A Thief Bound to the Fae

Chapter 1

No day is more special to me than my sister’s birthday. It’s the one day I can rescue her from chores and give her anything she desires.

Well, not anything. We knelt in dirt for hours yesterday, straining our backs as we pulled poisonous weeds.

Our threadbare gloves let hives bubble on our skin, something the wealthy would never have to endure.

After all that work, we don’t have a coin to show for it unless our crops survive to harvest.

Yet today, Evie bathed with the lavender soap we reserve for special occasions. I even braided a ribbon into her hair as she chattered about our plans.

I beamed through it all because when Evie is happy, I can’t help but be happy, too.

Evie shakes me as we pass through our capital city’s towering gate. “Look at the shops, Cynthia! They’re even grander than I remember. And that smell!” She inhales, smiling. “I can already taste the roasted chestnuts!”

“Birthday gift first, snacks later,” I tease her, even though I could use a bite to eat.

It took us three hours to walk here from our quiet village.

Evie hasn’t seen the capital’s bustling shops and colorful banners since her last birthday.

I’m lucky our father brings me once a season to stock up on supplies, but Evie always stays at home with Mom.

Their magic is needed in the fields. If I’m gone for half a day, it’s not as much of a loss.

Evie gasps as a human woman’s cerulean gown sweeps across the cobblestones. “Her dress is beautiful.”

The woman regards our wool tunics and cracked leather boots with an upturned nose. We may be human, too, but that’s no guarantee of wealth in our kingdom.

“One day you’ll have a dress like hers, but even grander,” I promise. “Men will think you’re a noblewoman.” She giggles when I poke her.

Years ago, I caught her practicing her curtsy, emphasizing her consonants to hide our rural drawl. She’s since given up on marrying into Avedor’s nobility. Our pitiful dowries can’t entice even the village miller’s son.

Yet I intend to conquer reality and mold it into my making.

“Have you decided what you want?” I ask her.

“I thought about perfume. Or fabric. I’d like to sew a new dress for the autumn equinox.” She unhooks her arm to spin, her hands miming a skirt flaring out. Both are customary for a twenty-year-old woman, although I hope she chooses the fabric. A dress is more practical than perfume.

An orc street performer whistles to us, her cheeks painted with flames. Evie stumbles as fire ripples down the performer’s arms. The flickering reds and golds reflect in the orc’s dark eyes as she dances. She winks at Evie, then toes her tip basket.

“The drapery is this way,” I tell Evie, relinking our arms before she can ask me to tip. We don’t have a single coin to spare on performers, no matter how impressive their magical Gift from the gods is.

I lead Evie through a winding market, passing a bickering goblin couple leaning over a map and a stray chicken darting after bugs.

Stallkeepers hawk their spiced wine, leatherwork satchels, and ripened fruit.

Their voices are a cacophony over a bard playing the lute for tips.

The discordance is as sweet as music. It’ll replay in my dreams when home is too quiet, as it so often is.

Evie’s head swivels like a weather vane. She demurely smiles when a young shopkeeper catches her gaze. “Half-priced candles for the beautiful lady!” he calls out. I pull her along, but then the blare of horns halts the entire market.

“Make way for the royal carriage!” a man shouts from the main road.

“It might be Prince Ronan!” Evie squeals. “Let’s go!” She weaves through the crowd and pulls me after her before I can protest.

The throng thickens. Evie’s not the only one hoping to catch a glimpse of Avedor’s handsome prince. The royal family doesn’t often leave the mountainside palace overlooking Mythos. The next exception will be Norwynhald, the autumn festival that’s a few days away.

Of course, Evie and I will be too busy having “fun” cracking walnut shells and shoveling chicken poo to attend it. Nor would we ever be invited to Prince Ronan’s upcoming birthday ball.

As the whinnying draft horses round the corner, the opulent carriage parades into view.

Its wood panels and gold inlay are polished to an impeccable gleam.

Gemstones are beaded into the horses’ bridles, and their white coats look as smooth as velvet.

All the orcs, goblins, and humans around me call out Ronan’s name.

A short fae watches from a shop’s doorway, her golden eyes bright with a smile. Her pale skin is pinkish, and her long, pointy ears are pierced with golden hoops. Our village hasn’t seen one of their kind in decades, but I’ve spotted one or two on each trip to Mythos.

