Chapter 1
Horns. Echoes down every corridor. Her feet slapped against the stone, slick with old water. No plan now—just run. Her chest ached; each breath felt as though she were inhaling sand. She shook off the pain and blindly continued.
Five doors. Four. Maybe three—she had lost track. Just keep moving.
The second door stuck. She threw her weight against it. Nothing. A flicker of silver at the end of the corridor. Panic gave her strength. She set her shoulder and threw everything she had against the door. It popped open, and she stumbled into the darkness. Her shin collided with the splintered threshold, pain flaring white-hot and bright enough to topple her. She clamped a hand over her mouth to silence any noise, then limped forward, forcing herself to quicken her pace.
“One more…” she rasped. Her heart leapt into her throat as her shoulder rammed into the last door. The sting of pain was almost a benefit, clearing her mind for a moment. Her celebration was short-lived; she stopped short of the hooded figure in front of her. The dark smirk plastered on the figure’s face revealed its identity instantly.
“Vareen,” Wisteria managed; the name curdling on her tongue. The weight of the stolen table knife at her hip mocked her; if she reached for it, Vareen would snap her arm before she even drew steel.
“You’re late for your cell,” Vareen said, her voice soft as leather gloves crushing a songbird. In the flickering torchlight, Vareen’s features assembled: a sharp jaw, eyes like chips of old ice, and a mouth that twitched upward in a predator’s approximation of a smile. Her armor fit her body like a second skin, the black plate etched with the High King’s sigil—a crow feasting on a screaming hare.
“You’re bleeding.” Vareen didn’t ask; she observed. The warm pain pulsed up her leg, but she forced her face to remain carefully blank. She would not grant that masochist the satisfaction of seeing her in pain.
Vareen blocked Wisteria’s path, boots planted, arms folded. “You know, this is surprisingly bold of you. I’m almost impressed. Luckily, King Maldran isn’t surprised. Maybe he won’t punish you too badly if you come with me.” Vareen tilted her head, letting the words roll out slowly enough for Wisteria to choke on them.
Wisteria’s hands balled into fists, nails biting flesh. She tried to dart past, but Vareen was quick—one gloved hand seized her wrist, twisting it hard behind her back; the other fished something from her belt. Cold steel arced down and licked at the side of Wisteria’s neck. Vareen pressed her lips to Wisteria’s ear, her breath blooming hot and sour. “Did you think you would make it out of the city? Did you think anyone would care about some broken doll?”
Wisteria thrashed, but Vareen’s grip was absolute. She kicked Wisteria’s feet out from under her and pushed her face-first into the dirt, digging a knee into Wisteria’s spine to keep her in her place.
“What do you say? Let’s go back inside. It’d be so much easier. If you let me take you inside without a fight, nothing much will happen, but…” she purred into Wisteria’s ear.
“If you leave, you know the consequences. You’ll never know peace.”
Wisteria’s blood calcified. She almost considered staying before she shook the notion from her mind and continued her struggle.
Wisteria clawed at the slick grass, every movement grinding her face deeper into the mud, but Vareen only laughed, the sound low and delighted. “There’s the fight I want.” She pressed down, just enough for Wisteria’s vision to flicker, then abruptly let go. The shock of freedom was so unexpected that Wisteria flailed, flipping herself over, her hair sodden and wild around her face.
She staggered upright, her body trembling with the thunder of her pulse. She’d never seen Vareen smile like this—genuine, almost girlish. It was so at odds with everything she knew about the woman that it left her unbalanced. Vareen roughly gripped her face, nails digging into the soft flesh of her cheeks.
“Go on then,” Vareen chuckled. “Scamper away. Make this interesting. I’ll even give you a head start!”
Wisteria ran. She ran until her lungs were raw and her feet stung, past the bramble-snarled ditch where the palace’s manicured gardens died and the city’s rot began. The transition was a slap of cold reality: the silence of the courtyard gave way to the city’s warren of alleys, thick with the stench of tallow and beer.
She pulled herself to a halt only when the air at last smelled more of bread than of filth. She stood doubled over, palms braced on her knees as she tried desperately to catch her breath.
Footsteps rang out behind her. A figure barreled toward her, black mail glinting in the light. Panic shredded Wisteria’s thoughts as she frantically clutched at her side for the knife she’d filched from the High King’s table.
Wisteria didn’t even think as she shoved the knife toward the armored figure’s stomach, but they snatched her wrist mid-air and bent it, forcing her to drop the cutlery.
With a low grunt, the attacker shoved Wisteria hard against the crumbling wall, knocking the breath out of her lungs.
