Spar of Hearts

Chapter 1

Anya Delemond

“Furl the topgallant sails! Captain, begin tacking maneuvers! This little headwind won’t throw us off course if we play our cards right.”

“Right away, Your Highness!”

“You heard her! Get those tails movin'!”

Princess Anya Delemond stood on the bow of the Lupus Star, her dark clawed hands gripped tightly behind her back.

Her fur-lined cloak and thick white and green winter dress were the warmest option she had without sacrificing agility.

A leather bodice hugged her waist, keeping the dress taut against her toned frame.

A lock of blonde hair flicked into her face, but it was a minor annoyance.

She would tighten her bun later. She surveyed the deck with golden wolf eyes.

This was her element: the open ocean, salty air, blustering winds, surrounded by a faithful Lycanian crew.

She always felt more at ease with her fellow wereish descendants.

If it weren’t for the diplomatic needs at the capital, she would sail the seas forever.

As the ship picked up speed, Anya strolled to the helm.

“Captain Verden, I do say you have this well in hand, as always.” Captain Boris Verden effortlessly tugged the wheel to angle the ship against the wind.

His salt-and-pepper beard was short enough not to be trifled by the whipping wind, nor was his navy tricorn hat.

He beamed at her, gap-toothed smile on full display. “You flatter me, Yer Highness!” he boomed, his thick brogue warm and friendly in the brisk winter air. Clouds of breath hung over the helm as they spoke.

“I will ask the quartermaster and cook to arrange the deck feast tonight. No need to stray from nautical tradition, yes? We will make sure the Centarians feel plenty welcome.”

The Centarians. Anya had gone from a near lifetime of not seeing a single one of the exiled Vampire descendants to spending the last month serving as celestial navigator for ships full of them.

This was their final voyage, bound for the Valerian capital island of Eteross.

She was mortified to find out the fertile paradise they’d been promised was a barren wasteland.

The Divine Church had effectively enslaved them: Work the mana stone mines in exchange for food and clothing, or starve.

It was a lucrative plot for the Church. Mana stones were a trove of raw, magical energy, something that Valerian society heavily relied on, given how limited Elvani magic was.

Everything was going smoothly—until the King and Queen discovered that the mines had dried up, and the Church had ceased sending rations.

Aiding in the evacuation was the least she could do for the Centarians, though it was a weak apology for decades of oppression unbeknownst to the Crown.

Her parents had placed far too much trust in the Priest Supreme of decades past, and the subsequent Priestess Supreme.

This wasn’t something Anya could fix overnight.

She knew that. But damn it all, she would try.

She would try every day for the rest of her life.

“Don’t worry yourself, Yer Highness,” the captain said. “Lord Bryson already spoke with them last night. There will be plenty for all.”

How excellent. She took a deep breath to steady her ire.

“Then Lady Rowan and I will help distribute the breakfast rations.”

“Already taken care of, Your Highness.” Sir Octavio Oshfeldt’s level voice came from the steps leading to the bow.

At first glance, one would think he was Lycanian, given his towering stature.

The Elvani knight tipped his head respectfully.

Silver hair slipped past his tapered ears, a token of his far-removed Elven forefathers.

“His Grace and I finished it a minute ago.”

“Wonderful,” Anya hissed through gritted teeth.

“My Lord!” a voice shouted from the main deck. “Should we furl the main skysail too?”

Of course not, Anya thought. We will make far better time if we—

“Of course, Bernard, thank you for asking,” Lord Roderick Bryson answered, emerging from the lower deck.

He was a red-haired, broad-shouldered Centarian man, alone of the presumed few that evaded the Gathering that ushered his people into exile.

It came as a quite a shock to the Crown and Council to find out he was Centarian.

Instead of the red irises that harked his kind, the Lord boasted glacier-blue eyes.

What he did have in common with his people was two sharp fangs.

Before they reached the island, he had kept them tucked up in his gums, perfectly disguised as regular canines.

Now, he had them out all the time to show solidarity.

Anya had nothing against the Centarians.

In fact, she and her lady-in-waiting spent a large portion of their free time on the ship reading up on their biology to better assist with treatment.

