Chapter 1
The sky is starless. The constellations died on Culling Day, but I keep looking up, like the world might mend itself if I refuse to forget how it once was. That desolate sky entombs the borderlands. Still, the wind moves like a living thing, whispering through the grass.
My Order talisman brought me here, but it refuses to reveal Osian’s exact location. I don’t let myself wonder why. So I fix my eyes on the western horizon and wait.
Time barely moves.
Then a wail shivers across the hills, so distant it barely seems human.
There he is.
I run toward the sound, into the dark, my heart hammering as the uneven ground fights my every step. A rock catches my boot, and I stumble.
I go down hard. Coarse grass scrapes my palm, and the ground jolts my knees. I ignore the flare of pain and crawl to the ridge, my breath fogging in the dark. Another bellow cuts through the night—closer this time.
The wind stills, as if the borderlands are listening.
Below, the valley is awash with torchlight, and the scent of smoke thickens the air. A fugitive kneels over a fallen member of the Order with a blade pressed to his exposed throat. Osian’s blond hair gleams beneath the firelight.
My breath catches.
A harsh red line stains his neck. His eyes are closed, like he’s already gone.
No. My heart wrenches painfully.
My hands shake as I draw my stolen sword.
It feels impossibly heavy, like it’s holding the weight of the world in its steel.
The blade screams as it leaves the scabbard, echoing through the valley.
The fugitive snaps his head up. His eyes sweep across the hills, and for a heartbeat, the world vanishes around us. Anger burns in my veins.
I hold still, though my bones itch beneath my skin, desperate to run. I am not a fighter. That’s Osian’s duty. And yet, I can’t do nothing, not while the most important person in my life is slipping away. I only have a few moments left to bring him back.
The fugitive’s hollow gaze drifts past me.
Like most rebels, a traitor tattoo brands his throat: two black lines surrounded by a near perfect circle.
Matted hair clumps around his tipped elven ears, and thick stubble covers his jaw.
The tunic hanging in scraps around his shoulders is more pearl gray than black, like his month on the run has leeched the life out of it—and him.
“Come on out. I know you’re there. A Rhyfelwr never goes anywhere without their Swynwraig,” he calls in a rough voice that scrapes my raw nerves like rottenstone.
Except Osian did come here without me. He despises our assigned partnership. Says my magic is an abomination to the dead.
Slowly, I rise from the grass. The fugitive’s eyes narrow. A soft wind dances across the land, blowing smoke through the valley. Neither of us makes a move, though his body vibrates, like he’s a snake preparing to strike.
“Step away from him, and there’ll be no need for more bloodshed,” I call out.
His gaze finds me, and his lips curl into a sneer.
“I don’t think so. I know who you are and what you can do.” He huffs a bitter laugh, his sword trembling in his hands. “You’ll raise him from the dead, and then he’ll come after me again. And this time, he’ll want revenge.”
I swear beneath my breath. The Order has tried to suppress all talk of my magic, as rare as it is, but gossip is one thing they’ve never managed to control.
“It doesn’t work like that,” I counter, raising my voice so it carries across the distance between us. “I can only bring him back a short time.”
The fugitive scowls, tightening his grip on his sword.
He doesn’t believe me, and I don’t blame him.
The dead rarely awaken for more than a few moments, but Osian isn’t like the others.
We’ve shared fifteen years of history—enough that my magic might raise him longer than it should. I have to hope it will.
That hope is the only thing keeping me from shattering, like glass hurled against stone.
Because despite how strained our friendship has become, the thought of losing him makes me feel as fragile as an ant beneath a boot.
“You’ll have to fight me first,” he growls.
He strides toward me with no hesitation in his steps.
As he draws closer, the firelight illuminates his broad shoulders and the corded muscles on his arms and chest. His hands no longer tremble.
He holds his sword with confidence, as if it’s an extension of his body.
Clearly, this fugitive is no untrained rebel, which means his fight against Osian wouldn’t have been his first. That’s how he bested him.
Even without magic giving him extra strength, Osian is a master swordsman. Once, he even took down six men alone.
This man is skilled. And I’m not, at least not with weapons.
I clench my jaw and lift my eyes to the starless sky. There are no gods to pray to tonight. They’re all dead.
And I will be, too, unless I run.
I glance past the fugitive to where Osian lies dead on the ground. A bitter ache constricts my heart. Leaving him feels wrong.
But I’m not trained for battle. I’m trained in magic. And if I fall here today, there’s no one else to bring him back. I need to escape so I can summon more Rhyfelwyr to take this rebel down. Then I can use my power to save Osian.
It will stretch the limits of my magic. Usually, I can only bring someone back within a few hours of their final breath. But I have to hope my memories of Osian run deep enough to shatter those limits.
“Forgive me,” I whisper.
I sink into the grass and scrabble down the side of the ridge, dirt and brambles scraping my hands.
The fugitive bellows, but I don’t pause to see if he’s following.
When I reach the bottom, I spring to my feet and run.
Wind snatches my hair, and shadows thicken, making it nearly impossible to see where I’m going.
Footsteps rise behind me. He’s close already—too close.
A fist grips my heart. He’s not going to let me escape alive.
My lungs burn as I pump my arms. Brambles claw at my trousers, ripping a hole and nearly tripping me.