The woman’s dark eyes examined Wisteria with quick, clinical calculation. Nail indentations on her cheeks. Covered in mud. Obviously, not a threat. Wisteria waited for the blow, or the knife, or the cold satisfaction of a bounty hunter’s recognition.
But it didn’t come.
Instead, the woman’s weight shifted, her hand easing off Wisteria’s neck just enough to let her take a sharp breath in. For a moment, the woman simply watched her. Then, as if remembering herself, she let Wisteria drop and stooped to retrieve the knife from the gutter. She examined the blade, weighing it in her palm with something akin to disappointment. Then she tossed it back to Wisteria, underhand.
“Try not to stab me with it, love. You’ll only make me angry.”
This stocky woman was not what Wisteria had expected. She was taller than Wisteria by a head; arms and neck that were as thick as knotted rope, hair cropped into a short bob for efficiency rather than any noticeable preference, and she watched Wisteria with the impersonal alertness of someone gauging a wounded animal.
Wisteria staggered back, knife brandished. She expected the woman to charge, but she just stood, arms folded, and blocking the alley’s only exit.
“You’re bleeding,” the woman stated, with the same flat interest as Vareen but none of the cruelty. “You’ll slow down.”
Wisteria’s hand trembled, but she held the knife high, the point wavering between the woman’s eyes. “Let me pass.” She demanded.
The shout of the palace guard echoed from only meters away, putting both women on edge. The woman’s eyes flicked to the end of the alley, then back to Wisteria. Her jaw muscles jumped as she calculated. “Suit yourself,” she said, and moved past Wisteria, taking up a position between her and the mouth of the alley.
Three palace guards barreled into the alley, bright moon faces slicked with sweat. “There!” one yelled, and the three converged.
This wall of a woman bared her teeth and rushed the nearest guard, catching his arm mid-swing. She slammed her head forward into the guard’s nose with a sickening crunch and kneed him in the groin for good measure. The man dropped with a guttural groan, and the other two converged to subdue the armed suspect. She lowered her shoulder to them, catching the approaching blows on the massive breadth of the blade she wrenched from her back.
Boots drummed against cobblestone as reinforcements flooded the area, their half-drawn blades winking in the scattered glow of distant lanterns.
Wisteria’s unknown guardian had dropped two, but three more were funneling in. At this rate, they’d be overrun in under a minute. Her mind raced. She tried to step back enough to come up with some sort of escape plan, but every time one formed, her surroundings changed just enough to make that route impossible.
The woman fighting like a thing bred to butchery acted unfazed, but even Wisteria could see her breathing grow ragged, her hunched shoulders silently communicating a growing exhaustion. If Wisteria couldn’t find a way to get them through, she may as well fill out their death notices.
Suddenly, a sharp whistle rang through the air. Vareen glided effortlessly through the guards, her eyes locked on the two women.
“Time’s up.” She purred.
As Vareen ran at Wisteria, the woman intercepted her, running Vareen straight into a wall. She sputtered and glared at this new variable.
A smear of black arced past the three. Then—crash. A glass orb smashed on the cobblestones at their feet, and the alley was suddenly flooded with a thick, oily smoke so absolute that even the guards’ torches seemed to snuff out.
Wisteria finally had her opening. She lunged through the oily haze, her fingers locking onto her guardian’s salt-stained sleeve, and hauled her toward the only shadow Vareen hadn’t claimed yet, only to have the way cut off by a crow-like figure who dropped from the sky. He raised an arm, ushering the two ahead. Even in the fog-choked dark, the creature’s eyes glittered with mischief. “Hole. Ground.” he croaked, voice uncanny—a child’s falsetto overlaid with the rattle of a dying man and run twice through gravel.
He peeled off, darting down a half-collapsed passage littered with broken glass and ancient refuse. Wisteria and her guardian chased after. They soon came to a more comfortable section and found the short creature hopping in place next to a rainwater drain.
There was no time for a plan. The wall of a woman met Wisteria’s eyes—a split-second decision made—and then she dropped, the drain swallowing her. Wisteria paused for a moment, but the scuff and clamor of guards at the alley’s end decided for her.
The odd creature descended last and shoved a makeshift grate closed behind him, blocking out all trace of surface light.
“We need to move. Hold your breath if you can,” the woman’s voice drifted back, a low, tectonic thrum that seemed to vibrate in the very silt beneath Wisteria’s feet. The giant bird politely brushed past the two, giving a soft clack of his beak as if to coax them on.
They slogged through ankle-deep muck that sucked at their feet with every step. It forced them to move in awkward tandem and the lichen’s sickly illumination made everything a fever dream of colorless shapes and warped shadows. The bird took the lead, the woman followed just behind, and Wisteria took the rear, looking into the darkness behind them in the vain hope that she’ll be able to see any danger incoming. They travelled in silence, which only added to the heaviness of the darkness that kept them.
