Chapter 1
1
A ven winced, magic biting deep into her skin and leaving a swirl of black ink in its wake.
The human mage slapped her fingers in reprimand. “Stop moving. Otherwise, I’m going to skew the line and ruin the rune entirely. Magic is art and precision, not just slapping a line of power on your skin and seeing what happens.”
The rune was the entire point of this trip.
Aven bit down on her lower lip and forced her squirming to cease as the mage updated each of the runes along her right arm. The sharp twinge of pain never got any easier. Magic came at a cost, and the fact that a human managed—a human wielded a wand—meant something.
She only wished redrawing the sigils of strength and power were a little less pinchy.
Anyone looking at her would think she actually liked the pain, considering she’d covered herself in runes. Every inch of visible skin and much of what she kept hidden underneath her tunics and fighting leathers showed evidence of the engravings, a protection against her enemies.
Those who made it past her sword, anyway.
The attacks would come. They always did.
Better for her to be prepared than to leave anything to chance. The runes were another line of defense for Grimrose and one she’d be stupid to leave the castle grounds without.
A second slap bounced off her knuckles, and she glanced up at the mage with a scowl. “What was that for?”
The wizened woman, who had probably been drawing runes on humans for more years than Aven had been alive, only grinned at her and showed a wide gap between her two front teeth. “To keep you sharp and on your toes, Princess.”
Swallowing over a grumble, Aven vowed to hold still when the wand touched the tender area on her left bicep.
Only the major magics were set in ink beneath the skin. Minor runes, such as those for keen eyesight or faster speed, for calm, were usually painted on several days before a major battle. Aven cut it much too close with the heavy fight looming tomorrow.
They were lucky they’d caught wind of Mourningvale’s attack with plenty of time to rally.
A small window cut into the stone walls of the artist’s room showed thunderous clouds darkening the sky outside. The storm had moved in unexpectedly this morning, and her gut told her it wasn’t going anywhere soon. This sort of weather might work to her advantage tomorrow.
“There, done.” This time, the old woman’s pat on the top of Aven’s hand fell lighter, softer. A bit maternal. “You’re done. They look as beautiful as any I’ve ever done.”
Aven drew her hand back and worked her wrist in a circle, her skin tight where the design stretched from her knuckles to her forearm and higher. The intricate design of the rune coupled with stark lines of pure black cutting along her bone and veins. A small magic for humans to perform, true, and yet the wands worked. The runes worked. If it gave her a better chance of fighting against the fae, she’d take the advantage.
She was only human. Small compared to some and often a joke to the larger, more muscled male officers who’d been part of her father’s army for decades before her birth.
The rune on her wrist and forearm would help her stave off attacks should any of the fae get too close and her sword and shield fail. A rune to thicken her skin and make her all but impervious to the nick of a dagger. Once she got out there, alternating between her wand and her gun?—
Unstoppable.
“How much do I owe you?” Aven tugged on the end of one of her braids, twine winding through the sable-colored strands to keep them out of her face.
The mage took her in, from the tip of her head all the way down her tightly laced tunic and the leather holster sheathing her sword at her side. “For the royal family? It wouldn’t be right for me to accept payment from you. I’m only doing my job, Princess.”
The words were uttered low enough that Aven knew from experience the old woman was hungry for money and would benefit from a few gold marks. Everyone in the kingdom could. The royals didn’t have much to spare these days, but she made a mental note to deliver a few extra pieces of food in thanks and a few coins.
“Thank you, then,” Aven replied. She worked her wrist in another circle, which failed to loosen her overly tight skin, and slid her arm back to her side, locking her elbow to keep her arm straight. “It is much appreciated.”
“Good battle tomorrow.” The farewell was called out before Aven made her way out the door, the woman’s rheumy brown eyes meeting Aven’s blue-green. “Fight well.”
Aven ducked her head before she turned, long-legged strides taking her into the hallway toward her next stop for the day. She didn’t need words to understand what the artist would have said to her, had she not been a princess.
