 
The

Golden

Cage

A Dance of Dragons #0.5

By Kaitlyn Davis

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2014 Kaitlyn Davis

Cover Art: Manipulated by Kaitlyn Davis from attribution licensed flickr creative commons photos by Naval History & Heritage Command and gill_penney, and a DepositPhotos.com image by alexannabuts called  Woman in Green Bandage.

World Map: Illustrated by Sarah Faith Morris (Sylva Knight)

The right of Kaitlyn Davis to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the author, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be direct infringement of the author's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

This is a work of fiction and any resemblances between the characters and persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

ALL WORKS BY KAITLYN DAVIS

A Dance of Dragons

The Shadow Soul

The Spirit Heir

The Phoenix Born

A Dance of Dragons – The Novellas

The Golden Cage

The Silver Key

The Bronze Knight

The Iron Rider

Once Upon A Curse

Gathering Frost

Withering Rose

Chasing Midnight – Coming Soon!

Midnight Fire

Ignite

Simmer

Blaze

Scorch

To my family for their unconditional love,

my friends for their overwhelming support,

and my fans for their incredible enthusiasm.

Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

All Works by Kaitlyn Davis

Dedication

Table of Contents

World Map

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

The Shadow Soul

Join The Newsletter

About the Author

(Back to Table of Contents)

ONE

Princess Leenaka was a flirt.

Resting on her gilded throne, face hidden behind a veil of golden links dangling from a jeweled crown, she held the attention of every boy in the ballroom. Her smile was coy, half lifted in mystery and half drooped in boredom.

Casually, she made eye contact with a young nobleman, piercing through the metal wisps of her veil and then shyly looking away. Repeating the process, she found another son of a noble house close to her age. Another wink. Another smile. Another victim.

It wasn't a game of ill will or even the whim of a foolish girl—it was survival. Her survival...their survival.

A hush settled over the crowd, pausing Leena mid-thought. It could only mean one thing. The King of Ourthuro had arrived with his son, her brother—the youngest of King Razzaq's children and the only male heir.

Leena spared a glance to her side, eyeing her sisters. They sat still on eleven petite thrones all lined up behind the main dais where the king, queen, and prince would preside. Like statuesque decorations in flowing golden dresses and jingling jewelry, their faces were hidden behind veils. A backdrop. Pieces of art to be admired.

_Such is the way of the Ourthuri_. Leena sighed. Of the twelve princesses, she seemed the only one uncomfortable with the whole display.

Returning her gaze forward, she watched as the royal family walked through the sea of guests and approached their stage. Her father was not an overly large man, but he was still imposing. The king's crown rested upon his head, shimmering gold and glistening with polished stones, making him seem a foot taller. His flowing robes, like the sun, seemed to produce a light of their own. And the only things in stark contrast to the gold draped over his body were the black tattoos elegantly circling his arms from wrist to shoulder, branding him undeniably as king.

Everyone in Ourthuro had tattoos, a gift from birth. Leena's were those of a princess, painted with images of flowers and jewels as they swirled up her skinny arms. The noble families were allowed images of their own choosing so long as they did not pass one's elbows. The upper arms were reserved for the royal family alone. And for the lower classes, a simple band of black was usually all anyone could afford.

It was another tradition Leena was unsure of. History taught her that it gave hope, that tattoos could always be built upon but never lessened, giving the common people something to dream of or aspire to. But everyone in Ourthuro knew that was not true. There were the unmarked—slaves and criminals whose inks had been forcibly removed. Really the tattoos were just another display, like a line of princesses at one's back, hiding something darker.

Leena's eyes shifted to the queen, who was adorned in a dress made of metal petals that seemed alive, seemed to move like fire in the candlelight. As usual when sighting the queen, Leena's thoughts shifted to her own mother. A woman she would never know but often dreamed of. A woman stolen from her at the moment of her birth. For the darker side to the display of princesses was the missing display of queens. In Ourthuro, a queen could only live if her first child was a boy, if she provided an heir.

_But..._ Leena pushed her morose thoughts aside and smiled at her brother. _Finally my kingdom has a son._ A son who was turning five, a son with a birthday to celebrate.

Despite looking exactly like the king, Prince Haydar had a warm spot in Leena's heart. Perhaps it was his innocence, perhaps his jovial smile, his carefree attitude, his young defiance. Whatever the cause, she loved him.

Biting her lip to keep back a giggle, Leena watched as he walked forward—three steps for every one of the king's. His eyes furrowed in concentration, his small lips resolutely firm yet raised just slightly with a smile. He looked straight ahead, marching as he was taught, but still a boy, thankfully. He was not yet the man her father was pushing him to become.

Nonetheless, Leena saw a difference in him. Like a ghost before her eyes, memories flashed. Her brother at the age of four, of three, of two, of one. A baby with wide eyes, a toddler with an untamable laugh. He used to run wild through the halls. He used to visit her to play. He used to talk to everyone he met regardless of their tattoos.

