2. Chapter 1
Chapter 1
A s the furious black waters crash violently against the hull of the grand ship, a shiver runs through me, and I feel the last warmth of sunlight seep from my skin like a fading whisper. The sky above churns with ominous clouds, and the scent of salt and storm hangs heavy in the air, mingling with my rising anxiety. Each wave seems to echo my racing heart, a reminder not just of the darkness that awaits me but of the fate I cannot escape—marriage to a Fae prince whose ruthlessness and cruelty has left our world in ruins. The weight of it presses down on me like the sea itself, waiting to consume me.
I close my eyes, not to shield them from the biting sea spray that lashes like icy needles, but to remember the warmth. I crave the sun on my skin, the feel of soft grass between my toes, the rustle of leaves in the breeze, and the laughter of the forest children echoing through the trees. With my eyes closed, I can forget the endless expanse of the Untold Sea, the haunting gaze of the crescent moon, and the looming shadow of Baev'kalath's island stronghold creeping ever closer.
With my eyes closed, I am home.
With my eyes closed, I am free.
Suddenly, a firm hand roughly grabs my arm, ripping me back to reality. Although he has never formally introduced himself, I have heard the other Mordorin warriors aboard the ship call him Arax. He looms over me, his armor gleaming even in the storm's dim light—sleek, tiered charcoal plates fitted like the scales of a predatory beast with spiked pauldrons as sharp as the blade at his hip. His helm is a steel shroud, black as ash, smooth and commanding, offering no glimpse of his features within the darkness. He has never removed it, and I have never seen his face.
“You were told to stay below deck,” Arax growls. “The storm worsens and the Untold Sea is merciless. It will tear you right off this deck and drown you in its depths.”
I glare at him, the hood of my cloak whipping sharply against my face in the unforgiving wind. “I am not a prisoner. I may go where I please.”
His chain-mailed hand curls tighter around my arm. “You’re lower than a prisoner. You’re a human traitor. If I had my way, I’d throw you overboard right now,” he hisses.
With grit teeth, I wrench my arm free of his grip, startling him. “That is not the truth, and you know it.”
Arax scoffs. “That’s right. Your people chose not to fight. You’re worse than traitors. Cowards .”
When he takes a heavy step towards me, I take a step back, only to find myself hard against the railing of the ship. I glimpse the raging waves crashing below, and realize it would be so easy for him to carry out his threat, but I hold my nerve.
“How do you think your prince will react when this ship docks absent a bride?” I ask sharply, and even in the dark of night, with the wind howling and the rain pelting down, I see the warrior’s throat quiver. “Is he a merciful prince?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
He snarls beneath his cowl. “Very well, human. But if you fall, it won’t be on my head.”
As he turns his back and his heavy black cloak whips up in the wind, I catch sight of the one vulnerability in his imposing armor. There’s no steel protecting his shoulder blades—only a web of harnesses that exposes his skin, revealing a maze of tattoos sprawling across his back. These markings are runes, but not the familiar ones I know. They belong to the Mordorin Fae.
I clutch the carved wooden talisman hanging from the leather cord around my neck, my thumb tracing the familiar, timeworn grooves of the rune etched into its surface. Unlike the Fae, who carry their magic branded on their skin, humans—or at least those fortunate enough to be trained—must rely on talismans to harness the ancient power. Where the Fae’s runes are a permanent part of them, mine is something I must always wear, a fragile link to a force far greater than myself.
For wearing such inherently Fae sigils, many on both sides deem my Sisters of the Vine and me abominations. Arax’s cutting remarks are nothing new to me and I have heard far worse. If he seeks to intimidate me, he is sorely mistaken. I have witnessed the true cruelty of the Fae. Forests reduced to ashes, cities crumbling into dust, women left widowed and children orphaned. Their actions have wrought centuries of immeasurable suffering, yet to them, such a passage of time is merely a fleeting moment in their eternal existence. Let the Fae despise me all they want—the feeling is mutual.
A sudden crack of lightning tears through the starless black sky and the boom of thunder that follows rattles me to the bone. My frozen fingers grip the railing to hold me steady and I feel my knees buckle when another wave pounds the ship. I fight to find purchase upon the slippery boards as water floods the deck, my eyes half shut to spare them from the harsh sting of the rain, but they are open enough to catch sight of a monstrous creature rising from the waves.
Lightning sunders the sky once more, illuminating the serpentine figure with its giant yellow eyes, weaving towards the ship at speed.
“There’s something out there,” I say, but another crash of thunder drowns out my voice. The creature gains ground, its massive jaws widening to reveal rows and rows of needled teeth. “It’s a monster! Turn the ship!”
