She stalked over; the men tensed at the sight of her.

“Where are the cottages that Holfast set aside for my family?”

Fenir scowled as the other men stepped away from her. “A greeting would be proper, faerie.”

“I’m not here to please you,” she bit back, earning a scandalized look from the councilmen. Be civil, she reminded herself. For Ruenen. “Please tell me where my family is, and I’ll leave you in peace.”

“Ah, so you’re one of the fae,” said the bald monk, examining her curiously. “I’m Baureo, the Head Monk here at the castle. I hope to see you at our daily worship.”

“Doubtful,” Marai said. She didn’t have time to spend worshiping the gods, especially in a confined space where she’d be surrounded by people who despised her. “My family?”

“They’re at the far end of the city, in the area known as Grave’s End,” said Fenir.

They couldn’t have picked a less welcoming name. “Where is that?”

Fenir pointed a shaking hand to the west side of Kellesar, down at the bottom of the hill. In essence, the poorest area. Marai grunted in response, then prowled off towards Grave’s End. She heard several appalled gasps and comments from the men as she left.

“She is a creature created by Lirr . . .” Monk Baureo mused, although Marai heard the doubt in his voice.

Nevandians gawked at her as she passed through the narrow, winding streets. Marai didn’t stand out because of her light skin and hair. No, she stood out with every aspect of her being. The way she glowered, the way she walked awkwardly in that dreaded dress, the weapons strapped to her waist . . . Rumors were already flying about her, the strange woman at the right hand of the prince. Perhaps they knew she was fae. She didn’t care if they stared. She didn’t care if they whispered. It was the same reaction people gave her as the Lady Butcher.

Grave’s End was aptly named. It was the dingiest neighborhood in Kellesar. The streets were covered in rats, trash, and filth, creating a rancid smell in the air. Most of the cottages and buildings were abandoned, in various states of disrepair. Some had caved-in roofs, others had holes in their walls or no doors. They were all made of lime ash and clay, not the sturdier components of stone, brick, and wood in wealthier parts of town nearer to the castle.

The people who remained were thinner and more raggedy than the rest of Kellesar. They ogled at Marai as they cleaned their patched and worn clothes outside their cottages. Dirty children shrieked and ran away as Marai approached the end of the street.

“I think that’s another one,” murmured a woman to her husband. They glared at Marai as she passed. “Can’t believe they’d let those creatures into the city.”

“Shh, it will hear you,” the husband hissed back.

“Oh, I hope it does. Monstrosities, the whole lot of them,” snarled the wife directly at Marai.

Stuffing down the boiling rage inside, Marai shot the woman a saccharine smile. A smile she never gave anyone.

“Hello!” Marai forced a wave.

The woman and her husband blanched, then trotted inside their house and slammed the door.

Marai spotted two golden figures standing outside the worst, most rundown houses at the end of the row, right up against the outer city wall.

“You’re Avilyard’s men?” she asked.

They bobbed their heads. Beneath their helms, Marai noticed both men were quite young. One she recognized as the friendly guard from the city gate.

“I’m Elmar, and this is Nyle,” said the familiar boy.

Nyle sported a thin, patchy beard, while Elmar’s chin was speckled with pimples. Mere adolescents now comprised most of the King’s Guard. After forty years of war, many of the able-bodied, trained men had already been killed, and now Nevandia only had sons and elderly to defend its people.

Marai gave them a curt nod as she entered the closest one-story cottage, stepping over the door that had been knocked to the dirt floor. Inside, it was a mess of dust and cobwebs, broken furniture, and stray cats. There was a tiny bedroom branching off from the main room, but the fae were used to small spaces.

Her family was already hard at work, covered in dust and sweat. Raife and Thora threw down bundles of rush, a tall grass, to cover the dirt floor and provide insulation in the main room. Keshel swept dead leaves out of the bedroom where they would do the same. Aresti hammered pegs into a big wooden box. Leif carried the unusable furniture outside past Marai and dumped it into the backyard for kindling.