Humans had no business fighting against the fae.
Their enemies were long-lived and powerful. They had magic on their side, the innate kind that came from generations of being born with it in their blood.
Grimrose’s soldiers only had decades at best of mastering stolen magic to power their weapons.
As the youngest of her siblings, Aven never had a choice in what she did. Her heavy footfalls echoed off the dim stone corridor walls, each one heavier than her delicate frame would suggest. She relished the crown never being hers and as the last of the line, she was assured she’d never rule. It didn’t lessen her responsibilities to the people of her father’s kingdom, though.
Which was why she gladly did her part.
Much to her family’s dismay, King Fergus especially, Aven continued to draw her runes as well as wield manufactured magical weapons, and lead battalions. But in a years-long war with the powerful fae across the borderlands, they needed her. So, they let it go.
Another prime example of her lack of options.
She paused at the end of the corridor and took an abrupt left turn out onto the parapet. Her first inhalation brought with it the scent of the oncoming storm and the charge of electricity in the air.
A heavy day of battle loomed ahead. Even with her runes, the thought of another long fight, more bodies falling, constricted her heart. The people in the city below knew it was only a matter of time before the fae took everything in this land, and everyone with it. Grimrose would fall eventually against the immortals. They had all the time in the world while Aven and her kin were only there for a limited span. The other kingdoms? Too distant, too busy waging their meaningless wars against each other, blind to the true threat that Mourningvale posed—or perhaps simply grateful it wasn’t their children being claimed by the fae.
Cowards.
The walls were strong, made of golden stacked limestone, and the iron gates were designed to keep the fae at bay. It didn’t matter.
She bit her lower lip, gnawing at it.
The quick survey of the bustling streets below, now shaded by the thunderous storm clouds, tightened her chest further. The roads were muddied by carriages carrying weapons. Too many houses were left in disrepair with roofs sagging and tiles in desperate need of fixing, when every last copper had to go toward either food or better magical protections against the fae, and the cracks in the grand city had started to show.
Scrawny animals pawed at piles of trash and children played over broken stone and rubble.
Aven reached a hand to her side and drew her tingling fingers against her wand, strapped to her upper thigh.
The entire kingdom had become no better than a slum, and the fighting, she knew in her gut, would never cease. Not while the fae continued to hammer at them with superior strength. It would take a miracle to secure victory for the humans.
A fierce wind kicked up browned leaves and drew them in wild circles above the stone floor of the parapet. Strands of hair whipped free and lashed against her pale cheeks as her odd-colored eyes scanned the horizon for any sign of an early attack.
She found nothing.
“I should have known I’d find you out here. Always watchful.” General Hunter joined her on the battlement, his left hand curling over the stone as he stepped to her side. He peered down at the village before his gaze swept the horizon in the same arc hers had taken.
“I didn’t realize you were looking for me.” It took all her years of training on and off the battlefield to avoid showing him her surprise.
General Hunter took particular delight in testing her skills, whether it was because she was the youngest person to lead a battalion or because she was a princess. Either way, Aven always tried to keep on her toes.
Today he’d startled her. Too wrapped up in her head, she realized, to hear him approach. Especially with the wind moaning.
She turned slowly toward the General. He’d donned his usual battle suit, the polished metal keeping his chest protected now gleaming in the dull light overhead. Hunter had been her father’s ally for countless years, and his instincts in war made him a terrible force to reckon with.
The Golden Claw.
That’s what they called him.
Hunter’s signature sword, its handle charged from magic worked into the gleaming metal, had cut down too many fae to count.
Now his dark round eyes were fixed on her. “I thought you’d use this time to talk to your troops and prepare them for what will come,” he said. “Instead, you’re lost in daydreams. Should I be worried?”
“Never daydreams.” She fought to match his stillness, how it seemed not one salt-and-pepper hair at his temples moved in the breeze.