After what felt like an hour, the bird stopped abruptly and cocked its head, the twist of its neck making it look as if he were considering whether to peck at a dead animal.
“Down,” he rasped, barely audible, “guards up.” The clatter of armored boots punctuated his words directly overhead.
Wisteria closed her eyes, silently waiting for the clattering to pass before hurrying on with the others as fast as the gunk at their feet would let them.
The tunnel opened wide ahead, then split into two arteries, both dark and uninviting. The bird didn’t even think, bobbing to the leftmost tunnel. The woman sighed and followed the bird, but not before glancing at Wisteria to make sure she was following.
The next time they stopped, it was because the passage simply ended, choked by a cave-in of mud and stone. The bird tapped a claw against the pile, muttered something in a language Wisteria didn’t know, then began scraping at the blockage with a patient, mechanical rhythm. The sound of his claws against the silt was rhythmic and bone-dry, like a beetle burrowing into a coffin lid. The woman leaned against the wall, arms folded, eyes half closed but always, always tracking every movement. Wisteria pressed her back against the opposite wall, sliding to the ground, the cold cutting straight to her bones. She wanted nothing so badly as to sleep, but every time her eyes closed the echo of Vareen’s voice pounded through her head. The whispered promise of endless pursuit. Her mind began picking at the problem at hand.
After a time—was it minutes? Hours?—the bird’s talons broke through the last layer of silt, and a cold, fresh breeze caressed the group. Wisteria breathed a sigh of relief when her eyes adjusted to the moonlight filtering in from above. They were out, or at least elsewhere.
The woman hoisted herself up the tunnel lip, boots gouging the mud. The bird wriggled through next, then turned and, with a surprisingly gentle grip for his taloned hands, helped haul Wisteria up after him. They emerged from behind a toppled mausoleum, the old stone cracked and overgrown with vines like a rib cage. Beyond sat ‘The Toll,’ a field of gravestones left as a dark reminder to the city of what the High King will do to keep his property in line. The city was behind them, but Wisteria could hear the horns, the sound riding above the shiver of grass.
The woman wasted no time. She jerked her head toward the forest’s edge, and the three ran, half-stooped, keeping low against the lines of gravestones that stood guard between them and the High King’s forces.
At the edge of the graveyard and into the surrounding forest, Wisteria nearly collapsed. Her legs, numb and shaking, refused to obey her. She fell against a fallen tree. Maybe if she died here, she would at least lie among heroes.
The woman stood guard, wordless, eyes darting between trees. The bird perched in the branches of a nearby tree, knees up, hands folded over its feathered chest.
For the first time since leaving the palace, Wisteria allowed herself to stop moving. She pressed her forehead to the rough bark and focused on the way the edges and pits bit at her skin, the way her pulse throbbed in her ears. She counted her breaths, willing her heart to slow, to steady. Then, as if sensing this was the only moment she’d get, she sobbed. The tears came hot and silent, running down her cheeks and soaking into the overgrown grass beneath her feet.
As the worst of the heaviness flowed out, Wisteria wiped her face with the back of her hand, exacerbating the cuts that were sprinkled across her hand.
The woman squatted in front of her, hands dangling loosely between her knees. “Rest’s over.” The bird dropped from its perch and landed silently beside them, head-cocked, waiting for the next move. Wisteria looked at her mud-stained hands—the same hands her tutors had once slapped for refusing to hold a needle correctly. She had spent a childhood trading etiquette classes for the dirt and the damp, always fighting the urge to be the porcelain doll they demanded. Quiet. Beautiful. Breakable. She fought her way to her feet, ignoring the ache.
The forest was thick with fog and a hush that hid any potential waypoint she’d be able to find. They followed a game trail deeper into the trees, the only light a milky wash that seeped through the branches. The further they went, the more Wisteria’s mind ticked, trying to form some kind of plan from the chaos. Any plan.
The exhaustion settled on her soul as she followed her new companions. She cursed herself for trusting them so fully when she really knew nothing about them, but what choice did she really have? She hated the thought of admitting any kind of weakness to the others, especially the woman setting the pace in front of her.
She managed to keep up with the others, silent except for the soft hitch of her breath. Her feet were numb, her knees raw and stiff, but a stubbornness had set in. She would not stop. Not until she was certain she’s truly free.
As their vision slowly became clearer with the rising of the sun, the trio had put the palace so far behind them that Wisteria began to half-believe in their escape. They stopped in a shallow glade where a tangle of blackberries and nettles formed a sort of hidden refuge.
