Forged in Shadow and Flame (Flameborne Trilogy #1)

1. Chapter 1

R en Harper knew she’d end up in chains one way or another. Just not like this .

Ren never imagined her death would be so loud, so public, or surrounded by sneering fae soldiers. It wasn’t death itself that she feared most, but becoming just another face on the butchering block when the axe swung down.

The wagon lurched forward, its wooden wheels groaning against the rust-hardened ruts.

The iron shackles bit into Ren’s wrists with every jolt, rattling with each bounce like the messy clatter of bones.

Around her, other prisoners slumped in silence, resigned to the journey’s inevitable end.

Ren squared her shoulders, shifting against the coarse wood at her back.

If she were going to die, she’d do it with her chin held high.

A groan sounded to her left, belonging to a thin, blonde-haired man.

“Told you to quiet your drinking,” barked an obnoxiously loud voice from across the wagon. A heavyset man with a scraggly beard fixed the blonde man with a hard stare.

“Can’t cross the Veil dry, can I?” the blonde man retorted. His face’s skin held a green tint. Ren hoped he wouldn’t lose what little was left in his stomach. She drew back a finger’s length.

Ren had accepted she was going to die but not covered in vomit .

Ren’s gaze drifted away. The convoy crawled through a forested mountain pass.

Despite the dense canopy of branches overhead, heat clung to her skin.

It was the harsh lull between summer and autumn, when the air still burned before yielding to autumn’s first breath.

At least the shade offered a small mercy.

Without it, the sun would have scorched them raw.

Made of iron bars and splintering wood, the prison cart would have baked them alive.

Of course the fae hadn’t bothered with a roof; why waste coin and resources to spare prisoners a little suffering before they reached the butchering block?

Everywhere Ren’s gaze fell, fae soldiers lined the path in suffocating numbers, their presence making escape not just dangerous but impossible.

She and the other prisoners knew it too well.

Only yesterday, a scraggly thief had somehow broken out of his chains and made the attempt, hurling himself into the brush with a desperate cry.

He hadn’t made it three strides before an arrow shot clean through his chest, and he dropped face-first into the dirt.

The fae soldiers hadn’t even bothered retrieving his body. He was still there now, rotting in the shadows of the trees, a grim warning to the rest of them that this was the end of the road.

The fae soldiers wore black and deep purple armor, with clasps fastened to their cloaks. Their helms were adorned with silver crests.

Ren’s eyes traced the designs on the fae soldiers' armor.

House symbols, likely belonging to House Vaerlan.

Or was it House Tharowen? She supposed it was more likely House Vaelaran considering how far House Tharowen lay to the eastern part of Lytharien.

The sigils and colors of the different high fae houses blurred together in her mind.

Every curve of ink and stroke of silver was a nauseating reminder that she stood deep in fae territory now, where each banner whispered of ancient bloodlines and power older than any mortal crown.

She might have once cared who they were, which house they belonged to — back when names could mean safety or danger and alliances could save or severe a life.

But none of it mattered now.

Back home in the western posts, the world had felt smaller, harsher. The wind there cut sharper, colder, carrying dust instead of abundance. Fields were unable to yield crops. Most people turned to trade, craft, or wandering labor. Life there was measured by survival rather than comfort.

Though the western settlements were made up mostly of humans and a scattering of other creatures hardy enough to endure that kind of life, they still owed their taxes to the crown of Vaelaran, or whichever fae house claimed that stretch of land.

The fae called it payment for protection and provision of land, yet the crown rarely sent soldiers that far west. Attacks from the woods or from bandits desperate enough to kill were common.

Out there, people learned to fight for their own because no one else would.

Ren had rarely seen a fae in those days, save for the ones who passed through to collect dues or settle business on behalf of House Vaelaran. The villages may have belonged to the crown in name, but the fae lords rarely lingered long enough to prove it.

The fae soldiers’ horses alone were towering beasts standing sixteen to eighteen hands high, with broad shoulders, massive haunches, and proud, arched necks.

Their heavy hooves struck the earth like hammers, restless beneath the weight of armored fae riders.

Vaelaren horses were prized not only for their size, but for their endurance and strength.

