Nocturn (Warlord of Ruin #1)

Sigil

CHAPTER ONE

Fire branded my throat without warning.

I hit the floor before I understood what was happening, my knees cracking against the wood.

Miriam’s scream echoed in my ear and fire ate into my skin from the inside out.

‘Amara!’ Piper squealed in my mind, her voice cutting through the pain. She gave me the strength to lift my head.

Miriam stared at me, horror cresting over her features. Her mouth opened but nothing came out. She staggered backward, knocking against the edge of my bedframe, her eyes fixed on my throat.

I braced my weight against my slim vanity to hoist myself off the floor. My reflection blurred and I blinked it clear. The searing burn on my throat had yet to dissipate. My gaze fell upon the dark lines marring my skin.

No, Saints, please no!

Miriam met my gaze in the round mirror of my vanity. Her eyes dropped just as quickly, back to the inky lines crawling up my neck with thorns bursting from them.

The Warlord’s Sigil.

Everything it meant crowded my thoughts until all that was left was panic.

“I beg you not to breathe a word of this,” I whispered, my voice hoarse.

Nausea churned in my stomach, expanding until I was suffocating. This was impossible. This could not be possible. A tether snapped inside me. Frantically, I scraped at my neck with shaking hands, leaving behind red, raw flesh as if the tattoos could disappear.

“Amara . . .”

Miriam’s eyes remained wide and unblinking. Horrified.

“I will hide it.” Failing to contain the desperation in my tone, I hooked my finger into the brass circle of the drawer of my vanity and opened it. Contents within the small compartment skidded, sending my lip stains and creams flying against the sides.

I fumbled with the beige powder, prying it open with a loud pop. I grabbed the little application sponge and swiped it so hard my nail left a divot in the formerly pristine powder.

One swipe of the sponge across my neck was not sufficient; it was much too sheer. My rapid pulse made it difficult to fill my lungs. I sank my teeth into my bottom lip and reapplied powder to the sponge to rub it on the same place.

I refused to go to the Warlord King. Not if I could help it. Whispers of the immortal creature had reached across the realm of Sycarious. Violence, cruelty, and death followed the Warlord’s path. I would crumble under his dominion.

That cannot be my fate.

Miriam kept watching me, silent, her face regaining color.

I did not wish to leave my assigned family, most especially Miriam.

Not at such a pivotal point in her life.

Despite being a blueblood, she, more than anyone, accepted me.

I slowed the frantic movements of my quivering hand, my breathing puffing from my lungs.

Another woman, one of high birth, would see the Sigil as a blessing, but I did not see the merit in my life being forfeit—in being a Vessel. It was worse than dying. I would cease being.

No more visiting the shops where the elderly spice merchant let me smell his newest imports, even allowing Piper samples of dried berries.

No more strolls through the plaza or sitting where the willows bent over the pond.

No more chaperoning Miriam to her fittings—an eve-long event where she told me all the gossip rounding the Elite ladies she had tea with.

Nothing would be left of the touch of freedom redbloods were afforded.

Strength leaked out of my limbs and my arm went limp. The compact slipped from my fingers and clattered on the umber tile.

‘We should flee. Find somewhere they cannot reach us!’ Piper’s voice invaded my thoughts, mingling her fear with my desperation.

Her words echoed in my head, managing to yank me free from the cobwebs stretched across my mind. I met Piper's small ferret eyes. She chittered near my ankle, rubbing against my leg.

I did not answer her. I’d already had the thought, but she could not know that. Besides, none of it would matter if Miriam told someone. I marched over to my charge, my sleeping gown rustling around my ankles.

My hands wrapped around her upper arms, the plume of her lilac parfum wafting across my nose.

I met her cobalt eyes that were framed by thick eyelashes.

She finally blinked, her mouth working open and closed until she exhaled.

Then she shook her head frantically. Her normally rosy complexion drained of color once again.

“I will not say anything,” she croaked, her voice lilting down on the last syllable. I gripped her arms harder. “Amara, I will not say anything.”

Her insistence should have comforted me. Instead, it sharpened the worry, causing it to burrow deeper into my gut. I let her go, my hands sliding down her arms until they flopped at my sides.

