1. Chapter One
Chapter One
Astrid
26 Years later
Life in Demendia is simple. Within its domed walls, everyone has a place, and fits into the roles laid out for them by Malia and King Daemon.
I sigh, content within the North Compound’s Veterinary clinic. Warm water crashes out of the faucet over my hands into the metal utility sink. A small amount of enzymatic detergent pools at the bottom, turning the water a bright cerulean color as they mix.
It’s just cleaning these surgical instruments, then I will be riding the hours until I can leave. That’s the routine, working wherever I have been assigned for the month. To become a rancher and work with the community herds, I’m required to have a certain amount of practicum hours where I put what I learned to the test. Out of the roles I have worked on the farm, the clinic is my favorite. Being in the trenches of veterinary care, seeing the good I’m doing. It's worth it.
I’ve been training like this for years, my graduation from the University of Agricultural Science postponed by the council of Lumins—a council composed of all three-district leaders who answer directly to the king—as they debate on whether to induct me into the brotherhood of ranchers or to force me into the role of homemaker. Ranchers take care of the herds, and it is the only position within the district that is higher than Curator. I have been at the top of my class since I started, and I couldn’t give them a single reason to say no, but I am the first woman to ever do this. Which is why it’s taking them so long to debate. A woman’s place according to the Muren, the book of Malia, is at home, watching over the children while her husband does all the work. It’s bullshit, and I think some of them know it. But going against the Muren and against Malia is to bring the ire of the Oracle and her acolytes to our gate. That is something to be avoided.
The large prep room gives me just enough space to breathe comfortably. Grateful to be alone, my surgical mask dangles from one of my ears. I can fit two heifers in here and still have space to work. That’s not counting the exam rooms down the hall or the operating rooms. I prefer my time spent suturing, cauterizing, or whatever is needed from me to help my patients. When I started my first rotation here, I soaked up the information Doc threw at me like a sponge while still craving to learn more. It got to the point where the doctor asked me to stop asking him so many questions before reminding me again that a woman’s place is to be seen and not heard.
The water rushing into the sink bubbles as it nears half-full when a rhythmic squelch cuts through the peace and quiet. A small chime dings over the speakers built into the wall, letting me know someone is waiting at the reception desk. I roll my eyes and shut off the faucet before dropping the dirty surgical instruments into the basin. I dry my hands on the towel I keep tucked into the waistband of my leaf green skirt that brushes the tops of my feet. The Muren requires women to remain covered, even in their sleep. There are even colors I’m not allowed to wear like black and red.
There are always a handful of farmers who wait until the last minute to start preparing for the Oracle’s matchmaking festival. Most appointments have already been taken with how late into the week it is. The festival itself is only a few days away, and it’ll be Embla’s first time attending now that she’s of age. At twenty, she is six years my junior. I can’t help but share in her excitement.
The feeling intensifies, morphing into fireflies in my stomach mixed with uncertainty. It’ll be a first for me as well, my first time participating in the hunt. I’ve been looking for a way to prove myself since petitioning the council of Lumins for the title of Rancher. I’m finally going to get my chance. Papa said this would be the perfect way.
An exhilarating thrill thrums through my body. I’ll be leaving the safety of the walls for the first time in my life. I can’t afford to let this opportunity pass me by no matter how scared I am. The ding over the intercom echoes through the back rooms again.
Rose-covered wallpaper that is fading and peeling in places leads through the back rooms to the small prison that is the reception. With just a push, the blue swinging door groans loudly and wallpaper gives way to clinical white walls and vomit green tile. The door swings back and forth a few times behind me as I take my seat behind the U-shaped desk.
What was once a waiting room is now half the size it was when I started my rotation. A few months of renovations later, and it is just small enough to be my own personal nightmare. A portrait of King Daemon’s sickly skinny frame and oil black hair hangs on the wall across from my desk. I can feel the portrait’s icy blue eyes follow me while I work. My desk blocks off the door to the back, and is littered with sticky notes, abandoned half-filled-out paperwork, along with the three drinks I have been nursing since this morning. On the other side of the wooden table is a tall farmer with dark curling hair that peeks out from under his fluorescent green beanie. The color indicates his rank on the farm. A greenhouse curator—a position of power in the district. He gets to pick and choose which plants are grown in greenhouses he oversees. The ancient computer that can’t do anything more than keep track of the schedule and livestock hums louder than usual as I take my seat.
