Breaker of Fates - Broken Song Verse 1

By Vaela Denarr, Micah Iannandrea and Elisa Cura

Perilous quests give rise to heroes. And broken songs call for Chosen Ones to be mended.

Roderick and Keeva, once friends, now orphaned by a dragon's wrath that fractured the harmony between the great clans, spend their days locked in battl

• Language: English
• Publisher: Vaela & Micah Books
• Release date: Jan 31, 2024
• ISBN: 9781998085026

Vaela Denarr

Vaela is a nonbinary, transfemme polyamorous lesbian working as the primary writer in her partnership with Micah Iannandrea. They write full time in order to someday be able to move to their datemate and build a queer bookfort with them. Her writing usually focuses on sapphic, nonbinary, trans or genderqueer characters, and portraying different relationships of love (familial, platonic, romantic or physical).

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Also By

Crimson Tears

The Gift of Blood 

The Thrill of the Hunt (TBR)

Stars, Hearts and Dreams

She Who Brought the Storm (Prelude)

She Who Earned Her Wings

Standalones

Moonlight Love and Witchcraft (CT)

Of Books and Paper Dragons

Copyright © 2023 by Vaela Denarr & Micah Iannandrea

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S., Canadian and European copyright law.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Vaela Denarr (She/They) & Micah Iannandrea (They/Them) asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

First edition

Cover art by Elisa Cura

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Image by Conrad Altmann

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Contents

Dear Reader

Content Note

Dedication

Pronoun Guide

1.Prologue

2.Chapter 1

3.Chapter 2

4.not alone / singing communion / harmony

5.Chapter 3

6.Chapter 4

7.Chapter 5

8.Chapter 6

9.Chapter 7

10.by day, I lie / where my love lies / buried

11.Chapter 8

12.Chapter 9

13.Chapter 10

14.Chapter 11

15.Chapter 12

16.friends / beloved / family / beloved

17.Chapter 13

18.Chapter 14

19.I rise/ starlight kissing / my skin

20.Chapter 15

21.Chapter 16

22.Chapter 17

23.sing heart and heartbreak / hunger / starlight silver

24.Chatpter 18

25.Chapter 19

26.Chapter 20

27.Chapter 21

28.blood / love / hunger / driving us

29.Chapter 22

30.Chapter 23

31.Chapter 24

32.dawn breaks / your song breaks / you leave me

33.Chapter 25

34.Chapter 26

35.Chapter 27

36.buried / clawing / choking

37.Chapter 28

38.Chapter 29

39.Chapter 30

40.despair / bitter / sweet / upon my lips and yours

41.Chapter 31

42.Chapter 32

Beloved where we meet (Excerpt)

Afterword

Koor Kosma and The Broken Song — Making Of, and Inspirations

Acknowledgements

About the Authors

Dear Reader

This is perhaps one of the more difficult things I have written so far. Art is life, and life is art. Both are a process. A journey, not a destination. They mirror and reflect each other. Our experiences echo through the things we create, be they visual art, auditory or literary. Everyone’s journey is different. We can join each other in community on the path, but there are moments and reckonings that are just for us.

Writing this book has been a step on that journey for myself. Mostly, it has been a journey of growth in a professional sense, in the quality of writing elevating closer to my personal standards, and how I approach art. I would love to say that we live in a world where either does not directly influence my ability to survive, and that I was able to craft this in a whole year of loving dedication. And you might be reading this, wondering why I would put it into the first thing you get to see within these pages. Mostly, I think that in order to create more art out there, to encourage more expression and as such cultivate people’s ability to understand one another and the systems that govern our lives, the professions surrounding artistic pursuits need to be demystified.

At the time of writing, with the story done and finished, it has been four months since the creation of the first Trap Your Lovers document. Three of those were spent writing the book. The fourth… is a complicated personal matter. But it relates to the subject of this book.

That subject, the very theme that moves its characters, is forgiveness. Growth, yes. Queerness in all its beauty, too.

It is unapologetically queer. Gender is as diverse in its existence and expression as body types, eye colours, hair lengths and more. I would like to note at this point that there are characters using their pronouns in ways that may be unconventional to people who do not travel in queer circles. I wouldn’t call it confusing by any means, but conformity is an insidious poison. It may take a moment or two to fully expel it. We are taught from birth to listen to the world around us. A world that is actively hostile to people like myself and the people I love. A world that thrives on assigning moral goodness to the circumstances of our birth. To the colour of our skin, the form of our flesh, and how good we are at being beaten into the shape the machine needs to enrich the ones running it.

But we’re not metal pieces to be discarded. The iron in the blood we spill does not make us cogs to be used. And this is not a gentle book. It may convey a message of hope, but such messages are not needed in worlds without pain, and this pain is mine. It is a sliver of suffering in an endless sea of screams. It is an outcry for an ideal, community and goodness in the face of the inevitable. It is not a great work of art, but it is mine. There are many like it, many more eloquent, and many from people who have suffered more. Even in the realms of purely original fiction, there are works more imaginative, societies more alive, and skies more vibrant than this.

But this is mine. And I am grateful to still be here to share it.

This is a book about a society in a fantastical world. No conscious inspiration has been drawn from any one culture, though it is possible that some may have snuck in. I would love to pay homage to the different beautiful cultures of our world someday… but three months is not enough time for the amount of research I would require of myself. Regardless, a few names and influences from cultures and nationalities not my own have been placed here. Some were deliberate choices— first steps in adding yet more diversity into a genre that has predominantly been occupied by a white cishet demographic —and a few we leaned into after accidental discovery.

Ziira’s sword comes to mind.

I thought nobody made unreasonably cool weapons.

I was wrong.

In the society within these pages, physicality does not dictate your treatment. There is no systemic racism. The colour of your skin is not used as a cudgel against you. Disabilities are natural and accommodated for, and not used as justifications for mistreatment, because the people in this world aren’t fucking monsters. I sincerely hope that the writing conveys that.

