Touch of Red: Dark Fairytales, #2

By Christina Herlyn

Cursed with a mortactio's deadly skin, Pyrrha can never touch the people she loves. Fortunately, no one fits that criterion in her home—not even her mother, Regent Duri. But when her paternal grandmother, Queen Gratia, is bitten by a komoviper, Pyrrha must leave her secluded life and travel the dangers of Griseo Wood to deliver a cure.

Regent Duri's Hunters patrol Griseo Road, but Wolves rule the wild forest—and they hate all that Pyrrha represents. Though mere men and women, the Wolves still possess a magical connection with Griseo Wood that Regent Duri covets. And now Lykos, Lord of the Wolves, has come by another valuable possession: Pyrrha. Her desire to touch the handsome, vivacious enemy of her mother grows stronger by the day. He will charm her out of her red hood and into a Wolf's helmet if he can. But mortactios must maintain a life of solitude and detachment, and Lykos needs to respect her cursed skin before tragedy strikes.

 

In this dark fantasy retelling of Little Red Riding Hood, the red hood warns of her death touch. This time the big, bad Wolf had better watch out for her.

 

Warning: This book contains "sword and sorcery" violence, reference to past emotional abuse, and sexual content.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christina Herlyn
• Release date: Nov 28, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215731406

Book preview

MAP of the REALMS

CHAPTER ONE

Ideal death, but I do not play games with it. As I stand over another defeated assassin, my decision to be the personal bodyguard of the cruelest sorceress in the known world comes into question. It is an old internal argument that emerges each time I draw my sword to defend her. And each time I decide that the risk to my soul is too great and my reputation as a monster too wide-spread to resign now. No one else desires my service.

The assassin struggles against my saber’s tip in her abdomen. Her left hand clutches the blade, and blood flows through her fingers. Her other hand lies useless, nearly severed in our fight to the death. My right foot traps her multiple dark braids against the ornate carpet of reds, black, and gold.

Beside us, Regent Duri appears curious, as if the assassin is a butterfly pinned to the rug. She bends forward, the round, faceted ruby at her throat glinting in the lamplight. Frightened servants huddle in a shadowed corner of the large stone room as four soldiers arrive too late to help, had I needed it. A broken chair and my elevated heartbeat are the only indications the assassin gave me a good fight.

The regent has questions, so I hold, but my instinct is to pull the sword free or drive it deep. Toying with life blackens souls, and mine bears enough stains.

Who sent you, child? Regent Duri wastes condescension on a dying enemy.

The assassin—older than my twenty-four years—coughs. The pain brightens brown eyes which will soon be dull. Her hoarse voice already carries death’s whisper. The Wolves.

The regent’s blond head tilts sideways. Her dark blue eyes narrow as they assess the woman’s smooth, pale skin and lithe form. The Wolves are brown woodsmen. Men—and women—they are, though they’ve carried their fear-inducing predator label for centuries.

The assassin smiles with bloody teeth. A Wolf is any who opposes you. She coughs again. Blood escapes her mouth by the cupful. She chokes and her eyes roll back.

You lost her, Pyrrha. Regent Duri scolds me. You cut too deep.

I’m not a surgeon. My hands shake with the desire to finish this task and give the woman escape from the hell she snuck into, hoping to accomplish what many had tried before—kill an oppressor.

The assassin’s fingers claw at the throne room rug. Her body convulses around my sword, pulling it deeper. The regent will receive no more answers. With my free hand, I draw my dagger and slit the woman’s throat. Blood arcs across the rug, and she enters whatever land awaits failed assassins—a pleasant one, I hope. But I doubt it. At least the death I grant her is quicker and more dignified than one Regent Duri would orchestrate.

Duri wrinkles her nose. Another mess. Why do you never kill with your touch?

My touch makes me a monster with an advantage. I honored my opponent with the death of a warrior. You wanted to question her, I say as I clean my blades with a cloth. The dead do not speak.

