Chapter 1
Gamble
“Can’t stop. Got to keep running. Eyes open. Listen to the forest,” I whisper, my heart thumping inside my chest as I duck underneath an old Lantern Tree branch. “Don’t stop… Revaster is coming.”
But with the snow falling harder than ever, I know that I can’t keep running forever. In fact, I’m pretty sure that I’m almost ready to collapse at any moment. I need to find somewhere to hide out, and I need to do it fast.
The sound of Lord Revaster’s Night Hounds is just about audible in the distance. If I slow down or stop, it won’t be long before they catch my sent. And as soon as they do, I know that my days are numbered.
“Think, Gamble,” I splutter, hopping over the stone bricks of a fallen forest cottage. “Use your intuition. You might only be twenty, but you’ve known these forests and the southern lands since you could crawl…”
And then it hits me.
If I pivot back on myself and cut through the undergrowth, I could navigate a path for myself across the Salan River and then head toward the cluster of villages that surround the base of the Great Mount Elan.
It’s cold and getting colder.
It won’t be easy.
But I think it might be my only choice…
With that, I zig and zag back toward the undergrowth and crawl through the snow-covered dirt until I am on the other side, the trees spindly and white in front of me and a pathway toward the Salan River in sight.
I take a moment to catch my breath. My thick green overcoat covers my mottled brown shirt and trousers.
The overcoat’s thick inner lining will keep me from freezing, but only if I find myself somewhere to stay overnight.
Time is ticking—and it has been ever since I stole Lord Revaster’s precious fire stone.
Few and far between steal from Revaster and live to tell the tale.
But I know that my family’s future could depend on it.
With this stone, I can seek out a mage who will use it to fight against Revaster’s cruel reign of terror.
If, and only if, the mage can enact the ancient spell, there is a chance that we can all be rid of the most vicious, heartless and sadistic lord that our land has ever known.
I might only be an elf. But I’m brave, fleet of foot, and don’t fear the consequences of taking risks. It’s how I’ve always been, ever since I was nothing more than a child, causing mischief and mayhem for my mother and the rest of my family.
This was before Revaster arrived and brought with him an army of merciless mercenaries, brutal soldiers who would think nothing of making a child an orphan for even the slightest hint of rebellion.
Our village was once a happy place.
And I’m determined to make it happy and safe again.
But to do that, I need to keep moving…
The snow is a living thing, clawing at my boots, slapping my cheeks with icy fingers. My lungs burn, each breath a shard of glass. The artifact—warm, pulsing, dangerous—presses against my sternum like a second heart that refuses to beat in rhythm with mine.
Behind me, the Night Hounds howl in three-part harmony, and the accompanying warlocks’ laughter rides the wind like broken bells. I know Revaster won’t be with them, but his evil spirit will be on full display in their possessed eyes and demented cries.
I stumble over a root hidden beneath powder and sprawl face-first into a drift.
Snow fills my mouth, my nose. For one heartbeat I consider staying down.
Let Revaster have the thing. Let him choke on it.
Then I remember my mother’s hollow eyes, my father’s trembling hands, the way Revaster’s curse is already peeling the bark from the oaks back home.
No, I’m not going to give in.
Not now. Not ever.
I shove upright, spit frost, and run again.
That’s when I see it: a necklace of golden light strung across the valley. Lanterns. Hearths. A village. Life.
My legs decide before my brain does. I angle downhill, half-sliding, half-falling, the artifact thumping against my ribs with every jolt.
The slope spits me out at the edge of a frozen stream.
I vault it, boots skidding on black ice, and crash through a hedge of skeletal hawthorn into the village square.
The impact jars my teeth. I land on my knees in the middle of a ring of startled faces—humans in wool, a dwarf with a steaming tankard, two fox-kin children gaping like I’m a winter ghost.
And him.
He’s leaning against the well, arms folded across a chest that could shelter a blizzard.
Dark hair, darker eyes, a jaw carved from granite.
The forge-glow behind him paints his skin bronze and gold.
When our gazes lock, something inside me—something that has never once asked permission—leans forward and whispers mine.
I scramble upright, snow cascading from my cloak.
“Evening,” I manage, flashing the grin that has talked me out of three hangings and one very angry marriage proposal. “Lovely night for a stroll.”
The wolves answer for me, their howls suddenly close—too close. The square erupts. Tankards clatter. Children are snatched up. The dwarf mutters something about “Revaster’s dogs” and disappears into a doorway.
The stranger doesn’t move.
His eyes flick from my face to the bulge beneath my tunic where the artifact hides, then to the treeline where shadows slip between the trunks.
“You brought trouble to my doorstep, elf.”
His voice is low, rough as unsanded oak, and it slides straight into my bloodstream. I open my mouth to lie—something clever, something charming—but the first hunter bursts into the square.
It’s not a hound. It’s worse: a man-wolf hybrid, Revaster’s favorite breed, seven feet of muscle and mange with spiteful yellow eyes. It sniffs the air, locks on me, and grins with too many teeth.
I backpedal. My heel hits the well. Nowhere to run.
