CHAPTER 1
He needed a moment.
The solitary figure pressed himself against the cold brick wall, breathing heavily in sharp, uneven bursts that fogged in the chilly morning air.
Shouts reverberated through the narrow streets behind him, angry, urgent, and closing in.
He tilted his head, listening, every muscle tense with the instinctive alertness of someone who had spent too long fleeing from one disaster to the next. How had he been caught so quickly?
His heart pounded against his chest. Sweat clung to his brow despite the cool breeze drifting from the harbor.
He brushed a quivering hand through his dark sandy-blonde hair, pushing it out of his eyes as he tried to steady himself.
The leather pouch beneath his tunic felt weightier than it should have, as if its weight alone might pull him down.
He loosened the drawstrings with experienced fingers and drew out a single gold coin. Even within the dim light, it gleamed. He bit into it, testing the metal. Soft, real enough to sustain him for a few days, long enough to disappear into the next town, the next tavern, the next mistake.
The shouts swelled, bouncing off the stone walls.
Boots clattered against stone in front of him. He tensed, listening. The alley was narrow, the shadows dense, but not enough to hide him forever. He needed to move, and soon.
But for a second longer, he stayed pressed against the wall, breath light, waiting for the moment when running was his only option.
He didn’t realize it yet, but this evening’s misadventure would be the least of his troubles.When he first arrived in Port Cultar, he rented a room at the tavern and quickly befriended the local ale.
He drank, flirted shamelessly with the elderly tavern wench, and then drank some more.
The place was a cesspit—sticky floors, stale smoke, and a clientele that smelled of sweat and sea rot, but it suited him.
Loud, warm, and full of people who didn’t ask questions.
Work found him faster than sobriety ever could.
The Harbor Master, a thick-necked man with a voice akin to a foghorn, had got word of a sellsword drifting through town.
He cornered Cian outside the tavern one morning, breath foul with last night’s wine, and offered coin to “deal with” a band of pirates harassing the port.
Cian accepted. Coin was coin, and he’d done worse for less.
The job was quick and bloody. The pirates folded faster than expected, too fast, really, and when Cian searched their camp, he found ledgers, bloodied chains, and the unmistakable stench of a slaver’s operation.
Worse still, the last pirate he had begging for his life claimed the Harbor Master himself had been taking bribes to look the other way.
He offered to pay the missing tribute twofold if the mercenary would spare him.
His fingers clenched against the grip of his sword at his side, jaw firm, as he looked at the chains bolted to the walls.
The slash was quick. The last pirate toppled over before him, lifeless.
When Cian returned with the news and confronted the man about what he knew, the Harbor Master’s countenance whitened and then turned purple with rage, not at the slavers, but at Cian.
“You’ll not get your coin from me,” the man spat. “You should’ve kept your nose out of affairs that aren’t yours.”
Cian considered cutting the man down where he stood, right then and there. Instead, he walked away, fury churning beneath his chest. He’d done the job. He’d done it well. And once again, the world had repaid him with duplicity.
So, he did what he always did when life decided to fuck him over: he drank.
By late afternoon, he staggered out behind the tavern to relieve himself, cursing the Harbor Master and the whole festering world.
As he turned back toward the street, he saw her, a chailín álainn gliding down the main road to the docks.
Even amid the haze of drink, he registered the elegant sway of her hips, the fall of pale hair, and the way her eyes lingered on him a moment too long.
He had seen her before, with the Harbor Master; he treated her as a trophy, a prize for all the world to see.
He had caught her looking in his direction quite a few times during his meeting with the Harbor Master.
Women had called him a handsome rogue before, with brownish-blonde hair, striking gray eyes, that airy sing-song accent of his, and a grin that guaranteed either trouble or a good laugh.
Tonight, he looked more disheveled than usual, but he’d always believed a bit of ruggedness only added to his charm.
She seemed to agree. One sultry smile from her, and he knew he would get his satisfaction one way or another.
Her bedchamber was warm, perfumed, and far too luxurious for someone claiming to be miserable.
Between heated kisses, she uttered complaints about her husband, resentment thick in her voice, longing even thicker.
When she finally passed out from exhaustion, the sun had scarcely dropped below the rooftops.
