The Falconer (The Falconer #1)

Chapter 3

3

Thirteen years ago

The weak morning light filters through the misted windows, framing my mother’s rigid silhouette in soft gold.

I take a sip of tepid tea, studying her. The proud tilt of her chin, the steely glint in her dark eyes—all signs of mourning transmuted into cold purpose. But keeping it bottled up is costing her. I see it in the clenched jaw, grief suppressed under a mask of control.

My father was the last thread tying us to some semblance of normal life. And it wasn’t even the monsters who took him from us—nothing my mother could fight or kill. Just a simple illness.

My mother refuses to speak of him now, yet evidence of his absence remains everywhere. Each morning, I find his clothes laid out on his bed, his hairbrush positioned just so on the dressing table. She tends to his ghost with the same ruthless precision that now seems to dictate her every waking moment.

I know it’s time for me to fulfil my duty, etched into our family line through old rituals of blood and sacrifice.

I can see it in the way she sizes me up, weighing my years, judging my readiness.

Today, we’ll visit the seal.

Today, I’ll take another irrevocable step across the threshold into the grim, violent world she’s trained me for since I first learned to walk. A world that has become my inheritance.

“It’s time,” she says, setting aside her untouched tea.

Apprehension roots me to the spot. I’m not ready.

Her gaze spears me, sharp as the blades she’s taught me to wield. “I’ll give you a moment to collect yourself, but I won’t coddle you. I’ve maintained the seal alone for far too long.”

Shame colours my cheeks.

“I’m ready,” I lie, hoping she can’t hear the tremor in my voice.

I cling to the falsehood like a shield, trying to bury my doubts and fears. I’ve worked over the years to hone my skills, to harden my will. Her intense training regimen forged me into a weapon from a young age. I can recite eighty-seven ways to slaughter a fae in my sleep. I’ve spent countless hours dancing with blades until my hands were sore.

So we leave the quiet sanctuary of the townhouse and walk the empty midnight streets of Edinburgh toward Calton Hill.

Our boots scuff an audible rhythm on the cobblestones, the only sound breaking the stark winter quiet. My breath plumes white as the icy air knifes through my layers of wool clothing. Beside me, my mother continues onward without betraying the slightest shiver. I have to lengthen my stride to match her quick, businesslike pace up the hill. Unspoken questions scald my throat, but I swallow them, pressing onward. We crest the hill’s peak shrouded in mist.

I peer into the gloom, seeking shapes. “Where is it?” I ask.

“Just ahead. Can’t you feel it?”

She takes my hand and guides me through the curling mist. Pressure builds against my skin, a crackling hum like the charged moments before a lightning storm breaks. The fine hairs at the nape of my neck prickle upright in response.

She leads me closer until I stand before the seal.

Glowing gears and discs engraved with strange runic symbols mesh in an elaborate mechanical configuration. The device is anchored to the stones by thick metal bolts sunk deep into the bedrock below. More arcane sigils line the outer edges, scrawling luminous script in a language beyond my knowledge. Everything gleams slick and oiled in the thin moonlight, pulsing with power.

Unease twists my stomach. Some primal instinct screams that if I approach this device and let it taste my blood, something irreversible will happen. A naive, childish part of me wants to flee to the safety of home.

But my mother’s grip on my shoulder tightens, and she nudges me forward.

Golden light encircles us—the seal’s protective shield, allowing only those of Falconer blood to pass unharmed.

“Are you ready now?” my mother asks.

I bite my lip, unable to form words around the lump in my throat.

“It will only get worse if you delay,” she says, her tone softening. Then she sighs, seeming to deflate. “I know how terrifying this is, but the seal keeps the worst of their kind imprisoned. Their uprising destroyed the fae kingdoms until nothing remained, darling. You don’t want that to happen to Edinburgh, do you? Our blood is the only thing preventing that. This is a small price to pay.”

I resist the overwhelming urge to drop to my knees and press my ear to the cold earth, straining to hear any sounds from below. To discover if the dangerous fae really are asleep in their prison or wide awake and listening to us even now.

“Yes, mama.”

Her hand squeezes my shoulder, and I glimpse the mother who soothed my childhood scrapes and kissed my hurts. Then the mask slams back down and she’s all business again, tone curt.

“Then take out your blade.”

I obey, unsheathing the dagger from my waist with trembling fingers. The moonlight glints along the sharpened metal. I’ve used these weapons since my fingers first learned to close around a hilt, as normal as needlepoint to other women my age. But this time is different.

“Cut your arm,” she instructs. Just like that.

I’m breathing too fast, my spine rigid. Blood rushes in my ears. Sweat dampens my palms around the hilt. I don’t want to do this. But the weight of generations presses down on me, leaving no room for doubt or fear.

“Aileana.” Her voice cracks through the frantic hammering of my pulse. “Your arm. Now.”

Before I can think, I dig the knife tip into the soft flesh below my elbow. My teeth sink into my bottom lip, choking back a whimper. Blood spills hot and wet down my forearm, “Here.” Mother guides me the last few steps until I stand directly over the seal. “Let it drip into the lock.”

I’m motionless, mesmerised by the contraption at my feet. Each fresh splash makes the markings glow crimson before fading back to dull metal. I watch my blood spill over the gears in rivulets, somehow detached from the gruesome scene.

Mother presses a scrap of linen into my numb hands. “Bind your injury.”

Moving mechanically, I wind the makeshift bandage around the gash with fumbling fingers. The pain has faded to a dull throb, along with all other sensations in my frozen extremities. I’m colder than the frosted landscape surrounding us.

Finally, the gears cease their spinning. The angry glow fades away. Enough has been given. For now.

“It will require our blood again soon to maintain the wards,” my mother says. “You’ll feel the pull when it’s time. Don’t ignore it, or you’ll regret it.”

I nod, exhaustion creeping through my veins. As if I’ve aged a decade in these few brief minutes. This ritual foreshadows the life I’ll spend bleeding myself dry for this duty.

A blood price for safety.

My mother clicks her tongue, grasping my chin with cool fingers to examine my face. “You’ve made a mess of yourself. You have blood on your cheek.” She wipes my face with her handkerchief. “Next time, don’t be so careless. You’ll need your veins intact for the decades to come.”

I stare at the instrument lying dormant and sated, my blood glistening on its intricate gears.

It knows me now. I’m bound to it.