Chapter 1 Lena
ONE
LENA
For the third time that month, Lenora Vesthir committed blasphemy.
The story that fell from her lips wasn’t true, of course.
None of the old tales were, but in the eyes of the empire, telling one was considered heresy all the same.
It was why she’d chosen the hollow cavern just outside of Forvyrg as her stage.
Why she kept her voice low and her eyes sharp.
Even out here, at the farthest edges of the Wilds, a heretic could never be too careful.
The few villagers who had come to listen to her tonight were drawn in close around a campfire.
Lena caught the too-sharp angles of their cheekbones in the firelight, the bruise-like circles beneath their eyes.
The measly portion of dried meat she’d brought back from her latest travels didn’t seem like enough.
It never did.
Her own stomach ached with hunger. Months on the road had left her body exhausted, and when the familiar wooden huts of Forvyrg had finally appeared on the horizon, Lena had wanted nothing more than to crawl into the warmth of her best friend’s cot and sleep for a week.
Instead, she’d taken one look at the fresh graves outside the village fence and decided sleep would have to wait.
The people of Forvyrg—her people—needed something to give them hope.
“Centuries ago,” she began, “during the reign of the fourth Fateweaver, a small, poor village much like this one lay forgotten on the edges of Wyrecia’s deadliest forests.
There dwelled the ancient korupted, monstrous creatures believed to have been tainted by the Fateweaver’s darkening ambitions.
Without the protection of the emperor’s guards, who only looked out for those they deemed worthy, the villagers were left to defend themselves against these monsters, and as the korupted claimed the lives of more and more of their people, they began to lose what little hope they had left.
Until one day, in the middle of a winter storm, the village elders gathered their people. ”
Lena swallowed against the sudden tightness in her throat and blinked the smoke from her eyes, searching the shadows for a familiar face.
It took a moment for her to see him standing at the edge of the cave mouth, one hand resting casually on the hilt of his hunting axe, the other tucked into the folds of his woolen cloak. Finaen.
Why wasn’t he sitting around the fire with everyone else?
There was no time to think about it now. The cough of Finaen’s younger sister, Maia, brought her back to herself. To the curling smoke and crackling flames and the intoxicating thrill of her storytelling.
“ ‘The Fateweaver has cursed us,’ one of the elders said, ‘but does that mean we should accept it? There was a time when our people believed the paths we took, the choices we made, were the only things that had the power to change our endings! That belief was ripped from us with the creation of the Fateweaver, but does that mean we should stop fighting for a world when it can be true again?’ ” Lena’s voice thickened, her own anger rising as the words spilled from her mouth.
“ ‘No!’ said the elder. ‘We must fight to break the shackles the empire has placed upon us! If we do not fight for ourselves, who will fight for us?’
“The villagers cheered, their hope rekindled, and when the korupted attacked again that night … they were ready for them.”
Lena met Finaen’s eyes as a heavy silence followed her words. She could have sworn she saw a flicker of something like fear darken his expression. But then he blinked, and whatever Lena had seen was gone, leaving her feeling strangely unsettled.
She cleared her throat, thankful for the shadows cast by the campfire’s flames as heat pooled in her cheeks. “The korupted crept toward the villagers with too-long legs, fangs protruding over their skinless lips, arms bent in ways that no human body could bend.”
A shiver crept down Lena’s spine. She had spent more time in Wyrecia’s forests than most, yet she had never come across the monsters she spoke of in her stories: wolflike creatures with bloodied fangs.
Ghostly women with vengeance in their hearts and death in their souls.
They’re not real, she told herself, even as goose bumps that had nothing to do with the icy wind rose on her arms. A dull ache had begun in her left wrist, the same one she’d been feeling on and off for moons now.
“The villagers pushed aside their fear. Together, armed with bows and arrows, pickaxes and spears, they met the creatures with a ferocity the elder had always known them capable of. The battle was not an easy one, for no battles worth fighting ever are, and many were injured … but still, they kept on fighting, forcing the korupted back. Until, finally, those who remained retreated to the protection of the forest.”