I tap Evie’s arm to point out the fae, but as my lips part, an older human woman grabs the fae by her ears. The joy vanishes from the fae’s face like a snuffed candle. She protests with a string of words lost to the noise, but doesn’t fight as the woman hauls her backward into the shop.

The crowd whistles and waves, blocking my view. Something about the resignation in the fae’s eyes bothers me, like she knew someone would come for her. Despite knowing how dangerous fae can be, I felt an urge to help her.

“Cynthia, you’re missing him!”

I finally turn and see the raven-haired young man in the carriage’s window.

Prince Ronan waves with a cordial smile that I’d bet two bronze coins he rehearsed.

Despite the insouciant glint in his onyx eyes, I admit he’s handsome in the boyish way Evie adores.

His narrow face is clean-shaven, and his nose is straight from never seeing a fistfight.

What stands out most is his unblemished skin—no pockmarks or scars like those of the lower classes.

The only difference between where a pauper and a prince are born is luck.

Evie grips me as the prince’s gaze falls on her. She smiles with the warmth of blossoming wildflowers, and her cheeks grow rosy with a blush. The prince’s composure falters. His smile is shy, his wave imperfect for the briefest moment. Then the carriage rolls past us, and he’s gone.

“All that commotion, and it’s already over,” I mutter.

I can’t help but feel contempt for royalty.

They’re so isolated within their masked balls and egregious tithes that they’ll never feel empathy for the peasant class.

For us. Not even if we starve. That’s just one reason I’ll never understand Evie’s adoration for them.

Evie touches her lips as if she could feel Prince Ronan’s mouth on hers. “I think he looked at me.” Then the awe falls from her face. “Or I imagined it. What prince would smile at a girl wearing this?” She bunches her tunic with a resentful grimace. “Maybe if I were a Great, I would stand out.”

It’s the first trace of discontent she’s shown in a long time.

Part of me is glad she’s still holding on to the hope of a better life.

The rest of me wilts because I can’t change our lives yet.

“Your clothes will never detract from what’s here,” I tell her, poking her nose.

“A smile so beautiful that it’ll turn any prince’s head.

Even the handsome ones. And don’t worry about the Gift classes. They don’t matter.”

At least, that’s what I tell myself. The five classes of magic defined by the Elowynite Order are ranked by power and rarity.

The Elite class consists of the strongest Gifts—the legendary ones.

The royal family are Elites, but the nature of their Gifts is a guarded secret.

Greats, the second-most powerful class, are uncommon.

Most people on the continent are class three or four. Like us. Painfully average.

Still, some Average Gifts are more valued than others. An Average, Lesser, or Minor Gift could be suited for particular occupations. For farmers, flora magic can be the difference between a bountiful harvest and a barren yield.

I was only four years old when my magic awakened. It felt like a static shock through my mind, as if I’d grown an extra limb or developed a sixth sense. I was so excited to show my parents my magic that I ran to them, shouting across the field.

They looked at me in silence. Then they looked at each other, brows drawn and lips pursed. When they finally spoke, their voices were tight and their smiles were like a scarecrow’s. Too broad. Too forced. My Gift may be uncommon, but it wouldn’t help them in the fields.

How could any child forget a look like that?

I shove the memory away.

“The shop is behind us,” I tell Evie.

“Alright.” She sighs. “If only we could attend Ronan’s ball, even as serving girls. I’d give anything to glimpse him in a waistcoat.”

It’s not until we reach the fabric shop that Evie stops moping. She strokes the swaths draped before the door and grins. Inside, bolts of fabric including velvet, satin, and hemp line the walls. Someone might believe a rainbow was slain to create this many colors.

Evie lingers before a pink brocade, longing in her brown eyes.

Her hair is a lustrous gold, while mine is paler, like dried straw.

My eyes are two shades darker than hers, and while her hips and breasts swell, I’m tall and thin as a weed.

I don’t resent her. If anything, I worry about her.

There are too many tales where wicked fae whisk away beautiful women to be their brides.

Too many men think a heavy coin purse entitles them to do the same.

“Do you like it?” the draper calls from the counter.

She comes over and dangles a pink satin ribbon against the brocade.

“Look at that match! It would look stunning in your hair. Or imagine if it were green!” With a tap of her finger, a delicate spring green blooms across the brocade. “I can change it back, if you like.”