This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright © 2023 by J. E. Harter

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review, as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Cover Artwork: Miblart

Editing: Erin Young

Map Design: Alec McK

Paperback ISBN: 979-8-9886106-4-9

Hardcover ISBN: 979-8-9886106-5-6

Ebook ISBN: 979-8-9886106-3-2

Author's Note

The book contains subject matter that might be difficult for some readers, including extreme fantasy violence, blood, gore, war, decapitation, language, explicit sexual content, depressive & suicidal thoughts, references to rape (consent withdrawn) and sexual abuse.

Chapter 1

Marai

The cave was a prison. It had no iron bars, no locks, no chains. It was a cramped, dark space; a cage made of rocks and dirt the color of rust, encompassing Marai as she stepped foot inside its mouth. The musty scent reminded her of dungeons’ past, and her footsteps ricocheted off the stone walls. Otherwise, it was silent. If it wasn’t for the part-fae male in front of her, Marai would have thought her people had abandoned this place.

Raife walked stiffly through the tunnel, grip tight on the bow in his hand, perhaps wary of the person skulking behind him. Marai couldn’t place blame—she hadn’t seen Raife in eight years. She’d shown up out of the blue, and collapsed in front of him. Sunburnt. Disheveled. She was practically a stranger.

What does he think of me now?

To revive her, Raife had splashed cool water on her face moments earlier. When her eyelids fluttered open, she’d forgotten where she was. Marai’s heartbeat had raced as she found herself enclosed in a man’s arms. Arms she didn’t recognize. Pirates? Bounty hunters? She’d quickly shoved Raife away and got unsteadily to her feet, ready to unsheathe Dimtoir. But then she’d studied his concerned face, his pointed fae ears. Her mind had calmed, and she’d remembered.

“What brings you back here, Marai?” Raife asked her in an apprehensive tone now that they were in the tunnel. He was taller and broader than the last time she’d seen him. Thin, clearly in need of several good meals. More freckles spattered across his cheeks, nose, and forehead.

“I’d rather not discuss it.” Marai couldn’t meet his vibrant emerald eyes, and the questions swirling around in them.

Raife frowned. “Suit yourself.” He must have remembered Marai’s moods: her sullen silences and angry outbursts. He knew not to push. He’d always been respectful that way. It was nice to know that, in some ways, he hadn’t changed.

Marai glanced down at the black skin on her fingers. The tips had been stained by a magic she wasn’t supposed to use; a dark magic that she’d called to in her panic, a power she didn’t understand. A permanent reminder of her failure and weakness. The bloodstone jasper ring sat uselessly on her left hand. It hadn’t helped her when she’d needed it. If Raife or the others saw her fingers, they’d never let her stay if they guessed she’d called upon dark magic.

Marai removed the ring from her finger and shoved it into her pocket before Raife could see. Then, she yanked on her black gloves, covering the evidence of her guilt.

Decades ago, this tunnel had been the beginnings of a main hallway for a rock dwelling. It was common in the Western Kingdom of Ehle for whole towns to be carved into the canyon walls, complete with window holes, stairs, and towers. Communities made of stone, tucked underneath overhanging cliffs. However, the tradesmen had abandoned this dwelling, most likely due to the horrible drought in the Badlands desert. When Marai was a child, Keshel had discovered the partially constructed cave, and the other young fae outcasts had moved in, happy at the time to have any roof over their heads.

Marai’s pulse quickened again as the small tunnel opened into a cavern lit by a roaring central fire that was forever ablaze. An effervescent, ether scent tickled her nose—the first sign of magic.

A few smaller tunnels branched off, forming more private rooms for the inhabitants. While the decor and furnishings were sparse, there was an air of comfort. Woven baskets and clay pots littered the floors. Painted flowers dotted the cavern walls from crushed plant dyes. They’d been there since Marai was a child.

A young woman sat on a smooth rock squashing fragrant herbs with a mortar and pestle. Her long sable hair was braided atop her head; pointed faerie ears peeked out, accentuating the elegant planes of her face. She wore a simple dove gray dress and apron, which contrasted with the rich bronze tones of her skin. She turned at the sound of Marai and Raife’s approaching footsteps. Her eyes widened and jaw dropped open.

“Marai,” she gasped, setting down her tools. The female crashed into Marai, arms wrapping around in a wave of maternal warmth.

Marai stiffened. Any kind of touch felt wrong, too overwhelming, and it grated against her skin.

Sensing her discomfort, Thora pulled back, tears in her striking ginger eyes. “We never thought we’d see you again.”

Marai shimmied loose from her grasp, wincing at the touch to her sensitive sunburnt skin. Her limbs ached with each slight move. Her throat was raw from yelling, and parched from dehydration. Her head pounded–the concussion she’d received a few days prior hadn’t healed yet. Everything hurt. Especially the unraveling heart within her breast.

“Come, sit. I’ll treat your injuries while you talk,” Thora said, wiping away the tears. She gestured Marai over to the rock.

The bundle of churning nerves in Marai’s stomach eased.

I expected more of a fight than that . . .

Thora plucked a jar of ointment from a roughly carved shelf as Marai took a seat. Raife thrust a cup of water into her hands, then leaned against the cave wall, still holding his bow, as he watched Thora massage the cooling salve across Marai’s pale, thin arms.

“I thought about you every day, you know,” said Thora.

Marai had been twelve when she’d stormed out of the cave, without a word or note, leaving her life behind. Young Marai hadn’t thought about how her disappearance might affect the others. She’d been selfish and ignorant. When she’d grown wise enough to know better, the fear of their rejection made it nearly impossible for Marai to return.

But she had returned, out of absolute desperation and defeat. Now she would have to face the consequences of her actions all those years ago.

“I’m still alive, aren’t I?” she said.

Barely. Just a shell.

The green-hued ointment worked wonders on her burning skin. As it seeped in, the salve cooled like jellied ice, and eased away the pain, although it left behind a greenish tint.

Thora’s gift was in healing. Whenever Marai had scraped a knee or cut up her palms climbing the cliffs, Thora had passed a gentle hand over the wound and it would vanish. The herbal remedies she collected and prepared were infused with her magic to speed the healing process. It was a rare gift, even amongst pure-blooded fae. With all of them exterminated, Thora was the only fae healer left in the entire world.

Except, perhaps, in the land of Andara . . . 

Marai shoved aside the thought of that mysterious country across the sea where she’d once been headed. She downed the cup of water in one gulp. Raife took the cup from her hands and replaced it with his full waterskin.

“We wouldn’t have known if you were alive had it not been for Keshel,” Thora said. That familiar, stern tone hadn’t disappeared, Marai noted.

“Was he keeping tabs on me?” she asked as Thora began spreading the salve across Marai’s face and neck, healing cuts and gashes as she passed over them. The small injuries disappeared from Marai’s body as if they were never there. Some of the physical pain ebbed away, and Marai loosened her grip on the rock to keep from falling over.

Thora’s frown deepened as a look passed between her and Raife. “He didn’t have much of a choice. Flashes of you would come every few months. But do you honestly think we wouldn’t care? That we wouldn’t wait anxiously for Keshel to share a new vision he’d had of you?”

Marai should’ve guessed the leader of the fae-pack would have received visions of her. Keshel, seven years her senior, had been given the heavy burden of raising a crop of part-fae children after the massacres left their parents dead. Keshel had the gift of foresight, the ability to see the future, present, and sometimes the past.