happening again: another weight placed upon her fragile, youthful shoulders, with no possibility of refusal. Only this time, instead of trusted friends, she would have beside her the very person who had tormented her throughout their years at the Academy. The prospect, to put it mildly, did not appeal.
For a fleeting moment, she longed for a dull archival task and the safety of her room.
But the importance of the mission left no room for retreat.
Taking the folder, Nova moved toward the door. Just before leaving, she turned.
— Why me? I’m currently assigned to the Stabilizers.
Alaric shook his head, though his reply came unexpectedly calm, even tired.
— This matters more than experiments, Sloane. If the Ravens get that knowledge, we have no chance.
She nodded and stepped out, leaving her doubts behind.
Instead of returning to her comrades, she went straight to her room. Three quick steps, the door slammed — and she slid to the floor, back against the wall, struggling to steady her breathing. Humming the lullaby her mother once used to soothe her, she slowly returned to herself.
Seven months had passed since the last major battle between the Conclaves, and there had been no progress. Resources were exhausted, countless mages dead, and the leadership had tacitly agreed to a temporary pause in search of new paths to victory.
The Conclave of Breakthrough, to which Nova belonged, championed hybrid magic. They had spent the time experimenting with combinations of magical traditions, striving to stabilize them. Their aim — to seize control of the future of magic, free from the constraints of old practices — had once inspired her deeply.
Reality had proved harsher. Her abilities were valued — but mostly for generating ideas, while her warnings about instability were ignored. The early failures had shattered her. Experiments gone wrong, mages maimed, young recruits reduced to smoldering bodies — their screams haunted her dreams.
In time, her heart grew a thin crust of ice, deflecting pain. Yet beneath it, the gnawing anxiety remained.
Without realizing it, she withdrew from everyone. And when the war paused, she felt a quiet, guilty relief.
And now, sitting in her room, she understood: the day had come. The tension, paired with fear, had followed her inside.
And she herself had brought it there.
For the next several hours, Nova immersed herself in the data Marlowe had given her. As usual, the folder contained a mass of unsorted information. The first thing she did was divide it into main sections:
Location.
A description of the village, the climate, and information on how to reach the island.
People.
Language, local traditions, and significant historical details.
Morana.
A dossier: background, appearance, presumed strengths, personality traits.
List of necessary items and spells.
Spells to be learned before departure. Among them, Nova immediately noted a spell for automatic translation of speech into another language — extremely useful, considering she had no time to learn Russian.
Nova’s cover story.
A narrative she would have to know perfectly in order to convince the locals to let her onto the island.
For a moment, she thought it might be wise to add a sixth section — one devoted to Daren. Because knowing that he was an insufferable, arrogant bastard would hardly be enough to earn his trust.
With a heavy sigh, she turned to the third section, detailing Morana.
Several letters were attached to the dossier, written in a suspiciously familiar hand. Thorne, she thought at once. The letters were concise — dry, factual, stripped of any greetings or unnecessary detail.
From them, she learned of Morana’s volatile temperament, her narcissistic tendencies, her cruelty, and Daren’s assumption regarding her weakness — a damaged right hand. The dossier also revealed that the “goddess’s” true name was Tamara. How she had come to occupy her current position remained a mystery. What was clear, however, was that the island’s inhabitants worshipped her and obeyed her commands. In return, they supposedly received protection and aid.
In truth, Tamara was a mage who had disregarded the boundary between worlds, manipulating ordinary people like puppets. Once a year, she demanded a ritual sacrifice, which the Conclave believed to be linked to her immortality. It was the nature of this ritual that Nova had been sent to uncover. The only certainty was that Morana chose her victims personally, and that the ritual was connected to water.
According to the cover story, Nova had seen Morana in a dream — had heard her call. After long hesitation, she had set out in search of the goddess. That call had led her to the island.
The Conclave was counting on Morana’s curiosity being piqued by the arrival of a new villager with such an unusual story, allowing Nova to draw close enough to gather the necessary information.
Special emphasis was placed on feeding Morana’s narcissism—on admiration, carefully given, to lull her vigilance. It was clear that the leadership of Breakthrough had relied heavily on the psychological profile provided in Thorne’s letters.
Nova herself was to be an orphan, working as a translator—thus explaining her knowledge of Russian — and fascinated by Slavic mythology.
The cover struck her as painfully weak. A witch who held an entire island in fear could hardly be foolish enough not to notice that two outsiders from England had arrived in succession. Something more convincing would have to be devised. But that could wait. For now, it was more important to study what Thorne had already uncovered.
Sloane skimmed through the section on traditions, making a mental note to bring along a few books on paganism — if any could be found in the only library available to her.
Returning to the first section, she shivered. The island lay in the Russian North. Winter raged there now, and the thought of such harsh conditions stirred a quiet aversion. It was not that she was delicate — but years of field operations had taught her to appreciate the comfort of a heated headquarters.
From the same section, she learned that her departure was scheduled for dawn in two days. A portal would bring her close to the island, though its exact location remained unknown. She would have to navigate the rest herself—a prospect that immediately set her mind racing through less than pleasant possibilities.
