Amber Queen: Age of Azuria, #3

By Beth Ball

Power in all its forms will find its way to you, Soul Shepherd. You must be ready when it does.

 

Danger blossoms beneath Iellieth Amastacia's every step as she searches for the sixth seal piece. With Marcon and Quindythias by her side, the druid sets sail across the Infinite Ocean. Ancient evils lurk beneath the crashing waves, but other forces prove just as treacherous, threatening to drag the druid underwater. Submerged beneath the weight of her choices and the revelation of her soul's true nature, can Iellieth weather the swelling storm? 

 

Eager for vengeance, Briseras Ravisthina hunts the vampire Nassarq across a shadow-cloaked realm. Some enemies are familiar—spirits churn in the whorls of mist around her feet, foolhardy challengers thrust themselves into her path—but surprises lurk in the gathering fog. Allies shoulder their way to stand at Briseras's side, and the ruling vampire lord seeks her audience. Where blood runs as water under the earth, the huntress prepares to claim her destiny. 

 

Fate swirls around Persephonie Arelle like curling smoke, beckoning her and Rennear to escape the city and travel north to the sanctuary of the snowy peaks. But the storied mountain range offers tales more varied, a fortune more complex, than the simple refuge the saudad and her companions seek. Harpies haunt the highlands, and werewolf agents of Andel-ce Hevra roam free. More unpredictable still are those whom fate has bid her to find.  

 

The life of the pirate queen Syleste's trusted informant, Darcy, hangs in the balance as Teodric Adhemar guides his crew across the Infinite Ocean to an ancient island forest. Once there, Genevieve Vendanges can perform the ritual that will save Darcy, the one responsible for the assault against her conclave. However, her ancestors' magic, preserved in the roots of the towering trees, has intentions all its own. Conflicting desires war within Genevieve's heart. And on the island, they are not alone. 

 

In book three of the Age of Azuria epic fantasy series, Iellieth, Briseras, Persephonie, Genevieve, and Teodric confront the true cost of their journeys. But the question remains: Are they prepared to pay? Find out in this action-packed sequel to Buried Heroes and Hadvarian Heist! 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Grove Guardian Press
• Release date: Aug 31, 2021
• ISBN: 9781952609152

Book preview

Prologue

R owan, wait! Yvayne reached out toward her lover. The elf’s spirit-shape flared brighter. She looked nearly corporeal, poised atop her grassy grave.

I must go, Rowan whispered. Her bright green eyes met Yvayne’s. We will find one another again.

When? Yvayne’s distress reverberated out from her chest and struck each of the burial mounds around them. We just brought you back. The slither of quick-growing ivy and vines filled the silent hilltop. Don’t you dare leave.

In a flash of garnet and peridot, Rowan disappeared from the barrow.

Yvayne choked back a cry and a curse. The folly of falling for a phoenix.

Behind her, Vaxis squealed. Where did she go?

Amethyst, the Brightland fae’s forest-green fox, blinked its purple eyes at Yvayne. How was it that these creatures were never surprised?

I can think of one of two places, Yvayne answered slowly. And to only one of the two would Rowan have invited her to follow.

And? Vaxis leaned closer, her hesitant smile a light through the clouds that gathered around Yvayne.

She’s either returned to her fortress, her soul searching back through her past records to see what she missed . . .

Vaxis waited, eyes wide.

Yvayne revealed the second with a sigh. Or she’s following her soul’s beacon, returning to the call of her amulet and its binding to Marcon.

I see. Vaxis cleared her throat, hesitating to say more. Restraint did not suit her autumnal personality.

Go ahead. Ask me.

Well, I have been thinking about what you told me about your meeting Marcon again. But I don’t understand. Why does he not remember her?

Yvayne nodded. It’s a long story. She herself had discovered, piece by piece over the course of years, what had transpired between Rowan and Marcon. How much she owed to the fiery warrior, without whom they would have utterly lost the War of the Champions. And without whose sacrifice she would never have met Rowan. But I believe the memories will return to him, given time.

