Runebreaker

Chapter 1 Rune & Ruin

RUNE & RUIN

Boots pounded on the cobblestones.

Rheya and I crouched behind a cart half-buried in the snow. If the guards caught us breaking into Arathi Manor, no amount of begging would save us—they’d slit our throats and toss us in the gutter.

Amber light spilled across the street as three Runecloaks marched past, steel clinking under their dark blue mantles. I pressed myself deeper into the shadows. Beside me, my sister’s breath misted in the air.

“Second patrol,” Rheya whispered. “As expected.”

Their drunken laughter echoed closer, boots flashing between the wagon’s spokes, until finally their voices faded. Only then did I let myself breathe.

I peeked above the wagon. The manor squatted in the fae quarter like a black toad among swans. Around it, townhomes preened in pale marble, and lamps floated above us like captive stars. Beautiful, if you could forget what powered them.

I tugged on Rheya’s sleeve, and we dashed across the road and around the manor, where a narrow archway opened into a walled courtyard that seemed to belong to another realm.

I breathed in the magically warmed air, tinged sweet with jasmine.

Rheya sneered at the flowering tree and ripped a cluster of cherries off a low-hanging branch, shoving them into her mouth.

Cherry trees, blooming in winter. In the human quarter, the rest of us made do with frost that never thawed, and brick stained black with soot.

The service door hid in the shadows. A locking rune burned on the wood, its pattern carved in spiraling paths that wound toward the center like a maze with no solution.

I rolled up my sleeves. “Watch the street.”

Rheya spat cherry seeds on the ground before slipping off.

I pressed my palm to the rune and closed my eyes, feeling for the magic. Heat sizzled as my fingers plucked at the carvings in the wood.

There. Glowing blue threads nestled deep in the wood’s grain, pulsating.

I hooked my finger around the nearest strand.

It writhed like a worm, fighting my touch.

White-hot lightning shot up my arm, and I bit back a curse.

Stronger than normal—probably not fueled by the blood of a common magical creature. Basilisk, maybe.

I slipped more threads over my finger. The dull ache sharpened. Hissing, I gripped them harder and pulled. They stretched like warm tar peeling off a surface.

I held on, teeth clenched.

The threads splintered. Sparks erupted from the breaks. I flinched, twisting my hand. The rune shattered like glass on stone, and a flash of light blinded me. When my vision cleared, the rune on the door had blackened.

I yanked it open.

We dashed inside the servant quarters and climbed the marble staircase. Tiny, suspended balls illuminated antique gold frames and vases spilling with everlasting flowers. We strode past an enchanted orchid and stopped at a black door tucked between two portraits.

My sister grabbed my wrist. “You’re shaking. It hurt you, didn’t it?”

“I’m okay. It’s here, right?”

“That’s what the maid said.”

I stepped closer, studying the rune on the door. “Did she mention what it’s protecting?”

“Just that the lady keeps her specials here.”

I touched a line, and the ink warped. It felt…wrong. Not sharp and hot like most runes, but organic like breathing flesh. My hand jerked back.

No.

I forced myself to reach back. We needed this. The Rite was in a few days, and half the city burned with fever. The infirmary’s empty shelves flashed through my mind.

I braced a hand against the wall and palmed the rune. It met me like a mouth. Wet heat. A slow suction against my skin. I found the center thread, grimacing at the greasy texture. This wasn’t the clean burn of most locking runes, but I yanked anyway.

Magic burst through my palm. The threads tried to sink into me, but I forced them back and tore them apart. The rune snapped, spraying red-black sparks across the doorframe. Then the door creaked open.

I stepped inside.

Shelves of velvet pouches, old scrolls, and phials sealed in wax packed the tight space. I snatched a letter titled “Management of Human Population.”

It has come to the king’s attention that some have attempted experiments on humans with barrenness runes, which has resulted in unintended consequences—

My stomach churned.

No wonder so many volunteered for the Rite. Better to die in white dresses with flowers in your hair than live knowing they controlled even this.

I nudged aside rolls of parchment, uncovering a jewelry box with shaking fingers. I shook it free. Silver. Heavy. Probably worth a fortune. I crammed it in my satchel, my hand aching.

A soft click echoed from below.

Footsteps. “Who’s there?”

Low voice. Female.

Rheya’s head whipped toward me, then to the floating lights in the hallway. She pressed her palm against the nearest one, and the threads of magic pulsed.

Light erupted, blazing like the sun. I threw my arm over my eyes as Rheya amplified the rune, magnifying its glow until the entire hall whitened.