Not to you, she murmurs.

I hide my shudder by sheathing my saber and dagger. Regent Duri’s magic is dark and unnatural. She probably has conversed with the dead, though I’ve never witnessed it. When she practices her magic, I try to leave the castle first, or the entire territory of Fraus if I can manage.

I made you Huscarl to protect me with your touch. She pushes the issue. Her cold gaze even briefly meets mine. She tried to force my touch with her power, once. I wish I could replicate whatever she felt when her magic slipped beneath my skin. It was the one time she’s recoiled from me with fear in her eyes.

My hazel eyes are the only part of me that shows. A red silk hood with an eye slit covers my head and neck. Red leather gloves conceal my hands and arms to the elbow. The rest of my body is clothed in black down to my knee-high boots with flexible soles. All of it prevents the accidental brush of my skin against another’s. Instant death results from my touch—a power I cannot control. You made me Huscarl because you love to terrify your people and I am nearly as scary as you.

She waves an indifferent hand then turns away from me and the woman I just killed to protect her. The Wolves are not my people. But most in Fraus would not cry if the Wolves succeeded. She knows this as much as I do. She longs to call herself ‘Queen Duri,’ but some obscure, centuries-old pact prevents Fraus from crowning a queen.

She sits on her sturdy, almost-a-throne of garnet velvet and gilt wood. After arranging her black and red brocade skirts, she lifts the pointy chin of her heart-shaped face. The depths of her eyes are too far away to read, but they are always frigid. "My people would have executed you as a girl. I am the reason you live, in more than one way."

The claim is an old and tired one that no longer affects me. I bow slightly, the mocking tilt of my mouth hidden by silk. Yes, Mother.

Dispose of the body in the usual manner, Pyrrha. Try to limit the mess. She dismisses me with a flick of her fingers.

Two guards enter with a large cloth sack. I supervise them as they slip the assassin into the bag. Behind us, quiet servants work to scrub death from the ornate rug. In the end, the rusty hue of dry blood will blend with the rest.

The guards carry the body before me. I follow them up two flights of stone steps, past bare granite walls and cold sconces. My mother abhors decoration. She claims that tapestries trap too much dust and paintings are gaudy. More likely, she wants nothing in her castle to detract attention from herself.

After mounting twenty stone steps, the guards step aside at the top. They wait as I pull open the heavy wooden door to the roof of Castle Fraus. We walk along the black granite and wooden parapet to the southeast tower. Spears stand upright, their shafts decorated with black and red ribbons that snap in the wind. Some of the spear points glint in the sunlight, while others are covered with heads in degrees of decay from bird-pecked flesh to bleached skull. Without instruction, the guards pull the assassin from the sack, and one holds her head up by her black braids. I nod to the other. It takes two swings of his sword to sever her head.

I watch; not because I enjoy the violation of the dead, but because she deserves acknowledgement. She made a poor decision, but a brave one. Someone will miss her tonight when she fails to return. Someone who will say a prayer that means more than the trite words of respect I whisper beneath my red hood.

The guards shove her head onto the spear with a squelch that sours my stomach. Blood rolls down the wooden shaft on a slow journey to the granite wall which will absorb it and feed the castle with her life. Her dark eyes face out, daring the Wolves to leave Griseo Wood and avenge her.

Below us, the dog pens are connected to the castle wall. Some of the dogs notice us and bark with expectation. Each guard grabs two of the assassin’s limbs, and they toss her over the wall. I turn before the feeding begins, glad that the red hood which announces my danger also hides my disgust. The sweet smell of dulcer smoke curls into my nose before I leave the guards. They shouldn’t smoke their pipes while on duty, but I like to think they need the calming effects of dulcer to deal with guilt. It has never helped me.

