Chapter 1
Arina
Mud squelches beneath me as the soldier leans down, pressing himself further into my body. He’s so close the coarse whiskers of his beard almost graze my cheek, and rage heats my insides as he whispers, “I love when you squirm beneath me, Arina.”
Shit. He has me pinned. The sharp bones of his knees dig into each of my arms as swollen raindrops land like cannonballs into the puddles around us.
The training grounds blur around us in different shades of brown and black, and any sound the other soldiers might be making as they spar is drowned out by the pounding drumbeat in my skull.
Pain is temporary, I remind myself, blinking up at the man, beckoning with my head for him to lean in closer so I can whisper in his ear.
“The only time I’ll ever be beneath you is when we’re sparring, and even then, only when you cheat.”
Pulling back as far as my unfavorable position allows, I slam my head into his temple with all my strength. It rattles my brain even further, but it’s worth it.
“Fuck, Arina! That hurt!” he yells, stunned enough to shift his weight off my arms. Which is all I need.
I push up, reaching for the dagger he’d knocked from my hand moments before he had pinned me. It’s just out of reach, and my fingers sink into the icy mud as I inch closer, driven by the burning rage of humiliation until finally, the blade is in my grasp.
Using his weight against him, I bring one of my long, muscular legs up to hook around his body. The motion sends him toppling over and situates me above him. It always feels so good to pin one of these assholes.
They may serve the queen I love, and they do allow me to spar with them, but they’re all still dirtbags who only think with their cocks and stomachs.
“That’s what you get for being a pig,” I hiss.
I hold the blade tight to his throat, and he lets out a nervous chuckle.
“You know I was only baiting you.” He looks around, and the relief is clear on his face when he finds there is a crowd watching us. Witnesses. “The only way to get you to really fight back is if I ruffle your feathers a little.”
Laughter rings out from the other soldiers, and I carefully consider my options.
While it would bring a bit of satisfaction to draw even just a pinprick of blood from this arrogant piece of work, I snarl and jump to my feet instead, re-sheathing my dagger.
Hurting Eryk would only make things difficult for me, and I don’t need a horde of Lukasian soldiers up my ass while I’m vying to join the Queen’s Guard.
I have to play nice, but there’s a fine line between nice and being a kiss ass.
Besides, I’m grateful they even allow me—a female healer—to spar with them at all.
“Come on.” Eryk swings his arm around me, reaching over with his other hand to tilt my chin up so he can see my eyes. He studies me for one long moment, as if he’s rummaging through my soul, searching for something he’ll never find.
“Drinks on me!” he shouts, causing me to flinch. Eryk grins and shakes his golden hair, sending rainwater into my face. The sudden urge to stomp on his big, stupid foot overtakes me, but I fight it off.
The unit cheers as they slosh through puddles toward the exit of the training grounds and into the street.
I shrug out from under his arm and stomp after them.
The sun is starting to set, though it’s hard to differentiate night from day with the Smog as thick as it is, darkening the world in shades of grays and browns, and I’m not so proud I can’t admit I don’t wish to brave the streets alone at night. Especially not right now.
I was born after the Smog came. It’s all I’ve ever known.
Those who have been around longer have had it so much worse. They remember what the world was before, and I know they must long for it. They each had to endure their powers being stripped from them day by day, like a candle being snuffed out beneath a glass.
The rest of us were lucky if we showed even a hint of any gift the gods had blessed our people with before.
Mother told me when I was first showing signs of coming into what measly powers I’d been blessed with that the healing ability passed down through our bloodline has always been strong. I often wonder if the Smog hadn’t deprived me of my true birthright, if maybe she would have loved me more.
The only way to the tavern is through the town square, and they haven’t taken the bodies down yet. The mutilated corpses had been hung from the window of the lookout tower. The putrid scent of decay lingers heavy in the air even still. The thought makes my stomach tie in knots.
The Rhiza are getting bolder. Or maybe it’s recklessness. Regardless, there have been seven slaughters in as many days. A visiting duke was the newest addition. Just days ago, he’d been paraded through the streets on his way to visit the queen.
Now, he’s nothing but a message from the rebels.