Aven had seen him cut down enemies with a single swipe of his legendary sword. She’d also seen him barking out orders to one of his lackeys when it came time for her own training. She’d taken too many spills on the mat, not to mention cuts and bruises and sprained ankles, because of his maneuvers. All the training served her well when it came time, however.
How could she be anything but grateful?
She straightened and offered him a half smile. “I’m headed down there shortly. I had my runes touched up to make sure everything is in order for tomorrow.”
Hunter nodded, his face giving nothing away as he scanned her. “We’ve taken the time to prepare. This battle, unlike the others…” He trailed off.
He didn’t need to finish. They’d seen the Mourningvale army moving into position, their scouts relaying the message back to the kingdom. It had given them ample time to prepare their men and get them ready for what lay ahead.
Bloodshed and pain and horror. No matter their advanced warning, every fight ended with the same outcome. Many of them survived, and many more of them fell, their tattered bodies decorating the already desolate land.
Even the earth seemed to shrink and die underneath the weight of these long years of war.
“I’ve never mentioned it before, Aven. Never seemed like the right time,” Hunter continued, his voice gruff. He jerked his head out toward the fighting fields beyond. “I’m proud of you.”
Aven grimaced, surprise causing her to shift. “There’s no need for compliments.” Not that she’d heard many of them, especially not from Hunter. “I’ve done what anyone would do.”
“There are many royals who wouldn’t dare don armor and fight alongside their men.”
“Pathetic,” she replied with a snap.
Hunter inclined his head. “Perhaps. Not only do you fight with your men, but you inspire them. It counts for more than you realize. Your father is proud of you as well.”
King Fergus Elridge never bothered to speak to her about anything outside of court matters, and he certainly never gave anything close to physical affection. She’d gotten used to a pat on the head as the only thing she’d get from him. Even those stopped after she turned four.
Aven fell utterly silent as she worked to get herself together. Something about Hunter being here, saying these things, had her flinching like the kind words were actually a punch to the gut. Her hand fell to the handle of her own sword. She needed strength.
“What’s wrong?” she asked. “There must be something, for you to go this soft on me. Besides, it’s my duty.”
To protect her people, to make sure they had even the smallest chance at the life they all deserved. Were they not all on this earth to make good lives for their families? To protect the ones they loved from strife and heartache and pain? She did the same, except her duties extended beyond blood.
“You are not a standard spoiled princess, that’s all I’m trying to say.” The corners of Hunter’s mouth twisted north, but his eyes held no amusement. “Gather your people. Tell them what they want to hear to get them through this fight and we’ll see who comes out on the other side.”
“Too few,” Aven admitted with uncharacteristic vulnerability.
Both sides did whatever it took to be victorious, even if it meant stepping out of bounds so far that fate itself may bring them to ruin. Aven herself felt the press of the future on her shoulders as surely as any weight.
Hunter’s jaw clenched. “One of these days we’re going to win this fight and those fae assholes will be digging their own graves. Then Grimrose will prosper again.”
Aven wasn’t too sure, but she clung to the small kernel of hope ignited in her gut.
“Trust me. I’ve seen it before. They might be long-lived but the underdogs will always rise up to fight the injustices of the mighty and sooner or later, whether it’s in your generation or the near future, we will be victorious,” he said at her questioning sideways glance. “I may not live to see the day but I pray you will.”
Like she needed more pressure. Aven forced herself to bob her head in acknowledgment. “I’ll do my best.”
“Princess Aven!” A messenger ducked out into the open air, and wind immediately battered him, sending straps of leather slapping against his armor. “His Majesty requires your presence in the war room. It’s urgent.”
A darkness came over her, an internal storm, and her mouth went dry. “I’m on my way.”
“Go,” Hunter murmured. “You don’t need me to hold your hand this time.”
Her father rarely called her into the war room, and she could only remember a single time she’d walked over the threshold. He hadn’t been in attendance, and she’d scooted out of there as quickly as possible, like the walls themselves held the stress and tension of battle preparation.
She preferred to do her planning with her men in the barracks.
If he wanted to see her now… it could not mean anything good.