She told Vaxis what she knew of the betrayal that had separated Rowan and Marcon. One of the champion’s closest companions had turned Rowan over to Lucien’s power. The resultant spiral of events had ushered in the end of the War of the Champions. As you might imagine, Rowan preferred not to speak of those days. Even years afterward, night after night, Rowan awoke screaming, consumed with nightmares from her time spent as Lucien’s prisoner, when he had departed from his life as a guardian and fallen into the soul-consuming lichdom that still held him in its thrall.

And it was after her time in the Shadowlands that the two of you met?

Yvayne nodded. I was there when she returned to life in Faer Haven. How similar that cemetery was to the one where she and Apollo had buried Rowan, where she and Vaxis now stood.

Marcon and Quindythias had made a deal with her mother, Yvayne was certain. I cannot ask the Shadow Queen to explain—she forbade my return long ago. Yvayne understood her mother’s reasoning, but still she longed for the black fields and dark stone castle of her homeland, the violet moors she had roamed as a gar. I do not know the particulars of the deal they made with my mother, but I suspect that Marcon, and his friend Quindythias, traded their memories of Rowan in exchange for her return to life.

Vaxis settled onto the thick bed of moss beside the barrow next to Rowan’s, where another of their friends of old had been laid to rest. One after the other, Yvayne had buried her friends and allies. In some periods, the deaths came quickly, one after the next after the next. At other times, years would pass between her farewells, but they came all the same. Only a lucky few had been granted death after a peaceful descent into old age.

Her friend laid her burgundy head back against the flower-laden side of the moss-covered casket. So what now, Yvayne? Vaxis shrugged and poked out her lower lip, eyes turned to the mist-clad sky. Places of death and loss were difficult for Vaxis. They ran counter to her nature and dimmed her smile. Worse still, they blanketed her in memories Yvayne knew she would rather forget. Do we follow these new druids on their quests, watching over their journeys so as to keep them from true danger?

Yvayne gave her friend a small smile. Though the three druids were still at the start of their adventures, the growth in their magic, their coming into their own powers, into connection with the natural world, left a trace on the breeze for those who knew how to sense it. She closed her eyes and inhaled.

Persephonie’s travels through the streets of Andel-ce Hevra carved a sparkling path along the stone roads—fae laurel mingled with spices and dark berries. Iellieth’s path, deep in the Caldaran forest, was harder to catch, but her vervain-scented aura whispered all the same, citrus grasslands waving along a rocky seaside. Genevieve was the most difficult to find. Of the three, the lycan-druid was most resistant to her own magic, still coming to terms with the wolf who dwelled within. Yvayne’s shoulders relaxed as she caught the aromatic trail of soft florals and wild pepper amid the roiling ocean waters, a sprig of rosemary whose aroma lingered on the hand.

Vaxis’s question churned in her stomach. The two fae could watch over the burgeoning druids, waiting nearby and out of sight should their fortunes turn or their enemies discover their precise whereabouts. And while she and Vaxis could sense the druids’ locations, their enemies would not yet be able to. The natural world did not answer their call in the same way.

But if she and Vaxis were to intervene . . . Lucien and Syleste, Alessandra, and whoever else was searching for them might quickly find their trails. Magic such as Yvayne’s left an indelible mark on the world around it.

Yvayne leaned toward Vaxis, her lavender eyes brightening. What if I told you that there were other tasks we might accomplish, ones to shift the stakes in our favor without drawing undue attention to the three we protect? If they could continue to take steps Alessandra would fail to expect and keep the dark goddess off her guard, Iellieth, Marcon, and Quindythias stood a better chance on their mission of uncovering the final seal piece.

Vaxis grinned, wiggling on the bed of funeral mosses. Tasks like what?

Are you aware of the disappearances in the Brightlands? There are a few scattered across the Elven Realms as well. She had been preparing to investigate such occurrences before she and Vaxis had decided to awaken Rowan instead.

Her friend shook her head. We have not heard of these in the Autumn Courts.

Of course you haven’t. The fae courts had retreated behind their own enchanted walls, unwilling to intervene in the fast-changing workings of the worlds. Another of Alessandra’s wars loomed before them, whether the Brightlands fae wished for such a recurrence or not. I think it’s time to see if we can uncover what’s happening to these fae and druids. Yvayne had been too fixated on Lucien’s movements to find out what was happening to them, but now, such an activity might be exactly what she and Vaxis needed to keep her charges safe.