The materials also mentioned a man named Alexei, a fisherman who maintained contact with the island. He could be found at the pier in the mornings.
Brilliant. She would be wandering through some half-abandoned Russian town in search of a man she had never seen.
After reviewing the remaining contents, Nova glanced at the clock. She had missed dinner, but there was still time before lights-out to attend an impromptu farewell with her companions.
Drawing a steady breath, she rose and opened the door.
The common room was as noisy as ever in the evenings, when the inhabitants of the headquarters gathered to talk or distract themselves from reality. Nova joined them only rarely — and always paid for it later with headaches and restless dreams. It was as if her mind treated social interaction as an overload.
The first to notice her was her best friend, Marcus. His lips curved into a warm, disarming smile, and something in Nova’s chest softened. Despite the shadows of exhaustion etched into his features, he still looked remarkably well — for someone who had survived at least fifteen major battles.
— Nova, come join us! Rowan says you’re off for training—we ought to celebrate!
— Training? — she echoed, surprised.
For a brief moment, Marcus faltered, then recovered with a grin and a teasing wag of his finger.
— No secrets, Nova. Rumors spread faster here than in the girls’ dorms back at the Academy.
Footsteps sounded behind her. Thalia swept past, pressing a bottle of ale into Nova’s hand before dropping onto the sofa beside Marcus. She uncorked her own and took a long drink.
— I heard you’re going to study healing magic. I’m almost jealous. You’ll teach me something when you get back?
— Of course, — Sloane replied absently.
From their conversation, she pieced together the official story: she had been sent away to study healing, both to apply it to experiments and to aid in battle when needed. It explained her prolonged absence — and the lack of communication, blamed on the risk of intercepted messages. Clearly, Alaric himself had set the rumor in motion.
Marcus even seemed pleased for her. Healing had always been her dream — after the war.
If there was an after.
Settling into a chair opposite her friends, Nova tried to relax, sipping the ale slowly, committing its taste to memory. She was not particularly fond of it, but it was tied to warm memories — carefree evenings at the Academy, laughter, friendship.
Would Marlowe notice if she took a couple of bottles? She could always adjust the report…
— Nova, are you busy?
Leon’s voice pulled her from her thoughts. Their relationship hovered somewhere between friendship and something more.
He looked visibly nervous — his neck blotched red, his gaze darting anywhere but at her.
— Not at all, — she said gently. — Want to sit?
— Actually… I wanted to talk. If you don’t mind.
Nova frowned slightly, then nodded.
— Of course. We can go to my room — I wasn’t planning to stay long anyway.
— If that’s okay…
— It is.
Leaving her unfinished drink behind, she rose and headed for the stairs. As she passed Marcus, she ruffled his already chaotic hair, earning a laugh and another smile. He raised an eyebrow at Leon trailing after her but said nothing.
They walked in silence. Leon’s tension seeped into her, tightening something in her chest. She already knew what he wanted to say — but that did nothing to make it easier.
Reaching her door, she stepped inside and sat on the edge of the bed, gesturing for him to take the armchair in the corner. He hesitated, then did.
Her eyes flicked to the doorway.
He hadn’t closed it.
Again.
A flick of her hand — and the door slammed shut, restoring the room’s fragile sense of safety. Louder than necessary. Leon flinched but said nothing.
— You wanted to talk?
— Yes… — he cleared his throat. — It’s just… things between us this past year… and that kiss during the battle…
Her heart quickened.
At last — the conversation they should have had months ago.
For a moment back then, she had believed everything would change. That they would finally become something real. But the war had gone on. Leon had withdrawn. And everything had grown worse.
Her hope had faded — then been buried beneath the quiet realization that they simply didn’t fit.
Leon continued:
— It was… good. Really. But we’re just… different. You read, you experiment — you’re brilliant. And I… well, I’m not like that. Three weeks ago, I was on duty with Hannah, and we started talking. It was easy. We’ve been spending time together, and… I think we’re together now. I just wanted to clear things up before you leave.
Her heart dropped — heavy as stone.
And yet, alongside the sting, came relief.
As though he had lifted something from her.
She forced a faint smile.
— I can’t say you didn’t surprise me. But I’m glad we talked. You’re still one of my closest friends, Leon. I want you to be happy — even if that’s with Hannah.
She rolled her eyes lightly — half a joke, half nerves. In truth, she had nothing against the girl.
Leon let out a nervous laugh.
— You’re not angry?
— Leon, — she cut in, — we’re not doing this. It’s fine. We needed to clear it up. Thank you for saying it. Now… I should get some rest. I leave early tomorrow.
— Right. Of course.
He stood quickly, the chair scraping loudly against the floor.
— Good luck, Nova. We’ll miss you.
Her eyes stung.
— I’ll miss you too.
He nodded and left.
The confession, awkward as it had been, brought a strange sense of relief. She could not have carried that uncertainty with her on the mission.
Ten minutes later, she lay beneath her blanket, heavier than usual, drifting toward sleep.
And on the edge of dreams, she saw them—
cold grey eyes, painfully familiar,
watching her with icy fury.
