Echoes of The Lunthra (The Sayelbound #1)

CHAPTER ONE

The market in Isvale clawed at me the way it always did, heat and noise closing in until there was no space left to breathe.

Humidity clung to my skin, damp and insistent, carrying the scent of figs split open underfoot. Their sweetness crushed into the dirt and dragged through smoke, sweat, and something sour that lingered at the back of my throat.

“Ten coppers for the lot, Kaelia.”

Old man Borin’s eyes moved from the top of my head to the tips of my hand.

He was not truly looking at the basket of foraged herbs and high-country berries I had gathered at the risk of my own.

Instead, his watery gaze was counting the swift passage of my years.

Just like any other bound elder, he was measuring the proximity of the solstice—the twenty-first birthday that marked the final threshold for every child of Haelen.

I swallowed hard, forcing back the tremor that threatened to bloom in my chest. My hand clenched around the rough wicker handle until the fibers dug crescent moons into my palm.

“Twelve, Borin,” I countered, lifting my chin to meet his stare with a challenge. “I climbed the face of the Thrynn peaks for these. You know the quality is unmatched.”

The Thrynn peaks were a volatile region that bordered on the city of Umbral—the land of the Veythar. It took immense stamina to harvest from the rocky formations, and a certain kind of madness to do it alone. If this old man could not appreciate my hard efforts, I would sell my berries elsewhere.

Borin grumbled, scratching at his sparse beard. His eyes narrowed in reluctant concession.

While he stalled, my gaze swept the crowd.

They were a flock, some moving through the mass holding hands with their Elarthai—their chosen partner—their faces wearing the glazed, comfortable look of the bonded.

Others were boundless, working as merchants at their stalls with the frantic energy of those running out of time.

I watched a young woman across the market, her eyes darting like a trapped bird’s. I knew that look. It was the same one I saw in my mirror every morning—the look of a girl counting the seconds until her soul was forfeit to a crown that did not know her name.

In Haelen, you were either a pair or a problem for the High Court to solve.

And I was becoming a problem.

Each sunrise pulled me closer to my twenty-first year, and with it, the invisible noose woven by the High Court tightened.

Borin sighed before dropping twelve coins into my hand. The coppers were warm from his palm, but they felt like lead as I tucked them into my pocket.

I began to weave through the stalls, my mind already calculating how many days this would buy us. Bread, salt, and perhaps a small bit of dried meat for Lyra.

It was her favorite snack, and if I could spare a few coppers, I would bring her home a fresh batch.

A prickle of unease crawled up my spine, causing my steps to slow.

I glanced over my shoulder, and through the shifting gaps in the crowd, a mountain of a man with a stained tunic and a yellowed grin was watching me.

He did not look away when our eyes met; he simply leaned against a stone pillar, his gaze raking over my frame.

I tightened my grip on my basket and quickened my pace, ducking behind a weaver’s display.

I peeked over the side of the wooden frame, but before my eyes could search him out, the market suddenly hushed.

The merchant across from me froze mid-sentence, his face becoming pale. One by one, people stepped backward until their shoulders pressed against sun-baked stone.

I rose slightly on my toes, my fingers digging into the splintered wood of the cart as I peered over the crowd.

A sudden, unnatural chill swept through the square, or perhaps it was just the sight of the black coats cutting through the mass of bodies.

They moved with a synchronized grace that made every merchant stand up straight, and every child cling to their mothers.

Their dark armor, forged from the light-drinking stone of the north, indicated that they were Veythar—the High Court’s shadow reapers, the men who hunted those who passed their solstice without a bond.

At their center stood the man who was the very architect of our nightmares.

Talon Veyr.

Unlike the others, he did not wear the standard leather of a soldier. His cloak was a heavy, midnight silk that caught the light in ripples of oil-slick silver, the long tail sweeping the dusty cobblestones behind him.

He was, after all, the Master of Veythar.

I had heard his name, and all the horror stories surrounding him, but seeing him in the flesh was different. The narratives had not mentioned the sheer gravity of his presence.

He was taller than I expected. Broader.

His shoulders were squared beneath the dark fall of his coat, the fabric pulled taut across the dangerous breadth of his muscle. Along his forearms, where the sleeves had shifted back, ancient script curled over his skin in dark, winding lines that seemed to pulse with a life of their own.

The crowd quieted the moment he lifted his head, the collective breath of the market catching in a thousand throats as his gaze—cold as a mountain glacier—swept over us.

His eyes moved through the gathered bodies like a slow-burning flame, passing over merchants and soldiers alike, sliding across faces that immediately lowered.

I had stopped breathing the moment his eyes honed in on the wooden cart I was ducked behind.

Was he looking at me? Or beyond me?

One quick look over my shoulder showcased a completely vacant area.

I turned back to face him, meeting his unnerving eyes.

They were pale. Not the bright blue of summer skies or warm water, but something much colder.

What could he possibly be seeing?

I was a shadow in a city of sun; there was no reason for a king of the dark to see me.

I stayed rooted to the spot, trapped by his gaze. The chaos of the square bled away, silenced by the thunder of my own heart echoing in my ears.

Did he see my lack of bond just by looking at me?

I should have lowered my eyes—been the one to break eye contact. Everyone else had looked away, so why was something in me resisting the instinct?

I knew what those hands were capable of. I had heard the rumors of men stripped of rank and title under his command. Of the unbound escorted to the chambers without appeal. Of lives redirected with nothing more than his approval.