She had promised herself this conflict would be different. They would act offensively and not simply respond to the dark goddess’s assaults. Uncovering lost souls who had likely been imprisoned was precisely the sort of task they needed to undertake.

Yvayne rubbed her fingertip over the emerald of Mara’s ring. She was still keeping her promise to watch over Iellieth. Drawing Alessandra’s eye elsewhere could only help their cause.

My Lord—Senator Antonus Ignatius bowed before the flickering image of Lucien that had appeared before him—the girl cast something. There was nothing we could do.

The towering lich chuckled. Nothing you could do? You place a great amount of faith in the saudad’s magic then. The dark goddess will be pleased.

No! Ignatius’s hand shot out, calling back the spectral form. That is not what I meant, Lord Lucien. He bowed his head lower. One day, his work in Andel-ce Hevra would earn him an audience with the goddess herself, but in the meantime, he would have to abide by her servant’s rules and follow his whims. We destroyed the druids, and with Aylin gone—

Aylin was still to be of use to me. Lucien’s image grew taller as his voice thundered across the room. The druids’ souls give me strength and, as your soldiers can undoubtedly attest, Aylin’s possesses a powerful magic. But no matter. Lucien swept his cloak to the side and turned, calling Ignatius’s gaze outside to look over the city’s expanse. There are others who can find her for me and bring her into my realm. Lucien spun back, his yellow eyes glowing. But I still require a sacrifice from you, Ignatius. The lich smiled. A cold wind wheezed through the room and into Lucien’s throat. Bring me the saudad girl, or I shall demand your son’s soul instead.

Chapter 1

Iellieth stared back over her shoulder at the sprawling mass of roots and vines the black oak had created for her. Thank you, she whispered. Without the dryad’s intervention, she too would have fallen into the blood portal that had consumed Lord Nassarq, Briseras, and Lavinia.

Freed from the vampire’s oppressive presence, the catacombs around them were merely dank and dim. Iellieth’s stomach flipped. Now that the immediate threat had passed, she remembered the room Marcon hadn’t allowed her to see, the slaughtered man who had helped them, and the child’s body waiting back in Nassarq’s chamber.

The champion’s brow furrowed as he looked down at her sudden shudder. What is it, lady?

Iellieth laid her hand against her throat. The black branch the oak had grown for her rested on the far side of the chamber, inaccessible from where they stood and coated in blood. I, umm . . . Iellieth cleared her throat. I was going to suggest that we return to the surface. The ceiling of the dungeons seemed intact for now, but she wasn’t sure how badly the portal’s sudden appearance had shaken the stone tunnels.

While she and Marcon talked, Scad had crept over to Quindythias’s side. He kept the lower half of his body far away from the elf and leaned dramatically forward, peering at Quindythias’s tattoos. They were brighter than usual after the elf’s time in the amulet.

Ellie, who are these two again? Scad straightened, frowning as he stared between Quindythias and Marcon, the two ancient champions bound to her and her amulet until they found the final piece of the planar seal, located somewhere in the Elven Realms. There, she hoped, she would also find her father, an elven diplomat who didn’t yet know he had a daughter. But he soon would.

I’ll explain on the way. She turned to Marcon, who continued to study her with brow furrowed. The man who arrived with Briseras, and the child . . . should we bring them up with us?

The champion bowed his head. If we are able, yes. They have spent enough time in this place. Marcon glanced around at the dark stone walls, scowling at the crypt where she had nearly disappeared with the two women they’d met in the catacombs, Briseras and Lavinia. They had leapt through the blood portal after the vampire, Lord Nassarq.

There was so much to explain to the Linolynnian court above.

Very well, Iellieth said. Let’s go find them.

And be on the lookout for tiny vampires on our way, Quindythias added. No sense in driving off the big one only to be turned ourselves and then stuck here, or worse. He grimaced.

Iellieth turned her head to the elf. What would worse be?

Undeath has always been exceedingly distasteful to me. He shivered dramatically. "To dwell on and on, never changing? I’m already beautiful, so I don’t know that turning into a vampire will help matters. Very few are considered handsome and heroic. Most undead are driven by a hunger to consume life, while others become puppets."

