Chapter 1
Chapter
One
Araya screamed into the gag, her desperate cries for mercy garbled by the filthy wad of fabric. Rough hands shoved her down. Someone else forced her sleeve up, exposing her forearm. Araya thrashed, kicking wildly until a knee slammed into her ribs, driving the breath from her lungs.
“I heard she had everything.” The thickset runesmith loomed over her, his ink and blood-stained fingers pawing at the ly’ithra rune inked at the base of her thumb. “Bonded to Jaxon Shaw—she even worked with him, didn’t she?”
“And she still ran.” The woman holding her down scoffed, digging her knee into Araya’s ribs until black spots danced across her vision. “Ungrateful little halfblood.”
Araya cried out against the gag, desperate to make them understand. She hadn’t run—she’d been taken.
“It’s in their nature,” the other woman sneered. “I just can’t believe he wants her back—”
Araya bucked, frantic, but they crushed her into the table. The gag choked her, thick with the stale taste of sweat and dirt. Her magic flared, desperately trying to protect her—but her power was nothing more than a flicker under her skin. She had nothing left.
Jaxon—he would fix this. He always did. If she could just get to him—if she could just explain…he would believe her. He had to. He knew she couldn’t lie.
“Bloody hells,” the runesmith snarled. He caught her wrist, twisting viciously. “Strap her down properly before she knocks over my tray. Get her legs, too. Don’t need her kicking me in the gods damned teeth.”
Leather bit into her skin as they bound her to the table, pinning her arms and legs. Araya sobbed into her gag, tears cutting through the dirt and sweat crusted to her skin.
“That’s better,” the runesmith said. He rolled his shoulders, his sour breath licking over her skin as he leaned forward. “Now, be a good girl and hold still. We wouldn’t want to slip, would we?”
The first needle plunged into her arm.
Fire. Pure, blinding agony. It seared through her veins, scorching muscle, bone, and marrow. Her back arched, the rough leather biting deep into her skin. But there was no escape.
“Pathetic, Starling.” Jaxon’s voice coiled in her ear, slithering into her mind the same way it had when he whispered those soft promises—all those lies. Before he reminded her that she was nothing but a possession—his to use as he saw fit.
“I warned you,” he whispered. “Your place is on the floor at my feet.”
Araya choked on the dirty gag, twisting in her restraints. The straps cut into her wrists, harsh leather abrading her skin—
No. Not leather. Silk.
Her eyes flew open. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, bile sour at the back of her throat. No rancid gag. No cold iron. Just a bed and dim sunlight shining in the window, illuminating the unfamiliar room.
This wasn’t Kaldrath, but it wasn’t Jaxon’s bedroom or even her small room at Serafina’s house either.
She wasn’t even in the New Dominion. She was on Eluneth, where she had spent the last week as the honored guest of Prince Loren of Valendral, heir to the fae throne and the miserable bastard who had rescued her from her carefully curated life against her will.
Whoever was at the door knocked again, hard enough to rattle the chair jammed against the doorknob.
“Coming,” Araya croaked.
She freed herself from the tangled sheets, dragging a robe over her sweat-soaked nightgown. She moved the chair away from the door, cracking it open just enough to peer out at the fae Healer who stood on the other side.
“You were screaming,” Ilyana said, her delicate face creased with concern.
“I had a nightmare,” Araya said, her hand still tight on the doorframe. Ilyana had been here every day—checking on her injuries, asking questions. All on Loren’s orders, no doubt.
“Ah—” Ilyana’s expression softened with understanding. “That’s not unusual. Many refugees have nightmares—”
“I’m not a refugee.” Araya interrupted. “And I don’t need daily check-ins with a Healer. I’m sure your skills could be put to better use somewhere else.”
“Of course.” Ilyana inclined her head, making no move to step away. “But I’m here now—so I may as well have a look.”
Araya sighed, letting the door swing open as she stepped back. They’d had a variation of this argument every morning for the past three days. The Healer wouldn’t leave until Araya finally gave up and acquiesced to the exam.
Araya flinched, hissing a breath in through her teeth as Ilyana pressed two fingers to the edge of the fading bruise at her temple. The Healer didn’t comment, simply adjusting the angle of her touch as she mapped the bruise with practiced care.
“Still a bit tender,” she murmured. “Any dizziness when you stand?”