But now, he was starting to learn the rules. Nod to the nobles. Do not speak with the servants. Never look down. Show no mercy. All laws of a future king.

Leena shivered.

It hurt her soul to watch him grow up, to watch the bars slowly build around him, a gilded cage. A cage invisible to everyone it seemed except her. But it was there.

Even in this ballroom, wide and open, she saw the bars. Columns built of stone lined the floor, surrounded its occupants—wide and immobile. The exits were plentiful but all guarded with soldiers. More displays of wealth and power. But everyone smiled except her, the only frown in the room. Luckily, her veil mostly hid her expression from the guests.

The royal family reached their seats, settling in. Her father paused for a moment, letting the tension in the room build as it always did before his speeches—a little knot of angst he loved to hold onto if just for an instant. No one was ever sure what would come out of his mouth, what new command he might speak, but that was how her father liked it. He thrived on their uncertainty, on their fear.

"Today we celebrate the fifth birthday of our most honored son, Prince Haydar," he began. Leena tuned him out, refused to give him her fear. But his voice, like always, seemed to drown her, to suffocate her.

So she searched for her solace.

There was a reason Leena was known as the court flirt. The more men she talked to, the fewer she was tied to. The more flirtatious she was, the less anyone thought she held a secret. It was a display, just like those she had learned from her father—a pretty front hiding a darker truth.

Hiding a forbidden love.

As slowly as she could manage, Leena let her gaze pass over the crowd. She continued to smile at a few boys, to meet their eager glances, to make them feel special for a quick second before releasing their hold. But all the while, her eyes were moving imperceptibly further away from the guests, closer to the shadows in the back of the ballroom, until finally her eyes met the one gaze they were meant for.

Beside the column, second to the left from the center, in his spot so Leena could easily find him, stood Mikzahooq—soldier, honored personal guard, true love. If the palace was her cage, he was her trapdoor, her little glimpse of freedom. And the ache in her chest instantly released as he grinned slightly, letting her know he had caught her staring.

_You were staring first_ , she thought, fighting back a smile. Then again, he was her personal bodyguard—it was his job to stare. But Leena knew the deeper meaning in his eyes. He watched because he wanted to, because he could not look away.

Leena could not look away either.

In his formal garb, chest encased with gleaming armor, arms firm and strong as they held a curved sword at the ready before his eyes, Mikza was so beautiful—a perfect statue. But knowing the gentle soul hidden inside those hard muscles made him all the more handsome. The deep rumble of his laughter echoed in her ears, a memory, a weapon to block out her father's voice.

But even Mikza could not block out the collective gasp of a hundred noblemen or the clang of a sword slamming on stone. Leena's head jerked to the noise as her mind fought to piece together what had happened.

A servant was splayed across the floor, head bowed down against the stone, his entire body trembling. A few feet before him rested an amethyst silk pillow, wrinkled from the fall. Before that, a sword, curved like the sun, inlaid with rubies, flickering with reflections of candlelight. A sword too small for a grown man but perfect for a little boy.

Leena closed her eyes slowly, taking a deep breath, dreading what would come next. It was Haydar's present. It had to be.

Now, instead of a sword, her brother would be given a new weapon. Power. Authority. This offense was not something her father would dismiss with the wave of his hand, not in front of the entire court, and not on a day meant to honor his only son.

Leena looked closer at the man, still shaking against the cold stone. His tattoos were gone, as she expected. In place of ink rested mangled flesh where his skin had been cut off, forcibly removed. An unmarked. A slave.

He would not be easily forgiven.

Her father stood quickly. The metal trinkets dangling from his ceremonial robes clanged together, oddly musical in the tense silence. Without a word, he stepped down from the royal platform until he was level with the crowd, closer to the unmarked man. He stopped before her brother's sword.

"Pick it up," the king growled, kicking the sword by the hilt so it spun in circles closer to the servant.

The man did not move a muscle even as the newly sharpened blade smacked into his arm, drawing a thin line of blood. Only when the sword came to a complete stop did he place his fingers underneath it and rise slowly, eyes focused on the ground, hands raised above his head, presenting it as worth more than he. And to her father, it was.

The unmarked man was unflinching as he waited with one knee on the ground and head bent, following orders as he had been taught. But his breath came quickly, giving his fear away.

"Prince Haydar, retrieve your present," the king commanded.

Her brother eased off his throne, still too large for his tiny legs, which dropped almost soundlessly to the ground. But the light click of his boots was unmistakable against the utter silence. He shuffled down the steps, unsure, but needing to please his father.

Leena licked her lips, forcing her eyes to remain open even though she wished to look away, to find Mikza, to escape.

