1
CHAPTER ONE
The market in Isvale clawed at me the way it always did, heat and noise closing in until there was no space left to breathe.
Humidity clung to my skin, damp and insistent, carrying the scent of figs split open underfoot. Their sweetness crushed into the dirt and dragged through smoke, sweat, and something sour that lingered at the back of my throat.
“Ten coppers for the lot, Kaelia.”
Old man Borin’s eyes moved from the top of my head to the tips of my hand.
He was not truly looking at the basket of foraged herbs and high-country berries I had gathered at the risk of my own. Instead, his watery gaze was counting the swift passage of my years. Just like any other bound elder, he was measuring the proximity of the solstice—the twenty-first birthday that marked the final threshold for every child of Haelen.
I swallowed hard, forcing back the tremor that threatened to bloom in my chest. My hand clenched around the rough wicker handle until the fibers dug crescent moons into my palm.
“Twelve, Borin,” I countered, lifting my chin to meet his stare with a challenge. “I climbed the face of the Thrynn peaks for these. You know the quality is unmatched.”
The Thrynn peaks were a volatile region that bordered on the city of Umbral—the land of the Veythar. It took immense stamina to harvest from the rocky formations, and a certain kind of madness to do it alone. If this old man could not appreciate my hard efforts, I would sell my berries elsewhere.
Borin grumbled, scratching at his sparse beard. His eyes narrowed in reluctant concession.
While he stalled, my gaze swept the crowd. They were a flock, some moving through the mass holding hands with their Elarthai—their chosen partner—their faces wearing the glazed, comfortable look of the bonded. Others were boundless, working as merchants at their stalls with the frantic energy of those running out of time.
I watched a young woman across the market, her eyes darting like a trapped bird’s. I knew that look. It was the same one I saw in my mirror every morning—the look of a girl counting the seconds until her soul was forfeit to a crown that did not know her name.
In Haelen, you were either a pair or a problem for the High Court to solve.
And I was becoming a problem.
Each sunrise pulled me closer to my twenty-first year, and with it, the invisible noose woven by the High Court tightened.
Borin sighed before dropping twelve coins into my hand. The coppers were warm from his palm, but they felt like lead as I tucked them into my pocket.
I began to weave through the stalls, my mind already calculating how many days this would buy us. Bread, salt, and perhaps a small bit of dried meat for Lyra.
It was her favorite snack, and if I could spare a few coppers, I would bring her home a fresh batch.
A prickle of unease crawled up my spine, causing my steps to slow. I glanced over my shoulder, and through the shifting gaps in the crowd, a mountain of a man with a stained tunic and a yellowed grin was watching me. He did not look away when our eyes met; he simply leaned against a stone pillar, his gaze raking over my frame.
I tightened my grip on my basket and quickened my pace, ducking behind a weaver’s display.
I peeked over the side of the wooden frame, but before my eyes could search him out, the market suddenly hushed.
The merchant across from me froze mid-sentence, his face becoming pale. One by one, people stepped backward until their shoulders pressed against sun-baked stone.
I rose slightly on my toes, my fingers digging into the splintered wood of the cart as I peered over the crowd.
A sudden, unnatural chill swept through the square, or perhaps it was just the sight of the black coats cutting through the mass of bodies.
They moved with a synchronized grace that made every merchant stand up straight, and every child cling to their mothers. Their dark armor, forged from the light-drinking stone of the north, indicated that they were Veythar—the High Court’s shadow reapers, the men who hunted those who passed their solstice without a bond.
At their center stood the man who was the very architect of our nightmares.
Talon Veyr.
Unlike the others, he did not wear the standard leather of a soldier. His cloak was a heavy, midnight silk that caught the light in ripples of oil-slick silver, the long tail sweeping the dusty cobblestones behind him.
He was, after all, the Master of Veythar.