Chapter Two
Fallyn
My father, Hector Ravenshade, was the best blacksmith in Inithilia.
It was a gift from Hephaestus himself, my father told me as a child, that metallurgy was a magic that flowed in his very blood, the aether that made and sustained him, much like that of the old gods.
Some even theorized that in order to work the way he does, he must be able to conjure flames at will, hotter than the pits of the lowest hell of the new God.
But that’s just a silly, superstitious rumor we laughed about over dinner and in the peaceful hours of the evening, provided he was finished with whatever commissioned work had kept his rapt, undivided attention.
He had but a drop, barely enough to be considered god-blessed, a pale comparison to others in our lineage, so little that his gifts did not pass to me.
Hephaestus’s gift to our blood line would end with my father.
But even a single drop was enough to give him unspeakable talent.
So it wasn’t a tremendous surprise to learn we’d been summoned to the king’s side in Ipsilon to craft him a sword.
Not just any sword, the summons said. A sword that strikes fear into the heart of those who are on the wrong side of it.
My own magic was different. Darker, and most likely Demeter blessed.
Being God-blessed wasn't common, and to have a father and daughter blessed by two different deities raised more than a few eyebrows.
There were whispers when they thought I couldn't hear.
Sometimes, entire conversations fell away when I walked into a room.
I never saw fear in their eyes, but envy.
They had no idea. Control over plants sounds harmless, until it isn't.
The first time I poisoned someone was an accident.
I had knocked over a poison-infused oil over one of father’s precious swords.
I hadn’t thought to tell anyone how the blade had seethed under the caustic spillage before calming to its usual stillness—far from harmless, but only if the pointy end met your insides.
The customer came to pick up the order and died within moments of touching the unsheathed blade.
I never told anyone what happened. How I’d felt the poison on the steel, like a sizzling along the edge of my mind.
How it raised the hair on my neck to feel it bubble and pulse in his bloodstream, stripping life from him with every heartbeat.
How does one feel that? Father said it was a fluke that killed him on our doorstep.
A strangeness. A curse. The community around us believed him.
I knew better. Father did too, and saw a unique opportunity.
My magic afforded me the ability to grow the herbs needed to make poisons and elixirs with a precision any botanist would kill to possess.
Poisons and elixirs that when paired with a special forged steel made for even deadlier weapons.
Weapons that made us a lot of money. The kind of weapons people travelled the realm to find. And not always the best people.
God-blessed and mundane mortals alike came in droves to the mountain-set city of Este Valnor to have my father craft weapons of all sorts, but swords were the love of his life after Mother died, even working closely with a local witch to enchant some.
Most days he was up with the sun and slept only once the sun had long left the sky cold in its wake.
Stars wheeling overhead, the moon coming to witness the frivolous night, but Father worked through it all without complaint.
His devotion was something I couldn’t help but envy a little, to love something so wholly that you happily spend all your time absorbed by it.
Sometimes, when I broke his focus at the wrong time, he would blink at me, as if having forgotten my existence.
And every time, I’d sigh. Not with malcontent.
Not with wistfulness. I’d sigh, wishing I had a passion for anything the way he did.
I escaped to my reprieve, a few tiny but lovingly tended raised flower beds on the balcony of our black brick townhome the same as every other on the street, filled to the brim with flowers of all colors blending seamlessly into a mosaic display of natural beauty.
My small turquoise watering can rained over it, a wistful smile lifting the fringes of my mouth.
My garden may have been minuscule, but it was beautiful.
And it was mine. Maybe being Demeter blessed had small perks.
This would be the last time I tended to my garden, I thought as I dug my hands into the moist earth, giving a pulse of life.
An unexpected squeeze stilled my heart and tears welled in my eyes.
Would Father tend the garden in my memory?
Or would it fall to ruin as I would? Tears fell with pieces of me as I splintered on the stone veranda, clinging to the scent of roses and gardenias, my only buoy as my despair crashed over me, wave after wave.
“Fallyn.” A soft voice reached me, warm as high summer. A voice that had been my solace in the past, one that wrung a smile from me even now.
“Thaddeus.” I turned as he rushed to embrace me. “You heard?”
He nodded, bringing me against him, his hand rubbing soothing circles in my back. “I came as soon as the announcement was made. Fallyn I’m so—”
“Finish that sentence, and you’ll be even more sorry.” Though my words had no bite.
“Listen to me, Fallyn.” Thaddeus’s calloused hand dragged my chin up to meet his gaze. “You are one of the strongest women I’ve ever met. You will survive the royal family. If anyone can, it’s you.”
Kind words, bold lies, and we both knew it. But then I thought of the enchanted dagger my father had given me, tucked secretly beneath my clothing.
“I will survive them,” I told him.
“Run,” Thaddeus whispered. “Leave now. I’ll stall everyone as long as I can and buy you time.” Thaddeus’s brow scrunched under the weight of his declaration. My eyes widened as I thought.