I escape to my favorite hiding place, the southwest tower. The ramparts are tall enough that I am mostly obscured when I sit on the wooden roof, yet I can see through the gaps. To my right, summer thrives in the scents of lilac, rose, and honeysuckle, in the gold of growing grain and the deep greens of the fields. On my left, summer never settles on the Vehementi Sea. Its waves are always hard gray, hiding a bottomless cold.

Sometimes I welcome the view of white-capped, endless anger that the sea gives me, but today I need summer. I remove my hood and gloves then lean back so the sun kisses my face and arms. A light breeze ruffles the chestnut curls that I keep chin length to allow room in my hood. After a half hour of sun, I scoot to the right and rest my head between two ramparts.

Beyond the miles of patchwork fields are the fog-shrouded Evony Hills—dark and haunted. And beyond those, just an indistinguishable line, is the dangerous Griseo Wood where the Wolves reign. If the tower were taller, I might see the Kurvig River Valley and hazy blue peaks above it. The Drachen Range marks the western edge of the queendom of Alithia, ruled by my paternal grandmother, Queen Gratia. Farther east on this coast lies the small kingdom of Aequa. The Aequaen ruler pisses his pants when Mother sneezes in his direction. She does not worry over Aequa. But she covets Alithia.

When I was younger, I visited my grandmother, Nonni, every summer. In Alithia there is a village called Nox, full of people like me: mortactios. While we bring death to anyone else who touches our skin, we are free to touch each other. It is the only place I remember walking unrestricted amongst people. I relished the warmth in their handshakes and casual touches that other humans take for granted. In Nox I met my first—and only—lover. In Nox I escaped the hatred of Regent Duri each summer. When I turned twenty-one, I became Huscarl, personal bodyguard of my mother. There has been no time for Alithia or Nox since.

My grandmother could not understand why I wished to be Huscarl. I could never bring myself to tell her that the reason is because I deserve it. Such jobs are reserved for monsters. We are not suited for humane positions. So I deserve Regent Duri who hates me for the same reason I hate myself. Yet I refuse to die and bring peace to us both. I convince myself that if I serve her well enough, long enough, I might someday atone for killing my father.

By my grandmother’s account, he was a loving father who would not blame me for the fateful day when my curse revealed itself. My nurse touched me to lift me from my crib and dropped dead. I cried, and my father came to soothe me. My touch killed him, as well. Even his mother, Nonni, holds no grudge against me. But Duri claims to have loved him more than Queen Gratia ever did. She often reminds me.

At first, people were merely cautious around me. Then when I was three, a soldier saved me from falling down the stairs and died for his trouble. After that, I wore high-necked shirts, long sleeves, and gloves. At age seven, my playmate gave me a kiss despite the warnings of his mother. I have worn the red hood ever since.

I am also Huscarl to somehow atone for them all. But I have protected the undeserving regent for three years, and I feel no closer to grace than in the beginning. Surely by now I have paid the price for crimes I committed in innocence. Today, the idea that I should let an assassin win enters my mind for the first time. How easy it would be to do nothing and bleed out on the ground as an assassin steps over me to reach her. But I would die in vain. Mother can protect herself with the dark power she wears like a second skin. She prefers the tradition of a bodyguard so she can feel like a queen.

I shake my head and get up. Shadowy thoughts like these tell me it’s time to visit Veragert. Before I leave the castle, I check to see if Regent Duri needs me. The two guards outside her chambers claim she bathes in anticipation of a visit from her ‘very good friend,’ Mathis. To call him a lover is false on many levels. My mother’s capacity for love shrank to nothing long ago. Mathis is a servant with greater benefits—until no longer needed—then with greater consequences. I’ve never known one she’s discarded to continue walking about Fraus.

How can Mathis possibly love while in such a precarious position? I already doubt his ability to achieve certain physical requirements while shaking with trepidation. But then, the fear of others satisfies Regent Duri most.