“Where have ye been, Astrid?” His gruff bark is muffled by the cloth mask that obscures the lower half of his face, but I don’t miss the way he sneers my name. Or the once over he gives my body before his eyes land on my name tag.
“Mornin’ Curator.” I bow my head slightly, plastering on my best customer service smile. I do my best to pretend I don’t feel like the world is crumbling around me more and more each day. “I’m sorry for the wait. How may I help you?” I ask, hoping he can’t see my tumultuous thoughts through my fake ass smile.
The Curator’s eyes go straight to my left one, and I resist the urge to touch the scar that runs through my left eyebrow to my cheek. While my eye was saved, my beauty wasn’t. Many men told Papa as much the day it happened. Now most of the men in the district only see me as damaged goods so they stay away while the rest of the women of Demendia are only good for three things: house cleaning, breeding, and raising the brood.
“You should know what I’m here for,” he grumbles, and I remain silent, resisting the urge to cock a sarcastic eyebrow at him. I don’t want to be branded a mind reader on top of being the district’s jack. That’s all the shadow guard would need to justify dragging me off to Mortis Square. Lumin’s daughter or not. Fear crawls into my chest, moving out over my skin as I think of the one place in the district my sister and I avoid at all costs.
“I need my cattle appraised and evaluated for a dowry,” the Curator mumbles after a few awkward seconds.
“Congratulations!” I force my face to light up. “I hope the Oracle blesses the union.” However, it’s unlikely. The number of unions the Oracle has blessed has dwindled each festival over the past few years. “Would you like to include a sheering?” I keep my voice light, and my smile beams as the Curator considers. Woolly cows only live in Demendia, and their fleece makes the finest fabric that is soft but also stronger than most others.
“Not today,” the Curator says curtly.
I dip my head to the computer, scouring the schedule for an open appointment. There’s one left, and after this, the Northern Compound vet clinic will be fully booked. Any other last-minuters will have to make the trip to the Southern Compound on the Farm’s outskirts. “I’ll just need you to scan your barcode to bring up your herd and enter your tithe pin for payment.” I motion to the scanner and keypad in front of him with practiced ease. The tithe is due soon, and if even one household can’t pay, the community will be forced to sacrifice a life.
The Curator raises his wrist to the scanner. It beeps followed by the melody of his pin playing through the air. My fingers brush my left wrist, where I plan to put my own barcode when I’m finally graduated and granted my title.
The computer loads slowly, and I wait, drumming my fingers on the wooden desk. The farmer’s private herd file loads at a snail’s pace, and one at a time pictures of each cow fills the screen. The system gives me not just their pictures but their GPS location within the fields as well. I’ve never understood the farmers who use the clinic. A farmer, even one who has climbed the ladder to Curator, should be able to do everything the clinic does themselves, especially if their herd is made up of Woolly cows. I’d understand if it was an exotic herd, or hell, even a mixed herd. But in the Farm District, kids grow up alongside these creatures, same as me. Of all people, the farm district should be experts. Animals and plants are what we do.
“All right, I’ve got your herd file, the last appointment we have is Thursday evening. Our ranchers will bring your herd in, and all results will be sent to the email we have on fi—”
The swish of the automatic door cuts through the air, and three men step into reception wearing all black. Their boots tracking dark mud across the dingy tile.
“I’ll be right with you!” I call out, only for the tallest of them to wave me off. I used to have vet techs, a second receptionist, and an assistant. But they’ve fallen ill or are too scared to come into work for fear of falling ill leaving me to manage the clinic alone… minus the Doc, but he’d never help with what he considers “womanly work”. He’ll have another student to torment soon enough.