Given the long and brutal journey, it was little wonder the fae soldiers rode such beasts.

Ren had seen what those horses could do.

Years ago, Ren drew a lucky hand against a man in a tavern who hated losing, especially to a woman.

He followed Ren out behind the tavern, drunk on pride and ale.

He’d sneered that if she was going to act like a haughty bitch , he’d treat her like the worthless one she was .

He barely brought back his meaty fist before she struck him once, sending him stumbling into the wall.

He lasted through two more of Ren’s punches before deciding he’d rather try his luck on horseback.

The beast had other ideas. It bucked him off in a single motion, then brought its hooves down and crushed his skull like an overripe melon.

Even now, the memory left a bitter taste in Ren's mouth.

The fae riders sat tall and arrogant in their saddles, as if they expected the very earth to bow beneath them. One glanced toward the prisoners with thinly veiled disdain, his mouth curving into a scowl as he nudged his white steed forward .

Ahead, a black-and-silver carriage rolled steadily through the trees. Not regal, not adorned with heraldry, no gilded trim to suggest nobility.

Ren heard the dark-haired man shackled across from her spit to the side. “You see that?” he rasped, jerking his chin toward the carriage. “That’s no noble's ride. No silk cushions, no polished wood. Just black iron and steel bolts. You know why?”

Ren’s gaze swept over the prisoners, raking across faces pale and hollowed by hunger.

Three days they’d been on the road — three days of blistering heat and meager rations.

A mouthful of water here, a few stale rolls of bread there.

The fae soldiers made a show of their abundance, tearing into dried meat and hard cheese within arm’s reach of the prisoners, as if the sound of chewing might break them faster than the chains.

Ren knew it was purposeful; their cruelty always was.

No one dared answer the dark-haired man’s question.

Not out of secrecy but simply because none of them had the strength left to care.

Some had sunk into themselves, lips moving in prayer, clinging to gods who’d long since abandoned these roads.

Others wept into their shackled hands, their sobs muffled.

Beside her, the blonde man gave a low grunt, his broad shoulders shrugging as if to say, what answer would change anything now?

The dark-haired man said, “Because they’re so evil, the fae won’t even chain ‘em in this piece of shit cart with the rest of us. They say if you so much as look into their eyes, you’ll see your own death waiting for you.

I'll wager even iron bars can’t hold what’s in there.

That cart’s probably lined with runes, reinforced to keep whatever is inside from crawling out. "

A nervous hush fell over the cart.

The silence was thick and oppressive until the blonde man sighed.

“Saints save us. You like spinning tales, do you?

‘ See your death in their eyes ’—what utter shit.

" He leaned back against the wood with a grunt, eyes narrowing at the dark-haired man. "If you ask me, you’re just making it up so you can listen to your own voice.”

Ren’s gaze lingered on the black-and-silver carriage. She didn’t believe in whispers. It made no difference who was who. Fae business was fae business.

They were all headed toward the butcher’s block anyway .

Ren’s path had carried her into the southern reaches of Lytharien, a wild and storied expanse divided between two powerful fae houses.

To the north ruled House Vaelaran, a storied and enigmatic fae lineage famed for its opulent courts, artistic brilliance, and lavish celebrations.

Far to the south lay the realm of House Tharowen, a proud and unyielding house whose power was hewn from the land itself, a rugged expanse of jagged mountains veined with rare minerals, where roaring forges burned day and night to arm their warriors and sustain their wealth.

Ren had made her way south, to Windhaven, where the sprawling river branches bled into the sea.

There, countless trade ships crowded Windhaven’s busy waterways, their sails billowing as they carried goods to every corner of Aetheria.

But among the merchant vessels lurked darker, sleeker, and faster ships.

These were unmarked, used for the illicit smuggling of goods and even humans to the coastal islands.

Ren had gotten so close to freedom she could almost taste it, the sharp tang of salt on her tongue, the wind carrying with it the distant cries of gulls. The horizon shimmered with the faintest band of blue, the sea so near she could see its glimmering expanse.

Her plan was simple — trade what little she had for passage to a quiet coastal village.