Or what’s happened to Lorieannan. Marcon’s voice was low and abrupt. His scowl deepened.

They would find a time, once they’d had a chance to rest, to discuss what had transpired in the tunnels beneath the Nocturne estate, especially the fact that his first love had been turned into a revenant whose deepest desire was to kill him. Or to kill Iellieth and wipe out the two champions with her. Clarifying that fact wouldn’t make Marcon feel any better.

Silently, they retraced their steps through the halls and returned to Nassarq’s bedchamber. The man who had arrived with Briseras lay on the floor, his blood pooling around his head and shoulders from the gaping wound in the side of his neck, already crusting over. Iellieth’s hands started shaking, and she stopped at the edge of the room. Nassarq had ripped out this man’s throat with his teeth.

Marcon stretched out his arm, preventing her from going closer. Lady, perhaps you might find a scarf or cloak to wipe the blood from his bag, and a blanket or sheet to wrap the body in? He pointed to the closet in the corner, where Scad and the woman called Lavinia had hidden.

Iellieth skirted wide around the body and avoided looking too closely at the dark streaks along the floor, either blood or burns.

Between the closet and a wardrobe, Iellieth found the items Marcon had requested. She flinched as she glanced over toward the bed where the child’s body lay facedown on the mattress. Quindythias stood over the child, lips compressed into a thin line. His amber eyes shone bright as Iellieth approached and held out a blanket for covering and transporting the small body.

Scad had yet to pass through the doorway. He stood with arms crossed tightly around himself at the chamber door.

When she returned to Marcon’s side, he had knelt over the man’s body, uttering a prayer in a tongue she did not know. The words were gravelly, rumbling in the champion’s chest. Their weight settled onto her shoulders, and yet there was a sense of peace to them as well. In the doorway, Scad’s hold around himself relaxed.

Marcon arranged the body as he completed his prayer. He placed Briseras’s broken crossbow on the man’s chest and folded his arms over it.

The champion rose. Tears shone in his eyes as he turned to her. A prayer of peace and prosperity for one’s battles in the afterlife, Marcon murmured. It was a customary rite for those in my battalion who fell in the line of battle. We adopted it from the flaming soldiers of Ignis, warriors wreathed in fire. And we extended the rite to those who died fighting at our side.

Marcon carried the man’s body out of the dungeons, and Quindythias the child’s. Iellieth exhaled slowly as she watched them walk from the room. She bent to retrieve the man’s satchel, wiped it clean of blood, and wrapped its strap over her shoulder.

At the doorway, she embraced Scad. Let’s get you out of here, she whispered in her friend’s ear.

He held her hand tightly as they climbed the pathways out of the dungeon behind Marcon and Quindythias. We’re going to get you some food and a nice, warm bed. She squeezed his hand. And then, I’m going to take you home.

Scad sniffled and nodded.

As they climbed toward the light, she could see his gaunt cheeks, the dark purple circles under his eyes, and the slashes down the sides of his neck. How long must his days in the dark have stretched, being fed on by a cruel, twisted vampire? A sob gripped her throat, and Iellieth clenched her free hand around the strap of the satchel. How hopeless Scad must have felt, despairing of anyone ever coming to help him. Was it possible to recover from such an experience?

She calmed her own racing thoughts. It was just a spark for now, but she caught a glimmer of the familiar vivacity that had danced behind Scad’s eyes. She didn’t know how long it would take for him to recover from his imprisonment, but in her heart, Iellieth knew that, given time, he would be himself once more.

Basha? Iellieth knocked against the wooden archway that opened onto the king’s guest hall in Nocturne.

It had taken longer than she had hoped to find the dwarf pacing before the double doors bedecked with iron. But eventually, after they settled Scad in their room, found a place to lay the bodies of the young man and the child, and asked half a dozen soldiers for their aid, they found the stormguard.

The dwarf looked paler than she’d ever seen him. When he didn’t respond, she called to him a second time.

Basha whirled around, spinning his battle-axe free from his shoulders, and hunched in a ready stance.

Iellieth stumbled back toward Marcon and Quindythias. Basha, no, it’s me.

He shook his head and blinked his eyes clear. Ellie, what are you doing up at this hour? Basha waved them closer, his voice a low, deep whisper.