In a way, Veragert is my Mathis, for he provides a physical service to me. Luckily for him, my requests are simpler, and safer, than those of the cold regent. I adjust my hood and gloves before I push the castle doors open to descend the steps. I’ve caught the gatekeeper off guard because I rarely leave the castle courtyard. He scrambles to ring the bell five short, frantic rings before I pass through a gate made of giant Fest bones—a creature that has not roamed Fraus for two hundred years. The gate appears brittle and penetrable, but the curses my mother layered upon it are sure to be nasty.

The bell vibrates through the air and warns the villagers that the red-hooded Huscarl approaches. A few women who barter produce in the market street grab the hands of their children and hurry inside. Forgotten baskets of fruits and vegetables wobble on table edges, and a sack of apples falls to the ground. I accept this frenzied reaction to my appearance—would be uncomfortable if no one heeded my danger—but it still adds to the self-pity and loathing that build inside me today.

The path through the village is short in length, but lasts an eternity as frightened eyes blink through shutter cracks and nervous breaths hitch. I only pass a dozen thatched roof buildings before I turn out of the central market and toward the bluffs above the Vehementi Sea. I am as grateful as everyone else that Veragert lives outside the village.

My step is light on the packed dirt road. I blend with the rustles of furry creatures and flaps of bird wings, but Veragert hears my approach. Come! His gruff voice calls from beyond the heavy door of his rock and timber cottage. He is a retired Huscarl, and I have never surprised him, though I’ve tried since I was five years old.

I push open his door and stand on the threshold a moment. His once proud shoulders stoop as he bends over a table near the open window that faces the sea. The scents of garlic and onion rise from the simmering pot on his wood-burning stove. The squawks of seabirds and the crash of waves mingle with the clicks of his working needles.

Are you knitting?

His faded blue eyes peer over square spectacles. A few new lines crinkle at their corners. His ears are the only parts of him that never age. It’s good for dexterity. He drops the bright yellow and green yarn onto his table and waves me forward. Come on, girl, let’s get it over with.

I straighten from the door frame where I slouched. What?

I heard you killed an assassin, today, which means you’ll ask to hold my hand. Bring it here, then. I don’t have all evening for your silly insecurities. He wiggles his still nimble fingers.

My need for contact, any contact, overwhelms the urge to walk away from the old curmudgeon. I take off my hood and gloves as I enter his small but inviting home. I don’t even ask twice a month. Stop your complaints.

As far as I know, Veragert is the only other mortactio in Fraus. My mother’s grandparents eradicated mortactios from Fraus when Veragert was a baby. The regents spared him for the role of Huscarl. No one expected a new generation of mortactio to spring into existence. I am fortunate my great-grandparents did not live to witness my birth.

Veragert pretends not to need the feel of warm, human skin as a reminder that he lives. He stands and moves to the corner window where the low sun lights the sea with an illusion of warmth. I come beside him, a little taller now, though he was my height before age shrank him. With a sigh, I stare out at the sea and grab his hand.

The thrill of touch is followed by peace and warmth, belonging. He grunts when I work my fingers to intertwine with his—to feel more of his skin against mine—but he allows it. I don’t believe Veragert’s indifference to touch. When I killed my friend and became an inconsolable, immovable seven-year-old, Veragert intervened. He wrapped me in a hug and held me for hours. He knew what I needed. His was the touch of empathy, not sympathy.

Still, he never falls prey to depression or despair. He never visits the castle and seeks my touch. How do you survive without touch?

His shoulder brushes my arm as he shrugs. I learned to do without. You should, too, if you want a long life. Needing touch will be the death of you. He pauses for a deep sigh. And stop being Huscarl. Your tender heart can’t take it.

He is the only person in Fraus who would ever call me tender hearted. This isn’t the first time that he has encouraged me to quit. Maybe you’re afraid I’ll die before you, then you’ll have no hand to hold.

He snorts. Sounds like a dream.

The sun sets and night returns the sea to a dark, cold abyss before I release his hand. He shuffles to the kettle and ladles his meal into a bowl. Hungry?

