Soari Blessed: Soari Blessed, #1

By Karina Giörtz

Caged. Traded. Hunted. Claimed. And still, she burns.

In a land of people blessed by the gods, the king expects an offering from everyone. When the value of a gift expires, so does the gifted. And Princess Cerridwyn has but one idle gift. Her beauty. Raised by the most ruthless king under the Seven Stars, she's been prey to a monster whose hunger is never satisfied, caged in a castle she fears she'll never escape.

But Cerridwyn has a secret. She's not the king's daughter. She's the child of his greatest enemy, kept hidden in plain sight.

Now a lady's maid will plot her escape. One guard will stand by her. And rebels will claim her as their own. However, the lie keeping her safe was one of many within the castle. The king has his own secrets. Dark plans to conquer more than just a gifted people, he's after the Gods. And he's destroyed all who have faced and defied him.

All but one. An idle-gifted princess. A goddess-blessed blaze.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Never Did Point North Publishing
• Release date: Mar 22, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224566716

Karina Giörtz

A stereotypical writer through and through, Karina finds hanging out with her imaginary friends while she sips matcha to be all the rage. Since 2012, she's written and published over thirty-five books, ranging from children's literature to crime thrillers. Before delving into her new love of YA Fantasy, her focus was primarily on writing romance. Those titles can be found under her pen name K.S. Thomas, including her most popular novels I Call Him Brady, Tin and Last Girl. Originally born and raised in Bremen, Germany, she currently resides in sunny Florida with her daughter, a three-legged roo, a tamed wolf, a furry gremlin and a charming mister (AKA, their dogs and cats).

Book preview

1

CERRIDWYN

The sky is alive with hues of violet and indigo this morning. Birdsong fills the air, and the scent of fresh Kali blossoms carries on the balmy winds coming from the Metis Sea. Both a gentle reminder that a world exists beyond the palace walls of Camirus Court—a world I’ve never seen for myself in my seventeen years of royal, caged existence.

Treetops dance in the wind, playing their own music with the creak of their limbs, the soft whistle of leaves and gale joining. But no matter what beauty calls my attention, it can’t hide the horrors that came with dawn.

The tower catches my eye again.

Three bodies, all dangling from blood-soaked rope, their necks broken, their heads unnaturally cocked to the sides with empty eyes staring at a world they can no longer see.

A haunting scene I wish I’d never witnessed, and yet I find it impossible to turn away for more than seconds at a time.

My father’s execution chamber sits at the tallest point of his palace, a lavish monstrosity built of smooth black stone. Unlike the other turrets, this tower is an open structure where the peaked obsidian roof sits atop five stone pillars cutting a stark silhouette against the open sky like a skeletal shadow warning of the death found here.

No royal balcony, no town square or throne room, would ever do. My father requires a stage above all others, a platform that can be viewed from every vantage point in Camirus—possibly the entire Seven Stars—and especially, it seems, from my window, my only gateway to the outside world.

Limp and lifeless, the bodies sway with the same wind carrying the sweet trace of the Kali’s nectar. I close my eyes and breathe in. The severe contrast between sight and scent holds the hidden truth this morning’s display distorts so grotesquely.

I open my eyes and look again, morbidly fascinated by the apparition.

Real though it looks, I know the hanging bodies to be purely illusion. A lie cast upon the stage of death by the king’s most powerful prisoner, Mayette. While I’ve never seen her face, I’d recognize her darkened gift anywhere.

After a lifetime of being witness to her work, the deceptive veil she casts has thinned.

Too many mornings I’ve woken to air wrought with the foul decay of impending death from bodies locked away and mutilated for so long that even alive they had begun to rot. Others I’ve been yanked from my sleep by the sound of the prisoners’ screams, painful symphonies of surrender followed by a sharp crack splitting them open and setting them free as their necks broke.

Mayette can betray the eyes, but she cannot sway my other senses.

