Chapter 1
They say vengeance is a blade best kept sharp, and my dagger has been honed with every betrayal.
Shadows flicker in the torchlight as I count the silhouettes guarding the building where my hopes rest, my pulse skittering higher and higher.
There are no priestesses inside the temple tonight.
No devotees of Etta giving the Great Goddess their libations and wealth as they breathe in the heavy incense and beg her forgiveness for all their sins.
Instead, twenty-six knights and their twenty-six dire wolves prowl the silent ring of the citadel, waiting for the brave, the dumb, and the desperate – those foolish enough to risk life and limb for the chance to win the gifting.
This is the third night of my watch and the last chance I’ve got.
I left it to the last moment to make my offering.
The denizens from the other cities have already made theirs, and tomorrow they’ll announce the few chosen by the Goddess.
There won’t be another Retterheld in my lifetime as there’s never more than one in a century.
It’s now or never.
I’ve spent the previous two evenings tracking their movements, their patterns.
Watching, calculating, learning. The first night, I watched from the very edge of the wall, noting how long each loop of the temple took, where the knighted guards paused, and how often.
And just as I expected, there is a rhythm and a pattern to it.
Openings where, if I’m fast – which I am – I’ll be able to get into the temple unseen.
Last night I crept closer, finding a small back window left ajar.
That’s going to be my way in. Sure, there’s the slight issue in that the window is at least twelve feet off the ground, but climbs like that don’t bother me.
When the only way you can get fresh eggs is by clambering up spruce trees and raiding siskin nests, you quickly become a skilled climber.
Starvation encourages many nefarious skills.
I regret none of my lessons though, only the circumstances that led me to them.
Over the past three nights I’ve seen five people successfully make it into the temple to give their offerings to Etta in the hope that she’ll accept them into the Retterheld.
Men and women who have succeeded in scaling the walls or crawling through the gutters, only to walk – or strut – out the main door soon after, their fingertips dyed black as a sign of their success.
I’ve seen many more fail. Heard their screams, heard their rattling final breaths.
They won’t haunt me, not when I’ve already become inured to death; living in the slums is one long – or short – death sentence.
Not that every applicant to the Retterheld dies.
The richest would have already passed on coins to guarantee that healers happen to be nearby.
But even if you make it into the temple, the Goddess still has to choose you.
To deem you worthy. Only then can you actually call yourself a Rettling. A name I will get or die trying.
Another howl, another scream. I wince in sympathy.
Mother was one of those healers once, standing ready with spells and potions.
There was a time when it felt like she could heal all but death itself, but when it came to it, even she couldn’t defy Mortidem.
And now, here I am, in rags and desperation, risking everything for my sister.
‘You can’t stay here all night, Rose,’ I mutter to myself as I catch a shadow creeping along the outer wall of the third ring.
If I’ve spotted the other supplicant, chances are good that one of the guards has seen them too.
I wait for a cry to ring out, but there’s none.
I’m unsure whether I feel relieved or disappointed.
Six of the Morathkian Gods have temples within the third ring of Wrohelm, but none are as grand as Etta’s.
It’s also usually the most frequented, but for the last week this section of the third ring has been under curfew, the streets emptied of everyone except the knights and their wolves.
Cleared out entirely for this purpose – so that people can make their offerings and volunteer for the Retterheld.
People like the man I’ve spotted in the shadows, dressed in furs and leather and crouching low, trying to stay hidden.
I watch, breath held for him, as he glances back and forth, then bolts straight towards the temple.
Whoever he is, he’s fast. Maybe even fast enough. He’s moving at such a speed that it’s almost as if he’s forgotten about the icy moat surrounding the temple.
My chest clenches as I realise that’s exactly what he’s done. He’s running at a full sprint towards thin ice. He needs to stop, to pull up fast, or—
His hands flail, wild and desperate, and for a breath I’m certain he will crash into the icy depths of the moat … until a sudden flash of green light bursts from his frame, catching him, suspending him, and pulling him back to solid ground, instantly saving and dooming him.
‘Fuck!’ The sympathetic curse slips from my lips, and I wince at the sound of my own voice.
The man used his magic to save himself, but in doing so he guaranteed his rejection by Etta.
All applicants must come to her free of magic.
It’s why being stripped of my magic is an advantage.
There’s no risk of power slipping free when I have none.
I shrink back into the shadows, my heart knocking out my nerves against my ribs as I wonder if the inadvertent swear will fuck me as well.
But there’s no outcry from a knight. No howls from the dire wolves.
Tension eases from me. Despite myself, I feel bad for the man.
Whatever desperate wish lured him towards the Retterheld now lies forever beyond his grasp.
The howls and growls burst through the silence as the wolves and their bonded knights rush to where the man stands.
I brace myself for an attack, for the screams of pain as the wolves plunge their teeth into his thighs, only to watch on in disgust as coins clink as they pass hands.
A bribe for a painless exit. I shouldn’t be surprised.
Sickness spreads through the slums like fire from our bastard king’s fingertips, and that kind of money, cast aside so casually, could save dozens of lives.
Instead, lords and ladies hoard more coin than they could spend in ten lifetimes, and the poor of the citadel are left with nothing more than the thoughts and prayers of the priestesses.
Turns out thoughts and prayers do fuck all when what you actually need is food and medicine.
I won’t let my sister spend a lifetime struggling in the slums, just for illness to prematurely end her days. Not when she was meant for so much more. I’m doing this for Acacia – Kay.