I pull on my hood and gloves, becoming untouchable once more. No. Touch is the only satiation I need on such days. Thank you for your help, Veragert.

As I close his door, he mutters, At least you never cry.

But I do. Naked in bed, so the warm sheets embrace me like a comforting lover, I cry.

CHAPTER TWO

When Frausian soldiers are initiated, my mother gifts them with an Indomitus spell. The soldiers believe it makes them brave, fearless. In actuality, the spell blocks their sense of self-preservation so that they hold nothing back when fighting for her. She smartly removes the spell from commanders so they can keep weapons juggling and bear wrestling to a minimum.

The spell provides countless volunteers for me to practice fencing and fighting, but those volunteers are too eager to test their invincibility and touch me. I only train with commanders whose caution is slightly higher than that of the enchanted soldiers. The tall blond man before me is a frequent opponent.

Jager has challenged me since we were children who trained for the position I now hold and he covets. He treats me with a mix of envy and loathing. His straight teeth are unnaturally white, and I suspect he practices in a looking glass to achieve his expression of good-natured sincerity that fools many women.

As a teen, he begged me to touch him. Lucky for Jager, teenaged girls possess a modicum of common sense that the boys lack. He is still too arrogant and reckless to be captain of the Hunters who guard the road through Griseo Wood; but my mother has a soft spot for him. Not in her hard, black heart, I assume, but some part of her favors Jager. His Indomitus spell was removed at his promotion to captain, but I suspect he’s never needed one. He’s believed himself indestructible since he left the nursery.

Why are you here, today, Jager? I test the weight of my training sword. The saber I carry is too valuable to risk breaking in an exercise. Practice blades are heavier, building muscle and endurance along with skill.

Jager rolls his broad shoulders then raises his sword. Across the courtyard behind him, the dogs fight over a pig carcass. A few have escaped the pen before, but Jager’s shoulders don’t even twitch in reaction to the growls and snaps at his back. I delivered my typical updates to Regent Duri. I shall return to Griseo tomorrow.

We both wear protective steel vambraces on our arms, but our hands are bare, free to flex. Light leather jerkins will absorb training strikes but not death blows. Neither of us wears a helmet, but hits above the shoulders are not allowed in practice. Jager is a solid, muscular man, deceptive in the speed of his sword and lightness of his step. I am usually thankful for at least one of the safety measures by the end of each exercise.

We circle each other in the center of the courtyard, memorizing changes in the ground and the obstacles around us: a pile of sandbags, a faceless strike dummy nearly carved to oblivion, and three sawhorses left after the destruction of last week’s gallows. Mother likes for the convicted to stay awake listening to the construction of their means of death, so the gallows are rebuilt the eve of every execution.

The only temptation to use my touch happened when I watched a man struggle at the end of his noose. The urge to stop his suffering had nearly overwhelmed me. Now I stay in the castle on execution days or ride in the countryside and quietly terrorize farmers who believe I’m some messenger of death.

I raise my blade and bend my knees, balanced on the balls of my feet. Jager touches his sword tip to mine and places just enough weight behind it to remind me of his size. When we were young, he used his size to advantage. He continued to rely on it while I focused on overcoming it. He has not beaten me since he became Captain of the Hunters nearly five years ago.

He lifts a fair brow marred by a heroic-looking scar that rumors claim he got from an angry sparrow. Jager insists it was a knife. Shall we, Huscarl?

I learned early to never converse during an exercise. I incline my head, push his blade up with mine, then lunge at his torso. He dodges and parries my sword downward where we hold and circle. He keeps his blade in place with pure strength while I use leverage.

Are you tired, today, Huscarl? Jager smiles then slips his blade off the tip of mine and attacks.

I shuffle back as our swords clash five times before I stand my ground. He’s maneuvered my back to the sandbags, of course. Aside from insulting monologues, props are Jager’s favorite distraction. He also enjoys the audience such an exercise attracts. Several soldiers already stand beyond the sawhorses in relative safety. The two women in the group smile at Jager because they believe he’ll favor them. The men support him because they are men.