My stomach turns, and I press my hand to my lips and close my eyes, then take another deep breath of sweet air, imagining myself surrounded by Kali blossoms. Though I know this is as much illusion as anything, it calms me. As the king’s firstborn, I may not be in danger of finding myself led to the tower, but I receive the message of those sent there just the same.

The king expects an offering from everyone.

When the value of your gift expires, so do you.

The thought sends an unwelcome shiver down my spine, forcing my steps away from the window. I draw the curtains, eager to break the tower's hold on me. My hands part with the heavy velvet only to see the rich material swept back again as if caught in a surge of wind.

Stubbornness urges me to throw the drapery back into place, but I know better than to succumb to the futile impulse. I’m not fighting a gust of air but a khatel.

Not every gifted claimed by my father lies in chains, their pure talent made perverse in my father’s dungeons. Many offer their gifts of their own free will only to wind up enslaved by other means.

Despite myself, I look to the parapet on my left and find the figure standing behind the defensive walls along the roof, face cast toward my window. The woman is too far to make out her features, but the silver blonde of her hair gives her away. Ashwyn from the Trove of Mind and Matter, where all those gifted in telekinesis are expected to report to Lord Magnimus, head of said trove.

There are nine troves in total, each dedicated to a blessing my father deems particularly worthy and overseen by a lord of his choosing. It’s said to be an honor to be welcomed to the khatel, but I find it hard to believe when I see them forced to forfeit their freedoms just as those kept caged underground.

I take a breath to still the anger swirling at the pit of my stomach. Even in the sanctuary of my room, someone else holds the power. But I refuse to let Ashwyn see me rattled, and so I force a smile and wave before I turn and walk away from the window.

I make it two steps before there’s a knock at my door. Linney, one of my father’s many private maids, enters. It’s time for your lessons, Your Highness. She curtsies, already backing from the room.

No one ever enters to stay. Except Annalise.

I’ve been ready for my lessons since sunrise. Mentally, I’ve been preparing since last sundown. Most days it seems an endless cycle of seeking the fortitude required for simply seeing another sunset, only to prepare again for dawn.

I take one last look as I cross past the mirror. Not a strand of golden hair is out of place. No blemish marks my perfect complexion. It’s an odd sort of curse, being beautiful. I must be perfectly presentable at every occasion, only to have my perfection turned on me. It’s a cruel gift, my blessing. It’s lavish and lovely to behold, yet utterly useless in my father’s eyes. Even if they do appreciate the sight, his lips never fail to show his disdain.

One last deep breath of courage before I tug the satin string beside my door. Just outside, bells jingle, dancing in turn with every pull of my hand. A moment later the door opens, and Drayce bows before gesturing for me to step outside.

It’s always him who escorts me. Three years he’s been here as my guard, and I don’t think he’s ever been assigned another task. Some days, I think he hates me for it, always having to be my watcher. I can’t imagine a more tediously boring job than walking me to see Lord Erebus in his study twice a day, seeing me to the sanctuary for worship on Sundays, and, of course, accompanying me on the rare occasion my presence is requested by my father or stepmother. Outside of our brief walks within the palace walls, every hour Drayce spends assigned to my side is spent outside one door or another, waiting.

Still, he maintains a gracious demeanor each time I step foot into the hall.

Your Highness. His deep voice buzzes through me, my nervous system on fire as he slides the door shut behind me.

I nod, acknowledging his greeting. It’s not proper for me to do more. Even though I know his name, I’ve never spoken it. Not to him. Not even to Annalise. It wouldn’t be safe. For him.

Three years of constant togetherness built on small gestures.

A nod.

A sweeping glance.

A verbal exchange of formalities.

Nothing more.

