Chapter 1
Chapter One
“Come on, Princess,” a deep voice rumbles in my ear. “I’ve taught you better than that.” I struggle beneath him, the ice floor cold against my back, but his heavy weight pins me down. Dark, mischievous blue eyes—ones I know as well as my own—trace my face, settling on my lips.
I scowl and bring up my knee. Hard.
Daak narrowly shifts out of the way with a huffed laugh before jumping to his feet. I ignore his proffered hand and rise on my own.
“Again.” I drop into a defensive position, arms raised.
Amusement dances in his eyes. “If you say so.”
With a flurry of punches, he attacks.
Daak gives me no quarter, but I know his routine—he’s been training me for years. I easily deflect his blows. When his leg sweeps out in a roundhouse, I crouch just in time, his boot passing scant inches above my head.
Water burbles in the large fountain carved into the ice wall of the palace’s training room, though its sound is muffled by my own heaving breaths.
From the center of the fountain, a massive polar bear—one of my least favorite ice sculptures—glares at me.
He’s always glaring. I like to pretend he’ll look pleased when I finally win.
Maybe it’ll be today.
I attack with flying fists and well-aimed kicks, my grunts echoing through the vast, cold room.
Daak blocks every single strike, eyes glinting in the sunlight filtering from the large, arched windows.
Just when I’m about to land a solid blow, a large wave of clear, cold water surges from the fountain.
It flows toward us in a rushing torrent, wrapping around my legs.
It freezes.
Before I can blink, another icy wave crashes into me, covering my hips in thick ribbons, before they also freeze.
“Cheater!” I snap, glaring at him. “We said no wielding.”
Daak is a skilled waterwielder—the best in all of Tundrayn—and captain of my father’s guard. It’s the only reason Father never sent him into battle.
“I changed my mind.” He smirks at me, palms angled to cheat some more. I lift my hands up, when—
Rap. Rap. Rap.
Three sharp knocks echo through the training room.
I drop my hands. The door flings open, and a servant barges in, panting. “Princess Mayah! The Healing Chambers. Come quickly.”
The ice holding me captive melts, crashing to the floor with a loud splash. With a wave of his hand, Daak wicks the water soaking my fur-lined tunic and leggings back into the fountain. His eyes reflect the worry that must be mirrored in my own.
“Go,” he says, brows furrowed. “I’ll check in soon.”
My dark braid swings behind me as I follow the servant through the cold palace halls, boots skidding on the ice floors.
I could sprint this path blindfolded in the dead of night and not slip once.
I’ve done it several times on a dare. But the urgency bracketing the servant’s posture rocks my balance.
We make it in record time.
Carved into the palace’s icy heart, the Healing Chambers have smooth, white ice walls that glisten like polished marble.
Stone basins brimming with crystal-clear water sit beneath frost-rimmed shelves lined with glass jars of salves and rows of neatly stacked liniments—rarely used, but handy when healers are depleted of reserves.
I’ve never touched any of the medical supplies in my entire life.
I’ve never needed to.
Usually, the air in the Healing Chambers is crisp with the scent of mint and snowroot, but today, the stench of death permeates the room.
A sharp gasp breaks loose from my chest, and I resist the urge to cover my mouth.
There are no empty cots. Every available surface is littered with broken bodies—warriors with gaping wounds and twisted limbs. Three unfortunate souls are sprawled on the cold floor between cots.
Tides have mercy.
The metallic smell of burnt flesh invades my nostrils, and I struggle to stifle my gag. I don’t know why. I should be used to it by now—I’ve treated hundreds of such injuries in this tidesdamned eternal war with Arbinj.
“What happened?” I demand, surveying the injured men and women. “We agreed to a ceasefire!”
Jennah, the head healer, snorts, the lines around her mouth etched deeper as she scowls. “Apparently, news of the alliance didn’t reach the front lines in time.” She doesn’t look up, glowing hands pressed against her patient’s bloodied arm. “Arbinj attacked a small battalion. All commons.”
My anger flares hotter at her casual use of “commons,” the derogatory term for nonwielders, but I purse my lips and hold my tongue.
Rolling up the sleeves of my tunic, I set to work.
First, I treat a warrior with horrific lightning burns covering nearly every inch of his body.