The whispers reached me first, but witnessing the sight was jarring, even for someone used to seeing all different kinds of gore.
There was no way around seeing his body strung in the square next to the others on my way in. The words “rise up” written with blood on the bricks above him, painted so thick the rain couldn’t wash it away.
I avoid the gruesome scene now, keeping my eyes glued to the cobblestone path in front of me and listening to the soft fall of Eryk’s footsteps behind me. An odd sort of comfort coming from a lesser predator than the unknown lurking in the shadows.
The only sounds are the cadence of our feet and the fading noise of the water in the fountain at the center of the square overflowing from the rain as we get further and further away.
Someone must stop them. They can’t just torture and murder our people. There is plenty of suffering as it is. I kick a small stone into a puddle.
I hunger, deep in my core, to be the one to solve all our problems. The Rhiza, the Smog, the death.
I break the silence, hoping to dig a little information out of the captain. “Do you think I’ve got a chance?”
“At joining the ranks? I don’t see how you could fail. You’re an excellent fighter. Deadly, even. But …” his voice fades, and I can tell he’s trying to devise a way to convince me not to participate in the Tournament of the Guard.
“If you’re about to tell me not to do it, just don’t. Okay?” I warn. “I came here for encouragement, not a lecture.”
He stops in the street before Phil’s tavern, putting a hand out to force me to stop, too.
“You’re a gifted healer, Arina. One of very few true healers left in the kingdom.”
“Which is all the more reason for me to be on the battlefield. I can help. I want to help, and you’re not going to convince me otherwise.” I push past his hand, still splayed out open in front of me, and stomp through the rain.
He catches up with me easily.
Crossing my arms over my chest, I prepare myself for what I know he wants to say next.
It always comes to this. If I were a male, they’d have no qualms about my joining the guard.
The number of times I’ve considered cutting off my hair and binding my breasts to fit better into the idealistic version of me they would actually accept is painful to admit.
I pin Eryk with a glare, begging him to try me.
Instead, he holds open the worn wooden door of the tavern for me, and says, “Why don’t you find a spot with the others, and I’ll grab us some drinks?”
“No, thank you. I’m going to find Phil,” I tell him, and my body relaxes as I melt into the crowd. I don’t wait to hear his response or watch the way his face drops at my dismissal.
“Rina!” Phillipa shouts from behind the bar. She clinks together two small glasses full of clear liquid that I’m hoping will help me forget my troubles for the night. My best friend hands one to me.
“To whoever ends up in your bed this evening.” Phillipa flashes a shit-eating grin and wags her eyebrows.
“To not throttling you for being such a prick,” I tease, raising the glass toward my friend. We tap them together and touch the bottoms to the bar top before throwing the burning substance down our throats.
I allow the liquid to sink into me, already dulling the sound of my own thoughts, but Phillipa winces and reaches for a cup of something else to wash away the taste.
I roll my eyes at the theatrics, knowing full well Phil only put water in her own glass. She doesn’t drink, too much at stake to let her guard down. The males around here will pounce at any sign of weakness, and Phil owning this bar all on her own doesn’t sit well with them.
Phil’s bar is my favorite place to spend evenings after working long hours in the healer facilities and getting my ass kicked in the training grounds.
Here I can people-watch to my heart’s content with the added perk of avoiding my mother. If I’m extra fortunate, I might find myself in the arms of some lover or another, chasing distraction and release, even if it’s fleeting.
Scanning the building from my spot on the barstool, I find the musty place is almost to capacity. Filled to the brim with all kinds of fae.
Some are huddled together in different corners, chatting and gossiping away. The younger crowd is on the dance floor. A few different groups of the Queen’s Guard have formed; a quick glance tells me they’re separated by rank.
The crowd is electric, but it’s an odd sort of energy.
Unsettling. I swirl a finger over the smooth, milky stone in the rounded pommel of my dagger.
With its black decorative hilt and black blade, the weapon is as deadly as it is beautiful.
It’s the only thing my father left behind that Mother didn’t throw out or sell.
She hates that I carry it around, but it’s my most prized possession.
“New blood?” I shout over my shoulder at Phillipa as she hands a tray of overflowing mugs to one of the serving girls.