The stranger sighs like I’m a chore he didn’t sign up for. Then he steps between me and the beast.
“Mine,” he says—quiet, calm, final. “I, Sarak, will offer no compromise on that.”
The word hits me harder than any fist. I don’t have time to unpack it. The hunter lunges. The stranger meets it midair. There’s a ripple, like heat over coals, and scales erupt across his arms: obsidian shot through with molten gold.
Claws rake the hunter’s chest; fire—actual fire—pours from Sarak’s mouth in a controlled jet that smells of molten iron. The hunter screams, a sound that belongs in nightmares, and collapses in a smoking heap.
Two more spill from the trees.
Sarak spins, his tail lashing, and roars. The sound cracks the night open. Windows shatter. Lanterns gutter. My knees try to fold.
I should run.
I know what this is. Or at least I think I do. And it most definitely isn’t what I bargained for.
Instead, I watch, totally transfixed, as Sarak becomes something between man and myth: wings half-unfurled, horns curling from his hair, every line of him screaming protector. The second hunter goes down with a sword I didn’t see him draw. The third turns tail and flees, yelping.
Silence falls, broken only by the crackle of dying flames and my own ragged breathing.
Sarak turns to me.
I watch as his scales recede, but his eyes still glow ember-bright.
“Inside,” he says. “It’s not a request.”
I open my mouth—some quip, some deflection—but the artifact chooses that moment to flare.
Pain lances through my chest, white-hot.
I double over, gasping. Sarak is there in two strides, one massive hand cupping my elbow, the other pressing over the artifact through my tunic.
His palm is furnace-warm and my pain ebbs to a dull throb.
“Stubborn little thief,” Sarak mutters. “What in the nine hells did you steal?”
I manage a shaky laugh.
“Family heirloom. Long story,” I reply. “Involves curses, bad decisions, and a warlord with a face like a boiled boot.”
His mouth twitches—almost a smile.
“Save it. You’re bleeding on my cobblestones.”
I glance down. A shallow slice across my ribs, nothing serious, but the blood soaks my shirt in a dark bloom.
Sarak’s jaw tightens.
Before I can protest, he scoops me up—scoops me, like I weigh less than the snow on his lashes—and strides toward a forge-lit doorway.
Villagers part like water.
Someone whispers “dragon.”
Someone else whispers “elf.”
Inside the doorway, the heat hits me like a embrace. The forge glows cherry-red; tools hang in neat rows; the air smells of coal and cedar. Sarak sets me on a sturdy bench, none too gently.
“Strip,” he says, his voice firm and gruff.
I arch a brow. “Buy me dinner first.”
Sarak snorts, but there’s no heat in it. “Shirt off, trouble. Let me see the damage.”
I peel the tunic over my head, wincing. The artifact tumbles free on its chain, spinning lazily. It’s a palm-sized disk of black glass veined with crimson, warm as living skin. Sarak’s gaze sharpens.
“Revaster’s seal,” Sarak says flatly. “You didn’t steal a trinket. You stole his leash.”
“Technically it was already cursed,” I offer. “I just… relocated it.”
He mutters something that sounds suspiciously like brat and fetches a cloth and a basin of steaming water. His hands are surprisingly gentle as he cleans the slice. The cloth stings but Sarak’s touch soothes me.
I study the top of his head—dark hair falling forward, a thin scar along one temple.
“Why help me?” I ask quietly.
He doesn’t look up. “Because you crashed into my arms like the gods dropped you there. Because my dragon decided you’re ours before my brain caught up. Pick one.”
My heart does a ridiculous flip. “Yours, huh?”
“Don’t push it, elf.” But his thumb brushes my collarbone, lingering. “Name?”
“Gamble,” I answer, my heart beating hard and the nervousness in my voice making me almost choke on my own name.
“Of course it is.” He ties off a bandage with neat, efficient movements. “I’m Sarak, which of course you already know. You’re staying here tonight. Tomorrow we figure out how deep in the fire you’ve dragged us.”
The artifact pulses again, softer this time, like it approves.
I lean back against the warm stone wall and let my eyes drift shut. For the first time in weeks, the Night Hounds sound distant. And for the first time ever, I’m not sure I want to run.
But before I can feel anything close to settled, Sarak’s voice rumbles through the quiet.
“Rule one, Gamble: no more solo heroics,” Sarak barks. “You run, you tell me. You steal, you ask permission. Break my rules…” He taps the bench beside my thigh, a promise and a threat wrapped in one. “Consequences.”
I open one eye. “What kind of consequences?”
The look he gives me could melt iron. “The kind that’ll leave you breathless and begging, little elf.”
Heat pools low in my belly, unrelated to the forge.
I swallow hard. “Looking forward to it, Daddy.”
Sarak’s sharp intake of breath is the last thing I hear before exhaustion claims me, smiling like a fool in the glow of a dragon’s fire as my eyes gently shut and the true impact of my close escape and time on the run hitting home harder than any elf could be expected to handle.
But I know one thing to be true.
Sarak might think he’s my savior, my guardian, or whatever else his dragon brain can muster. However if he thinks he can keep me in check, he’s got another thing coming…