Cian slipped from the sheets, gathered his belongings, and found exactly what he’d come for: the pouch of coin the Harbor Master had refused him.
It sat carelessly atop a lacquered chest, as though daring him to take it.
And take it he did. He also helped himself to a loaf of freshly baked bread and a wedge of hard cheese from the kitchen on his way out.
He stepped into the chilly evening with a full snack, a heavier purse, and no intention of staying in Port Cultar a moment longer than necessary. He’d drink himself unconscious tonight, sleep off the hangover, and in the morning catch a ship, east, west, anywhere memories couldn’t haunt him.
But fate, ever fickle, had other plans in store.
He’d barely made it halfway down the bustling avenue when he heard the first bellow of rage. Turning, he saw the Harbor Master, red-faced, jowls trembling, storm out of the house. The woman, half-naked and wrapped in a bedsheet, shouted after him, striking him with clenched fists.
Cian didn’t wait to see how it would end. He shoved the pouch deeper into his tunic and sprinted.
He sped through the crowd, dodging among vendors and carts, ignoring the curses hurled at him.
The smells of roasting fish and spiced bread tempted him, painfully making him aware that he had only eaten a stale slice of bread that morning.
His stomach churned, and his head spun with the early signs of a hangover.
If he survived this, he was going to inhale the bread and cheese he stole.
“Stop that thieving bastard! I want him hanged!” the Harbor Master shouted.
He almost collided with a woman pushing a cart overflowing with cabbage. “Shite! Pardon me, miss.”
She glared at him. “Watch where you’re going around my fucking cabbages.”
He flashed her a disarming grin and flew past, ignoring the stitch forming in his side. The shouting behind him waned into the distance. Maybe, perhaps, he could escape with his head still on his shoulders.
As he turned a corner, he skidded to a halt. Two guards stood in his path, halberds in hand, eyes widening in surprise.
Fate, he thought bitterly, had a wicked sense of humor.
The guards’ attention shifted sharply to the noise behind him. Their grips tightened on their weapons.
He smirked, cold and defiant.
“Sorry, lads. I’ve overstayed my welcome. I’ll just be on my way.”
The first guard lunged. The man sidestepped, letting the blade whistle past his ribs.
The second swung downward; he ducked beneath the arc, rolling on the balls of his feet near a rain barrel.
He pressed a finger on the wood, tracing a single rune.
Power emitted from the glowing archaic symbol as it scorched itself into the side.
Rune magic was rare in Talcana, remnants from the old world, known only to a dwindling few.
With the right pattern and intention, a rune could unleash force, shape elements, or even disrupt enchantments, each character holding more power than a dozen spoken spells.
The trick was knowing which to use and when.
As the rune faded into the wood, the barrel exploded.
Water and splinters erupted in a blinding spray. The guards staggered and shouted as they shielded their eyes—the distraction he needed to run.
By the time he reached the outskirts of town, his lungs ached, and his legs were as heavy as lead. He crouched behind a crate, peering around it as the Harbor Master plodded into view, wheezing like a dying boar. The guards followed, looking equally exhausted and disoriented.
“As ucht Dé,” he muttered under his breath.
He slipped farther into the shadows, careful not to disturb the gravel underfoot. When the trio split up to search, he headed toward the trees. The Emerald Forest towered ahead, thick, dark, and vast. If he made it into the woods, no one would be able to follow him.
His head pounded. The world slanted. He craved a drink, anything to numb the sharpness of sobriety clawing at him. Anything to push back the memories. He almost didn’t notice the movement in front of him until something slammed into his chest.
Instinct kicked in.
His blade was in his hand before he even thought about it. His free hand squeezed over a mouth, muffling a scream against his palm. A body jerked in front of him, armor shifting as the knife glided through the weak spot near the armpit and between the ribs.
Then, a calm fell. Absolute stillness.
He blinked, the haze lifting enough for him to see the young guard, no more than nineteen, looking up at him with wide, terrified eyes.
The boy’s breath faltered, shallow and panicked as his lungs filled with blood.
The man lowered him gently to the ground, shock and horror creeping across his features.
He hadn’t meant to. He only wanted to run. To forget.
The boy’s eyelids fluttered. The man’s gut wrenched. Unwanted memories started to play tricks with his mind. Unbidden. Unwarranted.