Queerness is normalized. Homophobia, transphobia and sexism, for the largest part, do not exist within this world, and certainly not in this specific book. Nakedness is not sexualised or fetishized, and consent valued and cherished.

This is a book about queerness and trauma, only one step removed from its source. It is a book about characters who have been hurt deeply and scarred for life, without and within, and the grief they feel at the things they’ve done to survive. This is a book about forgiving your friend for the harm they’ve caused. About forgiving yourself for having been hurt, for having to run, to flee, to heal. For still not being healed.

Eventually, this will be a story about how forgiveness is extended, not earned. And I want to make entirely clear that not all things can be forgiven, or should.

Forgiveness is not earned. But some people put all their effort behind being as undeserving as possible before demanding it.

There is pain in this book. There are complex and complicated relationships. Messy people trying their best and failing. There are tears. But there is hope. There are horses, there are dragons and night skies full of wonder.

And there is love, always.

I hope you enjoy it.

And if you’re hurting, I hope you forgive yourself for what you have to do to heal.

To summarize, regarding the world, writing and presentation:

This book is written in Canadian English with the use of both the metric and imperial measuring systems. Metric for distances, imperial for characters’ heights. (They both have their strengths and weaknesses.)

Epic fantasy often makes use of formal language and the very trite and walked to death setting and aesthetics of medieval europe. As may be evident in this description, I don’t like that. If that’s your cup of tea, no shade to you, but we ain’t ‘bout it. Therefore, this work at times uses somewhat more colloquial language than you’d find in many others of its kind. The Watsonian reason for the why is that it takes place in a future world, where humans still exist alongside dragons, but much of human technology has been replaced by convenient crystal magic, clean energy, and gay nerds with swords kissing.

The Doylist answer is that the stilted, pretend eloquence and self-importance of the old guard of high fantasy bores me, and if people don’t have a problem reading The Lord of the Rings in English instead of whatever language Tolkien translated it from, then they can shut up about the use of the word lesbian.

Of course we take care not to make use of too glaring an anachronism. After all, while starships still exist in this world, they are not part of this particular story, and few people have ever heard a bass drum or a jet engine. If it’s not part of the everyday world around them, it shouldn’t come up.

In the way people speak to each other… well, gay people are allowed to be dramatic every now and then. Art is valued on Astraea, and that includes people not minding flowery vocal expression over following cultural norms, at least in many places in the world.

Also this book has giant fucking dragons with bodies constructed of metal bones and crystal mesh bending physics to their will. I will not be told I’m not allowed the word fuck or the concept of indoor plumbing because SWORDS exist.

My explanation for why some of the words used are distinctly not made up and distinctly not English has less to do with the world within these pages, but rather our own. There are many reasons for the incorporation of inspirations from different cultures. Maybe it’s just the right thing to show our world as it is, with a diversity of body types, skin colours, cultures, opinions etc, instead of whitewashing them. Maybe it’s just natural, as it is the world that surrounds us, specifically.

I’ve thought about the why a lot, and I can’t put it into words. I’m not eloquent enough. I can write a 180k word story about trauma and fear, but some things are too deep to put them into words in the short front matter of a fantasy novel.

That being said, we, as people, as authors, in our actions and writing, are committed to an non-colonial, anti-orientalist stance. Being queer, it doesn’t take much for us to give a shit about other marginalized communities. Being white, we are aware of our privilege over many of those communities. And we are most certainly aware of the immense amount of stigma Black, Indigenous and Authors of Colour face in the businesses of writing, publishing, and self publishing.

We refuse to be part of the problem, of supporting and endorsing the whitewashing and gatekeeping of literature, and someday want to be able to uplift authors of colour in a meaningful way. Until then, our writing will reflect our continued efforts to learn about other marginalized communities and cultures, and attempts to normalise a straying from the societally accepted formula. I believe I mentioned earlier that learning is a process, and one we are eager to undergo responsibly and with great care.

Regarding the depictions of queer expression and queer language within this book:

 This is, in large parts, an ownvoices book. The way queerness is handled is directly inspired by the authors' own experiences with sexuality, transness and gender non-conformity.

This book uses queer in a reclaimed way, and gay in a general I like people of the same gender way. Many characters in the world within these pages are gender non-conforming or trans, and in fact it should not be assumed that a character is cisgender unless this was explicitly stated.

(Let me tell you now, dear reader, that I don’t think it will ever be stated, because it literally doesn’t matter.)

Many of the characters use multiple sets of pronouns, and while their preferred ways of doing so are as varied as in the real world, where necessary or possible, we may make use of one of them to help differentiate between characters in a scene. The way characters of the same gender dress or express themselves can also vary wildly, as queerness by definition is a breaking of norms and boundaries.

People in this world do not view humans as inherently superior to other life forms, which is reflected in how they use magic to commune with animals, oftentimes learning the names and pronouns they find pleasing. It presents a neutral pronoun without any association of dehumanisation that our own society often places on it. (It is often used for dragons. You know, when you can’t ask them their gender and you’re a little too terrified of their enormous teeth to go oh, they look nice and personable.)

For the purpose of convenience, people of various genders in this book will be referred to as how they identify and with the pronouns they use, even if the POV character is unaware of them, unless obscuring their identity is integral to the plot.

Regarding inspiration:

As mentioned before, no intentional inspiration has been drawn from any real world cultures for the society depicted in this book. While it’s always a possibility that something subconscious slipped in, I just liked the idea of a huge, a little broken up society of people who really like their animals and horses and devote all their free time to various expressions of art.