Araya shook her head.
“Good.” Ilyana took Araya’s hand, moving it carefully to manipulate the joint. “This has healed nicely as well.” She turned Araya’s hand, studying the rune inked at the base of her thumb. “And how old were you when they bound your power?”
“Seven.” Araya tugged her hand out of the Healer’s grip, tucking it back inside her robe. “Why?”
“So young.” Ilyana sighed, a frown creasing her forehead. “It could explain the nightmares. You never got the chance to grow into your full magic—much less develop the stamina to wield it. Since your runes don’t work here you’re replenishing power more quickly than you’re accustomed to—”
“What?” Araya straightened, her heart racing. “What do you mean they don’t work?”
“Human runes don’t hold power themselves, they borrow it. When you crossed the Veil you cut them off from their source—” Ilyana blinked, her voice faltering as Araya stared at her. “Didn’t Prince Loren explain this?”
“His Royal Highness hasn’t taken the time to explain anything,” Araya snapped. “I haven’t even seen him since he dragged me here against my will.”
“Oh. Well—” the Healer cleared her throat.
“You were in much better condition than most fae who arrive here. Your magic was depleted, but you weren’t malnourished or gravely injured.
It’s already recovering—it will keep growing to what should have been your natural limit here. Far past what the humans ever allowed.”
“No—” Araya’s stomach twisted. “I don’t want that. Undo it.” Her voice broke, catching in her throat. “Please.”
“It’s not something that can be undone,” Ilyana said gently.
“Or something that can be stopped. Some refugees—especially if their power was bound young—say it feels like too much, too fast. But I have exercises that will help you build your magical endurance. And if you’re worried about the ta’nara rune, you don’t have to be.
Fae don’t conceive unless both partners are willing.
If you want either of them removed, we have runesmiths who can assist—”
“Removed?” Araya barked out a short laugh, pressing a fist to her mouth when it caught in her throat, too close to a sob. “I—no. I don’t want that.”
“No one will force you to remove them,” Ilyana said quickly. “Many females choose to leave them intact—even bonded females. As long as you stay on this side of the Shadowed Veil, you don’t have anything to fear here.”
“Until he crosses.” Araya gave a brittle laugh. “What happens then?”
“No human has ever crossed the Shadowed Veil,” Ilyana said gently. “He can’t hurt you here, Araya. You’re safe.”
Araya turned her back on the Healer, staring out the window at the churning wall of shadows that stood between her and everything she’d ever known. Crossing it once had almost killed her—but if any human could figure it out, it would be Jaxon Shaw.
“—my only goal here is to support your recovery,” Ilyana was still speaking, her voice steady, too earnest. "Physically, magically, and emotionally. Others have found it helpful to speak with fae who have been through the same things. If you ever wanted to talk to someone else who grew up in the camps—”
“I don’t.”
“Healing takes many forms.” Ilyana sighed, glass clinking and leather creaking as she packed up her bag. “If you ever change your mind, I’d be happy to put you in contact with them.”
Araya didn’t respond, staring out the window long after the door clicked shut.
She had no interest in sitting in a room full of so-called survivors and sifting through the wreckage of her past, pretending to find comfort in rehashing the horrors they had all endured.
Maybe they had fooled themselves into believing they were safe here—beyond the Arcanum’s reach.
But Araya knew better.
She stepped away from the window and crossed the room to the wardrobe, her fingers closing over the handle with sudden purpose. She was done waiting for Loren to come to her. If he wanted to keep her a prisoner here, he needed to understand the consequences.
The fae might be confident in their safety, but Araya knew Jaxon. He wasn’t just a commander. He was the son of the High Magister, heir to the most powerful man in the New Dominion. And she was his bonded fae ward—they would never just let her go.
He had Loren’s blood—and hers. All of her notes. It was only a matter of time before he followed her through the Veil. And when he did, there would be no sanctuary left for anyone.
Despite Loren’s promise that she wasn’t a prisoner here, Araya expected something to remind her that her freedom was nothing but an illusion. But the door opened easily at her touch. There was no flare of magic, no guard waiting to stop her. Only an empty hallway.
Someone had thrown back the curtains, but the pale, mist-thinned sunlight that shone weakly through the glass only illuminated the thick dust that still covered most surfaces. No one had bothered to light the aetherlamps, casting everything in an eerie half-light.