I rush to finalize the appointment in the inane computer system, but when I look up the three men have surrounded the Curator , and I finally take a good look at the group. Black leather covers them from head to toe, and black, metal swords hang off their hips, absorbing any light that touches them. They look as if they are shadows made flesh.
Shadow Guards.
“Curator Igorson, you’re under arrest,” the tallest of the Shadow Guards says, producing black stone cuffs for the Curator’s hands.
“I haven’t broken any laws. What gives you the right? Do you have a warrant?” Igorson asks, raising his hands trying to take a step backward only to run into the reception desk. My drinks slosh at the sudden impact.
“You’ve been named a mutual party in premarital fornication. You can surrender now,” the shorter guard says, lifting his chin a little as if it would add to his height. Each guard stands with their hands on their hips, and I hold my breath waiting to see what Igorson’s next move is going to be.
“Or we can take you by force,” the tall guard finishes. I imagine a sinister smile curling across his face under the black cloth mask he wears, the cruelty reaches his eyes, gleaming with ruthlessness. I don’t know what to do as I slowly rise and back away a few paces. Shadow Guards are violent and will take down anyone who is in the way of their arrest. I resist the urge to hide under my desk as my eyes dart from the guards to the Curator.
Igorson’s eyes cut to mine, pleading for some kind of help. I shake my head, taking another step back and averting my eyes. I’m not willing to risk my life and future for a rude stranger. The Curator gets one foot on the desk, knocking my pens and mugs to the ground before black leather gloved hands are hauling him back to the floor as he fights against them. I recoil, pressing myself into the wall behind me. It’s as far from the fight as I can manage. He won’t get away. No one escapes the Shadow Guards. Even if someone did, there’s no leaving the walls of the city.
Igorson clings to the desk as they try to haul him to the door. His nails gouge deep lines into the wood as he’s torn away. His eyes dart around the room, searching for a different escape route. Before he has a chance to run, the shorter guard lands a closed fist blow to the Curator’s face before repeating it over and over until Igorson either loses his fight or falls unconscious. I can’t be sure. Thick manacles are secured around his wrists. Two guards lift him under each arm while the third follows as they drag the unconscious man to Mortis Square for execution.
Shadow Guards are always looking for a reason to execute someone. One infraction against the laws of Demendia or Malia’s commandment will land you in a noose or worse.
I spend the rest of my shift scrubbing the floor of reception while fighting back tears. I remove any evidence of the Shadow’s visit. I can’t stave off the thoughts of what would happen to Embla if anyone aside from Papa knew about what happened in those woods… how I really got my scar.
I walk quickly, hunched over the item I carry. My long, black hair is hidden under the hood of my green, wool cardigan. I can’t let anyone know I found it. I look over each shoulder checking the path behind me for any witnesses before I sprint to the barn. Rolling the door closed behind me, I pause, leaning my head against it, tension melting from my shoulders as I breathe in the familiar leather and oats. The smell clings to the space even though the barn has been unused for years. I stand, catching my reflection in the simple glass pane of one of the lanterns, the green glowing moss casting an eerie light across my features.
My face has started to slim, losing its childlike roundness. Papa is going to force me to start preparing to find a husband when I turn thirteen, like the rest of the girls in the district.
I don’t know the first thing about getting married; I don’t know what it is like to stay at home. What would I do? Decorate. Ha, my sense of style is severely lacking. The other girls at school mock me for it daily. I hate turning in assignments in Homemaking 101 because of them. I wouldn’t have taken it, but I must graduate secondary school so I can get into The University of Agricultural Science. I’m going to be just like Papa.
Excitement fills me as I lift my cloak to reveal my prize. A golden sword. I found it under one of the floorboards of Papa’s office. He’ll have to train me now. While I took to spending time with the boys of my class, none of them are old enough to train with a sword yet so they can’t teach me, and Papa always uses the excuse that there aren’t enough weapons. So, I’ve been forced to get creative and find my own. The hilt fits comfortably in my hand, but something about it seems off.