“Go!” she hissed.

I shot down the corridor, fumbling with the brass latch in the window. I hauled it open, and freezing air poured in. Snowy gardens spread out far below.

I glanced at Rheya. “Let’s go!”

“You first. I’ve got this.”

“No! Not without you!”

“Dammit, Aelie.”

The footsteps reached the top of the stairs. Through the blinding glare, a shadow moved. I ran back and caught Rheya’s arm, yanking her from the light. The glow died to its normal amber, spots dancing across my vision as we sprinted to the window.

I shoved her toward the sill. “I’ll be behind you.”

She grimaced. “We’ll break something!”

“Better broken bones than a blade through the throat!”

Rheya cursed and swung a leg over the windowsill, shimmying down the ivy-covered wall. The vines strained, but they held.

I slung the satchel higher, my hand screaming as I gripped the wall. The weight of the bag pulled me sideways. Snowflakes drifted into my eyes.

Below, Rheya dropped the last few feet. She landed and sprang upright.

“Come on!” she hissed.

I slid down, but the vines snapped, and I plummeted, crashing hard into the ground.

Rheya helped me up. “You okay?”

I nodded and grabbed the satchel from the ground, then we bolted across the garden. Rheya headed for the gap in the hedges that would take us home, vanishing into them.

I followed, branches tearing at my clothes. We burst through the other side into a narrow alley as shouts echoed from the manor. We ran harder, our boots slipping on cobblestones. Left at the fountain. Right at the old oak. Another left. My lungs burned with the frozen air.

Then my boot caught on uneven stone. I hit the ground, pain bursting through my wrist. The satchel skidded across ice.

Black leather boots crunched the snow beside my head.

Slowly, I lifted my gaze. Dark blue steel greaves, polished to a mirror shine. A cuirass embossed with aged gold, bearing the Crown’s sigil: a hawk with talons outstretched, ready to strike.

My heart stopped.

A weathered cloak hung on his broad shoulders. It split down the center, parting around the massive sword strapped to his back. Pale hair peeked from under the low-drawn hood. As he approached, light illuminated his fair skin.

I knew this fae. We all feared him.

The king’s executioner. He beheaded traitors of the Crown and stood in the Square during the Rite, when the volunteers trembled beneath their flower garlands. No matter how much they sobbed, the executioner did his duty without hesitation.

Up close, he was worse than I imagined.

Deadlier.

His frame blotted out the world—tall like all fae, but built like a warrior, his chiseled jaw softened by full lips. Everything about him screamed predator, and I needed to run, to make myself small, to do anything but meet his eyes.

But I couldn’t look away.

Amber eyes, like liquid autumn. Eyes that had witnessed centuries of death. Eyes that pinned me as if I were a bug caught under glass. Those eyes had watched so many people die.

And now they looked at me.

This was it. This was how I died. Not old in a bed or even at the Rite, but here, in the snow. Any moment now, he’d kill me. Fae like him didn’t need weapons—not when their skin was covered in battle runes.

My pulse thrashed like a trapped bird, so violent he could probably see it hammering in my neck. Cold sweat beaded along my spine.

He stared at me. “Who are you?”

His deep baritone rolled through me like thunder. So rough, like a shovel hitting dry earth.

My lips parted, then shut again.

I’d escaped from guards before, but my bones whispered that movement would be a mistake. Fae were closer to beasts than people, and if I ran, he would chase me. I willed my heart to stop pounding, but it only churned harder.

“I’m a servant,” I mumbled, shaking back my sleeve to show him my silver bracelet.

“And a thief as well.”

My face flushed. “You—you’re mistaken.”

“I don’t think I am.”

“Please. I’m begging you, let me go.”

His mouth twitched with dark amusement, and my stomach clenched. If anything, my begging seemed to entertain him.

“I’ve heard better pleas from people with their guts hanging out.”

I studied the cruel curve of his smile, my chest tight. I’d survived this long by knowing which people wanted bribes, flattery, or something else. Once, I’d even convinced a prince that I was worth protecting. But none of that would work with him.

Why wasn’t I dead yet? He kept staring at my mouth, my ratty dress, my boots with more holes than leather. His frown deepened, but he didn’t draw his weapon.

“Run,” he said softly.

I stared at him, my thoughts slow, like wading through mud. Run?

I tensed. “You’ll kill me.”

“Go before I change my mind.”

He had to be toying with me.

Then he stepped forward. Not far. Just a single step, but every muscle in my body locked. A prey instinct that knew the wolf was faster, that running would only make it chase.