As always, Drayce shadows my every step as we make our way to Lord Erebus’s chambers, though it’s his shadow I walk in. Even without the aid of light distorting his size, he towers over me in his armor of titanium and black serpent leather. While his helmet, adorned with a trail of spikes from the bridge of his nose all the way back to the nape of his neck, certainly adds to his height, his broad build is entirely his. Muscles ripple and tighten under the smooth snakeskin as if the serpent’s scales were his own. Even the plates of titanium lay smooth against his body. If he weren’t sworn to protect me, I might have found him terrifying upon first meeting.

Fear would have dissipated, of course. Despite the armor hiding nearly every inch of the man within the soldier, one small piece of him is still visible.

His eyes. Dark brown with golden flecks that shine in the light, framed by thick, black lashes that curl at the ends. For all he never speaks out loud, his eyes spill forth an endless mystery I never tire of trying to decipher.

Some days, the darkness within them could drown me.

Others, secrets bubble at the surface so visibly, my own curiosity threatens to set my tongue aflame, furious at its fate of submission and silence.

But above all, what touches me most is their kindness.

In his silence, Drayce comforts me. More than any guard before him, Drayce makes me feel safe despite the fact all he does is walk with me. Maybe because he’s so relentlessly loyal, always there, always dependable.

Before he took the post, I never saw the same guard at my door twice. It was a rotation of glares and grunts, one less friendly than the next. Then Drayce showed up, and everything changed. His presence became as reliable as that of Lord Erebus. More importantly, his presence became something I could look forward to, a goal I could set my mind to. No matter how terrible a lesson I’d be asked to endure, I knew when it was complete I’d be sent back to my room, back to Drayce. And back to feeling safe.

It’s the same mantra I repeat to myself now as I approach the set of tall, heavy doors of knotted wood and iron panels leading to Lord Erebus’s study.

I pause outside the study’s entrance and wait for Drayce to announce our arrival. My breath is shallow, fast but steady. My heart beats louder than normal, but it doesn’t race. Everything is under control. My control. In a world where I’m at the mercy of all, I’ve found solace in the sacred spaces I can master. With my breath. My thoughts. My heart. With what I allow myself to feel, and what I choose not to. Small victories in an ongoing war for my autonomy.

A loud creak precedes Rahlia’s dainty face as she opens the door to usher me in. The small-framed woman with taupe skin weathered by turmoil and duress, her wiry silver hair pulled away from her face with simple combs on each side of her head, has worked for Lord Erebus as long as I can recall. She’s always flitting about his study, tidying up, fetching him tea, or tending to his plants—an extensive greenhouse of exotic herbs, mushrooms, and flowers he grows right here in his chambers. I’ve wondered more than once if she’s held captive here as much as I am, a little mouse roaming about her space, frantic and timid, free but for the fact she lives with a predator.

Your Highness, she squeaks, dropping into a curtsy and bowing her head until all I can see is the shimmer of lashes lining her black-brown eyes. Where Rahlia minds her courage, veiling it in fear and humble submission, I choose to keep my head up high, lifting my chin ever so slightly every time I step foot inside this study.

The chair is ready for you, she says, turning her hand out to guide me.

The chair.

My stomach roils at the sight of it, and I freeze, stuck inside the open doorway.

I was weak for days after the last session I spent tied to it, unable to walk or stand without help. The first night, Annalise had to feed me because I lacked the strength to lift even a spoon.

Outside the scarlet silk restraints at the arms, feet, and throat, the chair is much like any other chair within the palace walls. Stark and rigid, lacking in comforts but abundant in imagery, depicting scenes of battle and bloodshed in the carved wooden limbs. A reminder of who remains eternally victorious inlaid in the crown emblem, once made of copper and now of gold, placed on the crest rail.

Still, it’s not the chair that invokes fear within me. It’s what happens when I’m asked to sit within it. When my wrists are bound. My ankles tied. My body cinched in place by means of a silky noose.

None of these measures are meant to keep me trapped. There is never thought of my escape. Not in their minds, nor my own. The binds are to keep me from inflicting injury on others, and to restrain me from leaving marks on myself not easily hidden by long sleeves and lavish skirts. In truth, I never recall what I do within the confines of my physical self. It’s my spirit body I engage with when I’m asked to sit here, asked to drown in the swirling abyss of my own consciousness and sent there through a mere sip of tincture concocted by Lord Erebus.