His clothing is shredded, fused to his skin in some places.
Tides damn whoever did this into uncharted depths.
Gingerly, I peel back the fabric where I can, revealing raised, branching scars where the lightning struck.
The work of a stormwielder. A very powerful one.
I tamp down on my rage, summoning the power inside me until my hands glow with soothing white light. Slowly, painstakingly, I skim my palms over the injuries. The warrior groans, his pale face contorted with agony, sweat soaking his dark braids.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper. He doesn’t hear me or is too consumed by pain to respond.
“There were no healers at the front lines?” I ask sharply, glancing at Jennah. “These wounds should’ve been treated immediately. Not left to fester.”
“There were,” Jennah responds slowly. The lines around her mouth deepen, her white hair blending with the ice walls. “They were overwhelmed treating the waterwielders.”
I hold my tongue. Again.
Like I’ve been doing for years.
“Apparently,” Jennah continues, her voice dropping to a quiet hush, “this was the work of the Dark Commander.”
Bile rises in my throat. Tides, I knew Prince Zevayr was ruthless, but this level of violence—
He’s been called the most powerful wielder in the realm.
And these defenseless nonwielders faced his wrath.
Jennah shakes her head with a soft tsk. “Such brutality. I suppose unchecked power will do that to a man.”
I scoff. “Maybe he’s just angry he was born a second son. He’ll never be king, so he seeks glory on the battlefield. A cruel, mindless soldier.” Even as the words leave my lips, I know them to be false.
The Dark Commander is anything but mindless. He’s led the Arbinji armies since his early twenties. His war strategies have resulted in thousands of Tundrayni deaths over the years.
I should know—I’ve been healing the survivors since adolescence.
Taking deep breaths, I focus on my next patient.
This one faced an earthwielder. His skin is littered with painful holes where thorny branches and snaking roots emerge.
The skin around them is jagged, putrid, and the smell of scorched wood lingers in the air.
I press my hands to the warrior’s neck, assessing his internal damage.
“By the Tides,” I swear under my breath.
There isn’t much I can do for him. I’m not sure how he’s still breathing.
I share a worried glance with Jennah. Her ice-blue eyes are sharp but undercut with sorrow.
She may also think of nonwielders as less-than, but she isn’t coldhearted.
My eyes flutter shut as I focus on numbing his pain.
“Can you summon a heartwielder for him?” I whisper hoarsely. We only have two heartwielders in all of Tundrayn. Though, sometimes, I wonder how many have managed to keep their powers concealed. “I can’t do much more for him. He should feel peace in his final moments.”
“I will,” Jennah promises, finishing up with her patient. She reaches for a small loaf of rootbread from the table beside her and takes a large bite. Her shrewd eyes watch me carefully as she chews. “When did you last eat?”
“Just before I came,” I lie.
Jennah narrows her eyes at me. I give her my most convincing smile. She harrumphs. “Don’t burn through your reserves. Princess or not, you need to eat just the same as any other wielder. You’ll be of no use to these warriors if you can’t heal.”
Such simple words: You need to eat.
But unlike verdant, fertile Arbinj, Tundrayn is the land of ice and snow and scarcity. I don’t want to eat more than my fair share. That just means someone else will go hungry—most likely a nonwielder.
I keep going, treating another two men with horrific injuries, ignoring the drain in my chest. Nonwielders are often placed on the front lines during battle. The injustice grates at my nerves.
Were Sura and Tumaas often on the front lines? Before—
My throat tightens, and I shove the intrusive thought away.
By the time I’m treating my fourth patient, tell-tale fatigue weighs down my limbs—a sign that I’m close to overusing my powers. I should stop, but there are still so many untreated nonwielders. Still in pain. Still suffering.
Jennah works tirelessly alongside me. She’s not as strong as I am, but she’s been eating between every patient. Jennah is older—she needs the nourishment more than me.
I can keep going.
Luckily, the warrior I’m currently treating only has mild burns.
I finish with her quickly, ready to move to the next patient when the carved ice doors swing open and three hulking men stride inside.
One of them has a black eye, and the others sport bloody noses.
All of them wear blue and white furs—waterwielders, unmistakably.
But even without the obvious attire, I’d know.
It’s in their gait, the arrogant ease of those raised to believe the world is theirs by birthright.