Witchcraft, druidry, magic, cultures and religious practices in this book stem from the imagination of the authors and are not meant to be representative of or commentary on real world practices of cultures, witchcraft or any religions. We are committed to continually learning more about the ways magic and spiritualities have been appropriated by past great works of SFF, and to not make the same mistakes. That being said, there is a good chance something has slipped in, as there is A LOT of cultural appropriation and racism intertwined with many of the well known and well loved magic systems of the past century, and changes to the story may need to be made at some point in the future.

For those without the financial means to buy our books, we offer free copies. If you end up enjoying them, we would be very grateful for a review, as those can help us grow, and thus our ability to write more stories. You can reach us via https://linktr.ee/VaelaAndMicah

These authors support trans rights, bodily autonomy, the crash of the housing market, death of capitalism, and complete and thorough dismantling of colonialist structures and systems of oppression. If you disagree with these stances, this book isn't for you, and the themes of love, acceptance, compassion and respect represented in much of our writing will most likely nauseate you. Please go read a different book.

Content Note

References to: death by fire; romantic and sexual entanglements; mass death; refugee crisis;

Mentions of: fantasy violence and fantasy violence perpetrated by animals; fantasy warfare and politics; religiously motivated persecution; traumatic and disabling events; self-harm ideation; self destructive tendencies; cannibalism; blood and bloodletting; cosmetic scarring; amnesia; undeath, dismemberment of the undead, slight gore and slight eye gore;

On-page depictions of: robbery; fantasy violence; captivity; loss of home to disaster; death and death of loved ones; trauma; interrogation; complex and complicated relationships; childhood trauma; PTSD; blood; romance, flirting, and innuendo; kissing; sexual entanglements (non-graphic, Chapter 24); teenage substance use; anger; unreality and loss of memory; captivity, abuse, and attempted human sacrifice; humans devoured by large animals;

Additional note: This book does not contain non-consensual sex in any way, shape or form, nor is it meant to imply the occurrence or endorsement of such or any other sexual taboos that infringe on any person's will and/or dignity. This book does not contain sexual or romantic relationships between family members, blood related or otherwise. This book contains gender equality and non-sexual casual/artistic nudity, such as people taking off their shirts regardless of gender or body type. None of the content of this book is meant to be used for purposes of fetishization or sexual gratification. This book is, in fact, not erotica despite potential classification by third parties.

For the rage within our souls.

For the pain we have endured.

For the scars we bear, and the depths of them the world will never know.

For everyone who had to flee to survive.

For the countless hopeful fools with their USB mics sitting around tables, thinking up silly little stories in their heads, that saved my life.

For my heart, who guards and protects me even now.

You are the world. My sky and stars, who promise freedom and hope for a better life, and the ground that holds me up so I may reach it after long and wearying travel.

You are my Eternity.

Pronoun Guide

Pronoun guide

Seeing as there are various characters with various different pronouns, we have elected to provide a handy guide for those travelling in more… gender conformist aligned circles.

This is a courtesy. 

Unbroken Clan

Keeva (She/Her)

Zhean (She/They)

Sahka (She/Her)

Niao (They/Them)

Anuuk (They/Them)

Rianju (He/They)

Scorn (She/Her)

Feng (He/Him)

Winter’s Shadow (They/Them)

Windstride (They/Them)

The Falcon (It/The Flacon)

(Yes, the animals get their own pronouns. This book has magic. People can fucking talk to animals.)

Tempering Gem River Clan

Bitter (She/Her)

Ciitis (She/Her)

Luó (He/They?)

Cynan (They/Them)

Song (She/Her)

Eyuun (She/Her)

Song Clan

Veramis (They/He)

Scar Clan

Olaana (He/Him)

Blood Clan

Thymaii (He/they)

Divinities

Atvali (He/They)

Ziira (She/He)

Irul-maaq (They/Them)

Zo’tam (He/She)

Yehi-vos’saam/Vos’saam/Vos/Eternity (They/She/He/Any)

Starblood Druids

Vaalyun (He/They/???)

Gyasi (They/He)

Unaffiliated

Ruth (She/Her)

Alban (He/Him)

Khualani (She/They)

Deviations

Mateo (He/Him)

Khinaar (They/Them)

Quinn (She/They)

Harmony (She/Her)

Artemis/Xi Jing Wei (They/Them)

Revenant (He/Him)

????? (???/????) — [LEVEL 9 REDACTION]

Prologue

wander alone / sing broken songs

Harmony is found everywhere, throughout the ever-shifting cosmos. In the colours and shapes of a tapestry, woven over generations in tents on windswept plains, requiring skill and patience. In the melody of a song, sung on horseback or during the working hours of the day, its true ingredient naught but joy and imagination. In the light of stars that speckle the skies, assuring us that existence is far-reaching. That life and hope exist in the dark.

There are other harmonies in the world. Older ones. The roar of a wildfire. The quiet after a storm. The rush of a river and the thundering of a rockslide. Even the breeze shifting the leaves. They all carry their own harmonies, unchanged since time immemorial. And it is only in very rare places, like the Singing City of the Wind where those old harmonies mingle with the young ones brought by humankind.

Here, the Wind— named Atvali, the Guide, god of wind, song, freedom, wanderers, the arts, prophecy and the hunt —resides in halls that stretch to the mountaintops and beyond. He dances through the city streets, up and down rough-hewn steps, bounding and bouncing between houses that promise safety and respite for the weary, and shelter from the elements they venerate. The sound of windchimes and bone whistles mingle with the songs of people, each one a prayer, forming a new kind of harmony, ceaselessly shifting from age to age, generation to generation, mouth to mouth and ear to ear. Always new, yet always the same, in its ever-loud tranquility.

Until today.

Today, fire blooms on the mountain, and with it, disharmony. It goes unnoticed, at first, as it is not unusual to see the life-giving element in kitchens or in dancing rings. What is unusual is the note it produces. A new note, one not fit for the peace of this holy place. A discord that flickers and flares brighter with each voice it consumes.

