Chapter 2
Two
A t twenty-five, Alaire’s future stretched long and miserable ahead of her: a life sentence in Grimstone Penitentiary, home to Cielore’s most notorious female prisoners. Seven months since she’d attacked a fae guard for whipping a starving human boy.
Pathetic.
She blinked away the tears threatening to form. Alaire had learned the hard way that they never amounted to anything. Better to stuff them down—a Grimstone morning ritual. The bile in her throat tasted like copper coins.
Alaire closed her eyes, focusing on controlled breathing just as Blake had taught her.
In. Out. Slow.
The familiar tightness in her chest began to ease.
In childhood, she’d developed an affliction of the lungs.
It flared anytime she was ill or exposed to smoke or fumes, making it difficult to breathe.
Eventually, anxiety and stress would trigger episodes too.
During attacks, her exhalations sounded like wind through a rusted pipe dredged from the North Sea.
When she finally opened her eyes, coarse stone walls greeted her. “Good morning to you too,” she muttered.
The cold seeped through her threadbare tunic as she pushed herself upright.
A cot sat against the wall, complete with an itchy blanket.
Two buckets: one filled with water, the other for waste.
Beyond the bars that caged her was another wall and patrolling guards.
The cells were arranged so that one never faced another.
Muffled voices of other prisoners bounced down the corridor.
Strategic. Isolating. Effective.
Alaire pressed a palm to her forehead. The boy’s open wounds flashed through her mind again.
A guard passed by the hall. Wisps of wind clanged against the bars.
Magic.
The dividing line between humans and fae in Cielore.
Fae possessed it; humans didn’t. The original fae bloodlines ruled each territory as their kingdom and were bonded to magnificent winged creatures.
Power begets power. It was an endless cycle that ensured the fae maintained a monopoly on social, political, and economic agency—while humans were relegated to the lowest positions, keeping the continent running like well-oiled cogs in a system they could never operate.
During her seven months at Grimstone, Alaire had kept her head down. Making friends was a weakness other prisoners could exploit. After losing her coveted freedom, she needed to learn her lesson.
It hadn’t stopped Elodie, though.
It had been her third or fourth day, and Alaire’s stomach had growled in anticipation of whatever sad concoction they called a meal.
A guard slid a steel tray through the bars. A slop of milky white liquid jiggled on the plate beside a stale piece of bread.
“Morning, sunshine,” came the voice from the adjacent cell. Each morning since Alaire’s arrival, she had greeted her, typically followed by an incessant stream of consciousness that drove her mad.
“Come on. I know you’re in there,” the voice prodded. “It’s a Grimstone rite of passage to sample the house delicacy— Yogurt Surprise .”
“I’ll have to choke it down,” she muttered, eyeing the suspicious breakfast.
Guards lined the walls, their pointed ears stark against their buzz-cut hair. Over the past few days, Alaire had noted which ones seemed more distracted, who’d been alert, and whose eyes were drooping. Information was currency within these walls.
“I’m Elodie, by the way.” Her voice had the grating sound of keys like the orphanage matron’s, always tucked in her skirt pockets.
“Alaire,” she replied. “Do we ever get out of these cells?”
“Once a week. One hour of fresh air. But even then, we’re bound.”
“Lovely.” Alaire forced down a gulp of the so-called yogurt.
She immediately regurgitated it in her mouth.
It tasted like decayed parsley— so much worse than it looked.
Pinching a hand over her nose, she managed to get a bite down.
The alternative was wasting away, and she refused to give them that satisfaction.
“So, what did you do to wind up here?” Elodie asked.
Alaire’s fingers worked through her light brown tresses, weaving them into a braid as she considered whether honesty served her better than a convenient lie.
“Apart from also being human,” Elodie added.
Alaire opened her mouth to explain, then hesitated. Trust was something she gave sparingly. Still, allies were useful—especially in a place like this.
She recounted how she ended up here while moving closer to the bars separating their cells, leaving the Yogurt Surprise half-eaten in the corner.
“Assholes,” Elodie swore.
A grin spread across Alaire’s face. In all Elodie’s chatter, she’d never cursed. The crude word came out sounding squeaky and unnatural.
“Unfeeling assholes, more like it,” Alaire agreed. “What brought you here?”
