Inherit the Stars (The Solar Sovereign #1)

Chapter 1

My palm settles over the wound as I lie to myself: this is for him, not for me.

He can’t be more than six, slumped against the alley wall, left for dead as blood pools black beneath him.

His hair is dark, matted to his forehead with sweat and grime.

Small fingers curl against the cracked cobblestones, nails broken and dirty.

He’s wearing what might have once been a shirt, now little more than torn fabric barely clinging to his thin frame.

No shoes. His feet are pale against the filth of the alley.

Through the thick crimson glow of Marslight, I watch as his eyelids flutter briefly, a shallow breath rattling his tiny ribcage.

He’s all sharp angles and hollow cheeks that speak of too many hungry nights.

The wars left Mars with more wounded and starving souls than we could keep up with, and the Cardinals cut what little aid we had left.

His injury is deep, and as I crouch next to him, I can see sharp bone protruding from his chest. My fingers find sinew and cartilage, slowing down time as a rising tension begins to build inside me.

I feel the magic coil high and light beneath my skin, slowly stretching through my veins, slippery and ethereal.

Then … it hits.

A crescendo of pleasure erupts from within me, drowning out the world.

I lose all sense of time and place, not even registering the broken cobblestones beneath me anymore.

I just feel this – the throbbing of blood being pushed through veins, and the skin like warm threads sewing shut.

The addiction sinks its claws deeper with each pulse …

a desperate, gnawing hunger that demands more … always more.

The skin on my chest prickles coolly, and the faint outline of a crescent moon glows under my cloak.

Reality swims back into my peripheral as I gently whisper, “You’re going to be alright…”

The boy’s eyes slowly open and lock onto mine. His face relaxes into relief, but his eyes drift past me and look ahead, his expression turning into terror.

A shiver of awareness creeps down my spine – a sensation I’ve felt twice now in the slums – like unseen eyes observing my every move. I push the feeling aside as footsteps echo down the narrow alley, the subject of the little boy’s terror inching closer.

“Hey,” a voice snaps. “What do you think you’re doin’?”

I turn slowly to see a man lurching towards us.

Through the darkness, I spot greasy hair and a silver shine on his belt.

His approach is deliberate, posture predatory.

I’m frozen in place as I listen to each step echo off the alley walls.

Up close, he’s worse. Stubble shadows his jaw, patchy and unkempt.

His coat hangs open, revealing a stained shirt stretched over a misshapen belly.

The silver on his belt is a flask, dented and worn.

“You know this kid?” His words slur together, thick with whatever cheap alcohol they’re peddling in the taverns tonight. Then the smell hits me – a putrid combination of sweat and liquor.

I stand slowly, placing myself between the boy and the approaching threat. Every instinct screams at me to run, to abandon this child and save myself. My thoughts begin to spiral: I’ve never been brave, never been a fighter … I heal people, I don’t protect them…

“H-He’s hurt,” I manage, my voice barely above a whisper. “Let me help him, p-please…”

The man laughs cruelly. “This fuckin’ thief tried stealin’ the very gold in my pocket. I gave what was comin’ to him.” He spits, and I flinch as the warm saliva hits my cheek.

Behind me, I hear the boy whimper, and the sound makes a spark of rage flicker in my chest – but it’s quickly swallowed by fear as the man steps closer.

I’m a coward.

“One less mouth to feed if he dies, if you ask me,” the man continues, his eyes sliding over me with growing interest. “But you, pretty thing … you’re somethin’ special, aren’t ya?”

That’s when I see it – the way his pupils dilate, the way his tongue darts out to wet his lips. A clear shift from casual cruelty to something far worse.

“You shoulda just left him, sweetheart…”

When his hands find my body, everything turns to chaos.

Rough fingers grabbing at my arms, my breasts, my waist, while I scream and claw and hit anything I can reach.

His breath is hot and foul against my neck as he presses me against the piss-stained alley wall, the boy’s terrified sobs echoing behind us.

Fear swallows me whole until I can’t think, can’t breathe, can only fight with the desperate fury of a cornered animal.

That’s when the shadows begin to move.

At first, I think it’s my imagination, tricks of light and terror making me see things that aren’t there.

Then the darkness at the far end of the alley detaches itself from the brick wall, flowing across the cobblestones.

It quickly but gently approaches my feet, swirling softly, then moves to exist between us.

The man notices too. His grip on me loosens as he steps back, confusion replaces lust on his face. “What the hell—”

The shadow rises, taking shape. Tall, with shoulders broad enough to block out the dim light behind him.

More shadows move to his side, pool at his feet, curl around his arms. A bone-white mask appears, covering his face except for two dark hollows where eyes should be.

Dark hair escapes from beneath his hood, and underneath the mask’s edge I catch the barest glimpse of a jawline, something human in all that darkness.

Shadows continue to pour from every corner of the alley – from doorways, from gaps between dilapidated shacks. They move with purpose, converging on us like a pack of hunting wolves.

The man releases me entirely now, stumbling backward. “Who … what the fuck are you?”

The masked figure doesn’t speak. Instead, he raises one white gloved hand, and the shadows respond. They coil around the man’s legs first, snaking their way up his torso. He tries to scream, but tendrils of darkness wrap around his throat, silencing him completely.

I watch in fascination and terror as the shadows lift him off the ground and hold him suspended in the air. His eyes are wide with panic, but he can’t move, can’t speak. The masked figure turns, and even though I can’t see his eyes, I feel him focus his attention on me.