The fire spreads down the mountain, and in its wake follows a dragon, singing a song that clashes with the very city. It drives the flame before its serpentine, snakelike body bleeding liquid stone from a wound driven through its sternum. The beast consumes homes with its flame, crushes them under winged claws that grasp and stomp, veins running golden with the power of divinity, battling the poison within. The discord is audible now, tearing at the oh-so-solid harmony as a hundred throats shout for the Speakers, the devout of the Guides who hold their songs.

But the Speakers do not come, and the people burn. They burn bright in the dragon’s wake, and those who yet live only scramble more frantically to escape, adding another stampede to that of the horses, goats and cattle fleeing the city. The place of rest and respite is defiled by death, its meaning unraveled, its harmony sundered. Not a single family is spared, not a single song remains unbroken. And from those who had no family left of their own, death takes the family they found. A boy, not yet a man, sees his best friend burn to death. A woman, not yet a warlord, watches her lover die in flame. There are many more who die, too many to count, and each death adds to the beautiful cacophony that is senseless violence.

The dragon battles the elements when they come, unmaking all that should have been. Roiling storm threatens to choke him. Roaring flame attempts to turn his violence on himself. The earth seeks to unravel his wrathful song and is swallowed in fury and pale blue flame.

Eternity mourns the loss of life.

Of love.

Of Harmony.

The dragon— beast of radiating poison, stone, and blood-streaked tears —does not cease. Another of its kind rises from the ashes, clad in midnight feathers, rage simmering in the eyes set into its skull and the ones lining its throat. Another song joins death and devastation as the great beasts clash in a roar of flame, glowing hot and midnight black. The sanctuary is gone, its singers muted, its dancers hobbled, its great minds struck numb — but, far removed, Harmony remains.

There is a beauty in the discordant notes that clash and claw at each other. Something that has always been there, hiding in the shadows, watching from behind mirror panes and beneath water’s surface. A friend, a stranger, an unknowable force, since time immemorial. Something that no amount of human imagination could slay, a hunger that no human life could ever satiate. A fate that was and is inevitable.

So fear not, you mortals, and do not mourn your gods. For all your songs are broken, and all of you are lost. Destiny will end all pain, from this world to the stars. Gods alone will then remain, and peace will be at last.

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Chapter 1

RODERICK

Koor Kosma was a land of plains and rolling hills, lush and green, and near endless in its beauty — or so the story went. Personally, Roderick found the endless expanse of field and grass somewhat unnerving, and just a little sad. Dreary, if he was to be honest. When he had first stepped from the Saguni Forest out into the enormous valley, he had clung to his dad’s robe, begging him to let him stay behind. The large, thick trees, which only allowed some sunlight to filter through, had provided much comfort.

Of course the forest held its own dangers, hence why the convoy Roderick was travelling with was heavily guarded. The Unbroken’s riders flanked the dozen wagons on both sides, guiding their horses just with their legs and the occasional click of their tongues, while keeping their shotbows at the ready. Their small, stocky steeds were restless, prancing and nickering whenever they stood still for a moment. The smart animals had picked up on the unease felt by their riders, many of whom were used to a much clearer line of sight, and much less shadow during the early evening hours.

Were it up to them, they likely would have avoided Koor Sagun, opting to add an extra few weeks of travel time to their trip just so they could stay outside the forest. Roderick had a hard time not rolling his eyes at them. The thing was, he had always been scared of the open sky. In a world where giant beasts were more common than dragons, you never knew what could drop on top of you out of nowhere.

He went on to prove that point when he dropped down from the branch he’d been balancing on, right next to the red-skinned driver of the lead car, and snatched the reins out of his hand.

Okay, maybe it was a stretch to say that he’d been travelling with the convoy.

Ya! Roderick shouted the command, whipping the reins, and the horses dashed off at a sudden, breakneck speed. In their frightened state, it didn’t take much to make them go, and a hearty laugh sounded from Roderick’s lips as he called back to the rest of the convoy.

Thanks for the food, and see you never! His long, gold-brown hair waved like a flag in the wind. An errant arrow shot past him, and he paid it no mind. Next to him, the boy who’d steered the cart thus far clung to their seat, black ponytail whipping around their face, yelling over the sound of thundering hooves.

"What— Who—? What are you doing?" Their golden eyes were wide, their body tense and their hands clutched onto the edge of their seat with a white-knuckled grip. Even their tail, which was long and thin, adorned with red and gold mottled fur that ended in a great tuft,, had curled around the seat railing. The wind tore at their dark brown shirt with the triangular patterns of their clan stitched to the sleeve. Black and white pearls hung from the silver bangles adorning his straight, twisted golden horns.

Sorry to steal you away like this, Roderick said, still laughing, "but this is a robbery, so…" He shrugged apologetically and pulled the reins to steer the horses down a different path. The whole cart jumped as they raced over the uneven ground and something heavy landed on it.

By the way, I’m Rod, that there’s Ruthless. He pointed over his shoulder.

What? The kid looked young enough to be in his twenties, with just a fuzz of red and gold hanging from the corners of his jaw. He turned around just in time to see the giant woman who had landed on the tarp-covered crates reach out for him. She gripped him by the front of his shirt, picked him up with one hand, and tossed him off the cart. Roderick glanced back and watched him land in a pile of leaves and branches with a sympathetic wince.

And now he knows why we call you that.

"Will you shut up and focus on the road? Ruthless, whose real name was Ruth, dropped down heavily next to him. Sweat beaded her dark green and mud-coloured brow, and she wiped over it with a big hand. The mottled patches on the skin of her arms still shifted like leaves, affected by the tinktures many orcs brewed as part of their cultural practice. Atvali, you must be either blessed or cursed to still be alive. Stealing from the Unbroken’s main convoy? What were you thinking? And what am I thinking, going along with it?"

