Chapter 2
The sun warms my face as it burns its descent over the horizon, casting a golden veil across the ocean and gilding the whitewashed buildings lining the canals.
I tilt my chin down, letting the shadow from my hood fall over my face to hide it from the swarm of people as I cross the footbridge to Elotia.
Sixty-four isles make up the archipelago of the Sorrows, all of which once formed the southern peninsula of the Empyrieos, now scattered shards cast adrift in the Solorai Sea.
Elotia is one of the largest. Formed in the shape of a crescent moon, it cradles the kingdom’s busiest harbor in its embrace.
Wooden docks extend into turquoise waters like the jagged teeth of a great sea beast, with merchant ships and fishermen’s vessels tethered to their posts.
Amid sun-bleached warehouses and workshops, the Seiros Lighthouse looms on the eastern end, while on the northern tip, the clustered buildings give way to a marketplace.
No matter when I visit the island, it’s always bustling with activity.
Despite the day coming to an end, dockworkers unload luggage from vessels, fishermen haul their day’s catch, craftsmen boast from shop fronts, and merchants prowl the cobblestoned streets as they hawk their wares.
There’s an energy to the isle; a thrill lingering in the air.
I wish I could grasp it. Capture it in one of the many empty jars lining the shelves in my bedroom and never let it go. As if a simple memento sitting on my shelf could make a moment—a feeling—last forever.
My gaze catches on a group waiting beside a ship at a nearby dock. Broad smiles stretch their faces, and eyes sparkle as they talk among themselves. Hands dance with each word, orchestrating a symphony of gestures—no doubt reminiscing on a grand adventure across the seas.
Gentle waves lap against the hull of the boat, the rhythmic beat beckoning me closer.
How would it feel to abandon reason and board a ship? To sail toward the unknown, guided only by the stars and my own restless heart?
Freedom.
The word is a whisper. One echoing on the wind in this stolen moment, stirring memories not quite formed but aching to be. Yet another foolish dream.
I tear my gaze away, and the harbor disappears as I round a corner, replaced with the view of a narrow alley, the tall walls on either side blocking out the lingering sunlight.
My feet move along the cobbled path of their own accord, leading me to a door so unobtrusive—if not for the flickering lantern hanging above, illuminating the sign nailed into its aged wood—you might miss it.
Skiepo’s Gravery and Other Curiosities
I push through the creaking door, a cascade of tiny bells tinkling overhead, announcing my arrival to what I am convinced is a hoarder’s den disguised as a shop.
Overflowing shelves climb the walls from floor to ceiling, the thick wood bowing from the weight of their burdens.
A weary wooden counter crouches in front of a curtain sagging against the back wall.
Its surface is scarred and weathered, like it’s been on a journey across all the four kingdoms and finally found a quiet place to rest. Small tables laden with pots of gravers and etchers for carving goiteía, clay bowls piled high with sticks of chalk, and an abundance of quills crowd the rest of the space, leaving just enough room for patrons to inspect them.
With every visit, I swear the shop feels even more congested than the last. One of these days, I’m sure I’ll come in and find the shelves falling from the walls.
“Just a moment!” a muffled voice calls from behind the curtain.
I weave my way around the cluttered tables, taking extra care not to bump into any of the displays.
Skiepo knows the precise location of everything amid his organized chaos.
Once, I brushed against a giant seashell, shifting it a hairsbreadth out of place, and he huffed and puffed like I had beseeched Notos to set a storm loose in his shop.
When I reach the counter, I ring the dusty bell on its surface, grinning at the disgruntled mumbling from the back room.
“I said a moment,” Skiepo shouts, “impatient bloody—”
The words cut off as the drab curtain swings aside, revealing the man himself. He scowls, dumping a basket of what looks to be hundreds of woven bracelets on the counter.
I arch an expectant brow in return, plucking one to inspect. The coarse yarn scratches against my fingertips, and my brows inch higher at the small mark carved into the bronze disk at its center. An eight-pointed star above a small circular symbol reminiscent of a wheel.
The goiteía for luck.
I drop the bracelet like it’s burned me, my eyes lingering on the countless others.
Strength, bravery, love, protection.
The sight of years wasted on mere luck churns my stomach. Someone selling pieces of their soul for another to wear as a trinket on their wrist.