That is the part I fear when beckoned to the chair. Not the being bound in place, but rather the places I will be forced to go, separated from self and unable to return until the effects of his potions wear off.

I dare a glance to my right where Drayce still stands, holding the door. His gaze is cast inside the study, his expression unreadable.

I swallow down my disappointment and close my eyes seeking a moment of peace before I face what’s ahead. When I open them his eyes are on mine. I find the comfort I seek, but as the moment lingers I see more than I bargained for. A fury burns within him. Not a bloom of smoke or glowing embers, but a raging flame.

My guard through and through.

His desire to protect me reminds me of my duty to do the same. I won’t see him burn on my account.

Lifting my chin ever higher, I take the strides required to reach my seat. Behind me, the door closes. Drayce is gone.

2

DRAYCE

Three Years Earlier

I can still taste the evidence of tonight’s mayhem as I turn down the cobblestone path that leads home. Hints of cayenne, chocolate, and plum linger on my tongue, a reminder of the toothsome cider we drank as Cathaan tried yet again to persuade me to join his clan. I declined. I always do. But I can’t deny, tonight I was closer to a yes than before. And the cider wasn’t of sufficient strength to blame. Though the pipe we smoked may have had a hand in things. As did the reckless way we raced over rooftops all across town, howling and singing at the top of our lungs. By the end of the night, running with the boys of Altan didn’t seem like nearly a bad-enough idea.

Drunk on cider and debauchery, I stumble my way toward the front door, cursing under my breath when the toe of my boot catches on something in the dark. Two half-moons tonight, and not a one visible from Gaia’s plane. All thanks to a dense blanket of clouds blinding earth from sky for days now.

The air is cool and damp, weighted with rain that refuses to fall but lingers all around, coating everything in a veil of mist that neither absorbs nor dissipates. Even the trees appear torn with their fate, lush and abundant with greens and blossoms sprouting from every limb, yet weary with a gluttonous wet they seem to be slowly drowning under.

I let out a harsh laugh. The gods and goddesses never fail to miss an opportunity to show us the physical translations of our state of being in the most literal ways.

Joke’s on you, I call out to the heavens. Can’t drown a hollow tree. Shaking my head, I lumber the last few steps toward the door, the sleepless night catching up to my feet first even as my mind begins to wake to reality. Father will be furious I was out again. I left no word of where I was going or who I’d be with. Just took my leave before he could stop me. Not that he’s tried to. Not out loud, anyway. His eyes have pleaded with me to no avail, but I’ve learned to turn my head and keep walking. Easy to pretend he’s not even there when he’s spent years doing the same to me.

Swallowing the bitter taste of stale memories, I reach the door and fumble for the handle. I miss and catch nothing but air.

Beyond and under, I curse under my breath, blinking for better sight. Even in a night of endless ink, such as this one, I never miss the handle. I must have had more cider than I remember. When I miss a second time, I take another step closer, my hand outstretched.

But it’s my feet that meet with something familiar. The bowed boards of our floors give under the soles of my shoes. I frown, then take another step inside, finally catching the edge of the door with my fingers.

It’s wide open.

Wide open in the middle of the night.

Thunder erupts in my chest, pounding against my ribs and up to my throat as I feel my way to the lantern my father keeps hanging from a hook on the wall just feet from the door.

Any lingering effects of cider and charming chaos are instantly replaced with a clearheaded panic I haven’t felt in thirteen years and hoped to never feel again.

Fahta? Not a single lantern holds a flicker of flame, nor even a solitary candle to shine light upon my return—a gesture my father never fails to make, no matter how displeased he is with my ongoing efforts these past two seasons to escape time spent with him.