She met him halfway down the hall. Deep lines of worry crossed Basha’s face. We . . . we have to tell you something. It’s about Lord Nassarq.

Basha glanced over his shoulder at the reinforced doorway. What about him?

Iellieth recoiled at the dwarf’s tone. He had never snapped at her before, and she could only imagine him doing so if— She gasped. Has something happened to King Arontis?

He nodded gravely.

Has he been bitten by a vampire?

A vamp—how did you know? Basha scowled at her, disbelief and concern swirling behind his eyes.

Iellieth wrapped her arms around herself and spoke slowly so as not to distress the stormguard further. Lord Nassarq is a vampire. He’s the one who’s been taking the children. Her lip quivered as she thought of the prison cell Marcon had shielded her from. They had skirted around it as best they could as they left, but still the soft scraping and crying from inside reached her ears.

Basha stared back at her. If the king had been bitten, why did Basha still doubt her?

The door creaked open at the end of the hall, and her stepfather emerged, his head hung low.

Wait here, Basha said under his breath. He pulled his shoulders back and strode down the hall to meet the duke. Well?

Duke Amastacia sighed, his lips pulled tight together. As he raised his head to address the stormguard, he spotted her, Marcon, and Quindythias. Immediately, his gaze narrowed. Her stepfather drew himself up, acting as though nothing was amiss. The healers believe the king will make a full recovery, but he’s weak.

Basha waved them forward once more.

The duke widened his stance and crossed his arms. I don’t believe now is the time to allow those who are simply curious about the king’s state into his chambers.

The dwarf stamped a foot and lifted his head toward the duke’s. I have dedicated my life to guarding that man. He poked his forefinger into her stepfather’s chest, and the duke stumbled back against the door. And I won’t have a sniveling adviser interested only in his own gain stand in the way of me bringing important news to the ears of the king.

Duke Amastacia’s mouth hung open as he stared down at Stormguard Basha.

Now move, Basha growled.

Preserving as much of his dignity as he could, her stepfather slid away from Basha’s squat, imposing frame and stepped away from the door. The duke’s lips returned to their thin, disapproving line, and his haughty eyes flicked over to meet her gaze. A glare she knew well.

He lifted his head high and strode down the hall away from the four of them, not giving her a second glance. Marcon’s hand rested on her shoulder, its glowing warmth subsiding the farther the duke went down the hall.

Quindythias shrugged and pranced forward. Well, that was dramatic. Should we introduce ourselves to the king now so he can honor us for saving the kingdom? The elf stepped back at Basha’s glower. I speak only in jest, Master Stormguard. He gave a half-bow at the waist and gestured toward the door. After you, of course.

Chapter 2

Dry leaves whispered overhead as the zombie corpses floated downstream. The current pulled them across rapids and slammed them into dark, wet rocks.

Briseras rolled her shoulders back. It wasn’t worth the effort to retrieve her arrows.

Vera, her wolf companion, stood close beside her, her mouth open to better smell the woods on the other side of the river.

Sleep tugged at Briseras’s eyes. She squinted them shut and open again. Where had the blood portal taken them?

Tut, tut. She clicked her tongue after Vera and called Otto, her raven, down from the treetops and onto her arm. See if you can spot a settlement nearby.

Otto croaked in reply. Briseras held her arm stiff, raising it with the raven’s feet to aid his flight.

We’ll keep moving, Vera.

The wolf plodded after her.

Crisp pine needles crunched beneath her feet. Several hours had already passed in the thick woods of this unknown land, with still no sign of Lavinia, the witch who’d led her and Everett to Nassarq. Her jaw tightened at the memory of the vampire ripping through the flesh of Everett’s neck, tearing asunder his veins and spewing the folklorist’s blood across the opulent chamber beneath the castle.

Everett had been certain that Lavinia hadn’t betrayed them the night she disappeared. Her fierce determination to destroy the vampire in the bowels of the castle certainly pointed toward his instincts being true.

But now, Briseras had nothing more of his than the journal he’d kept of their travels together.

She ran her fingers through the thick, warm fur on the top of Vera’s head. Everyone else, she had lost, either through death or abandonment. But not her wolf.