My eyes dart to the crow’s nest, only to find it empty, and where Arax stood behind me a moment ago, now he is nowhere to be seen. In fact, the entire ship appears abandoned. It is only me, alone, staring down one of the ancient beasts the Fae once treated as pets.
My fingers loosen from the railing, but I’m almost swept away when another rough wave hits. I scramble to stay on my feet. What a miserable choice to make; let go of the railing and take my chances with the sea, or count the seconds before the beast reaches the ship and swallows me whole. The saddest part is neither fate is worse than what awaits me in Baev’kalath. I prayed to the Souls for mercy, for an escape from the bargain forced upon me. Perhaps this is my salvation. At least I would die knowing I had denied the wicked prince of The Mordorin a bride.
As the monster nears me, it unleashes a high-pitched shriek. My eyes close once more, and I think of home. The sun, the trees, the soil beneath my feet. Please let it be quick .
“Don’t just stand there, you foolish girl!” Arax yells as he reappears. He grabs my arm and yanks me away from the railing before tossing me across the deck, where a second Mordorin warrior catches me. “Frane. Protect the human!”
“Yes, Reaper Arax,” Frane replies, her voice carrying a soft edge that catches me off guard. In the ranks of The Mordorin, men and women fight and die side by side. I’d find it admirable if I didn’t despise them so much.
Frane’s dark eyes flicker through the narrow visor of her helm, distinct from Arax’s. Hers does not resemble a shroud, instead a fierce bird of prey, sharp and poised to strike. As I watch her, I catch the murmur of unknown words slipping from her lips, almost lost beneath the din of battle.
Then, with a sudden surge of power, wide, black wings unfurl from her back, enveloping us in a protective embrace. The feathers glisten, their surface smooth and glinting in the light, wrapping around us like an impenetrable shield forged from the very essence of night. My fingers instinctively reach out to touch the feathers. To my astonishment, they are impossibly soft and I can’t quite grasp how such delicate things can shield us from the chaos outside.
Another shriek from the sea beast steals my attention and I look up, finding a narrow gap between the Frane’s wings where I can see the sky and the glow of the crescent moon. A figure swoops above us, followed by another, and another, all with broad wings pinned back, accelerating through the sky with swift precision.
“Slay the Stormwyrm!” Arax commands. “Take it’s head!”
The wyrm’s screech slices through the night like razor blades, a sound that gnaws at my very bones. The sounds of battle erupt around me as The Mordorin clash with the Stormwyrm, grunts and shouts mingling with the clash of steel and flesh. Then, after a thunderous splash, an unsettling silence takes hold of the ship.
“Is it over?” I ask, but my question goes unanswered. I struggle against Frane’s grasp. “Release me!”
She gives an irritated grunt and her wings unfurl from around us, spreading broad and powerful at her back. I’m reacquainted with the rain as Frane eases me to the ground and I take a moment to adjust the hem of my dress tangled at my knees, but when I glance down, seawater floods over my silk slippers. With each rock of the ship, the water darkens, shifting from blue to deep crimson. For a moment, I wonder if it’s a trick of the light, but when I look up, I see Arax lying flat on his back, blood pooling from the gaping wound in his chest.
His brethren surround him, arguing amongst themselves, but they take no action. The ship’s railing where I once stood is now rubble. Splintered planks and shattered wood scattered over the deck where a fierce battle has taken place. The beast is gone, and though Arax bleeds heavily, I do not believe all the blood belongs to him. He is the victor, but at what cost?
His warriors stand frozen, their gazes locked onto him as if they await his final breath rather than rushing to his aid. It shouldn’t matter to me. This Fae, Arax, has treated me with nothing but disdain since I first boarded the ship. He is no different from the others of his kind—a perfect lapdog to a dreaded master. So why does it bother me that no one is fighting to save him?
“Why is no one doing anything?” I yell the question plaguing me into the night, and in reply dozens of dark eyes glare at me.
Frane pushes past me to join the others who hover over Arax.
“Will you not help him?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “There is no saving him. The poison will kill him quicker than the wound.”
A crack of lightning startles me, but provides enough light to draw my eyes to the tooth as long as a sword protruding from Arax’s wound. At first, it was not visible in the darkness, but now the sight serves as a reminder of the Stormwyrm’s rows of needle-like teeth.
“Poison?” I mutter. The warriors continue to argue amongst themselves in their foreign tongue, an urgent rage to their tone. “What are they saying?” I ask.
Frane exhales. “They are deciding who kills him. Puts an end to his misery.” Her eyes stare coldly at me through her visor. “Gives him mercy.”