Wisteria let herself fall cross-legged in the damp grass, and roughly massaged her swollen shin with the ball of her hand. She stared at the blood crusted on her skin, the raw abrasions along her feet, and felt a tight, shivering pride at the sight. Physical evidence of what this endeavor had cost her, if only a small amount.
The woman was already scavenging, knocking berries from the brambles and bringing them to her lips in an almost sacramental sort of way. The bird picked his way along the stream bank, his beak dipping every so often to sip or snatch a darting insect.
They do not speak. It was an exhausted, wary peace, but peace.
Wisteria scooped a handful of water and let it run through her filthy fingers. She hesitated, then rummaged through the bundle lashed at her waist and produced a battered copper spoon, plunging it into the stream and letting the water quicken along its jagged edge. Then, she held it up to the emerging light, studying the shimmer. The bird peered over her shoulder, beak nearly brushing her ear.
“Poison?” he asked, voice hovering between curiosity and a dare.
Wisteria jumped violently, her heart hammering against her ribs as she returned to herself. She shook her head. “Old habit.” She could hear how false it sounded, saw the tilt of the woman’s brow as she watched from a few strides off. But it’s true, in a way. She couldn’t remember the last time she had been able to eat and drink without worrying about losing herself.
As she sipped deeply from the cool, clean water, her mind cleared, and she recognized the area around her. Could they have already gone this far?
She turned the copper spoon in her fingers, feeling its familiar weight. The riverbank, the rise of the distant hills, the fan of scrubby willows along the water’s edge—all of it suddenly snapped into place. She knew this place. Or at least, she’d thought back to it enough times that recognition hit like the first breath after surfacing.
She stood up. It had been years—the brambles were thicker now, the blackberry thorns more aggressive—but then she found exactly what she was looking for. She clawed at the vines, taking no care to avoid the thorns, until she found it: a tall, heavy rock, half-swallowed by the glade.
It was nothing—just a squat, damp cave entrance in an outcropping of rocks, but it was the only place she could ever go to get out of the house as a child. She threw her weight against the side of the guard stone and pushed, revealing a hole just large enough for the three to fit through, as long as the woman took off her armor, which she only agreed to begrudgingly.
The passage downward was less a tunnel than a memory of one—a rut in the clay barely wider than Wisteria’s shoulders, and slick with old mud and the bones of beetles. The air inside tasted like petrichor and the metallic tang of layers of minerals. It’s not far, just a drop and a twist, and suddenly they’re in a hollowed-out vault, half natural, half carved by someone with more desperation than skill.
There was barely room to stand. Wisteria landed with a grunt, her ankle twisting beneath her for a dizzying moment before settling into the familiar ache of overuse. She brushed the hair from her face and blinked, letting her eyes adjust to the clutch of darkness, then reached up to guide the bird in. His talons scratched at her wrist before he released and dropped, feathered shoulders first.
The woman came last, hauling the remains of her armor in a bundle she shoved through the opening, then squeezed herself through with a curse that echoed off the surrounding walls.
Wisteria didn’t even remember sitting. One heartbeat she’s pressed against the wall, grit pressing into the small of her back, and the next, she’d curled on the packed dirt, cheek to her knees.
The woman’s boots ground a steady circle into the center of the chamber, scuffing up the dust. She unwrapped the leather bindings on her forearms, her movements methodical and rhythmic, the way a soldier prepares for a long watch.
“Why?” Wisteria’s voice was a jagged ruin, barely recognizable as her own.
The woman didn’t stop her task. The leather made a dry, rasping sound as it came free. “Why what?”
“The guards. Vareen.” Wisteria swallowed, her throat feeling as if it were lined with glass. “You could have left me to them. Probably should have, honestly. There’s no profit in a runaway with a bleeding leg.”
The woman finally looked at her. In the vault’s gloom, her eyes were pits of shadow, unreadable and cold. “You needed help,” she stated simply, tone devoid of emotion.
Wisteria clutched the copper spoon tighter, her knuckles white.
“I’m Morith,” she stated flatly. “Now sleep. You’ll need your legs tomorrow.”
Wisteria paused, wondering if she would come to regret her decision to stay. “...Wisteria,” she relented.
“Hau!” the crow cried from the dark as if the creature was offering its own name.
Wisteria forced her eyes shut, but sleep refused to take her. In the hollows of her mind, Vareen’s laughter still echoed—low, delighted, and impossibly close.
Her teeth ground together until her skull throbbed with the pressure. She clutched the battered copper spoon to her chest like a talisman, her grip so tight that the metal bit into her palm.C