The twinkle in his blue eyes warns me just before he jabs down and to my right. He wants me to fall back over the sandbags. I deliver a low sidekick and my heel catches the flat of his blade, twirling him away from me. I score a strike at his armored ribs. He finishes a circle and faces me with sword raised.

We are parallel to the sandbags, now. I keep him off balance as I force him toward the sawhorses. The ring of our swords fills the yard. Jager’s heavy heels dig up dirt in his sloppy retreat. Too late, I realize why. Jager reverses his step and kicks dust into my face. Ass.

My hood limits the effect, but I must close my advance and revert to defense. I stop his blade at waist height and hold it there as I blink dust from my lashes. The pressure of his blade against mine lifts. I adjust to block what should be a strike at my heart, but he aims high and grazes my cheek.

He shuffles out of range. Apologies, Huscarl! His wide grin belies his words.

Blood soaks my torn hood, and my face throbs. The wound itself is insignificant. My mother owns more skin regenerative potions than a community of lepers. More important is Jager’s decision to break the rules, a rare move that alarms me.

Do you need a moment? He politely asks.

I toss my saber from my right to my left hand. My weaker hand needs practice, too. In theory, my switch is a handicap, but silent slights enrage Jager to stupidity. His swings widen with his anger. I land two more good strikes at his breast. He backs me up to the sawhorses with what he believes are expert tactics, but I step into his too open stance. My blade pushes his down as I swing my right elbow up and slam it into his nose. A crunch accompanies a spray of blood that sprinkles his dismayed devotees.

Jager screams and drops his sword to cradle his busted nose. Hate-filled eyes blaze over his hands. You ugly whore! Blood muffles his voice, but everyone in the courtyard understands his words.

The watchers gasp then tense in expectation of punishment for his slur against me. Three years as Huscarl and still no one sees beyond my hood. No one realizes I am not my mother.

His insult stings for a breath, but I laugh. You haven’t seen my face in years, Jager. Perhaps I blossomed. I mock the end of our exercise with a bow. If you’re going to start the rule breaking, I tap below the laceration on my cheek, be prepared to finish it.

I deliver my practice blade to the weapons master and go in search of my mother’s potions. She never intended to heal, but her desire for longevity benefits me today. The cleaning solution burns along my cut. I add a thin healing salve that numbs my skin then follow it with a regenerative potion. The potion applied twice a day will reduce the cut to nothing in a week.

I toss my ruined hood into the burn bin near my bedroom door. I run a finger close to the cut I wish gone and wonder why. No one but Veragert ever sees me. The answer is almost as petty as the man who wounded me: there can be no proof that he scored a hit—however small and illegal. Someday when I remove my hood in Jager’s presence, there will be no scar to puff up his pride.

A knock sounds on my door. Huscarl, Regent Duri desires your presence.

Wednesday afternoons are usually my own. My mother locks herself in her library and works on her plans to dominate the Wolves in Griseo Wood then spread her control to the Kurvig River. I don’t usually see her again until Thursday.

A few years ago, I asked her why she hates the forest thieves so much.

I don’t hate the Wolves, she’d insisted with an innocence that implied she’d forgotten the slave raids, slaughters, and pronouncement that any Wolf found in Fraus would be killed on sight. They’re just in the wrong place. I try to put them where they belong, but they resist.

The forest isn’t where Wolves belong? I’d asked, my sarcasm fully developed by then.

No. Frost had brightened her blue eyes. I will finish what my father began. It was a declaration of superiority rather than a promise to the grandfather I never knew. She has given me less insight into him than her campaign against Wolves. There are not even portraits of my ancestors in Castle Fraus. The only information on my grandfather that I ever gleaned from her was a brief description. Powerful, Pyrrha. Powerful, yet dead.

