Prologue #2
“Where all those who oppose the true king go. Where your brand is trying to take you now…”
I taste bile at the thought. Gravereach.
Air rattles in ruined lungs. “I have nothing else to give…”
I laugh, the sound more distant, and darker than I remember. “I know the feeling.”
I claim his life without a second thought. The wet shuck of steel is loud as it punctures his skin, muscle and bone, before piercing his heart. I feel the organ give way beneath the metal point.
As I turn to leave, his final breath whistles between his teeth.
And for the first time in five centuries, the Wailing Wilds are silent.
But for the hiss of black flames as I am called back into the dark.
Ten years ago
Leofric Bergmunn is a hard man to reach; not because he’s a particularly elusive bookbinder, but because of my torturous half-form.
It’s a part of Malevron’s punishment—being able to wander Lorevael but having little control over how long I can stay before I am ripped through the realms, back to the dungeons of Gravereach.
So, it’s not until a decade after my conversation with the dying enemy captain, that I find Leofric Bergmunn at last. He’s exactly where he should be: in his bindery, breaking bread with his family in the front of the shop.
A quaint wooden sign swings above the door depicting an open book, with a gimlet of sorts poised at its center. A needle and thread encircle the simple text curving above and below the design that reads: The Awl a loose braid of creamy gold and burnished hues tossed over her shoulder.
She has high cheekbones that are tipped with pink, a slender nose and full, slightly parted lips as she takes herself through some sort of breathing regime.
My gaze drops. When was the last time I looked at a woman?
Mortal or otherwise? When was the last time I wanted to?
I thought that part of me had withered and died long ago, but here in her presence, it blooms in full force.
I find myself taking in her clothing—men’s—if I’m not mistaken, though the breeches and vest have been altered to fit her properly.
Which means they don’t belong to a husband.
I find myself strangely relieved. She wears a white billowy shirt with a wide, open collar that reveals the graceful lines of her neck and collarbones, her breasts rising and falling with each labored breath.
I find the pace of my own breathing suddenly matching hers as my fascination takes hold.
Something about her beckons to me, but I cannot pinpoint what.
She opens her eyes, and I’m startled by their color: smoke and ash, the silvery light of the moon… a gathering thunderstorm about to break.
And they’re staring right at me.
Not through.
Directly at me.
The world tilts. My heart tries to pound against ribs that barely hold form. Two centuries of being invisible to anyone other than the branded, and this woman—this mortal woman—sees me. Actually sees me. I forget how to breathe.
I don’t move a muscle, terrified this is some fever pitch dream, another one of Malevron’s cruel games. At the thought, the brand on my neck flares with pain, pulling me back to my cage—
But I can’t help it, I take a step forward, towards her. “Do you see me?”