“Got caught on the wrong side of the border doing something I shouldn’t have.”
“Sounds ominous.”
“It wasn’t,” Elodie assured her.
“Did you encounter any vampires?” The question escaped before Alaire could reconsider, sending goosebumps cascading across her skin.
Years earlier, vampires had emerged as Elithian’s apex predator. Bloodthirsty and unified under a single ruler, they’d formed an unparalleled force that consumed all life in their path. Their armies had been decimated once, but with their numbers replenished, war had reignited.
The mere thought of those creatures sent ice through her veins.
“No. Thank Lysia. I’d have been torn apart—or worse, turned into one of them.” Elodie added, “As much as I despise this place, even Grimstone is better than that fate.”
Alaire gave her a faint smile. Silver-lining optimist, indeed.
“Cassiopeia Forest was traumatizing enough. Beings neither fully dead nor alive haunt the forest. Their cries lure prey into the darkness, never to be seen again.”
Alaire shook off the chill that trickled down her spine. “And you went there voluntarily?”
“Not exactly.” Elodie didn’t elaborate.
“How long have you been here?” Alaire asked, trying to change the subject.
“Three years, two months, and approximately sixteen days. But who’s counting?”
Alaire rubbed her palm over her breastbone. Three years… She’d only been here a few days. That length of time would drive anyone mad. Yet Elodie had managed to maintain a cheery disposition that had initially grated on Alaire’s nerves, but now seemed like an impossible feat of strength.
“I don’t know how you do it.”
Living on the streets of Starling Gate after leaving the orphanage had been brutal. She’d lived in squalor like the boy behind the market, eating what others discarded as garbage, stealing to survive.
Alaire’s parents had died when she was ten in a fire that consumed their home.
They’d sacrificed themselves so she could escape—or so she’d been told.
The trauma had left her with long-term amnesia.
Sometimes, there were glimpses, but nothing tangible she could grasp before she arrived at the orphanage.
It was like trying to trap the wind. Impossible.
It took Alaire a long time to realize that there was nothing in the past but broken dreams and foggy memories. The epiphany of that realization marked the end of her youth.
No adult would ever comfort her, feed her, or ensure she had a roof over her head.
If not for her shrewd intellect and Blake’s training, she wouldn’t have survived.
Shame still clung to her for what she’d done to survive, but those choices had eventually led to clean clothes, food, and occasionally a warm bed.
Most importantly, they culminated in an internship across the bridge.
The first step toward a future that vanished the moment she stepped into that alley.
She’d done what was necessary to live, even if the cost was pieces of her soul.
I refuse to let Grimstone be what finally breaks me.
“The secret,” Elodie stated, pulling Alaire from her thoughts, “is finding something they can’t take from you.”
Alaire scoffed. “You sound like Blake.” She dug her fingers into her tunic.
“Blake?”
She hadn’t intended to mention him. Connections had consequences. But something about Elodie’s earnestness—the thought of three years in Grimstone—made her continue.
“A fae I once knew. Born without magic.” She missed him.
Aether was the primal source of magical energy in Elithian, a force interwoven through all things. The ability to tap into aether was typically passed down through each generation.
“A null?” Elodie squeaked. “Rare.”
“He used to volunteer at the orphanage. He taught me how to fight.” Alaire ran a finger along the metal bar. “Said everyone needed to be able to rely on themselves.”
“Smart man, this Blake.”
“He was.” The past tense slipped out before she could take it back.
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
Alaire shrugged, even though Elodie couldn’t see it. “Don’t be. It was a long time ago.”
Blake had never explained why he’d approached her that day, when she was huddled in the corner of the orphanage while the other children played in the yard.
A sickness had swept through weeks earlier, and while the others recovered, Alaire’s lungs had not.
The physician who treated her couldn’t compete with the soulwarden healers of House Vitalis.
The only explanation Blake had ever offered was that his sister had suffered from the same affliction but had been healed by a soulwarden. He’d taught Alaire the breathwork techniques his sister had learned. One of a thousand small pieces of kindness he’d offered her—kindness she could never repay.
A commotion erupted down the corridor.
Footsteps—more than the usual patrol. Voices barked orders as the cell doors slid open automatically in a cacophony of screeching metal.
