Chapter One
Ves
One thousand, two hundred forty-five years
following the evening of Ashdown
Sprinting across the rooftops as fast as my legs will allow, my laughter trails behind me, along with Eve. It’s one of those rare sunny days in Ollora and as summer begins to shift into autumn, I find myself wanting to make the most of days like this one.
I cannot be blamed for today.
If anyone is to blame, it should be Cyran.
Had he not made the mistake of leaving this week’s docking schedule on his desk in plain view, I wouldn’t be here. Alternatively, if he hadn’t dragged me from the library to his office to lecture me about the last time I slipped from the castle without his company, I would have never seen it.
Thus Cyran is to blame.
Twice over.
I can already see his unamused glare and it causes me to laugh harder.
Springing over a small parapet, Eve shouts something behind me but between the wind, my laughter, and the distance between us, her words are lost. It’s easier to traverse Ollora this way. Much easier than fighting through crowded squares and streets.
I may earn a few muttered words and arched brows by those who notice, but to them I’m no one.
A nobody with no name, no title, no House, no contract.
The city folk may think me a rascal, perhaps even a nuisance—one the North Docks district has come to know over the summer.
I tend to perch myself on the same rooftop near the cargo pier to watch.
But there’s one thing Ollorans won’t call me…
Daughter of death.
I am not Netharis’ spawn in this realm. Or at least, I’m not known as such. And gods, is that freeing. I’m sure it’s a matter of time before that changes. Until then, I’m soaking up my freedom like these last warm days of summer.
Keeping me cooped up in Castle Erus isn’t going to work. There’s too much to see, too much to explore and learn and taste and do. The hells are nothing like this, and I have lost centuries in experiencing it all.
Being recognized by some random Olloran as Netharis’ eldest daughter is unlikely. Being recognized and knowing of my promise to the Council of Sovereign Kings narrows the pool down to roughly fourteen—the Sovereign Kings themselves and their Captains of the Royal Guard.
They’re easy enough to avoid.
In all honesty, the only Sovereign King to visit is Fenryn, Ryc’s closest friend. During those times, I hide in my quarters, tucked in a corner with my books. I don’t mind the mountain of a fae, but I’d daresay our last meeting left him with altered thoughts of who I am and the power I wield.
Or did wield, rather.
Not so much anymore.
Now I’m learning to live in this realm as an innateless creature. As if learning the traditions, cultures, expectations, and rituals of these fae and humans isn’t enough. I can’t say I’m enjoying that part of the experience.
From up here, Kevus Lake and the cargo docks are easily visible.
With the lake lying to the west, the surface of the water ripples with the same colors as the fire-branded sky, reflecting the setting sun.
Brilliant hues of orange, yellow, red, and violet streak across clouds.
The creeping darkness of night bleeds into the vibrant colors from the east promising to swallow the beautiful display.
Below, magelight street lanterns flicker to life as the crowds clear for the evening.
Silver orbs of light chase away the growing pockets of shadow.
I won’t be able to stay at the docks for long—not with night coming.
According to the schedule, there should be just enough light left in the day for me to watch the ship moor and return to the castle before nightfall.
I come here to watch.
To observe and to simply escape the walls of the castle.
It’s easiest to do here. No rooftop traversing crowds to work through, and the vantage point here grants me quite the view of the North Docks. Knowing the schedule guarantees the docks won’t be deserted.
Since the night of the eclipse, Ryc has been busy most days. Busy leading recovery efforts to restore the damage left behind. Demons having stormed Ollora means he now spends his time locked in meeting rooms with Olloran lords, renowned merchant families, builders, healers, and gravewardens.
I’ve yet to see him today.
He was up before sunrise.
He left the comfort of our warm bed silently, not wanting to disturb me and my inconsistent sleep schedule. It won’t be until after dinner that I’ll see him, that we’ll have any time together.
I miss him.
But I don’t envy him.
As such, I don’t bother him throughout the day.
The last thing I want is to become another burden he has to address while trying to balance the needs of a tragedy-stricken city and manage a country.
Of course, my impish antics—like this—are guaranteed to earn me a stern glare or two if he finds out.
If.
All I have to do is not get caught.
The wind tugs strands of my braided hair free as I continue to run.
By the time I return to the castle, where I’ve been will be evident by my disheveled appearance.