What are you talking about? This plan was great! The cart jumped once more as one of the wheels hit a rock, and Roderick was tossed against Ruth. Her arms and shoulders, both covered in chipped brown scales and knotted scars, strained as she held herself in her seat by sheer force of physical strength. Roderick being pressed against her hardly even registered to her, seeing as she was seven feet tall and pretty much twice his weight in muscle. She grunted as the wagon came back down, and glared at him. Roderick shrugged, grin still firmly in place.

It’s working, isn’t it?

She rolled her yellow eyes at him. You’re lucky you weren’t shot! We need to get you some armour.

I’d rather be quick on my feet and not get hit, thank you. Roderick drove the horses around another sharp turn and strained to remain in his seat.

You can’t dodge an arrow, little man.

Roderick scoffed indignantly. Yes, I can! Speaking of arrows, though… He pointed to Ruth’s shoulder. She frowned, craning her neck to follow his gaze to the two arrows sticking out of the back of her leather armour.

Oh. She reached back and yanked them both out. One had a little blood on it. So, as I was saying…

An arrow piercing the wooden backrest between them shut her up. Roderick whipped around, hair still fluttering wildly in the draft. Most of the guards had gone back to deal with the ambush his little band of merry outlaws had staged, but two still followed them, and they were gaining ground.

They couldn’t escape. Not unless something was done about that. Without a cart, those riders’ horses outpaced theirs, and Roderick and Ruth’s animals were already tired. Foam was gathering at the sides of their mouths and under their harnesses, quickly spreading more over their fur. And unlike Ruth, Roderick wasn’t arrow-proof. They had to lose their pursuers, and quickly.

Take the reins! Roderick thrust them at Ruth’s chest and jumped up on the crates packed onto the wagon.

Roderick, stop that! You’re going to fall off!

I’m not going to fall off!

"You will, and I’m not coming back for you!" Ruth jerked the reins sharply to avoid collision with an uprooted tree, and Roderick momentarily went down to a knee to steady his balance. An arrow whizzed past his head as he did, the sound mixing with the rush of blood his quickened heartbeat sent through his ear.

I mean it, Roderick! I swear to the gods, you’re going to die!

Roderick looked back at her, and this time there was an almost manic glint in his eye. If I die, I’ll have lived first! Tell my story! Only the good parts!

The cart shuddered and bounced beneath his feet as he rose. His shirt, white, dirty and flowing, fluttered around his arms like a flag during a storm. Roderick’s eyes locked on the riders, who had now recognized him. Both wore the usual Korian leathers Roderick had come to know, and they were definitely part of the Unbroken’s retinue. The one to the left was brown skinned with pointed ears and bits of crimson in his finely braided hair. One of his hands was made of solid grey stone, and he steered his horse with the other. Cold determination burned in his dark eyes, narrowed and focused on the cart. Despite the fey-kin ancestry evident in his features, he did not hurl any magic their way. Not yet, at least.

The other one was lion-headed, with a scar running over one eye. He was much more passionate about the whole ordeal, shooting his last arrows with wild abandon, and threw down his bow in frustration when all of them went wide. He seemed oddly familiar… But no time for that now.

Roderick took a familiar stance. One foot forward. Opposite hand back. Body slightly bent to avoid getting buffeted by the wind, gripping his weapons. He only needed the whip he unclasped from his belt, but his free hand still closed tight around the duelling dagger strapped to his lower back. He took a deep breath and let it out again, closing his eyes.

Around him, the noise of the wheels faded into the background. His thumb brushed over the dagger’s hilt. Over the tarnished golden pommel, worn with use, and the gold threaded into the soft black of the hilt. Wind roared in his ears, his heartbeat pulsed like a drum, and then even those sounds faded as though he was submerged in a river so loud it drowned out the world. The thundering of hooves before him crystallized into clarity. The quick and throaty breaths of the horses, those of the riders — and the creak of leather as they both shifted forward to grasp at the cart.

Rodericks eyes sprang open.

His hand already shot forward, the whip uncurling behind him. It cut through the air like a knife, slicing through the saddle straps of their pursuers. Both horses nickered in surprise as their riders suddenly fell off them. Roderick laughed, leaving them in the dust, and let his whip snap one more time.

I dedicate this victory to my boyfriend!

Gods, Roderick, Ruth called out behind him. You might be a fool, but you’re something else with that whip! Maybe I should trust your judgement more! Her broken tusk glinted in a wide grin that mirrored his when he plopped back down next to her.

See? Roderick laughed, relaxing. I know what I’m doing! His fingers released the hilt of his father’s dagger, and he curled up his whip again with slow, deliberate movements, sitting there. But then his brow knotted in a frown, and he glanced back the way they’d come.

Wait, I didn’t date that lion guy, did I?

Nevermind, you’re fucking hopeless. Ruth shook her head.

Roderick mulled it over for a while longer. He hoped he hadn’t dated that guy… It would be in poor taste to leave an ex just stranded in the middle of the Saguni Forest.

But, at this point, it wasn’t really his problem. Sometimes, sacrificing for the greater good meant not talking to your ex. It wasn’t Roderick’s fault that this happened to be very convenient for him.

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KEEVA

The Korian Valley was truly vast. The lowlands, wedged between the Saguni Forest and the highlands, stretched for miles and miles. It was said that before the Guides had become the gods of Koor Kosma, they had crossed the oceanic expanse of grassland in the shape of horses. They had run alongside Zunaan, Bearer of Song, Worldspeaker, in her quest to bring the gods’ worship to all Koor Kosma. She had lived as a mortal, but travelled among gods, and even Atvali, the Wind, had been unable to run from the highlands to the lowlands in less than three days when she’d dared him to try.