Mercy? What do Fae know of mercy? Though it makes sense that they would consider murdering one of their own a gracious deed. Arax lies on the deck, his chest shuddering with short, sharp breaths while his hand twitches at his side. This Mordorin monster may mean nothing to me, but as a Sister of the Vine, I am taught to embody kindness, empathy, and above all, forgiveness—even towards those who may not deserve it.
Frane joins the huddle, and it seems as if the conclave has concluded when I hear the scrape of a blade unsheathing, and Frane takes a slow step towards Arax.
“No,” I yell, and it takes a second for me to realize the word has come from my foolish mouth. Frane pauses and glares. “Damn it,” I mutter, balling my fist and thumping it against my thigh, but it is too late to stop now. I have already decided.
I stagger toward Arax, my feet slipping on the blood-slicked deck as the howling wind shoves against me, trying to drive me back. Each step feels like a battle, but I push forward, my gaze locked on where Arax lies. As I near him, a wall of broad Mordorin chests rises before me, blocking my way.
To those who face them at the edge of a sword, they are a nightmare you will never wake from. But to the rest of the world, they are the Blades of the Ebon Flight, the warriors of House Mordorin. Their sheer size and presence stops me cold.
“What do you think you are doing?” Frane snaps.
“I can help him,” I say, still unsure why my mouth is refusing to stay shut. “Let me through.”
I take a step forward, but the Blades close ranks and, with a pulse of energy that throbs in my ears, huge black wings emerge from their backs, blocking out the moonlight.
“You will not touch him, human,” a Blade scorns, his hand hovering over the hilt of his sword.
“My name is Amara Tyne. I am Jewel of the Tenders,” I say firmly, hoping none of them see straight through me. “And it will not be long before I am the wife or your prince. So I command you to move aside.”
The Blade’s exchange venomous looks and my heart beats hard and fast in my chest as I wait for their response. Perhaps they will obey. Recognize me as their wicked prince’s bride and move aside. Yes, or they could slit your throat, throw you overboard, and tell their master the sea monster killed you as well.
Thankfully, they slowly step back, clearing a path to Arax and I am grateful the heavy rain and miserable dark hides the relief on my face.
I drop to my knees beside Arax, the chill of the deck biting into my skin. His breaths rasp painfully in his chest, his gasps escaping the shadows of his shroud helm. My gaze locks onto the jagged tooth protruding from the horrific wound, a grotesque reminder of the Stormwyrm. Swallowing hard, I wrap my trembling hands around it, summoning every ounce of strength to pull. Blood erupts in a violent spatter, and Arax lets out a strained cry, his body lurching forward before collapsing with a heavy thud against the deck.
“That will do nothing!” Frane growls. “You should have let us end him. He will suffer more now.”
I block out her words, refusing to accept them as the truth. Death should not be a mercy. Not when I have the power to save. No matter whose life it may be.
I place my hands on his chest and his blood seeps between my fingers and soaks through the sleeves of my green dress. This dress, made for me by the elder women, woven from sacred cloth washed in ancient waters that my people gave their lives for when the Fae sought to destroy all who did not bend the knee.
Now Mordorin blood once again stains our hands.
I close my eyes and try not to think about the war that tore our world apart. Instead, I think about the runes carved into the trunks of the old trees and the words only spoken in whispers. A warmth fills me, nestles beneath my skin and wraps around my bones like creeping vines. The threads of power strengthen and soon the whispers of the Souls are deep, bellowing chants that pound in my ears. A soft green light radiates from my chest, and the Blades take a step closer to look upon the glowing wooden rune dangling around my neck.
As the power of the rune courses through me, the light fills my fingertips and I push them deep inside Arax’s wound, amongst the torn muscle and severed organs until a luminescent pulse fills the ravaged cavity.
Arax gasps and reaches for his blood smeared helm, wrestling it from his head and tossing it aside where it tumbles with hollow dings across the deck. My eyes flash open and it is the first time I have seen his face. I assumed him to be younger, or at least look younger, like all Fae do. But he reminds me of the men who sit on The Tenders Council, his white hair streaked with silver, rows of deep creases through his brow and circling his eyes, and an ivory beard that sits at his chest. The men on the council are in their sixtieth or seventieth cycle of age, but the Fae age much slower than us. With Arax wearing his age as he does, he could be anywhere in the hundreds, maybe more. If I had known he was older, I might have let him go. The Souls of the Forest have taught me that when it is one’s time, they must be freed.
It’s too late to turn back now.