The array of abilities they had was quite impressive.

A century-long lifespan, ancient beast communication, and the ability to promote healing and fertility by consuming blood were just a few.

She rushed down the steps of the bow. “Bernard, keep the main skysail open. The angle will help the tacking maneuvers.”

Lord Bryson halted a step. “Keeping it open only increases our resistance.”

Bernard was a muscular Lycanian man with reddish-brown hair and a short beard. He towered above Anya, his golden canine eyes darting between them.

“I’m sorry, did you study with the head of the nautical guild?” Anya pointed an accusing claw at Lord Bryson’s chest.

“Respectfully, I was too busy actually sailing. Books and theory are one thing, Princess. Doing is another. Do not trouble yourself. Leave this to me.”

A low growl formed in her chest.

“Good mornin’, My Lord!” a deckhand chirped. She dropped the growl as they walked by, then swallowed her rage and stomped past Lord Bryson. As she passed, she caught the corner of a smug smile forming on his lips as his eyes met hers.

Those fangs. Those damned fangs.

“My Lady!” the voice of her Elvani lady-in-waiting, Blackbird Rowan, carried across the deck. A little Centarian girl no older than three toddled alongside her, red eyes glassy with tears. “This girl can’t find her mum.”

“Oh dear,” Anya said gently, crouching down to eye level with the girl. “Can you tell me your name, little one? We will help you find your mum.”

The girl sniffed, then burst into wordless hics and sobs.

“Shhh, it will be all right. Come here.” Anya opened her arms. The girl clumsily fell against her, crying and shivering. The girl’s frame was lithe and small, far too thin for her height. Slivers of heartbreak broke through Anya’s regal facade.

“Allow me, Anya,” Lord Bryson’s husky voice came from above her. He bent down and scooped the girl into his arms, then hoisted her onto his shoulders. The girl’s tears vanished as she giggled at the exciting height.

“Off we go, fair maiden; let me be your noble steed!” Lord Bryson took exaggerated, horse-like steps until they disappeared into the lower decks.

Anya huffed. “He won’t let me help with a damned thing, will he?”

The scene would normally have been endearing, but the Lord had an impeccable talent for swooping in to steal every helpful task from her.

She wanted to be involved in everything on this ship.

These were her subjects, and they needed to see that the Crown would no longer overlook them; that she was going to be there to help them beyond the voyage.

But that was not going to happen with that hotheaded Lord around.

“I don’t think he means any harm by it.” Blackbird fiddled with one of the short braids that framed her tan face, giving way to silky, shoulder-length raven hair. Her pointed ears peeked out between the strands.

“That’s the worst part about it. He is such an oblivious buffoon, he doesn’t even realize the disrespect he shows!”

“The voyage will be over soon. We’ll grin and bear it together, My Lady.

” Blackbird literally grinned, boisterous like a court jester.

Anya was always grateful for her lady-in-waiting’s positive attitude.

The dazzle of Blackbird’s pearly smile contrasted the ribbon of black ink that started in the middle of her chin, then split into two thicker stripes down her neck, finally rejoining just above the slant of her chest. It was the traditional coming-of-age mark of the coastal tribe that took her in as a baby.

It was hard to believe Blackbird was twenty-four already.

Anya took a deep breath. She often resorted to sorting the scents in the air to calm herself. Salty air. Damp wood. Her own bergamot perfume. A rotting fish hidden somewhere on the deck.

“You’re right. Tonight is the deck feast and dance. We’ll make merry and be off this blasted ship by morning.”

And the crew and passengers will speak of Lord Bryson’s great leadership. All I did was get us from here to there. Mother and Father will never view me as more than an academic.

This was the work she wanted to do. Undertaking missions and helping people beyond ink and parchment.

She wanted to purge the banshees from the Terris Ravine, bring rations to the dying mining villages deep within the Raven’s Peak mountains.

But this past month all but buried that hope.

Her parents would surely keep her chained to diplomatic tasks within the safety of the palace walls.

“We should get some breakfast ourselves. I no longer feel like I have a right to say it, but…I am hungry,” Blackbird said sheepishly.

“I could have guessed,” Anya chuckled. “You have the appetite of a true sailor.”