Fahta, are you home? I reach the lantern and lift it from the hook to light it. Bless dark with light, ignite. I whisper the enchantment. Magic, even in moments of desperation, is illegal, the consequences of calling on it deadly.

A flame flickers to life, and with it a reality I was safer not seeing.

Furniture smashed and turned on its side. Two windows left webbed with cracks. And blood. Unmistakable streaks of red leave a trail of imminent death for me to follow.

Fahta! Where are you? As I trace the blood to its source one room after the next, I beg the gods it won’t lead to him.

My heart stops dead in my chest when I reach his study and find a shape lying crumpled on the floor, hardly capable of being the mountain of a man I’ve always known my father to be.

Drayce. Carito, he wheezes. His voice is so faint, if it weren’t for him calling me Carito—loved one in my mother’s native tongue—I might not have believed it was him.

I lurch from my place in the doorway and fall to my knees, landing at his side in a frantic mass of fear and shame. Gone is the audacious man I thought myself walking home after a forbidden night spent with a scandalous crew. All that remains is the same little boy who once sat helpless as he watched his mother dying, now come again to watch his father.

Who did this to you? My voice shakes because I already know the answer. Why? My hands dart across his body, seeking a wound they can mend, a flood of life force they can stopper before he bleeds out, but there are too many, too deep and too wide for my hands alone to staunch.

It was my fault, he whispers, using up strength he should save for survival rather than squander on noble words of misplaced responsibility.

Nothing you could do would make you worthy of this, I bite out, a helpless rage flaring to life in the pit of my stomach and snuffing out the thunder of my racing heart.

Trust me, Carito. Even as his body spasms in pain, he musters a smile. I earned it. For Blaze.

Blaze. I should have known. All my life, every loss, every sacrifice my family endured, has been in her name.

My father coughs, choking on blood that spills from his lip with each attempt to breathe. Find Lux, he forces, the order strangled. Tell her what happened. Speak to no one else.

I can’t leave you. Even if my words don’t say it, I know he can hear me begging him to let me stay.

You must. He tries to swallow, but it only makes the choking start all over again. Lux. He breathes her name even as he sounds as though he’s suffocating. Get Lux.

His words echo in my mind as I run from the house, racing out into endless black in search of a woman called light. The gods are at it again.

3

CERRIDWYN

Your Highness. Lord Erebus’s rough baritone rattles my ears, sending a shiver up my spine as it always does at the mention of my title. Some nights, my dreams are nightmares of his voice saying those words over and over, leaving me to wake in a pool of my own sweat, shaking from head to toe.

My lord. I bow my head, the only part of me I can still move as Rahlia kneels at my feet, wrapping the last of my limbs to the chair. Delighted as always to be here. I sneer as I lift my chin. Tell me, will I actually learn something from you today, or am I meant to suffer through another one of your futile lessons for means of entertainment only?

The only futile thing in this room is you, Cerridwyn, he snarls, stepping out of the shadows along the shelved walls holding books and scrolls I’d once hoped to study, but have never seen opened or even moved out of place. His fawn complexion appears dull and paler than normal, and the embroidered shawl he wears draped over his head hangs lopsided, revealing most of his scalp. It’s shaved but for the hair growing from the crown of his head—translucent strands neither blond nor white, simply drained of color, he wears in a braid I imagine must reach down his back though I’ve only seen it twisted into a spiral to sit on his scalp like a small cap. Words in ancient tongues have been burned into his skin, encircling the braid and spreading out toward his ears and down his neck, turning his head into a branded scroll containing mysteries I can’t begin to decipher. I’ve asked, of course, but each inquiry only landed me another sip of poison, another round of lessons I was bound to fail.

He must notice me staring, because he reaches up to fix his shawl, his black eyes fixed on mine as he does. Futile though you may be, he starts again, his thin brown lips drawn out until they’re straight lines on his already linear face, "as it’s our last lesson, you’ll have one final chance to redeem yourself and prove yourself