Full dark fell around them. She whistled for Otto. They would need to make camp and try again with daylight. The raven carved a blue-black silhouette against the cloudy stars and returned to her.

Otto tilted his head and gurgled low, puffing his throat feathers. He shifted back and forth between his feet for good measure. He hadn’t spotted any settlements in his search.

Better luck tomorrow, she said as she squatted down. Otto hopped off her arm, and Briseras placed a strip of dried pork on the ground for him and offered a second piece to Vera.

In the darkness, Briseras found a few large rocks piled together. They settled at the stones’ base, and Vera curled up against her legs. It had been a day and a half or more since any of them had found a chance to rest. At least this way, whatever dangers lurked in the autumnal forest would have to find them instead of the three stumbling upon a foul creature prowling about on a task of its own.

But as Briseras closed her eyes, the sharp edge of her intuition slipped its blade into the base of her ribs. Something stalked ever closer to her, attuned to her scent.

The vast reaches of the forest continued through the next two days of travel by foot along a winding woodland road. She and Vera each found a rabbit, and Otto, a few scrawny nestlings among the trees.

Briseras’s silver eyes glowed as she reached out for the spirits that made their home in the forest, an ability she’d acquired after Ophelia had returned her to life. Misty shapes fluttered beneath the boughs, the residue of souls who had dwelt among the trees. But around each shape, shadows clung, the distant remains of an ancient, dark magic. She extended her sight farther. The earth itself, the trees—this corrupted past tainted all her spirit touched.

In her extensive travels across the Azurian wildlands, she had never encountered such an environment, stained into the very fabric of its rocks and roots. Briseras rubbed at the bruises still throbbing along her neck from Nassarq’s strangling hold. The sun had not once broken through the clouds in her three days here. It was the perfect landscape for a vampire’s sanctuary.

But what better place than a sanctuary to catch a creature unawares?

A low fog draped across the splayed roots and undergrowth at all times of the day or night. Briseras made the fog her own, cloaking herself in its shifting embrace. Every hour or so, she sent Otto to look out over the expanse of the forest. He croaked excitedly as he returned from his second mission of the morning. They must be getting close to the edge of the road.

Briseras clicked her tongue for Vera to follow after her. They slipped off the dirt path and into the swirl of mist beside it, lest anyone spot them as the road opened up. The black, twisted shapes of the trees grew thinner, and the fog loosened its grip.

Choking brambles replaced the black, spindly branches overhead as they approached the borders of the wood. Beyond the tree line, rolling fields, dry and brown, spread over the earth, and the road, a depleted riverbed, wound between the hills. Far in the distance, mountains curled their backs and shoulders against the horizon. They resembled the sloped hills of the Andel Mountains of Tor’stre Vahn more so than the sharp peaks of the Frostmaws of Caldara. Everett and Lavinia, mountain people in their own right, would have treasured the highlands where she lived after Rajas took her from Haven. It was in those hills that she had learned to track monsters, and here were mountains again, always calling for her return.

The road turned north. Several hours later, near dusk, the top of a large hill revealed plowed fields leading to a settlement of sorts, what she had taken to be a craggy hillside before. A walled town squatted at the base of a small mountain. Between it and the road, lean-tos and shanties covered the sloped hillside, many propped against the stone walls of the town. Giant mounds of hay circled the base of the hill. Briseras squinted. A thin line of smoke curled up from one of the mounds into the sky above the town.

Curiously, none of the homes rested outside the dense hilltop collection despite the fields stretching for miles past the outskirts of the settlement. An odd white tower poked out from among the lean-tos. It tilted to the side, a taper that had bent in the burning.

The fields she passed had been harvested recently, and no one toiled among the scant leavings of corn and hay. Briseras found a few discarded ears of corn, protected by their shucks, and filled her belly with the farmers’ leave-behinds.

White-clad figures milled about the town. She tossed her final ear of corn back into the fields for rodent foragers or the strangely silent birds of this desiccated realm.

One of the bales had been placed near the road. As she approached, it became clear that the piles were not mounds of hay at all but stacks of brush and branches from the forest. Briseras frowned. Why prepare a pyre of such size, so far from the town? And so many?

