Chapter 4
Elorie
Fear is thicker than the snowflakes on the winter solstice as panic swells in the village.
My feet nearly slip on the slick, packed snow as I weave through the back alleyways to avoid the bottleneck of people rushing out of the square.
Winter answers the chaos with a sudden uptick in the wind, blowing snow around so it’s nearly impossible to see. I quickly scan the masses for Letia and her family, but they must have already run because they’re nowhere to be found.
What I saw through the window last night wasn’t my imagination.
The rebels are here.
The air is bitingly cold as I gulp a breath. It stings my lungs, and every swallow tastes like blood. My throat feels raw, like I’ve been screaming when I haven’t.
A thick patch of snow catches my boot, and I nearly lose my footing. I grab for the stone wall to catch myself, and the corner of one of my nails bends back.
But I don’t stop.
I ignore the fiery pain.
I keep moving.
The alley narrows, forcing me to turn sideways to sneak through. Screaming and clashing steel ring out in the streets.
The rebels are closing in, and Father is all alone at the house.
I need to get home.
A stone beneath my foot shifts when I step on it wrong, and I stumble. Catching myself again, I cut my palm on a brick this time, leaving a crimson trail in the snow behind me as I push forward.
Dripping blood is exactly what I don’t need when the Fae rebels will sniff it in the air with their heightened senses. But there’s no time to stop and deal with the wound. I apply pressure with my other hand and hurry.
When I reach the final turn, I pause in the alleyway and peek around the corner. The street is quiet. Rebels haven’t made it this far yet, but I have no doubt they will. Whoever was sneaking around last night must have found what they were looking for to make such a bold move in daylight.
A guttural scream travels the breeze behind me, and my stomach sinks. What danger has Callum walked into?
How many rebels flooded the shore?
Who in the prison would be important enough for them to risk their lives?
There’s still no movement when I steal a glance around the corner again, so I seize the opportunity to slip from between the homes and hurry down the street. The cut on my palm throbs with every beat of my pounding heart. Warm and sticky blood drips down my fingers.
The wind is merciless, gusting snow into my eyes and making everything blurry. But I’m so close to home.
Fifty paces.
Thirty.
I throw myself at the door when I reach it, forcing it open. It’s ice cold inside. No fire. Barely an ember spitting from the coals.
“Father?”
I hurry into the house, trying to catch my bearings.
Rebels have yet to make it this far, but everything inside the house is turned upside down. Cabinets are open and rifled through. One hinge is broken, so the door hangs at an angle.
Commotion starts down the street, so I hurry to close the door behind me. But I’m too late. A rebel yells, giving away my location as I secure the latch.
“Elorie.” Father bolts out of his room, and relief races through me at the sight of his face.
“You’re here.” I fling myself into his arms, and he wraps me in a hug. “We have to go; they saw me. They’re coming.”
Father pulls back, grabbing my arms. “I know. I need you to listen.”
“But—” I shake my head. “They’re coming. We need to leave.”
“Listen to me, Elorie.” His grip on my arms tightens.
Determination blazes in his eyes, which are much darker than mine, a gray that edges on steel in certain lights. Mine are often so pale they’re silver.
Rebels approach; their voices get louder. Our thin windows and single-panel wooden door do little to block out sound, much less intruders. But Father doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t so much as flinch as he holds me in place.
“There are things I never got the chance to tell you, and I’m sorry for that.
You have to know it was safer this way.” Father lifts a hand, brushing a lock of hair from my face, pausing when his fingers thread with the winter blue at the ends.
“I wish I could have given you a better life, but you, my daughter, are strong. You are resilient. You are ready.”
“Don’t talk like you’re saying goodbye.” A tear slips down my cheek.
“Trust only Callum. He will help you. He has the answers you’re going to be searching for.”
“What answers?” I shake my head. “I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”
“Only Callum, Elorie. No matter who else crosses your path, he is the only one you can trust. Promise me.”
“I promise.”
I already trust Callum. That was never in question, so I don’t understand why Father feels the need to reinforce it.
He pulls me in for a hug, whispering in my ear, “You are stronger than all the stars, my daughter. Don’t ever forget that. Now out the back window. I have a bag ready for you in the room. Go.”