I draw in a breath and return my attention to the task at hand.
Dealing with the fur-covered man will keep the guards distracted for a moment or two longer.
Not a single guard, nor their wolves, have even glanced in my direction since I arrived tonight.
But why would they? Only a knighted guard or someone of noble birth can enter the Retterheld, and what kind of noble or knight would be coming from the direction of the slums?
One unfairly cast out. That’s who. One ready to rectify that through any means necessary.
I could live out the rest of my life starving hungry, scraping a living from tonics brewed from the recipes in my mother’s precious notebook, but I can’t put Kay through it any longer.
She doesn’t deserve the miserable life the king and his pathetic narcissist of a son condemned us to. The gifting will change everything.
I will enter, and I will win. I have to.
My eyes track one guard and his wolf at the back of the temple. On the count of three, they are going to turn the corner and give me my best opening.
‘This is it, Rose,’ I murmur, dousing my body in a putrid liquid concoction of my mother’s creation, designed to hide my human scent from the wolves. ‘You can do this. You just need to fucking move.’
Three, two, one!
I climb down hastily, scraping my knuckles on the rough-hewn marble but barely noticing the sting as adrenaline roars in my ears.
I daren’t look over my shoulder. Instead, I keep moving until I’m a few feet away from the ground, then leap, landing gracelessly on all fours.
I remain crouched for less than a heartbeat before I’m upright again and, with my heart hammering, racing in the direction of that high back window.
My lungs are close to bursting as I sprint towards the only hope I have left. I must get in. That’s all there is to it. I’ll work out how to survive the trials – without magic – once I’m chosen. Because I will be chosen.
Mindful of the other man’s mistake, I slow my feet as they hit the thin, icy surface of the moat. Dangerously thin.
Fuck! This time I swallow the curse, biting my lip to keep any sound from slipping out. Panic thrums through me with every breath. Even my paltry weight will likely be too much for the ice, but I have no choice but to keep moving forward.
I’m halfway there. Halfway to safety. Halfway to death.
A loud crack sounds, followed by a quieter one, and then I’m plunged into freezing water up to my neck.
Shock tears my breath from me – a blessing in disguise as my scream dies in my throat.
If the Retterheld has swimming in it, I’m screwed.
It’s not that I can’t swim; it’s just that as soon as I know I’m out of my depth, a primal fear takes hold of my limbs and mind and leaves me flailing hopelessly.
I steady my feet against the stony bottom of the moat, trying to calm my breathing ever so slightly.
The water is agonisingly cold, but while the jolt bites deep, it doesn’t break me.
I’ve no doubt the other nobles would be crippled by the shock.
They may live in a cold climate, but they dress in thick furs and live in magically warmed rooms. They don’t know what it’s like to wake with your fingers and toes turning blue, ice crystals threading along your headboard, and the only drinkable water hidden beneath six inches of ice.
But I do.
So, ignoring the numbing cold that swirls around me, I wade through the still waters, clenching my jaw to stop the sound of my chattering teeth from escaping. Gods, I am so close.
Relief floods me when I reach the other side, though the feeling is short-lived. All that water soaking into my pitiful shoes has lessened their purchase. Considerably. Still, I have no choice. If I stay here, I’ll die. It’s that simple.
With my hands on the rough-hewn temple walls, I manoeuvre myself so that my foot is anchored and push myself upward.
There’s just about enough friction to get another precarious foothold, and then the next.
My thighs burn as I force all my power through them, every muscle stretching as I reach for the thin metal frame of the open window above.
The pain that sears through my palm is enough to make me gasp, the sound echoing in the silence. The metal frame must have a jagged edge that has now sliced through several layers of skin, if not more.
That brew of mine might cover a lot of scents from the dire wolves, but I seriously doubt it’s going to mask this much blood. I need to hurry.
I reach up again, and this time, I look up as well, placing my right hand carefully on the metal.
Haste makes waste, my mother’s voice chides me from my memories.
A shout erupts. ‘There! Over by the window!’
Fuck! There’s a thunder of feet on the drawbridge and I know I’m down to my last seconds of opportunity.
Groaning aloud, I heave myself up on bloody fingers until my torso is level with the window, but it’s not enough.
I need to be higher to avoid tumbling headfirst through the opening.
There’s a ten-foot drop on the other side and I’m pretty sure arriving with a concussion will not impress the Goddess.
I cannot screw this up now. Not when I’m so fucking close!
A metallic tang floods my tongue as I bite down on the inside of my cheek, but I pay neither the pain nor the taste any mind. Instead, I force myself to give one last push, heaving my body up that extra foot and opening the window fully.
With panting breaths, I block out the shouts of the guards below and draw my legs up beneath me to balance my feet on the sharp ledge. Then, without giving myself time to hesitate, I jump downwards.
My boots slam against the marble floor and I stagger, but pride and practice keep me on my feet. I’m quickly aware of the sensation of my limbs prickling with the heat of the temple.
I smile with satisfaction as a furious wolf howl cuts through the silence of the night, but my expression falters as I lift my head and take in the sight before me.
It feels like a punch to the heart.
It’s not the mesmerising crystal chandeliers, each holding a thousand flickering candles, that steal my breath. Nor the vaulted, painted ceilings. Nor even the white marble pillars that gleam like sun-bleached bone.
It’s my memories.
Memories of my family. Of our lost magic.
And it’s almost enough to undo me. To make me falter. To forget why I came.
Almost.