There was no blood that marked us as family, no forced loyalty, but she was my family. I searched Miriam’s face, absorbing her sincerity, yet still looking for any indication of deception or wariness that all bluebloods had toward those like me.

There was no sign of it. I forced myself to take a breath, trying to stamp down the panic clogging my throat as I let my hand fall away from the brass knob.

“I apologize, Miriam,” I breathed and shook my head, my fingers tangling with my neat braid. “Let us secure your coiffure.”

I took my coat and pulled it on, tying the sash in the front. It was not appropriate attire for company, but only Miriam would see me like this. Despite that fact, I reached for a shawl from the rack attached to the left of my vanity and wrapped it around my throat to hide the inky lines.

“There, good as new.” I forced a grin, facing Miriam. Her youthful face remained pale and uncertain. Only moments ago, the greatest worry between us had been whether her suitor would find her gown flattering.

Hooking my arm with hers, I urged her to follow me to the doorway attached to her chamber.

“You do not have to—”

“Nonsense, your future husband will see you at your best.”

She ceased resisting and followed me across the wooden floorboards in my chamber, so different from the opulence of hers.

Her door creaked as I nudged it open. I released her upon entering, padding across the beautiful multi-colored rug Lord Bjorn had brought for her from a market in southern Sycarious.

You are the Vessel.

I pushed the invasive thought away, trying not to suffocate from the pressure that pulsed in my throat. Thick, woven cotton bedding lay across her bed in a mess, and I crossed to it, lifting the edges touching the rug.

Her vanity made of beautiful oak stretched across the expanse of the wall on the other side of her bed, thrice the size of mine.

She’d gifted me the one I currently had in my bedroom. Everything I owned was handed down by Miriam.

When I patted her cushioned seat, she sighed, the bottom of her gown rustling with her approach.

I helped her tuck the dress around her legs as she sat.

Piper hovered near my skirts, her silence telling me just how frightened she was.

I wished, once again, that our mind connection wasn’t one-way.

I collected two pins and pressed the metal between my lips to free my hands.

How many times had I done this? Since she was barely tall enough to see herself in the mirror, squirming on this very cushion while I learned the particular stubbornness of her curls.

She’d wailed the first time I’d pricked her scalp, and I had nearly wept with guilt.

Now my fingers knew the shape of her head as well as my own.

“What if they take you away?” she breathed. “What would I do without you—” She choked off and drew in a ragged breath.

Instead of speaking, I collected her honey-shaded hair that had come out of the coiffure and swept it back up as I had done before it became undone.

If I could hide the mark, I could leave to find another position. With my training as a lady’s maid, I could . . . I could . . . I struggled to swallow. It was all null and void. If I ran, I would be hunted as if I were not human. By law, all redbloods must be assigned to a blueblood family.

With skilled movements from tending to her, I had it twisted up in the manner she preferred, the curve of her hair turning inward to mold into the updo.

Will the Bjorn family inform the Sycarious Council?

After my family had been slaughtered when I was a child, I wandered and wandered. Then I stumbled upon the Bjorns in their carriage. They took me to the Registry nearest to their home and agreed to have me assigned to them.

None of them deserved my doubt, least of all Miriam. I had watched her grow, and I had no doubt she’d been the reason I had not remained in the servants’ quarters . . . or cast out when I first arrived and Miriam found me scrounging through the pantries for something to fill my hollow belly.

Even with only six annum rotations of age, Miriam had reacted with kindness. Now, at twenty-one annum rotations, she was preparing for a supper in honor of her engagement.

My heart finally did not feel like it was going to burst as I exhaled again. I squeezed her shoulder. “You should go; Lady Bjorn will be waiting for you downstairs.” I wet my lips. “The gown is too pretty to let go to waste. Besides, you are seeing your Viscount Lancet tonight.”

Sequins lining her fitted bodice reflected the light from the gas lamp. The skirt puffed out in layered fabric all the way to her feet.

This marriage was something Lord Bjorn wished for her especially. Anything to get closer to the council. If he knew of the Sigil, would he throw me to the wolves? To a male with tales of death and gluttony following his every waking moment?

The Warlord was a fate worse than death, an inhuman and powerful deity necessary to keep order and balance. I knew very little other than the tales that reached us in the eastern side of Sycarious, but one thing was definitive: nothing good ever came from embroiling oneself with the Elites.