In a swift movement, Father spins us so he’s by the door, standing between me and the rebels outside. It’s then that I notice the blades strapped to either side of his hip, ready for battle. Father moves me back a step, and the heartbreak in his eyes cuts my heart in half.
“No—” But the word is barely out before he rushes out the door and into the rebels’ clutches on the other side.
He shuts the door behind him, and I know he wants me to run so he can take them on alone. He’s a protector at heart. It’s one of many reasons he served as a prison guard for so long. But one human, even well trained, has little chance against three Fae, with or without magic.
Father can’t beat them on his strongest day. And battling sickness, barely able to stand, he has no chance.
At least, not alone.
As he said, I am strong. I was cut from cold winters. Raised in this frozen forest with unforgiving wind. Sharpened through the seasons. Suffering with this dying island.
He will not die alone.
“Why do I sense you’re about to get yourself in trouble?” A familiar sarcastic whisper hangs in my ear, and it is somehow comforting.
“They’re the ones who brought trouble to us. Maybe they shouldn’t have.”
“Says the human.”
I may be human. I may be breakable and temporary, but I refuse to be weak.
Turning, I rush to the mantel and reach for the sword my father cast for my mother. I grip the handle with my bloody hand, too numb with anger to feel anything as I rip the sword from the wall.
The silver blade shimmers against the fading embers of the fire, and the blue vein that cuts down the middle swims. It shimmers like the stars on a cloudless night. Lifting the sword, I find it lighter than I expected. It slices through the air like it’s moving through water, and I swear it hums.
The sound of swords clashing intensifies, so I hurry to the door. Callum has been training me to fight since the rebels were first spotted on the shore, just in case. The way he said it made it sound like it would never come to this.
What is this anyway?
The end?
“The end finds us all eventually. Some quicker when they refuse to stay put.”
A whisper of doubt.
I swing the door open and find my father surrounded by three males. They’re all wearing the same white cloaks, tunics, and pants as the one last night. With the drifting snow, they easily blend in. Which explains how they managed to sneak into the village in broad daylight to stage an attack.
Except now their white tunics and cloaks are speckled in blood.
Dad’s blade clashes with one of the rebels’ blades. Thankfully, there are only the three rebels in the street. But I suspect it won’t be long before there are more as screams slowly creep toward us.
One rebel swings, and Father ducks, managing to slice his sword upward just in time to sink his long blade into the male’s stomach. In the Ley Court, that type of wound would heal quickly, but here, it’s a mortal blow. His knees buckle, and he drops to the ground.
His breath leaves his lips as his life leaves his eyes. A final exhale before his spirit dances with the wind. And then, he’s gone.
Another cold, lifeless body on an island made for them.
A second male takes a swing at Father, and while Father counters it, I sense him growing weaker. His movements slow; they’re not as precise. Both males must see it as well because they close in at once, knowing he can’t survive them both.
“Stop,” I yell as a blade meets Father’s arm.
One of Father’s swords falls, but he manages to keep his hold on the other.
My grip is slick on my mother’s blade as blood drips down the handle.
The two rebels freeze; their chilling, dark eyes cut my way.
I’ve never seen Fae with such dark eyes before.
They’re usually so bright. So full of color and life and magic.
If the rebels’ eyes are any indication of the state of magic in Vaelier, then it makes sense why they don’t fear coming to Alyssium.
Father uses their distraction to his advantage, stepping to the left and swinging for the throat of the Fae in front of him. But he’s too slow. Or they’re too quick. The male moves, narrowly dodging the sharp tip as he plunges a dagger into Father’s shoulder.
“No!” I rush forward.
“Elorie. Ru—”
His words die on his tongue as the second male drives a blade straight through his chest.
“Father.” My scream echoes off the cobblestones.
Birds cut from the trees.
My vision tunnels as my father’s body slumps to the ground. He’s barely moving apart from the slow, labored rise and fall of his chest. Blood trickles from his mouth, and he’s fading quickly.
I need to get to him. Nothing else matters.
Not the wind whipping my hair across my cheeks.
Not the snow beneath my boots.
With the blade tight in my grip, I step forward, refusing to give up.