There was a cheer from the villagers around Lena. Some raised their tankards to their lips, drinking deeply, their bodies far more relaxed than when she had first begun the tale, and Lena hoped the grin she flashed them didn’t look as forced as it felt.
It was in these fleeting, imagined moments that the people of the Wilds took refuge in a different world, one woven just for themselves. A world where their fates were their own. Where they could not just survive, but live. It was why she risked everything to tell her stories.
Her fingers drifted to the dagger at her belt, the one that hadn’t left her side since she was twelve winters old. It had been with her through every story, giving her the strength to go on when doubt crept into her heart. Her mother had been planning to give it to her on her sixteenth namesday.
Instead, Lena had been given the blade by the innkeeper who’d found Kelia’s body in the aftermath of a village raid.
Her mother had heard the screams as she and Lena journeyed through the Wilds and, after finding a tree hollow for her daughter to hide in and promising to return, had run off to try to save as many lives as she could.
It was the only promise her mother had ever broken.
Lena brushed her thumb against the pattern sculpted into the blade’s wooden hilt, letting the familiar ache fill her heart.
She continued, “When the sun set the following day, the villagers waited, weapons raised, for the korupted to return … but they never did. A night passed, and then another, and another. And finally, on the sixth night, the villagers allowed themselves to believe that they had achieved the impossible. That, together, they had changed their fate.”
Lena fell silent, the final words of her story hanging in the air.
For a moment no one spoke, until the village healer, Estryd, bowed her head.
“A beautiful tale, as always. And a reminder of the strength our people hold.” She pressed two fingers to her forehead, eyes drifting close. “Bless the Lost Sisters.”
Lena copied the motion with the rest of those gathered, the ache in her chest surging again at the sound of those sacred words.
Now that her tale was over, the urge to return to the solitude of the forest and walk beneath the trees crept close.
She was tired, and the ache in her wrist was growing increasingly worse, but Lena forced herself to remain by the fire as the villagers laughed and drank in the aftermath of her tale.
When the laughter finally faded, and Niko, the innkeeper Lena had known since childhood, began to speak of the daughter he’d lost five years earlier, Lena considered sharing a memory of her mother.
But every time she opened her mouth to speak, a warning would ring in her ears, reminding her that no matter how many stories she told, or how many nights she spent among them, her place would never truly be here.
Not when the dreams she sometimes had of the past ended up being true, and not when the sacred sites of the Lost Sisters still remaining in the Wilds always felt strangely like home.
So Lena stayed silent, and whilst almost every other villager present tried to include her in their conversations, Finaen stayed by the cave mouth, his gaze drifting back to her every so often.
Lena tried to catch his stare once or twice, but whenever he caught her looking, he would glance away, that same darkness from before flashing across his features.
He was putting distance between them—and Lena wanted to know why.
She had half risen from her place by the fire to go and ask him when Maia, eyes bright and cheeks flushed from the fire’s heat, grabbed her hand.
“You’re not leaving yet, are you?” she asked, her face softening into an expression she knew Lena could never resist. Her skin was paler than the last time Lena had seen her, her cheekbones more pronounced.
“No,” she said, unable to stop the smile that spread across her face when Maia threw her arms around her.
She smelled of smoke and honey, and slowly, Lena relaxed in her embrace.
“I missed you, little wolf.” It was the nickname she’d given her a few winters ago, when the smaller girl had begged her to teach her how to hunt.
“I missed you, too.” Maia pulled back. “How long are you staying with us?”
Lena tried to ignore the stab of guilt that came with the question. Thankfully, Finaen saved her from having to answer. He strode toward her and Maia, the firelight dancing in his hazel eyes.
“Maia.” His tone was clipped. “I need to talk to Lena. Alone.”
Maia gave Lena a wicked grin. “Real subtle,” Maia said, stretching to brush a kiss against Lena’s cheek. “Come find me later.”
Maia left to join in with the rest of the villagers, and Finaen called after her, “Don’t stay out here too late.” His brow furrowed when she waved him off.
And then he was looking at Lena, his gaze hard.