Magic isn’t uncommon among our kind.
Tycheroi.
The fortunate ones.
When the Anemoi discovered the Empyrieos and created us, they gifted our people with long life, enduring bodies, and the ability to achieve almost anything at the expense of them both.
The four gods used threads of their own power in our creation, weaving it into our souls. I’m uncertain whether it feels the same for everyone else, but I’ve always imagined it like a glowing presence nestled beside my heart.
To tap into this magic, we have goiteía, symbols that can harness the power and turn it into something tangible. To create something permanent or imbue an object with power, the symbols can be carved or etched into a surface. For something temporary, the marks only need to be drawn.
Yet not everyone is willing to pay the price goiteía demands.
With each use, your soul magic is drained, and the glowing energy dwindles—taking a little of your life force with it. A few days out of hundreds of years isn’t significant, but extensive use of goiteía could end a life in mere moments.
The other form is the?kós, intrinsic magic running through bloodlines, granting control over the seasons and their elements.
This is the magic of nymphs, their descendants, and the gods themselves.
But when the new kingdoms arose in the aftermath of the God War, the Anemoi gifted the?kós to the new monarchies.
They bequeathed the power of the seasons to any with the right blood flowing through their veins.
Summer for the south, autumn for the east, spring for the west, and winter for the north.
The power of the wind and skies, they kept to themselves.
Their divine domain.
As a daughter of the Sotiría bloodline—the royal line of the Sorrows—my affinity should be for the fire and heat of summer. But the sun’s flame has never sung to me. Never beckoned me with the allure of its fiery power. Never whispered its secrets in my ear.
Another condemning mark against my name in the eyes of my father.
My disdain for the soul magic isn’t common among other tycheroi.
For me, it is deeply personal. It was how my mother saved my life the day I was born—by carving an ancient symbol into our chests and begging the Anemoi to accept her sacrifice.
The symbols faded as my mother did, and the only evidence it occurred is long since buried.
But the warm glow of the magic in my chest doesn’t feel like it belongs to me, and the thought of burning through something so precious makes my stomach revolt.
“Oh, wipe the tragic look off your face,” Skiepo says. The tone of his voice and the arch of his brows tell me it’s not the first time he’s spoken. “People have to make money somehow, don’t they?”
I fix him with a narrow-eyed stare, but he meets it with one of his own. Deep brown eyes peering at me through thin slits. “Did you make all of those?”
“Don’t be daft, girl. I lack years for carving goiteía.”
I don’t doubt it.
Since I’ve known Skiepo, his hair has faded to the same shade as the dust coating his untouched curiosities. Wisps curl around a face etched with so many lines it resembles the intricate grain of the well-worn counter he now leans against.
It’s as though he’s transforming into one of his oddities. Someday, I’ll visit and likely find him sitting atop a shelf, another object gathering dust in some forgotten corner.
Somewhere deep in my mind, a dissonant chord strikes at the thought, the sound resonating through me, leaving a lingering sense of unease in its wake. I rub my chest, trying to shift the sensation. “I thought we agreed you wouldn’t call me girl anymore.”
“We agreed to no such thing. I’m almost five centuries old, and you’re essentially an infant,” he huffs. “Besides, I’ve got nothing else to call you.”
“All right then, old man.” I let my hand fall, rolling my eyes so hard I thank the gods they don’t get stuck in the back of my head.
Skiepo hates not knowing my name. Especially since I’ve been coming to his shop every quarter for the past few years.
I’m a month early—but with any luck, he won’t remember.
He huffs again, but the small uptick to his lips is smug this time, likely chalking this conversation up as his win. “What can I do for you? Need a new graver to carve away your problems? Perfume to make men swoon, perhaps? I got a fresh batch, straight from the flower fields of Reveza.”
He wriggles his wiry brows at me, and I bite my tongue, forcing back the laugh that pushes up my throat at the absurdity of it. “When have I given the impression of wanting to make men swoon?”
Undeterred, he shrugs. “There’s a time for everything. I once knew a girl—”
“I need more somniseed,” I say, cutting off another enthralling tale about the good old days. I’ve endured my fair share of those, and I have places to be.
The old man’s brow knits into a frown, his wizened lips wrinkling as they press together in a firm line. “What happened to the last vial? You only picked it up two months ago.”