Those were the hands that signed orders.

The hands that decided who was worthy of protection and who was not.

And they were steady at his sides.

Something flickered in the depths of his. Something like interest.

My grip tightened on the wicker handle of my basket until the reeds creaked in protest.

Look away, I internally shouted.

But for some strange reason, I could not.

His head tilted just before his face hardened.

An elbow jutted into my ribs, jarring me from the trance and nearly sending my remaining berries spilling onto the cobblestones.

I staggered forward as the reek of cheap ale fills my nostrils. I whipped around with a glare, coming chest to chest with the hulking brute who had been tracking me through the stalls earlier.

His sweat covered tunic pressed against my clean one, and I swallowed down a gag as his yellowed grin stretched wide.

“Lost, little bird?” he slurred, reaching out to clamp a calloused hand on my arm. “Solstice approaches. Looking for a warm nest to bind to?”

His beady eyes raked over me, causing my stomach to churn.

This was the true horror of being unbound: the entitlement that festered in the corners of Haelen, the way men looked at unchosen women as if we were fruit left too long on the vine.

My hand drifted to the weighted pouch at my belt. Inside was a sling stone, smooth and heavy—my only guarantee of a head start.

“Remove your hand,” I demanded, my voice a low snarl.

He chuckled, a disgusting, wet sound. His grip tightened, pulling me closer until my whole front was plastered against his pudgy belly.

“What’s a pretty little thing like you doing out here all alone? No binding yet, eh? The Veythar love the stubborn ones,” he breathed, his foul breath hot on my ear. “Perhaps you are waiting for someone to claim you.”

My chin snapped up, my eyes blazing. “I await no one. And I belong to no one.”

Just as I prepared to launch my elbow toward his throat, the thug’s grip suddenly loosened, his fingers peeled from my arm not by his will, but by an unseen force.

He stumbled back, a bewildered grunt escaping his lips, his eyes wide and unfocused.

Talon stood beside me, a faint trail of shadow-smoke curling beneath his sleeves, the only evidence of the magic that had just crushed the brute’s wrist.

I had not even seen him move.

He simply occupied the space now, close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from his body beneath the dark fabric. Close enough that the scent of earth and smoke reached me through the marketplace stench.

I was a head shorter than him, so I needed to crane my neck to see his face. All my eyes could reach was a sharp jawline, a straight but slightly pointed nose and a thick set of lashes.

He was devastatingly handsome. Devastating because no reaper should have such angelic features.

“Is there a problem, Huiter?”

Talon spoke to the brute, yet his gaze had moved down to meet mine. Up close, the blue of his eyes was even more arresting—and even more infuriating.

I braced my heels against the cobblestones and turned to face the man—the Huiter. It was an ancient slur for the mundane.

The man stammered. “No, no problem, Master Veyr. Just… admiring the merchandise.”

Talon’s lips thinned. “This merchandise is not for purchase.”

I frowned, my eyes narrowing at Talon who was now looking over my head.

I was not a piece of fruit on Borin’s stall, and I certainly was not a prize for a Veythar to claim.

“Go,” Talon commanded.

The thug scrambled away, disappearing into the crowd without a backward glance.

My shoulders sagged before I tensed at the heat at my back.

“You interfered,” I said, spinning on him. “I had a sling stone and a clear line to his temple. I did not ask for a savior, especially not one in a black cloak.”

His gaze flicked to my clenched hand, where the wicker of the basket was groaning. He did not look angry at my words. He looked… amused.

“Did you?” he asked, stepping a fraction closer. I should have backed up, but I stood my ground. He needed to see not every mortal would bow to his feet.

“I am perfectly capable of defending myself,” I snapped.

“I have no doubt of your spirit, little flame.” He reached out, his gloved hand hovering just inches from my jaw. I moved back, his hand freezing mid-air for a moment before dropping. “But fire, however fierce, can be extinguished by a brute’s wet hand.”

“Well,” I said sarcastically. “I appreciate your input. But I have lived years without a man’s protection. And I will continue to do so.”

Talon’s lips tipped up. “Okay.”

I took a step away from him, my chest feeling too warm at our proximity.

“Keep your distance, Talon Veyr,” I warned.

The faintest hint of amusement touched his eyes.

“Impossible, Kaelia.”

“How do you know my name?” I forced out, my jaw tight.

A slow grin stretched his full lips. “How do you know mine?”

What a silly question.

The answer was obvious. Every soul in Haelen knew his name.

He held my gaze one heartbeat longer, then he turned.

“Take care of yourself,” he called out.

My eye twitched at his tone, and a petulant part of me wanted to stomp my foot.

The crowd parted instantly, bending around him in silent submission. His dark silhouette cut through the sunlight as he disappeared beyond The Great Hall of Lumina.

The market noise returned in uneven fragments, conversations slowly starting back up.

Looking around, I noticed everyone’s eyes darting around before they moved, as if to check the Veythar were no longer here.

I could not fault them.

It was not common for Talon to show his face without ceremony or summons. When the Master of Veythar moved through a district, it was usually for collection, punishment, or decree.

Today none had been the reason.

No proclamation. No visible arrest.

He had simply walked the square.

Seeing him stride through a mundane market day, past figs and woven baskets and children clutching sugared bread, felt like a blade laid casually across the throat of the city.

A reminder that the High Court did not need spectacle to exercise control.

It only needed to be seen.