Roderick Bryson

“There we go!” Roderick hoisted the Centarian girl off his shoulders and handed her to her mother.

“Thank you, My Lord. I’m sorry she—” The Centarian woman yawned. Every bob of her throat was pronounced beneath her sunken, ashy skin. “—got so far from me. I…I must have fallen asleep. It’s been so long since I’ve had a full stomach.”

Roderick waved her off. “Do not fret. It could happen to anyone. Even so, the Lupus Star is the safest place she could possibly wander. She wandered into the arms of our lovely Princess, after all.”

“The Princess is so pretty, Mama!” the girl chirped. “Her eyes are like stars!”

She was right. Though Lycanians had lost their ancient ancestors’ ability to shift after a millennia of mating with humans, they retained one of their most prominent features: lovely gold and obsidian wolf eyes. And Anya’s never failed to seize him by the throat in a very, very good way.

The girl’s mother appeared to be holding her tongue.

He chuckled nervously, unsure how long he’d been thinking of Anya.

“Yes, she is quite beautiful. Kind, too.” The image of her hugging the little girl was still fresh in his mind.

The Princess was in no way haughty or holier-than-thou; part of the reason he wanted to make her his Princess.

He was confident that she would be thrilled.

He was a nobleman, and the most decorated knight in Valeria. There couldn’t be a better match.

“If the Princess was so kind, she would have come for us before our people started sailing to their deaths in hollowed-out tree trunks,” a gruff voice came from his left.

“She did not know—”

“She’s a pompous fool then,” the man cut him off, his red eyes steely.

Any menace was offset by the man’s hollow, sunken cheeks.

Roderick disagreed with the assessment, but who was he to argue with someone who’d endured the horrors of the Centarian islands for decades?

He could barely stomach it for the short time they spent shepherding them out of their dilapidated villages and onto the ships.

It kept him up at night when he closed his eyes.

If that was his reality, how could this man ever blink?

He ignored the man and turned back to the little girl. “It was a pleasure to meet you, fair maiden. Stay close to your mother now, all right?”

The girl giggled in reply and buried her face in her mother’s hair.

Roderick headed to the galley. He had little appetite in the face of his people’s starvation, but he would do them no service by being any less than his best. He owed it to them.

The years he spent living lavishly while they descended into squalor had begun to haunt him.

Such folly. Such waste. Not just money, but time. Heart.

He swung the galley door open, where Lady Rowan and Anya were playing cards and enjoying steaming cups of tea.

An empty plate was precariously perched on the edge of the table.

Anya had shed her heavy, fur-lined coat, revealing a white lining beneath a green overdress.

The ensemble was practical but still appeared plenty thick and warm.

A leather bodice accentuated her curves.

The tight, forest-green overdress complemented her toned arms. He was jolted out of his admiration when she suddenly slammed her hand of cards down with a victorious, howling laugh.

The plate tumbled and shattered on the floor, silencing her joy.

“Damn it!” She leaned down to pick up the pieces.

“Allow me, Anya.” He quickly knelt and collected the shards in his hand. He reached for another piece just as she swatted his hand away. It seemed a playful gesture. He looked up, coming face to face with her lovely golden eyes. A fanged smile curved his lips.

“It is my mess, My Lord,” she huffed. “I will clean it up.” She seemed surprisingly upset about a mere piece of dishware. It was of little consequence. He could pay to replace it a thousand times over.

“I insist, Anya. And for the last time, please call me Roderick.” He loved saying her name. It was thrilling when she introduced herself for the first time and permitted him to use it. He couldn’t pass up any opportunity now.

“As you wish.” She shoved away from the table. “Lady Rowan, let us check if Ornella needs any help in the infirmary.”

So diligent. She hardly ever sits still.

“Yes, My Lady.” Lady Rowan and Anya gathered the kettle and cups and returned them to the kitchen. He disposed of the broken plate and beat them at the door.

“After you, Anya. Lady Rowan.” He tipped his head respectfully as he held the door. Lady Rowan smiled, but the Princess kept her eyes trained forward. Her focus on their mission was yet another of her admirable traits.

They would be a duo for the ages.