Even back then, Korians had been divided into many clans, each one making up a piece of their varied culture. And while there had been the occasional disputes, the valley had been big enough that you could simply avoid one another. The greatest thing they’d had in common were the gods who guided them, taught them worship and magic. There had been many, but five major ones stood out that every Korian knew, as they signified the five elements they worshipped.

Atvali, the Wind. Irul-maaq, the River. Ziira and Zo’tam, twin gods of Flame and Mountain, and Yehi-vos’saam, called Vos’saam. Eternity.

These days, the gods were silent and the endless valley had grown much smaller. Too small for Keeva, the Unbroken, to tolerate thieves. She watched the ambush from atop a cliff jutting out above the trail she’d chosen for the convoy. A compound shortbow of horn and wood rested in her hand, which clenched around the grip as she resisted the urge to loose an arrow at her foes with all the self-control she possessed.

Beneath her, Rianju pranced and snorted loudly, ears turned back as if to gauge her emotions. Keeva closed her eyes for a moment, took a breath, and let it out again with a silent prayer to Atvali, steadying herself. The prayer was nothing in particular. Just some breath offered to the wind for a successful hunt.

It wouldn’t take more than that. Focusing on the now again, she leaned down, taking her hand off Zhean’s shoulder, and patted Rianju’s broad neck.

Ho there. Her words came out soft and deep, calming the animal. We’ll get him this time.

Rianju, who would have probably had something to say about that, were he not a horse, stamped his hoof once. His dappled white and grey fur was matted with sweat from the ride here. It had taken weeks of planning and five of the best, most enduring horses, to pull off this ambush. It couldn’t fail.

We better. Zhean, who sat next to Keeva on her horse, Windstride, turned and gave her a sharp look. That is three months worth of rations for each of our camps.

Zhean’s gaze was always piercing. A stark yellow brown, surrounded by brown skin even darker than Keeva’s. Their colour matched that of her falcon’s, which circled above the ambush point. Many of their clanspeople rumored that she could see through the falcon’s eyes. In truth, Zhean’s eyes were sharper than those of any falcon.

If this doesn’t work—

It’ll work. Keeva’s tone grew sharp. And I don’t need my Second questioning me. Now… She sat upright in her saddle, done petting Rianju. Let’s see how many rats we’ve managed to catch, hm?

She squeezed her legs, and Rianju stepped back from the cliff with a huff, turning on command. Keeva was an experienced rider, and she trained her horses well. She needed only her legs to direct Rianju down the steep path safely, trusting in his natural instincts and balance as she leaned back to not topple over her horse’s neck herself.

I wasn’t going to question you. Zhean rode up next to Keeva once they were back on even ground. "I’m just saying… What’s our plan if we don’t get him? If he manages to escape?"

That won’t be an issue. Keeva rubbed an itchy spot under her eyepatch, just below the eye. After more than a decade, she was used to wearing it nonstop, but on hot days like this it could still get a little muggy beneath the leather. They don’t have any horses. How could they possibly get away?

I’m just saying… What if he, say, stole a wagon and—

Keeva turned so sharply that Rianju neighed loudly and stopped dead, startled. Her eyes narrowed, lips pulling into a growl.

What. Do. You. Mean?

Zhean brought Windstride to a stop as well. She met Keeva’s gaze unafraid. "He changed tactics. He didn’t fight this time. Just stole the first wagon and ran. Then his followers attacked the convoy, after pulling half the guards away."

They steeled themself under Keeva’s gaze, expecting her fury, which they knew better than anybody else. Zhean was her most trusted friend. They alone knew how much this meant to her. And for a moment Keeva’s expression did tighten, her one dark brown eye flaring with anger. Then she took a breath, and that ferocious fire dimmed.

No matter, she said, squeezing her legs and driving Rianju onward. She was aware of Zehan’s incredulous look, but paid it no mind. The plan was still the same. They would just have to move faster. They had two more chances to catch that rat, each progressively more risky. But she couldn’t just ignore him either. Rats multiplied quickly…

Fuck my life. Keeva ran a hand over her long, dark hair, tied back in a ponytail. She’d wanted to finish this already—

Did you get laid? Zhean, who still rode next to her with an incredulous look, shrugged at her glare. I’m just curious. Being this… mild mannered is not like you. They paused. Is this about that boy?

No, Keeva snapped. I just want to go home, let Rianju rest, and have a gods-damned nap!

Zhean’s shit-eating grin grew wider. "Gods, it is about him! So what, you get a new toy and suddenly all that bloodthirst is just gone?"

He’s not a toy. Keeva lifted her chin. Unlike most of my lovers, Mateo and I love and respect each other.

"None of what you two do at night is what I’d call loving and respecting each other."

Keeva rolled her eyes for a half second. Nobody else would dare speak to her like this, which was honestly a shame. She would quite enjoy putting Zhean in their place later.

Aren’t you still pining after that stablehand? She adopted a deliberately curious tone for good measure, tapping her chin. What was her name again? Joy? Sweetness? Song…?

Harmony. Zhean crossed their arms on horseback, cheeks a shade darker than before.

Riiight, Harmony! Now the grin was on Keeva’s lips. Zhean had fallen hard for the little stablehand. They had decent chances with her as well. Harmony was a gentle soul who didn’t judge people on outward characteristics. Not that Zhean had much to worry about in that regard anyway. They had a handsome face with a sharp jaw and narrow, angular eyes, and thin scars that pulled over the left side of their jaw. A few scars were pretty much unavoidable in the times they lived in, especially for someone as ambitious as her, and Keeva thought those little blemishes were quite attractive. She was muscular too, smart, and good in bed, if that was something her partners were interested in.

Zhean’s only flaw was their hair, which she sporadically chopped short with the nearest knife she could find. But instead they worried that Harmony wouldn’t want to date a soldier. Keeva understood their apprehensions. After all, even though they did what they did to keep their clan safe, it could get messy and bloody. And though Keeva did her best to ensure battles ended without casualties, there was always some risk that could lead to Harmony being apprehensive.