If I were to run, my options were limited.
Ipsilon positioned itself well in the realm, close to most everywhere worth living.
Perhaps that was why some chose to inhabit the north.
As inhospitable as it was, the north came with a far looser leash than those of us in close proximity to the royal family.
I’d have to find a way through the mountains where our city dwelled in shadows.
I’d have to traverse north before a pass through the Grim Hollow Mountains before they turned into the frost-coated steepness that made up the Evergrey Rise, or south through the very appropriately named Death Dunes to find access to the Riverlands.
Temperate. Out of the way, and hard to access.
The king would be least likely to follow me there, though neither of those options would be a quick or easy escape.
Both meant weeks of grueling travel. And time wasn't on my side.
As much as my mind begged, I was not equipped to survive that kind of trek.
“If opportunity arises, I’ll find my way to the Riverlands, probably north near Ceridian,” I mused. “If I go missing, you can find me there. But right now, the time to run has passed.”
Thaddeus gave me a hard look I knew well.
He had no idea what to say to me, so his embrace spoke for him.
What did you say to your best friend when she’d been betrothed to a monster?
Much less one that was trying to convert the entire realm by force to a new religion.
A conversion that killed both our mothers.
“Thaddeus?”
His head angled down to look at me. “Yeah?”
“Thank you.” I squeezed him harder, hoping the affection I felt for him seeped from my body to his.
All my thoughts, all my appreciation for him, everything.
I didn’t want even one word left unsaid.
“For everything. I don’t know if you know how much I love you, but no matter what happens, you’re my best friend. ”
“I know, Fallyn. I love you too.” He squeezed me once more. “Now, we’ve spent enough time sad. Odessa and Rowena will be waiting for us at the Gateside Market. We’d better go. As much as we can hate this, you deserve some fun before you leave us.”
The city was tense as we walked arm in arm with brisk strides and our heads down, chatter kept to a minimum.
Not the type of tension that went away with some quick promises by some pompous aristocrat.
Not the kind of tension that dispelled after time.
This tension was thick, laced with something rotten and malicious, and had built over at least a decade.
It built slowly, subtly. The very way we constructed the shining temples of the gods that towered above our heads and then rebuilt them in the image of the new god, the same way this unnerving friction that divided people did too—brick by brick.
Moment by moment. Day by day until it fizzled and crackled with even the smallest of interactions between those who quietly worshipped the old gods and the growing population of the angry ones worshipping the Morningstar—their one true god.
The only god they recognized. My chest tightened at the idea of turning my back on the old gods.
The gods they claimed were dying, but couldn’t say why—something my mind couldn’t reconcile.
I don’t understand how so many people rejoiced under the oppressive rule of the royal family, forcing a new religion and condemning the old one with severe punishment: fines, prison or in some cases, death by burning.
The guards were especially devoted, malleable as putty in their master's hands and forcing that malleability on the people.
The fact that so many fell in line and called it freedom baffled and horrified me.
They watched loved ones burn and called it justice. They tore down monuments, spat on the old ways or even a way of no gods, and called it progress. It was the Morningstar, or repercussions.
Steadfast may you be.
The words were poison on my tongue and yet, should I not say it, the consequences were far more bitter.
I hated them. And I hated myself for it. Hated myself for caring. For not just falling in line. I hated that I was promised to the reprehensible bastard responsible for it all.
Narcissistic, temperamental, and selfish though they could be, the old gods were not always unkind.
I thought of my father being blessed by Hephaestus, the kindness he displayed by answering his prayer all those years ago.
I was blessed by the goddess of the harvest, a surprise to us all.
Zeus, the King of the Gods, was known for being the most capricious of them all.
He’d curse as soon as bless you, assuming he didn’t strike you down altogether.
Hades, Poseidon, Hera, Demeter… How could only one god—the Morningstar—possess all of the affinities and talents these many gods and goddesses did?
Fights broke out, often beginning from prickly words exchanged in shadowed places and ending in an exchange of blows, or even weapons resulting in needless bloodshed.
This new god sounded to me like a usurper.
A coward and a criminal. Not that I dare say that out loud.
According to the worshippers of the Morningstar, he felt what was in your heart, whether or not you offered it up to him.
And he made judgments on those feelings as well as your actions, gifting you paradise or eternal damnation in his version of the Underworld.
Hades below, it sounded awful. As terrifying as our god of the dead was—the King of the Underworld with the notoriously mercurial temperament—this new god seemed only too happy to send a soul to what they called Hell.
Eternal fires and torture, varying based on your sins.
Their god sounded wrathful, which was, ironically, a sin.
Did the one god sin?
Or were such thoughts traitorous in nature?
I pondered that as the Gateside Market came into view, marking our relative safety.
Relative being the operative word.