He reached for me slowly, his fingers stopping inches from my cheek, and I couldn’t move…or breathe.

I seized the satchel and bolted. Snow flew beneath my boots, branches whipping my face as I sped through the garden.

A body crashed into mine and I swung wildly, elbow connecting with something soft.

“Aelie, it’s me!”

Rheya. Oh gods.

I grabbed her arms, checking for wounds. “You’re okay.”

“I’m fine!” She caught my wrists. “What happened?”

I clutched my chest, still catching my breath. “I ran into the executioner. He told me to run.”

Rheya stilled. “What?”

“I know! I thought he’d stab me, but he released me.”

Rheya wrung her hands, grimacing.

Humans weren’t supposed to be able to touch magic at all, let alone break runes or amplify them. We’d shattered that lie in the worst possible way—with witnesses.

“What exactly did he say? Did he threaten you?”

“No, but he knows we looted the house.”

Rheya paled. “We have to disappear. Tonight.”

“Let’s get home.”

“Screw that. Let’s go!”

I shook my head. “We need supplies.”

I clasped her hand, already moving. We hurried through the merchant quarter’s empty streets, the floating lamps casting shadows between the guild halls. At this hour, even the taverns were quiet. Ahead, the checkpoint between quarters loomed—a stone archway flanked by two guards.

I kept my head down, trying to look small. Harmless. Not like a thief who’d stared death in the face.

As we approached, I yanked my sleeve up, flashing the silver bracelet. The guards barely glanced at the servant marks before we shuffled through.

Rheya pulled her hood low. “Do you think he’ll report us?”

“Maybe.”

“It’s a game,” she hissed. “Sick bastard gets off on terrifying his victims before he guts them. I should’ve been there.”

Armored guards crossed the road, their eyes sliding past us. We drifted into a street lined with townhomes. Ours sat at the end of the block—white marble, squeezed between identical facades, like a row of grinning teeth.

I entered through the side gate. “We’re good.”

Rheya followed.

We ducked through the servants’ entrance and into the shadowed hallways. As we crept down the hall, the velvet-draped windows slashed the moonlight across the floor. We climbed three flights of stairs before stopping at a wooden door. I twisted the handle and nudged it open.

Dust filtered through a round window in the attic.

Crates and old trunks filled the room. Rheya had tucked little treasures inside them—sculptures, bottle caps, scraps of ribbon, a porcelain doll’s head.

A thin mattress was shoved in the corner while Rheya’s hammock swung lazily near the rafters—she’d insisted on hanging it there because sleeping high up made her feel safer.

My fingers trembled, the ache from the rune still lingering like splinters beneath my skin. I folded my hands under my arms before Rheya noticed. If she caught me wincing, she’d fuss over me and probably dig out one of her ridiculous teas.

Rheya kicked the door shut and slumped against it.

I stood in the middle of the room, still holding the satchel, and looked down. My hands were trembling violently.

“Sit.” Rheya took my arm, guiding me to the mattress. “Breathe.”

I tried. Air caught in my throat like broken glass. “He could have killed me. He was right there and I couldn’t move and he could have just—”

“But he didn’t.” Rheya knelt in front of me, gripping my shoulders. “You’re safe.”

Safe. What a lie.

“Gods, we’re so fucking stupid. They weren’t supposed to be home.

The runes, Aelie! They’ll know they failed months before they should have, that a human broke them, and that light—” She pressed her palms against her eyes.

“Once what happened gets out, they’ll look for humans who can manipulate magic. ”

I slumped onto my mattress, bile rising in my throat. Years of caution, and we’d blown it all in one theft.

“And the executioner saw your face,” she whispered feverishly. “It’s only a matter of time before he tracks us down.”

“He has to find us first.”

“They’ll test everyone. Every human will be lined up and forced to touch a rune, and when we can’t fake it…” She dragged her hands through her hair. “What have we done?”

My hands kept shaking. “We’ll leave the city as soon as possible.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow night. We need supplies. Food, winter clothes, money.”

“That might be too late.”

“Even if we could get out now, we’d freeze to death before dawn.”

“Fine. Tomorrow.”

Silence settled between us.

“I hate this,” she muttered, flopping in her hammock. “Feels like we’re waiting to die.”

I slumped on the floor. My hands found my hair, unweaving the strands just to braid them tighter. The executioner’s brutal expression flashed in my vision. The way he’d reached for me and almost touched my cheek.

I shuddered.

Maybe this was our last quiet night.