Chapter 1
Aurelia
The apothecary’s door stuck halfway, swollen from sea-wind and salt. I leaned into it with my shoulder until it gave way, releasing the warm, herb-thick air inside.
Bundles of lavender and rosemary hung from the rafters, swaying when the draft followed me in.
Shelves bowed under glass jars of roots suspended in amber liquid and parchment packets stacked in uneven piles.
Somewhere behind the counter, Colette’s mortar scraped steadily, the sound as familiar as the sea.
“You’re late,” she said without looking up. With a small sweep of her hand over a clay pot, the herb inside unfurled a new leaf. Colette was godsblessed—Sylvara’s gift, tied to flora, to growth and decay of every kind.
“It’s not dark yet.” I brushed salt from my sleeves.
“You’re lucky I like you. Another ten minutes and you’d be getting willowbark and nothing else.”
I pushed a folded list across the counter. “The good kind, Colette.”
Her eyes skimmed it, and she began pulling jars and bundles from the shelves.
Colette had been slipping me remedies since I lost my parents, back when I barely knew how to barter without giving myself away.
She let me sweep her floors to pay for tea, let me loiter at her counter when the house felt too empty and Aeryn cried himself raw.
Once, when a councilman’s wife came sniffing around, Colette herded me into the back room without a word. Through the crack in the door, I watched her lie with a smile sharp enough to draw blood—my niece, she said, voice honeyed and sure.
The woman’s perfume clung to the air long after she’d left, heavy with coin and judgment. Council wives didn’t need titles; they carried power in whispers. One rumor from her could end you faster than any goddess’s curse.
When the latch clicked shut, Colette exhaled. “That one would trade her husband’s seat for a scandal,” she muttered, smoothing my hair like she hadn’t just risked everything. A seat could be lost. A secret could be wielded forever.
That was the kind of shield she was—quiet, practical, dangerous only if you gave her reason. The sort of woman who didn’t need to raise her voice because the world already knew to listen.
“Willowbark, valerian, feverfew… This for you?”
“For Aeryn.” My voice lowered. Colette had thought he was improving.
I’d let her believe it. “He’s been… restless again.
I thought it might quiet his mind.” Aeryn, at seventeen, seemed well enough to anyone passing by.
His face was calm, his posture steady. But beneath the surface, he was a battleground—the darkness that clung to his mind made him a pariah.
In their so-called “compassion,” the town leaders let our family rot in peace—leaving us to the remnants of our estate.
Mercy only in name. If not for the blood in our veins, for the ancient line we carried, we would’ve been cast out entirely.
I’m sure they thought we would wither on our own, too young to survive what had been done to us.
Among the people of Synnex, mental resilience was everything.
A single crack in your spirit, and they’d brand you “necrotic”—a soul consumed by death.
They said it softly, as if the label wasn’t a curse.
But it followed you. Marked you. Until even the ones who loved you began to wonder if you were already half-gone.
Colette’s eyes softened in that sharp, knowing way of hers—the way she looked when she sensed a truth I hadn’t yet said aloud.
“Remedies can soothe the body, Aurelia, but the mind?” Her voice softened. “That’s a different sea to sail.” She set the jars down carefully. “Only one thing I’ve ever heard of might reach the kind of wound you mean—and it doesn’t grow anywhere near Synnex.”
“Etherblooms,” I said at once. “I know.” My throat felt tight.
Colette’s mouth thinned. “Then you know where they grow.”
“Nyxarra.” The name tasted like iron. The northern realm that sat permanently in twilight held as much horror as it did intrigue.
“It hasn’t gotten that bad yet,” I said, adjusting the jars to give my hands something to do. “I was reading, and this combination should help in the meantime.” At least, that was what I told myself.
When Colette looked up, her gaze was sharp enough to cut through the lie.
“Aurelia.” My name came soft but heavy. “Nyxarra isn’t a garden, child. The realm keeps what it loves—and it doesn’t love easy.” Her rings clicked softly as she set a jar down. “People go chasing blooms and come back with less of themselves—if they come back at all.”
“I’m not asking for them,” I said quickly.
Her gaze lingered. “Good,” she said, though her tone made it sound like a lie she’d already forgiven. “Because I’ve seen what they do. They don’t heal—they hollow. You think you’re saving someone, but all you’re really doing is trading their pain for your own.”