“Nice of you to finally join us,” he growled, passing by with a broken shelf. “What are you wearing?”

Marai shot him a withering glare, which he ignored.

“Oh, good, you’re here,” Thora said. Her apron was covered in dirt. “You can help Aresti repair the grain ark.”

The grain ark was a large wooden box used for storing wheat, barley, and other foods. Back in the cave, it often doubled as a prep table for the fae. Aresti seemed to be doing fine on her own, hammering away. Similar to Marai, she was vastly independent. Aresti never asked for help.

Marai frowned, noticing the absence of someone. “Where’s Kadi?”

“She’s out back, clearing the yard. She thinks she can get a garden growing.”

Marai doubted that. Any life that tried to grow here was smothered by Rayghast’s magic. She ventured into the yard where Kadiatu was on her hands and knees pulling weeds out of the beds.

“Oh, hello,” she said, her bright smile contrasting with the gray dirt smudged across her cheeks and nose. “You look nice in a dress.” Marai scowled, making Kadiatu laugh. “Don’t be so grumpy.”

Marai knelt next to her and yanked more weeds and dead plants from the ground. Once the beds were entirely clear and the soil had been properly turned, Kadiatu reached into the pocket of her apron.

“That nice man, Commander Avilyard, gave me some seeds. I’ve never planted these vegetables before. They’d never have been able to grow in the desert.” Kadiatu excitedly plopped little black and brown seeds into the holes she’d created, then Marai covered them back up with dirt. “This soil doesn’t have a lot of minerals. It’s dry as a bone, even with water. Not at all healthy.”

Rayghast.

“I think I can fix it, though.” Kadiatu placed her hands in the dirt, stretching out her fingers. Magic rushed out of her in threads of pinks and purples and greens. It entered the earth and changed the color of the soil into a deep, rich brown. A strong musty scent permeated the air. Kadiatu had returned life to the small plot of land, life that had been sucked away.

Marai gaped at the change in the soil.

Once she was done, Kadiatu lifted her hands and wiped them on her apron. “There! And we’ll use our food scraps as compost. I’ll have this garden thriving in a few days.”

Kadiatu had more power than she let on. To do what she’d done—utterly transform this patch of earth—was more than impressive. Her magic had pushed out Rayghast’s darkness to the point where Marai could no longer feel it at all.

The first cottage was entirely ready by the time the sun set. Raife had re-hung two shelves on the walls so they could store their clay pots, bowls and plates. Due to the second room, they decided this larger cottage would be shared by Marai, Thora, Kadiatu, and Aresti. The boys’ cottage would be fixed up the next day, but they’d all sleep together tonight.

“I need to return to the castle,” Marai told Thora as she stirred a pot of leeks, ground barley, and nettles. A kitchen servant had given Thora a few basic ingredients to start out with. Marai guessed that kindness had more to do with Ruenen than the servant. “I’m expecting news from the North.”

“Do you want Raife or Leif to go with you?” Thora asked. “I don’t want you traveling alone through the city at night.”

Marai’s mouth twisted. “I’m a mercenary.”

“I know that, Storm Cloud, but I’ll worry all the same.”

Marai bristled at the nickname. “I’ll be back later.”

She ventured out into the dark street. Marai was quite used to nighttime escapades as the Lady Butcher. Walking alone in Kellesar at night wasn’t as frightening as places like Iniquity in Grelta, but Marai didn’t have her black attire to hide amongst the shadows. She missed the weight of her cloak on her shoulders; the anonymity of her scarf. She hurried along, avoiding eye contact with the people in the streets. No one approached her, but she was ready with Dimtoir if they did.

In a dark side street, a breeze lifted the hair on the back of her neck. The air shifted, and Marai scented blood. She halted and placed her hand on her hilt.

“Right on time,” she said to the shadows, which moved and came closer, forming the shape of a man. The hood of his cloak was down, revealing his long roped hair. Crimson eyes, two beacons of doom, glowed in the dark.