Still, Keeva wasn’t going to waste a chance to tease her friend.

You know, I’m her boss. I can order her to spend time with you.

Shut up.

You sure? Okay. Offer always stands. She purred the last words as Zhean rode ahead, unwilling to discuss their crush any further. Keeva smirked and put her bow away, clipping it to her saddle behind her. Zhean’s falcon found them after a while, carrying a message, a red cloth tied to its talons, the sign that the fight was over. Zhean untied it and tossed the scrap of fabric at Keeva’s face. She laughed.

What’s the matter, Zhean? Not feeling up to continue this discussion? She tilted her head, trying to catch her Second’s gaze. When Zhean’s sharp eyes finally did meet hers, a frown creased their brow.

Why do you care so much? She moved her falcon to her shoulder, where the bird’s large claws dug into the leather shoulder pad. So I think she’s pretty. You’re a warlord. You should have more important business, what with the reunification of the Korian valley.

Because, Zhean, darling, Keeva said, leaning over to stroke a finger over the falcon’s chest feathers approvingly, sometimes it’s all about the little pleasures in life. Then she clicked her tongue twice and took up the reins, spurring Rianju on. She rose in the stirrups in an even rhythm, driving him from a walk into a trot and then a canter after they reached the road.

It wasn’t a bad day to go riding. The wind on Keeva’s exposed arms cooled her hot skin. It rustled through the branches above them, eliciting quiet sounds and whistles from the many wood and bone wind chimes and whistles set up in the trees. There were no patterned cloths or ribbons to show what clan had put them up, and their twine was black with age. The soft, simple harmony they elicited faded at the edges of Keeva’s perception as she closed her eye, trusting in Rianju.

Sunlight fell through the tall trees and their dense branches here and there, dappling parts of the road in golden spots. Keeva took in the smells of the smells of the forest, breathing deep and letting the wind flow through her hair. Even at such a low speed, it rushed in her ears, and for a moment the sound took her back to ageher childhood, working in the stables of the Singing City. Long before she’d been a fighter, long before she’d had any horses of her own, she’d gone riding like this, without a saddle, trusting in the animal beneath her, feeling arms wrapped around her waist—

The smell of blood snapped her out of the memory. She fixed her eye on the road and wagons before her, and brought Rianju to a stop. He huffed, nostrils flared, and let out a quiet groan from deep in his chest.

Hey, it’s okay. You’re okay. Keeva patted his neck and slipped out of the saddle. She handed the reins off to Zhean, who had joined her on the ground. Her falcon fluttered its wings and took off, landing on the tarp of one of the wagons. Three wagons remained of the eight they’d sent out. A group of soldiers guarded them, bows ready and arrows nocked, watching the treeline. Another group was busy getting bandaged and treated by their healers.

Keeva’s nostrils flared at the smell. She used to hate the metallic scent of blood. Now she could swallow mouthfuls of it without blinking.

A soldier approached upon seeing her. He was a good deal older than most fighters in Keeva’s army. His thick, black beard was greying in places, and his dark skin was marked with wrinkles. The claws tipping his fingers had long since lost their sharpness, and from his forearms all the way to the enormous wings on his back and the fanned tail, his feathers were beginning to fade in colouration. His feet ended in large bird claws, wrapped with colourful bandages, and some of the scales were fading a bit.

Despite his age of sixty-eight, which for his people was quite advanced, his stark green eyes were still fiercely sharp. The colour filled the entire sclera, leaving only a slightly slitted pupil. A curved sword hung strapped to his side, wrapped with an emerald green duelling banner bearing a pattern of three triangles.

The shoulder strap of his leather armour was decorated with three blue feathers, some sort of military rank Keeva assumed. She had no formal military education, seeing as the clans hadn’t needed nor had any sort of organized fighting force before Revenant’s Descent. Even now, what fighting force they had remained isolated within their respective clans. Several of the clans had wasted no time building up armies in the absence of the gods, some more dangerous than others. Alliances were rare, as was trust between the leaders, but Olaana Zunaan was one of the less… disagreeable ones. After seven years of random skirmishes, their clans now worked together, instead of raiding each other’s supply convoys.

Zunaan. Olaana pressed his fist to his sternum in a traditional Korian salute. Unlike most of the Greater Clan Leaders, he regarded her as an equal.

How many wounded? Keeva looked at the soldiers. They seemed frustrated, though not to a point where she had to worry about any unforeseen casualties. Still, the basis of this alliance had been her guaranteeing the safety of Olaana’s people. It was the reason why she even bothered fighting in the first place.

Twelve wounded, five incapable of fighting. But nothing that a few weeks of rest won’t fix. Except one of them, who got himself kicked by a horse. Olaana’s fangs flashed as he growled the last words. This did not work as you said it would.

Olaana was one of very few avarians in the lowlands. At six-four, he was likely quite used to towering over most Korians, but Keeva met his gaze at eye level. She held it until he looked aside with a snarl.

I didn’t think they’d be so bold as to try and steal the carts too, Keeva admitted. The plan had been to wait until the main force attacked, then the soldiers hidden in the wagons, in crates under tarps, soldiers that she wasn’t supposed to have, had been meant to attack. Instead, the entire fighting force had been surprisingly spread out and cast into disarray far too quickly.

I commend you for getting the situation under control so quickly.

Our enemies still slipped away. Olaana followed her as she walked around, checking on the soldiers. This Roderick fellow has to have a death wish. It’s a miracle, a blessing or curse of the Guides, that he managed to slip away.

No miracle. Just luck. Keeva looked the wounded over, people of all kinds and sizes that got themself treated for cuts, bruises and the occasional broken bone. Though you’re right, it’s like trying to catch an eel with your bare hands.