The only person I have to worry about is Oraphia.
And I won’t be seeing her until morning.
Otherwise, she’ll lecture me on the suitability of the future Sovereign Queen acting like a demon.
Laughing with the thought, I push harder and gain speed. A gap between rooftops races closer, faster than the pounding heart between my ribs.
With a push of my toes, I fly.
If only for a moment.
In that moment, weightlessness takes me. The sudden need to stretch my wings and soar strikes me square in the chest, and before I can embrace the feeling, my feet land firmly upon the slate-tiled roof.
I can’t.
I can’t stretch my wings.
Nor can I allow myself to wallow—not here, not now.
Bounding forward, chimneys and dormers pass in a blur, and before long, the empty dock I seek comes into view. But scanning the lake, it too lies empty.
Where is the expected ship?
The one on the schedule?
A flock of pigeons bursts into the sky in a flurry of wings and feathers, startling me as much as I’ve startled them, and I slow. The feeling of loss, the mourning I denied myself moments ago, quickly grows in my chest as I watch the pigeons cross the city, their wings beating against the sky.
My back tenses.
I want to do the same.
I want to fly. To stretch my wings, feel the sun upon my feathers.
But… I can’t. Not like this.
It’s been months.
Five to be exact. Five months since the night of the eclipse, five months since I’ve seen my wings last. Without my innate, without magic, the glamour I created remains in place.
And yes, while it’s safer for me to have them hidden away—parading around Ollora with a feathered set of wings would draw far more attention than I want—that doesn’t mean I like being without them.
My chest heaves as I attempt to catch my breath.
And finally, now nothing more than dark specs against the vibrant sky, the pigeons dip below the eaves of a building and vanish altogether.
While it’s been five months since I’ve seen my wings, it’s only been three since my return to the living realm. In the hells, I was left alone. I isolated and wallowed. I could mourn.
I mourned Ryc.
Eve.
Cora.
My wings.
But here… here I’m rarely left alone long enough to think, let alone contend with the pieces of me I’m still missing.
My wings.
My innate.
No longer being able to control and manipulate umbral energy—shadows—has left me ruined in a way I can’t put to words.
The living realm contrasts the hells in so many ways, but one thing remains the same: possessing an innate, especially one perceived as rare or strong, is valued, respected, and in specific cases, feared.
Without mine, I’ve become nothing more than a liability for Ryc. The council will inevitably learn of my return, but they must never learn I’m innateless. I will not become a source of scrutiny he’s forced to endure. Nor can I stand being protected as if I’m some fragile creature.
Simple things are now impossible.
Can’t ferry.
Can’t defend myself.
Though I will admit, no longer having to resist the demonic urges of my innate is an unexpected benefit. My blood doesn’t sing as often as it once did, it doesn’t crave death, to kill. But no longer having my shadows to feed my emotions means having to face them myself.
Or ignore them.
Which I’ve found is easier.
And I think Eve understands this without me having to say as much.
It’s why she continues to tangle herself along on trips like these, knowing I shouldn’t be behaving this way.
I’ve fallen apart in front of her, put her through enough—and throughout these last few months we’ve grown incredibly close.
Close enough for me to know she fights with her own mourning.
But like me, she’s reluctant to let it breathe.
“The ship isn’t going to sail off before we get there, Ves,” Eve pants, appearing beside me.
With creased brows, she levels a less than enthused stare in my direction. Throwing her hands onto her hips, she pitches herself at the waist, gasping for air. Her ebony skin glistens in the last rays of the sun and I can’t help but stare at her beauty—despite her judging glare.
“Should I mention the irony of a thief who hates running?” I tease and her stare turns venomous as she straightens herself.
Oh, if looks could shove me off this roof, I’d be a bloodied mess on the street three stories below.
“I,” she drags out the word, as she points to herself, “don’t have the stamina of a demon.” She lifts a hand, snapping her fingers. Crimson hellfire flashes.
But she has the innate of one.
“You’re as boastful as an imp,” I scoff a laugh, unable to keep the grin from my face. “Should I ever find Celesta and reclaim my shadows—”
“You’ll teach me to ferry,” Eve interjects with a smirk. “So we don’t have to do this shit anymore.”
“You make it sound like I’ve made you run for miles,” I counter, setting off at a leisurely walking pace.
Eve follows suit.