“A friend needed some.” The lie tastes bitter on my tongue, but the words come easy. “So, if you have a spare vial, I’ll take two.”
Skiepo worries his bottom lip, his eyes raking over my face as if he might read the truth written there.
He won’t.
With a slump of his shoulders, he shuffles behind the curtain, reappearing with two small corked vials in his hand. The seeds inside shimmer like tiny black pearls. The dim light in the store shifts over their surface as he places the vials on the counter.
My arm snakes out to snatch them, but his hand closes over mine. Our eyes clash, and my next breath catches in my throat at the concern I see shining in his. For a man who peddles black market items, he sure is reluctant to hand them over.
“Tell your friend to be careful,” he says, relinquishing his grip. “Only one seed every three nights.”
Breathe.
The reminder echoes through my mind—presses on my lungs.
With a rushed exhale, I pull two silver drachmas from the purse tied to my waist belt. Tossing them to the counter and pocketing the vials, I turn toward the door and call over my shoulder, “Don’t worry, old man. I know the rules.”
I’m just not very good at following them sometimes.
I leave that part unsaid as I emerge from Skiepo’s shop; the twinkling bells chase me down the laneway as I make my way to the docks, intent on my main purpose for coming to Elotia.
I adjust the hood of my wrap again, letting myself merge with the crowd. While I drift through the press of bodies, taking in the sights and sounds of those around me, my eyes stay alert, and my ears strain to catch anything of note.
A gentle smile tugs at the corner of my mouth as a group of children rush by. Their laughter rings with a joy reserved for those unbound by constraints.
When I first joined the Aviary, being among the people was a mesmerizing experience. Since I had spent my childhood behind the walls of the palace, the life that unfolded on the scattered isles and winding waterways captivated me.
The citizens of the Sorrows all know they have a princess—they’ve just never seen me.
Never known I walk among them or watch on from the shadows.
I’ve heard some interesting rumors about myself over the years.
Some say I’m so hideous my father had no choice but to send me away, while others argue it’s the opposite.
When the Eagle sunk his talons into me, the official story was I had journeyed to the Isle of the Winds to learn from the Acolytes of the Anemoi. For the past ten years, my decoy has lived there, upholding the illusion in case anyone became too intrigued.
My lip curls, resentment burning in my gut, but I force the feeling down as I reach the edge of the harbor and my eyes land on a familiar ship. The crew mills about on the deck, the barnacle-dotted hull silhouetted against the soft hues of twilight, its white script cast in shadow.
The Nightingale.
The name is obvious to me, but knowing the order is necessary for the connection. Outsiders believe the Aviary building is a home and institute funded by the Crown for displaced and orphaned children. Only a select few know its true purpose.
My eyes track the darkened outlines of the crew.
Curiosity killed the canary.
The thought trickles through my mind as I hover on the edge of indecision.
“Curse it.”
I head down the dock, keeping my gait casual and relaxed.
When the hulking shape of The Nightingale looms in my periphery, I kneel and unbuckle a strap on my sandal, closing my eyes and taking a calming breath.
The rest of the isle’s noise fades into the background and the wind settles, allowing me to focus.
An insidious feeling rears its head, gnawing at my edges. I shouldn’t be doing this—spying on order business. If I’m caught, the price might be more than I’m willing to pay.
But as quickly as the feeling comes on, it disappears, and the voices of the crew reach my ears.
“A whole bloody year,” a rough voice says. “I’ll be a gods-damned lucky bastard if my woman hasn’t up and left me for some other prick!”
The rest of the crew chuckle and jeer at him.
“If she hasn’t left you by now, she’ll be packing her bags when she learns you’ll be setting sail again in a week’s time.”
“If I have to spend days at sea with you again, you sorry bastard, I’ll throw myself overboard.”
“Better fill your pockets with stones now. Same crew, same trip.”
“Notos’s balls.” The first man’s curse sends up a chorus of rumbling laughter before an authoritative bark cuts off the noise.
I buckle my sandal and stand, trusting my feet to guide me home as unease curls in my gut.
It’s rare for a Flight to be sent on a mission so soon after they’ve returned—unheard of to be sent back to the same location. To do so chances someone remembering you.
And being remembered could be your downfall.
So, what task is crucial enough to be worth the risk?