Arax reaches out, grasping my arm with an intensity that sends a jolt through me, his wide dark eyes lock onto mine, and I notice a red ribbon marred with dark stains twisted around his wrist. I feel the warmth of his tissue and organs mending, his skin weaving itself back together beneath my hands, until, with one final gasp, he is restored completely.
The Blades whisper behind me and I realize more have gathered to witness the gifts of my people, The Tenders of the Grove. But it is not The Tenders’ name I hear spoken amongst them.
“She wields the powers of The Maledannan.”
I rise to my feet with a bitterness welling deep inside me.
“This is the will of The Tenders!” I yell, so all may hear. “And I, a human, saved his life while you did nothing but watch!”
It is not until the words have passed my lips that I realize I am scorning a ship full of Mordorin Fae, and that even though I am forced to wed their prince, there is still time to slit my throat and throw me overboard if I test their patience. Their eyes widen and their jaws fall open, but the sound of something massive emerging from the ocean at my back hints that I am not the focus of their attention.
When I turn, I find the Stormwyrm looming over me, its long neck weaving back and forth as it rises taller from the water. I freeze, every muscle stiffened with fear, but I’m aware enough to notice both the monster’s giant yellow eyes are missing, along with its front tooth. A chorus of scraping steel slices through the air as The Mordorin draw their swords, but none are fast enough to strike before the beast lunges its open mouth at me.
My instincts sharpen, propelling me out of the way as I roll across the slick deck just in time to avoid the wyrm’s massive jaws, which snap shut around the ship with a thunderous crack, splinters of wood showering from the sky amidst the sheets of rain. The Mordorin take to the air, slashing at the monster, but even their fearsome weapons are not enough to penetrate its thick, mottled gray skin. The Stormwyrm thrashes at them, knocking them from the sky as it lashes out at the Blades with its bared teeth.
Suddenly a hand grips my wrist and when I turn, I find Arax pushing the tooth I pulled from his chest toward me.
“Only this can break its skin,” he murmurs, barely conscious.
I grasp the tooth with both shaking hands and when I open my mouth and find no words, I simply nod at him and clamber to my feet. The Mordorin continue their assault, and when their steel fails, they use their armored fists instead.
Arax had found a weakness—the Stormwyrm’s eyes—and that was enough to make the beast retreat for a time. Yet as it returns, it dances around The Mordorin’s attacks with surprising agility, evading them as if guided by instinct. Its blindness proves to be no hindrance. Whether by their raised voices or the vibrations thrumming through the air, the Stormwyrm seems to know exactly where the Blades are.
I stealthily make my way toward the edge of the shattered ship, teetering on a jagged plank. I do not understand why I chose this—why I took the wyrm’s tooth and now stand before the beast. Perhaps the isolation of days at sea has driven me mad, or maybe I’ve finally reached my limit with the Mordorin’s taunts. Perhaps the weight of this cursed bargain has pushed me to throw myself at death’s feet in a desperate attempt to escape. But when I trip over a loose plank, hitting the deck with a hard thud, the wyrm snaps its head toward the sound, leaving me no time to reconsider.
The beast’s head swivels to face me, and I stare with horror into the empty, bloody sockets. Before I can get back on my feet, it opens its gaping maw of a mouth and lunges at me, and my only instinct is to close my eyes and thrust the tooth towards the sky. Suddenly, the rain stops for the first time since we set sail for Baev’kalath.
Since I farewelled my home and my people.
Since I made a bargain to save our way of life and doom myself.
I hear a sickly gurgle above me, and even though the rain has ceased, I feel a wetness dripping across my face. I open my eyes and look up to see the Stormwyrm’s head skewered with its own tooth, so deeply that my hands curled into fists are hard against its skin. Its thick, oily blood streams down my cheeks and over my chin, and the smell is so putrid it makes my head spin. I release the tooth, scurrying across the deck on my knees as the Blades watch in silence. After what feels like forever, the beast falls into the ocean with a hollow splash, causing a surge of water to flood over the deck.
I’m shaking as I lay on the cold, wet wood and my chattering teeth sound like thunder in my ears. I can feel the Mordorin’s gaze pressing down on me, but they have nothing to say. Neither do I. Only when two armored boots stumble to stand beside me and a chain-mailed glove reaches down do I hear a voice.
“Amara. Jewel of the Tenders,” Arax says as he takes my hand. “Let me help you to your feet.” He is frail and hunched, but lifts me from the deck easily, my trembling fingers vanishing within his paw-like grasp. “What do you require?” he asks.
I gulp standing before him, my hands soaked in his blood, my face smeared with the blood of the Stormwyrm, my once flawless dress sodden wet. “I wish to go below deck,” I reply.
He nods. “Very well, Jewel of the Tenders.”