Stay close to me, Vera. She sensed the flitting spirits from the woods here as well, hidden among the living.

At the base of the hill, where the road split in twain, was a second, extinguished pyre. A twisted skeleton, either human or elf, lay atop the pile of ash. The figure’s howling scream contorted its charred remains, its skull splayed wide along the tortured jaw.

So this was why the spirits clung so close to the earth.

Briseras’s hand darted to her hip as two children appeared from behind the next pyre she passed. She dropped her hand free of her sword’s hilt and waved them out.

Gripping one another’s hands, they approached. I-is your wolf good? the little girl asked. She stared wide-eyed at Vera.

She is.

Can we . . . The children held their hands outstretched.

Briseras grinned. She’d first seen a wolf at the side of a hunter visiting Haven when she was about their age, seven or eight, perhaps younger. The way the creature had met her eyes, had looked at her—she’d felt seen for the first time in memory, by anyone save her mother. She’d reached out a trembling hand, as they were doing now, and rubbed her palm from the base of the wolf’s nose to the top of its head. The wolf didn’t blink or flinch when she touched it. Something deep inside her had shifted, mended, and she knew she’d discovered an ancient part of herself, of who she and those like her were meant to be.

Vera sat tall and still on the road beside her. She knelt down next to the wolf and nodded to the two children. One at a time.

The little girl came first, running her fingers through the thick fur at Vera’s neck. She gestured for the boy to approach now as well. He rubbed the top of Vera’s head as she had the first wolf she met more than two decades ago. Slowly, twinned smiles spread across their faces.

What are your names? Briseras asked.

Vasile, the boy whispered.

Romina.

Briseras met the boy’s eyes while the girl continued to stare at her wolf. Vasile, Romina, this is Vera. And I’m Briseras. Is this the town where you live? They both nodded. What’s it called?

Inside the wall it’s called St. Sebastian, Romina began.

And outside, where we live, is the Ring of Light.

Strange to have two separate names for the same settlement. I see. And what is your town like?

Vasile frowned. The Brotherhood can be mean. Our pa didn’t like them. B-but Missus Higgins, she says that they keep us safe and protected.

Mmhmm. A familiar refrain. And Mrs. Higgins, she takes care of you? The children were thin but not starving, though they didn’t seem appropriately clothed against the chill in the air. Romina’s shoes, most likely passed down from her brother, were nearly worn through.

Shouts echoed from the top of the hill, the screeching voice of a single man and the jeering roar of a crowd. Romina’s eyes widened and she scooted closer to Vera. A wise instinct.

Can the two of you show me to the Ring of Light? Is there a place for travelers to stay?

Vasile took her hand, and Romina walked between her and Vera as they climbed the hill.

The road cut switchbacks up the side of the knoll, and they reached the top at dusk. Torches glowed in a ring around the hill’s edge—was it these lights or the circle of pyres for which the town was named? More torches wound between the shelters, marking their way toward the center of town where the shouts continued to echo.

Vera’s ears pricked up and turned from side to side, searching their environment for the source of the threats she sensed. Briseras and the wolf both felt it deep in their bones—the dangers closed in with each step.

Romina blenched and grabbed Briseras’s free hand as a new round of shouting began. The children guided her through the narrow streets of the Ring of Light, winding nearer to the source of the screams. Their grips tightened as they approached the center of town.

Two rows of houses separated them from a mob of villagers with torches. Briseras shuddered, bombarded by memories of the priests’ midnight raids through Haven’s brothels, echoes of the attacks they’d mounted in the wilds of Tor’stre Vahn, assaults that brought witches like her mother within their walls in the first place.

In the center of the mob, a man stood with knees bent, hands tied behind his back atop a small wooden platform that held two sets of stocks. A villager approached, teeth bared. The bound man send him reeling with a kick to his chest.

Briseras. Vasile pulled on her hand. We shouldn’t stay here.

She cast a final look over her shoulder and followed the children.

The bound man wore dark, forest greens as opposed to the white worn by the rest of the village. Townsfolk on the edge of the mob carried long sticks and kindling.

They were building a new pyre.

Chapter 3

King Arontis leaned back against his wooden headboard as Iellieth, Marcon, and Quindythias recounted what they