I risk a glance over my shoulder. He’s right on my heels, his shadow looming behind me. He snarls and reaches for me. I duck. My boot slams into something hard, and my legs crumple beneath me. I throw out my hands to catch myself, but the impact knocks the breath from my lungs.
I hiss between my teeth, rolling onto my back.
The rebel is already on me.
He grabs my wrists and pins my arms to the ground. Spittle flies from his mouth, raining on my skin. I writhe, but it’s no use. I can’t even grab a clump of dirt to fling into his eyes.
“Stop fighting me,” he growls.
As long as I’m struggling, he can’t draw his weapon. Which is…where exactly? He had it just before he started chasing me.
As I fight against the rough dirt, the fugitive hisses and tightens his grip until a painful ache shoots through my wrist. I bite down on my tongue, stifling the whimper. I can’t let him know this is working.
“I said stop fighting me!” he shouts again, then softens.” I don’t want to hurt you.”
I laugh bitterly, still squirming. “Don’t lie.”
“I’m not lying,” he says through gritted teeth. Another spray of spittle hits my face. “No one else can do what you do. We could really use your magic. Just stop fighting.”
Ice floods my veins. “You want to take me prisoner.”
His grip loosens. “For now. But once you prove we can trust you, you can become one of us. You’d be better off getting as far away from the Order as you can.”
I bite the insides of my cheeks to stop the words from spilling out.
I’d rather die—permanently—than join the rebels.
Their brutality goes against everything I believe.
They want to tear down the Order. They want to see our leaders burned.
Without them, we’d have no way to survive the loss of our gods.
The Order is what keeps our magic—and us—alive.
“What about Osian?” I whisper.
The rebel sighs, and even in the heavy darkness, I see the twitch in his jaw. “I can’t take a Rhyfelwr into rebel lands.”
“But you’d take his Swynwraig.”
“You’re no normal Swynwraig.” he says darkly. “Your magic is a weapon. One we can use against the Order.”
I swallow. There is only one way out of this, but I’ll have to break Osian’s strict rules. He believes in honor and honesty above all else. It’s why he hates my magic so much. There’s no honor in bringing the dead back to life, just to pry their secrets from them.
But he’s wrong. Learning those secrets has allowed the Order to prevent catastrophes.
And so I will happily lie. Fuck honor.
“Fine, I whisper, cutting my gaze to the side so the fugitive can’t read the anger in my eyes.
“You’ll stop fighting?”
“Yes.” I go limp against the ground, but he doesn’t let me go.
“You’ll come with me to the rebel lands?” he asks again.
“You haven’t really given me much of a choice.”
A scowl wrinkles his face. “You’re as hopeless as the rest of the Swynwragedd. So loyal to the fucking Order. And for what?”
“Let me go,” I say, my voice far more commanding than I feel.
Immediately, he releases my wrists. He stands and holds out a hand. Ignoring him, I climb to my feet and flick the dirt off my trousers.
“I’m going to have to tie you up for the journey. The ropes are back at camp.” He gestures for me to walk in front of him, back in the direction of the valley where Osian’s body waits. His lifeless eyes will be gazing unseeing at the starless sky, and his wry grin will never cross his face again.
A rush of anger burns through me. I hate being contained, and this rebel killed one of the best people in this godsforsaken world, someone who would have offered his soul to the devil if it meant keeping everyone in the Kingdom of Gwalia safe.
To him, everyone else is more important than his own life.
I reach for the blade tucked into my waistband. The rebel spots the movement the instant my fingers brush the steel. He grabs my shoulder and yanks me into his chest, while his other hand snatches the dagger from my hip.
My stomach quivers, and a second later, the cool blade is at my neck.
“I told you to stop fucking fighting,” he hisses into my ear, his breath hot against my skin. “But you’ll never come with me willingly, will you?”
My lie collapses, like an old dam against an overflowing river. I’m surprised he believed me as long as he did. No Rhyfelwr or Swynwraig has ever joined the rebels. Those who stalk the outlawed lands beyond the border carry no magic. It’s probably why this fugitive is so desperate to steal me away.
“I’m not coming with you as long as I’m still breathing,” I whisper.
The blade presses harder into my neck. “You’ll go where I say you go.”
My heart hammers. I have to do the thing, the spell I’ve only cast once before.
Only Osian knows what happened that day, and he swore to never reveal it—not even to the Order—even as horrified as he was.
He made me swear never to do it again, especially on our assignments, even if it was the only way out.
But I must. It’s the only way I’ll have the chance to bring him back.
And he’ll never have to know.
I slide my hand between the rebel’s body and mine and press my fingers into his throat—right where his mark decorates his skin. He jolts, clearly not expecting it. I dig my fingers into his flesh.
“Marwolaeth,” I murmur.
A flare of pain shoots through my heart as my magic hollows out another piece of me. The sting only lasts for a second, though. I’ve grown so accustomed to it that I barely feel it anymore. A tightness settles between my eyes.
The rebel exhales his final breath, and his eyes roll into the back of his head. I release my grip. His soulless body crumples onto the grass.
His heart will never beat again.
I press my lips together, staring down at him. I’ve brought countless bodies back to life, but that spell is never permanent. Not like this one is.
My name is Angharad Morgan, and death is my greatest form of magic.