“What’s happening?” Alaire asked.
Elodie’s response was hushed, urgent. “Inspections. They strip the cells, sometimes the prisoners too. Looking for contraband.”
Alaire’s mind raced. Most contraband had to be peddled during the one hour of yard time. Surely, there was some information she could find, some way to get out of here.
Elodie interrupted her thoughts. “Doesn’t matter if you don’t have anything. They’ll find something if they want to.”
Something in her tone made Alaire pause. “Speaking from experience?”
A prolonged silence answered her. The implication hung between them.
Alaire gritted her teeth.
Boots approached—closer.
Four guards stood at the entrance to her cell. One was slightly taller, his hand resting on a concealed weapon. Alaire recognized him. He was the one she’d spat at after he called her a “human leech” during intake. He’d backhanded her hard enough to send her flying against the cold stone.
The gods must truly detest her.
Elodie had gone quiet.
“Well, well, Prisoner 8273.” He smirked. “I believe we have unfinished business.”
Alaire straightened her spine.
He signaled, and two guards entered her cell. The one who’d spoken remained at the threshold.
“Scour it,” he ordered. “Our friend here has a rebellious streak that needs… addressing.”
The guards upended everything: flipped the thin mattress, emptied the water bucket, and kicked over the waste pail.
Alaire remained perfectly still, fists clenched at her sides.
“Nothing, sir,” one reported after they’d torn the place apart.
The guard—an asshole through and through—drilled his gaze into Alaire. She stared back, unflinching, refusing to give him an inch.
“Check her,” he ordered.
One of the guards who’d ransacked her room approached, roughly grabbing her arms while another patted her down with clinical efficiency.
“Clean,” one announced to the guard still at the threshold.
His brows drew together briefly before smoothing out again.
Alaire canted her head slightly.
“Enjoying the view?” he mocked, stepping into her cell. His weapon caught her attention. Now that he was closer, it seemed to come alive—wisps of wind wrapped around the baton like tiny funnel clouds.
She poked the inside of her cheek with her tongue. Alaire knew she shouldn’t antagonize him. But all she could think of was Elodie’s silence to her question.
“Not particularly,” Alaire said evenly. Her gaze swept over his immaculate uniform. An insignia stitched into both lapels set him apart. “Is that what you tell yourself every morning when you look in the mirror?”
The guard’s smirk faltered. Alaire wondered if he’d expected fear. Or submission. Maybe both.
“There are other ways to deal with troublemakers who can’t learn their place.”
Common sense should’ve made her bite her tongue, but restraint had never been her strong suit.
“And where would that be? Since standing by while children are beaten apparently isn’t it.”
The guards around them tensed, waiting.
Alaire had pushed him too far.
Then he laughed—a sound devoid of humor, far more terrifying than any of his threats.
“You’ll learn your place eventually. They all do.” He stepped back, gesturing for the guards to exit. “Put her in solitary. Three days should give her time to reconsider her attitude.”
“Yes, Captain Verran,” one of the guards replied.
Captain? Fuck.
As he sauntered away from her cell, he threw her one last glance. His eyes were mere slits as he said, “It’s always the humans who have the sassiest of mouths. I enjoy breaking them best. We’re far from done here.”
Alaire smiled saccharinely. Her pulse kicked up, fear climbing up her spine. But she didn’t let her mask crack. “I’m anxiously counting down the seconds.”
After they’d gone, silence stretched through the corridor.
“Are you alright?” Elodie asked.
“Fine,” Alaire responded automatically. Her lungs felt tight again. “Nothing I haven’t handled before.”
“Well, that’s one way to stay under the radar.” Elodie let out a whoosh of breath.
Alaire shook her head. “I’ve never been much good at doing what I’m told, especially by morons.”
“Be careful. The captain is not someone to mess with.”
“Another day, another nemesis, it would seem.”
Muffled giggles drew a genuine smile from Alaire’s lips, the first in days.
Later, after cleaning up the mess the guards had left, Alaire lay back on her cot, Elodie’s words floating through her mind— finding something they can’t take .
They could throw her in a dark cell. Lock her away.
But they could never make her be someone who’d walk past that boy.
And that, perhaps, was worth everything it had cost her.