“I’ll worry about the cost if I have to.” The words tasted like iron, a promise I didn’t know how to keep but couldn’t swallow.
Colette tied the bundle of herbs with twine, slid it across the counter, and held my eyes. “Everyone says that,” she murmured. “Until the cost comes collecting.”
Outside, the sea wind pressed against the windows, rattling the glass like it had heard her warning and meant to test it.
Something sharp jabbed my finger.
“Gods—” I hissed, jerking my hand back. The raven that lived in Colette’s shop had swooped down from the rafters so silently I hadn’t heard the beat of his wings. He landed on the counter beside the herbs, head cocked, feathers slick and black as oil.
“Mind your manners,” I told him.
He clicked his beak once, a sharp tack that sounded suspiciously like laughter.
“Bite again,” the bird croaked.
Colette snorted. “Don’t encourage him. He’s meaner than the gulls.”
The door clanged open, the bell above it ringing far too hard to be polite. Two men filled the frame—Halorian guards, leather plates half-hidden under their cloaks, the smell of ale reaching me before they could.
The taller guard’s gaze caught mine. “Name.”
Patrol weeks. The word tightened my chest. They came like clockwork—announced just enough to make sure no one could claim surprise. For seven days, the guards were everywhere. In doorways. On temple steps. Asking questions they already knew the answers to.
Everyone in Synnex knew when they came. The dates were posted on temple walls, whispered through markets, cursed under breath. The guards called it routine, but it wasn’t order they were keeping; it was fear.
Synnex wasn’t small enough for every guard to know every face, but it was small enough for them to know your name. And if they didn’t, they found a reason to learn it.
“Aurelia.” I smiled, knowing better than to make an enemy out of boredom and drink. Hoping my cooperation kept the peace.
The shorter one grinned without humor. “Surname?”
I hesitated a beat too long. Out of the corner of my eye, Colette’s chin tipped, a silent warning. She knew what saying it aloud meant.
I felt her ready to lie for me. I couldn’t let her. I was proud of my name—my family—no matter the trouble it brought.
“Moirae,” I said.
Something dark flickered in the shorter guard’s gaze.
He lunged for me, his grip snapping around my arm like a trap, fingers biting into muscle.
And I thought—not for the first time—that truth, spoken aloud, could be the sharpest lie, because men like these only ever heard what served their purpose.
“Pitch-black hair. Ice-blue eyes.” His gaze dragged over me, lingering on the thin line that cut from my brow across my lips before disappearing into the collar of my blouse. His finger traced it—not slow, but hungry, savoring the cruelty. “And that pretty little scar…”
My stomach turned cold. My scar was legend in Synnex, but legends were easier to believe when they didn’t have a face.
“Thought so.”
I moved before thought: wrenched free, caught his wrist, shoved my palm into his throat. He made a sound that was half cough, half choke and staggered back, grasping for air.
The taller guard’s fist tangled in my curls, yanking my head toward the door.
Pain flared across my scalp. I kicked hard; my boot caught his shin.
He grunted. His grip loosened for a breath, enough for me to twist but not break free.
A blow landed between my shoulders, and my knees hit stone, his fist still twisted in my hair.
“Drinking on duty isn’t the best look now, is it, boys?” Colette called, voice sharp as broken glass.
“None of your business, old hag,” the man with my hair spat.
“Ugly,” the raven said. A beat. “And smells like piss.”
The guard jerked his head toward the bird, just enough.
I twisted in his grip and drove my elbow into his ribs, folding him.
His grunt cut off as I caught his wrist, rolled, and dragged him over my shoulder.
He hit the floor hard. I locked his arm and wrenched back until the joint strained.
He thrashed once, then stilled. Breath shallow, he yielded.
A shadow cut across the doorway—broad shoulders, still and dangerous. I didn’t need his face. Solid as stone, his presence steadied the room the way the tide steadied a rocking boat.
Hayat.
Hayat’s gaze slid from the guards to me. “Is there a problem?”
His voice was soft with certainty. I admired that—the calm I’d never quite managed to hold.
The guard’s free hand clawed at the floor before I released him, letting him roll to his side. He clutched his arm tight, teeth bared in pain. “No problem,” he gasped.
Hayat’s stare followed them until they vanished into the thinning market crowd. Then he looked at me, one brow raised.
“I didn’t need help,” I said, straightening my coat.
He smiled. “What good would I be as your trainer if you couldn’t handle two drunk guards when I’m not around?”