I avoid looking into my father’s cold eyes, or I’ll fall apart. I focus on the rebels instead. One has hair as dark as night, and the other’s is crimson red. Like the blood I’m going to drain from them both.
“You’re a pretty one.” The black-haired male grins. “It’s a long boat ride back to the shore, but maybe you’ll make good company on cold nights.”
“Gods curse you,” I spit out.
They both laugh. “If you think running your filthy human mouth will save you, you’re wrong.”
“I don’t care if I’m saved.”
These Fae don’t realize what it means to be born here. To suffer Alyssium for decades. To walk hand in hand with death, even if only tending to it. There is no hope. Nothing but a long, cold wait for the After to claim us.
I accept what must be done. This was always going to be my fate anyway.
Which is why, even if the rebels see nothing more than a weak human making a final stand, I don’t back down. This is my family. My home. And I will defend it.
With my heart.
With this blade crafted from the heart of Alyssium as a gift to my mother.
With my rage.
Something warm churns in my chest as I accept the anger that swells. Hate is like love, Father always warned me. Unpredictable. Beginning with a spark and then spreading so quickly that there is no taming it. No containing it.
No controlling it.
A spark of rage flickers now, and I ignore my father’s warning, letting it grow in my chest until my veins are on fire. My blood prickles. My skin tingles. My hair dances in the wind. Every whip of the blue ends burns.
I’m going to kill them.
Gods, souls, and stars, help me find the strength.
They have taken my father, but they will not take my home.
The dark-haired male steps forward, taking measured steps because he doesn’t see me as a challenge. If anything, his eyes drift with a different intention as he pauses on where my cloak breezes open.
Measuring my breath, I do what Callum taught me. I don’t hesitate.
Instead of waiting for him to come to me, I start to move. I drive sure and strong with a sweep of the blade that he barely blocks before it slices through his shoulder. But it doesn’t get deep enough. Bone stops my sword, not giving as easily as the bags of hay from practice.
The rebel’s heartless eyes narrow. His stance widens, and his shoulders lock as he tightens his grip on his own weapon.
“You’ve been trained, girl.”
“Trained to kill you.”
He grins, but there is no amusement in it.
Only the promise of death. Maybe that should frighten me, but it doesn’t.
I made my peace with the After on my many trips to the shore.
In my many nights spent standing beside a burning pyre.
In a dark cave with no hope—only pain. Long before the rebels found our island.
The rebel swings, and I counter in a dance of blades. I manage to meet his every strike at first. Until he forces me back with his speed and strength.
Flirty strikes turn to killing blows, and I welcome them. This will end with their blood or mine, and I’ve got just enough fight to see it through.
The red-haired male moves next, taking aim when my blade is tangled with his friend’s. I squat before I lose my head, and they chuckle. Spinning, I aim for the dark-haired Fae’s unprotected leg and drive the blade in. It’s not deep enough for him to lose his footing completely, but he stumbles.
If he were human, it would take him down. But even without magic, the Fae are still stronger, more durable, and they heal faster.
With every spin, every slice, every block, they counter.
I weave in and out between them, avoiding my father on the ground, getting in cuts and jabs where I can. When I take a sword to one arm, I nearly lose my grip. But my bloody palm holds tight.
The two of them swing at once, and I can’t dodge them both, so I take a dagger to my side. Bile rises in my throat as my vision clouds.
“See through the stars.”
The whisper of reassurance does little to put me at ease when I’ve accepted I’ll lose this fight. But I blink my vision into focus and maintain my grip.
Blood stains the wintry ground, painting a picture of every step, every stumble.
The males are too quick. I’m losing my footing. My arms continue to strike, and my legs continue to move, but I’m no longer in control of them.
The snow muffles the echoes of metal clashing in the street. I swing wide, finally striking the dark-haired male in the side. My blade lodges, but just as I pull back, something slices through my center.
I barely feel it at first. My insides splitting open with the blade that pierces me. It isn’t until I look down and see it peeking out of my side that I realize I’ve been stabbed all the way through.
I drop to my knees when he pulls out his blade, but I don’t release my mother’s sword. It hangs heavy in my grip, frosted in ice and dripping with blood.
And I know this is it.
This is the moment I die.
My chest warms, and I close my eyes, waiting for death to carry me to the After.