I sigh and leave my room to answer my mother’s call. Her library is oddly named for only a few books sit on the shelves. The rest of the space is filled with jars, bowls, mortars, pestles, bones, skeins of hair, all things necessary for a sorceress bent on power and immortality. Bundles of herbs hang from hooks alongside shriveled animal parts and sachets of teeth.

Where she stands at the window, sunlight brightens her blond head like a warped halo. She wears her most flattering red gown, cut to accentuate the flare of her hips and her tiny waist—in honor of Jager’s visit, I assume. I doubt she dressed for me.

Her chin tilts over one shoulder, and she narrows her eye at me. Where is your hood? You know your face displeases me.

I’m callous to this particular sentiment. Everyone’s face but her own displeases my mother. I have a fresh wound on my cheek. The silk will stick to it.

Hmph. When she turns, I catch sight of why she called for me. A tiny gray orinherald sits in her palm.

Orinheralds are messenger birds which cross kingdoms and queendoms to provide messages in a universal language. They sing their message which is interpreted by a trusted chanteur, someone with the ability to understand them. After my mother killed her last chanteur in a fit of rage, no more have revealed their talent to serve the Regent of Fraus.

In the absence of a chanteur, the method my mother uses to discern orinherald messages sickens me. I wish to leave, but the painted blue feet of the orinherald means it comes from Queen Gratia, my grandmother. I stand my ground, fist my hands, and breathe deep in anticipation of the nausea to come.

Regent Duri cradles the orinherald in one hand, cooing to it as she carries it to a table adorned with bottles and a silver platter. She envelops the body of the orinherald inside her hand and draws a knife from her belt. At least death comes quickly when she cuts off the head.

Blood pools on the silver platter while she holds the body over it. With one long fingernail, she flicks the tiny head off the platter. When the bird’s life diminishes to a trickle, she drops the carcass into a metal bucket on the floor. Next, she pricks her arm and a few drops of her blood mix with the red puddle that quivers on the platter. She adds a spoonful of powder and stirs it with what I believe is a human finger bone. I refuse to ask.

I press my lips together as she chants with her mouth hovering a breath away from the mixture. She stands upright a second before the blood explodes into a quick-burning flame. When the fire burns out, she carries the platter to the natural light at the window and reads a pattern that only she can decipher.

Hmmm. After tipping the platter back and forth a few times, she drops it like a red ember. It clatters onto the stone sill of the window. Queen Gratia has been bitten by a komoviper.

My heart seizes. The nausea I fought during the orinherald ritual rolls back. The komoviper delivers a venom that slowly spreads and painfully kills over weeks if the victim does not receive the rare antidote. Do you have any ambrin serum? Fear for my grandmother weakens my voice.

Ambrin serum is derived from a plant that grows in Ethiscar, a rugged jungle-land west of the Vehementi Sea. Only brave adventurers dare to explore Ethiscar. The Regent of Fraus controls the import of ambrin serum, but even she procures little of the rare plant extract.

My mother’s smooth brow creases. She fingers the large ruby she constantly wears as if it’s a magical medallion instead of a priceless jewel with a bloody past. Its smaller ruby sisters were set in the sword and belt of the Huscarl of Fraus before Veragert’s grandparents were even born.

She moves to the other side of the room. I believe I have some.

It is not something she would forget. Sweat beads along my hairline as it appears she will not even check. The alliance between herself and my grandmother is tenuous, held together by the shadowy memory of my father’s love and a blood oath performed at their wedding. Neither one can invade the other, attack the other’s soldiers, or directly order the other’s death. No clause in the oath forbids my mother from sitting on ambrin serum while Nonni dies from a komoviper’s bite.

Too bad you’re not a santactio, Pyrrha. You could simply visit Gratia and give her a kiss. Her smile reminds me of our old castle cat who loved to sneak into my room and piss in my boots.

But ‘bitch’ suits her more. Santactios are legendary possessors of a healing