Suddenly, a low voice brushes against my ear, somehow both a command and a plea: Run.

I obey immediately, stumbling at first, then breaking into a desperate sprint out and away from the alley. When I finally stop to catch my breath, I’m down the next street over.

My eyes desperately search for any familiar landmarks as I continue through a maze of interconnected alleys.

Rusted metal sheeting leans against crumbling red stone walls, forming makeshift shelters.

Broken windows gape sporadically throughout abandoned buildings, their frames warped from Mars’s relentless sandstorms. People huddle in doorways and beneath torn canvas awnings, their faces gaunt, their clothes patched and re-patched.

The air reeks of unwashed bodies, disintegrating feces, and the ever-present metallic tang of rust.

I slow to a jog, then a brisk walk as I enter the outskirts of the slums. Dimly lit shack windows and broken street lamps cast a faint glow through the crimson night in this part of town, and the sounds of raucous drinking and heart-wrenching begging fill the streets.

I can feel my body slowing down, the withdrawal symptoms replaced by a bone-aching tiredness.

That’s when guilt crashes into me.

The boy.

I left him there, defenceless, with whatever that shadow figure intended. My cowardice burns worse than the magic withdrawal already beginning beneath my skin. I stop, chest heaving, and consider going back. But my feet won’t turn around.

I run along a few more streets before pausing again to catch my breath and gather my bearings.

I’ve managed to run out of the slums and into the market district, so it shouldn’t be too much farther to the main road.

The stark contrast hits me – here the streets are paved with actual stone instead of packed dirt, lined with stalls selling spices, fabrics, and salvaged tech.

Oil lamps flicker in the darkness, casting warm pools of light.

Vendors are closing up for the night, pulling weathered tarps over their wares.

The air smells different here, of roasted meats and incense.

Still, it’s obvious in every district that Mars has never recovered from the last wars.

The slums are by far the worst off, but even here, the cracked water lines leak precious moisture into the red dust, and half the stalls sit dark and empty, their owners long gone.

People collapse in the street from injury or hunger every day, and healers like me are the only safety net they have.

There’s an apathy in the air, like we’ve all come to the same conclusion: our planet is too broken and poor to ever return to the glory it once was.

I glance behind me again, checking to make sure the coast is clear.

I’ve never had a scare in the slums – not like this.

Sure, there have been times where I’ve avoided certain alleyways, or removed myself from escalating situations, but this was the first time I’ve ever truly felt in danger.

Most of the beggars have come to recognize me as a healer and helper, giving me a certain level of security.

But tonight was beyond anything I could have anticipated.

Who was that masked figure? A vigilante protecting the slums?

The thought makes my stomach twist as I hurry down the main road.

Mother will know what to make of this. Maybe she’ll recognize whatever dark magic that was from her days as a Daughter of the Moon.

Or perhaps she’s overheard some important intel at court.

I start walking quickly again, desperate to tell her everything, to feel safe at home.

She’s probably pacing around our small living area, moving between the hearth and the window that overlooks the herb garden, wondering where I am.

I can picture her clearly, almost a carbon copy of my own reflection – dirty blonde hair, round green eyes that almost match mine, worry creasing her brow the way it does when I’m late.

She’ll have changed out of her palace robes by now, back into the simple cotton dress she wears at home.

And she always leaves a pot of tea by the fire for my return at sunset – our ritual of connection after our respective work days, me out healing in the markets, and her healing at the palace.

I can already smell the chamomile and lavender she blends herself, see the two chipped ceramic cups waiting on the wooden table.

The thought of her worried face brings with it a fresh wave of guilt.

But when I crest the hill and see our cottage, my stomach sinks.

The house is dark. No warm glow from the windows. No smoke rising from the chimney.

I reach for the worn wooden door, my fingers finding the iron latch. It’s cold. Unlocked. I push it open, slowly, hinges creaking. My boots echo too loudly on the pale floorboards, the wood grey with age.

No candlelight. No stew simmering. No soft footsteps pacing. Worse – no tea waiting by the fire, the ceramic pot cold and abandoned on its usual spot on the table. Mother never forgets our evening ritual.

“M-Mother?”

Nothing.

Her shawl is crumpled near the hearth, the soft wool the colour of cream, hand-woven with silver threads along the edges. One of the chairs from our table lies on its side near the doorway to her bedroom, as if someone knocked it over in a hurry.

And tucked beneath a loose brick by the fire, a folded parchment sealed in wax. Crossed swords buried in flames – the crest of House Mars – burns red against the parchment.

I tear it open with numb fingers.

“To Cyra of the Red Market District,

By order of Lord Zevran of House Mars, you are hereby summoned to the palace to serve as personal healer to His Grace. Effective immediately.”

My hands shake.

A masked stranger. An attack. My mother, gone without a word, without a trace. And Lord Zevran – the militant ruler of Mars – wants me at his side to replace my mother as his personal healer?

The timing can’t be a coincidence.

I sink onto the cold hearth, staring at her shawl, the summons in my lap.

The weight of this situation presses down on me – twenty-eight years of carefully constructed lies about who I am, where I come from.

If anyone discovers the truth about the blood that runs through my veins, this summons will be the least of my worries.

Hours pass. I don’t sleep. I just sit there, staring at her shawl. Every sound outside makes me jump – is it her returning? Is it whoever took her? Is it the masked figure, coming for me next? I know I should do something – go out, look for her, anything – but I feel paralyzed.

Even after all of this – after everything that just happened – the familiar gnawing need beneath my skin hasn’t faded.

It never does.