Dry straw rustles and I tuck the sword back into the sheath hidden in the folds of fabric. The sound of dry hay is the only sound in the quiet early morning hours. Having just finished my chores, I want to take advantage of a quiet moment, so of course my little sister shows up. Embla is nestled in a small pile of fresh hay. Her long mousy brown hair tumbles in front of her round face, nothing can hide the six-year-old innocence I find. She’s sticking her tongue out in concentration as she tries to shove her doll’s arm through a dress.
I pull the weapon from its sheath again, admiring the filigree of the hilt. Golden rays stretch out creating the guard with a circular center that holds a single purple leaf encased in some kind of resin. I can’t help wondering how someone in my family could afford this. It's extravagant to say the least. Probably a gift. But a strange feeling lurks as I try to convince myself that this weapon belongs to me while it feels like it never will.
“Pretty,” Embla’s six-year-old voice cuts through the air as she reaches for the weapon’s sharp edges.
“Don’t touch,” I hiss, my heart skipping a beat as I draw the blade out of her reach, ensuring she doesn’t try to jump and catch the sword. That’s the last thing I need. If Em were to get hurt by this weapon, Papa would never let me see it again. I must prove to him I deserve to train, not give him more reasons to keep it from me. My sister’s warm brown eyes fill with tears.
With Embla, all it takes is a distraction, so I turn to the practice dummy set in the middle of the barn. Papa pieced it together years ago so he could stay in shape and keep his skills sharp. He spent that summer lugging logs through the field to craft it together. I’ve sat on the sidelines of his morning workouts for as long as I can remember.
“Watch this,” I say, stepping closer to the makeshift dummy, and Embla swipes at her eyes. Paying attention to my peripherals, I raise the sword and say, “This is how I would deal with those stupid Shadow Guards.” My movements slow and choppy, I begin to run through the motions I have watched Papa run through every day.
A smile spreads across my face. I love the burn of my muscles as I find my rhythm, losing myself in it. Only stopping when the blade comes down too hard and gets stuck in the dummy. I can’t pull it out right away. I have to rock a few times before propping a leg on the log for leverage. I yank with all my strength. Finally, the weapon dislodges. I stumble back with the force, catching myself before I can lose my footing completely. Turning to Embla, I have victory stretching across my face. My triumphant smile falters before falling from my face completely when all I find is an empty patch of trampled hay. Glancing around the almost empty barn, my heart drops before climbing into my throat.
“Embla?” I croak as I peek into the tack room and the handful of empty stalls that have been vacant since the barn was abandoned. My stomach falls further after ensuring Em isn’t hiding somewhere.
“Embla!” Urgency rings through my voice, bouncing off the tall ceiling. The silence that follows is thick, pressing into me, urging me to keep looking. My heartbeat is the only thing I hear as I slip the sword into the sheath at my side and scramble to check the fields.
“Embla! Answer me!” I shout, scanning the outside area. I turn in place as my hand clutches the silver locket that hangs from my neck. The backside of our home mocks me, and I look across the rest of the empty field. My gaze hovers over the forest that acts as a barrier between the outer wall and our community. Deep, thin, gouging tool marks run diagonally across the domed wall’s expanse. Just in front of the tree line, there is something in the grass. I take off running across the field, throwing myself against one of the trees. Rough bark bites into my palms as I catch myself on one of the trunks. I ignore the sting that radiates to my wrists. I pick up Embla’s doll, its head falls back at the neck as I absently brush the grass off searching the shadows of the woods beyond.
Blood drains from my face with each second that passes. Every story Papa has ever told me runs through my mind on repeat. Fae and faeries sneaking through the woods to steal children, fae that could turn into beasts with claws as thick as my arm. Things that school isn’t allowed to teach us. Papa said the fae would lure people into the woods, never to be seen again. The hope I have that Embla isn’t in there slowly dwindles, and I’m rooted to the spot trying to hold out hope I won’t have to cross the tree line. Craning my neck, I try to catch a glimpse of my sister between the trees deeper within. While magic was banished when Malia brought the Muren to Demendia, something about these woods has always been unsettling.