I’ve caught eels before. It shouldn’t be that hard.

Keeva resisted the urge to snap at him. She had hoped they’d at least get Roderick. Cutting the head off this snake was all she’d wanted to do. A whole week of next to no sleep, five tired horses, three alliances, and all the secrecy in the world hadn’t been enough to finally accomplish that.

She was going to beat that man bloody.

A cry from the other side of the camp cut off the orders she’d formulated in her head.

What’s going on over there?

We caught our guide trying to slip away, so we set them aside for questioning. They probably tried to escape again. Seems you have a reputation. Olaana followed Keeva as she stepped around the wagon and watched a group of soldiers pile on a black-haired elf. He was rather thin and slight in build, and so the two soldiers on his back had little issue holding him down. One of them grabbed his hair and forced him down into the dirt.

He keeps managing to shrug off his blindfold. Fey-kin, you know what their magic is like…

Keeva frowned and stepped closer. She had specifically warned Olaana to keep an eye on the guide. Wayfinding in Koor Kosma wasn’t an uncommon occupation, especially for the more superstitious clans. After the fall of the Singing City, people had taken to thinking of Revenant shards as the eyes of the great beast. Most people liked to travel only on paths without obsidian. In Koor Sagun, you could never know if you weren’t about to step around a bend and find a piece of the black, mirror-like stone nestled in the rootwork of a tree. Some shards were so great, they even pierced whole trees, forcing the wood to grow around them.

So it hadn’t been strange when someone had offered Olaana a new, shorter path through the Saguni Forest. It was well travelled by the locals, lending credence to its safety, and ran right through the middle. A perfect ambush route. Keeva had smelled the trap from a mile away, and felt vindicated, having been right about it. This could be an opportunity. They did occasionally capture one of Roderick’s people, and usually interrogation yielded little results. This one, however…

The soldiers all looked a little surprised and startled at her approach. They didn’t seem to know whether to get up, salute her, or keep hold of their captive.

Up. Keeva’s tone was curt, hard. The tone of someone used to getting her way wherever she went. The soldiers stood, dragging their captive up by the flowing, white shirt. They really were being too rough with him. He was a good foot shorter than Keeva, hardly a threat. His dark skin had a slight reddish tint, especially where the tiger stripes ran over it.

He stared at Keeva and Olaana with wild eyes, looking for any way to escape as he struggled. That struggling only decreased a little when Keeva grabbed his jaw, forcing him to look at her.

Stop that. You’re not getting away. Her eyes bored into his. He bared his teeth, grunting as he strained, heedless of her words. But he didn’t use any magic. Either he had nothing left to turn himself into a cloud of mist with, or he simply knew better than to try anything with her keeping a close eye on him. Keeva looked him over. She’d seen him before, but not up close, and she took the moment to really drink him in. His features were delicate, bright golden eyes shadowed by short black hair. The front of his shirt was open, either from the struggle or by choice.

Keeva licked her lips without really noticing. The elf froze under her look like prey before a predator. If circumstances had been different and she’d had time… well, musings for another day.

You’re one of Roderick’s little boyfriends, aren’t you? He always did like the pretty ones… She turned the captive’s head from side to side before letting him go. He regained a little of that defiance and snapped at her fingers.

I’m not telling you anything! His words were firm, but she saw the panic in his eyes when she revealed that little bit of information.

I disagree. Keeva smiled. You’re going to tell me where every single one of your camps is. And you’re going to tell me now. Only question, she said, brushing her fingers along his cheek, is how hard you make it for yourself.

The thief flinched away, and Keeva noticed just a pang of fear, something deeper than the earlier panic. A smile tugged at her lips, laying bare her teeth.

It really was all about the little pleasures.

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Chapter 2

RODERICK

Sometimes Roderick felt bad for stealing from Keeva so much, but every time he did, that twinge of guilt was accompanied by the sting of his various scars. That quickly reminded him that Keeva was:

One, a bitch.

Two, tougher than him by a long shot and,

Three, very willing to crush his head. So, really, she could go fuck herself. Besides, she was halfway across the lowlands. By the time she learned of this, he would already have hit the next shipment. Roderick was never foolish enough to actually attack one of her convoys while she was around. She was dangerous and power hungry, pressing smaller clans into her service. Ostensibly, she did this to grant them protection. In reality, however, they mostly ended up joining or supporting the small army she was amassing.

Cheers greeted Ruth as she rolled into camp on their stolen wagon. It was one of many that relied on her and her bandit troupe for aid and rations. And it was hers, for all the people knew. Only Ruth’s most trusted wayfinders and scouts, the ones likely to catch a glimpse of Roderick, knew about his involvement at all. They had been understandably reluctant to work with him, but with more and more clan leaders turned warlord trying to press people into their service, his help had eventually been appreciated. Not that Roderick cared. He was happy to sneak around the camp to Ruth’s tent, happy in the knowledge that he’d done something to help and secured himself food and a safe space to rest.

Ruth was one of the very few people he trusted. She hadn’t stabbed him in the back in the last ten years, and she didn’t seem to actively despise him, which was even rarer. At this point being suspicious of her had gotten tiring. Ruth had taught him that outsiders to Koor Kosma, such as herself, were less likely to slit his throat in the night. Roderick still hid from everyone else, of course, though sometimes he wished the adoring calls and words of gratitude from the refugees in the camps were for him as well.

Silent as a shadow, he slinked between heavy tents set up between large trees, protected from the elements in a strategically advantageous position. He knew exactly where to walk to evade the lookouts in the branches, whose eyes were drawn to the wagon anyway. His heartbeat pulsed in his ears like a Korian dancer’s drum, though he could not say why. He knew where to step, he couldn’t see anybody watching, and he trusted in his luck. Indeed, nobody called out unexpectedly, and he slipped into Ruth’s tent without being spotted. Once