“Embla, please,” I cry into the wooded darkness and strain to hear a response, but all I can hear is the blood as it pounds against my skull. “They’re only stories,” I whisper to myself; I grab my locket between my fingers, kissing it for luck. Unsheathing my sword, I plunge into the shadows.
Trees close in, and my breath comes in quiet gasps as I try to get my heart rate under control. My arms tremble as I clumsily grip the sword, holding it out in front of me. The hilt slips against my sweat slicked palms. I hold my breath as the sound of paws skitter across the leaves littering the ground. The small chirp of a flying ohm relaxes my shoulders, but I don’t lower my weapon. The small mammals with four finger hands, large puffy tails and round eyes that take up most of their heads are harmless. The only thing they can hurt is the fruit they unhinge their jaws to swallow whole.
I take another settling breath. I can’t stop. Papa gave me one job, and until I find Embla, I’ve failed. My ears strain against the stillness of the woods. Silence wraps around me, and goosebumps have taken up permanent residence on my thighs.
Not too far off, a giggle cuts through the silence and my head snaps in its direction. The sound of a six-year-old going somewhere they’ve been told not to. I take off toward the noise, hurtling through the woods, dodging tree trunks as I run. I plant my feet into the wet soil, forcing my body to such an abrupt halt, my feet slide across the layers of leaves. My arms flail to stay upright and out of the mud. I don’t want to draw my sister’s attention; Embla has a habit of running when she knows she’s been caught. I hide, fitting my body behind one of the trunks before peering around, trying to get her in my line of sight.
The trees glow in a way I have never seen before. Most plants in Demendia are bioluminescent, and they glow with a teal tint, except for a few that aren’t trees. The trees before me are glowing purple, blue, and the brightest gold. I tighten my grip around my sword ignoring the urge to wipe my hands down my front as I inch forward to get a glimpse through the odd vegetation.
I realize quickly it isn’t the trees glowing. Standing in the outcropping are three women. A different color emanates from each. Six delicate wings flutter around them, their feet hovering inches from the ground. Their sharp facial features are framed by varying lengths of white hair. The golden faerie’s eyes are locked on Embla as she kneels, her angular face soft with kindness. Luminescent sparkles bounce from her body as she takes Embla’s hand into hers. Em clutches her fist closed fighting the faerie’s wishes, but the girl’s strength is nothing compared to the mystical being.
“Sweet girl,” the faerie coos in a melodic voice that drips with honey. Embla’s eyes are clenched closed, one hand closes into a fist at her side, and her entire body quakes as the gilded woman runs a finger down Embla’s cheek. My sister’s eyes flutter open to meet the faerie’s, and her whole body relaxes. The trembling stops. “Your time has come. You will be the strongest of us all.” She reaches into the pocket of her skirt, producing a golden orb she extends to my sister. I blindly step toward them. A twig breaks under my foot and the blue faerie’s eyes cut to mine. Before I realize it, the azure faerie has her bow drawn and cobalt light grows where an arrow would be notched, becoming a long, thin bolt of energy. She releases. The cerulean light hardens into glass as it flies.
I duck, trying to get out of the way. Two shards shoot over my head. I straighten, sword ready to attack to save my sister as the last shard slices across my left eye and leaves a trail of searing heat. I gasp , my free hand coming to my face to catch the warm blood trickling down my cheek.
I’ve got to get to Embla, I need to get her out of here. The thought consumes my mind. I try to staunch the bleeding while holding my sword up. My good eye wildly searches for my sister. The golden faerie kneels in front of her. Embla is stuck in her stare as if nothing happened, their gazes locked and unfaltering as she reaches for the orb.
“Embla don’t!” I struggle to stand. Whatever they are trying to give her can’t be good. My steps are wobbly. Blood still oozes from my eye. Desperate to get to my sister , I start to run. “Embla, no!” But it’s too late. The golden orb lands in Em’s tiny palms. A light shoots up toward the sky. It becomes too bright, and I clench my eyes shut only to be assaulted by a wall of wind. I fly as it throws me against the ground, my head connects with something hard, and pain explodes through my mind.