_Please_ , she thought, _he is just a boy. Please do not make him a man, not at only five years old._

But the hope was futile and she knew it. Her father often spoke of his childhood, of the lessons he learned from the former king—one more harsh ruler in the long line of Ourthuri royalty. He had only been seven the first time he killed a man—an unmarked he caught trying to escape the palace grounds.

It was difficult to imagine her father as an innocent boy, but it was more difficult now to watch her brother's innocence fade away, to watch his eyes harden and his tiny fingers wrap around the hilt of a sword, to watch him raise it and wait for a command.

"What punishment do you think befits this crime?" Her father asked, loud enough for all to hear but directed at the little prince.

Haydar scrunched his lips, flicking his eyes around the room in search of the correct answer. "I don't know, Father." He spoke slowly, unsure of himself.

The king knelt beside his son, dropping his weighty arm over Haydar's shoulder and pulling him in closer. A loving gesture. A twisted one too.

From the back of the room, two soldiers stepped forward, making their way through the crowd. Her father's personal guards. They knew what was coming next.

"He dropped your birthday present, our fine gift to you. And look," he said, gently pulling the sword closer, inspecting it, "we think there is a scratch, right there on the hilt."

"I see it," Haydar agreed, but his brows knotted together. There was no mark.

"He was clumsy."

Haydar nodded.

"He ruined our celebrations."

The guards reached the unmarked and forced him down on the ground, bending him so his forehead pressed harshly against the floor. His arms extended to either side, held down by their knees.

"He dishonored us."

King Razzaq hugged Haydar closer, brows raised, waiting for a proclamation of punishment. Her brother squeezed the grip on the sword, eyes still clouded with confusion, growing clearer by the second. The entire room stared, wondering what sort of man their future king might be, expecting very little change.

And Leena held her breath, clenching her fists, waiting, hoping his gentle mind could not put the pieces together. Hoping everyone was wrong.

"He will..." Her brother paused, looking up at their father's face, searching for the right words. "He will lose one hand?"

Leena's heart dropped.

The king smiled.

"A good choice."

One of the guards holding the man down reached for his weapon, but the king raised his palm. Leena gasped.

He couldn't mean to...

Not at his birthday celebration...

"But a king must do more than just proclaim his punishment," King Razzaq continued, standing slowly. "Sometimes, he must carry it out as well."

And with that, he nudged Haydar forward.

The boy stepped cautiously toward the unmarked, whose scars were like a perfect target, circling his wrists. He tightened his hold and raised the sword above his head, tiny arms shaking with exertion, ready to draw his first blood.

Leena looked away, not caring if anyone saw how fast she turned her head or how quickly her eyes focused on the back of the room.

Mikza.

He was watching her, eyes saddened but not surprised. He had been waiting for her, and she needed his strength.

Leena tightened her grip on the throne, digging her fingers into its golden arms to keep from running across the ballroom. In her mind, she felt Mikza's arms surround her, felt him caress her hair and bring her head to rest in the nook below his shoulder, a spot that seemed perfectly designed just for her. He was holding her, protecting her, but also stopping her. Saving her from the thought of what she might do with her brother's sword, given the chance.

Blinking back blurry tears, she gritted her teeth, letting the pain take away the defeat, the hurt. Her father had won, as he always did.

Leena did not see Haydar's blade fall but she did not have to. The cries of pain were enough to make her flinch as they echoed around the room, as they were dragged farther and farther away, made fainter and fainter, until a full silence hung in the air.

And then clapping. The celebration of her brother finally becoming a man, becoming a prince worthy of being King of Ourthuro.

Leena never let go of Mikza's eyes, worried what she might do if she did.

TWO

Leena sat under the deep water of her private pool, safe in the muffled silence, letting the gentle hum ease away her fears, her worries. Looking up through the glittering shafts of light floating and filtering through the cool blue, the world felt miles away. Anger still clenched her fists, sorrow still gripped her heart, but here under the surface, drenched in sapphire, she could hide away for a little while.

It had been a long night of pretending, of smiling, of hiding everything she truly wanted to say. After her brother's performance, Leena had done her duties as a princess. Dancing and making conversation, then leaving as early as was politely possible for a princess to do, keeping the tears to herself until she was hidden behind the thick walls of her suite.

Mikza would find her, he always did. He always came to comfort her, to kiss her. At that moment, she knew he waited outside her doors, guarding the entrance as was expected, waiting until it was dark and the halls were empty before slipping inside.

But she wanted him now.

Usually the water was enough of an embrace to calm her rushing pulse. Not tonight. Not when it felt as though someone she loved had died, or worse, disappeared before her very eyes as though he had never existed. Perhaps her brother had always been vicious, like their father. Perhaps she had misled herself, believing he could be different, thinking that someday things might be different.

But she remembered cradling him in her arms as a baby, the little spittle drooping from his lips while he giggled, the time she taught him to blow kisses, the way he wrapped his tiny fingers around her thumb.

Leena released the breath she had been holding, watching the air bubbles float before her face and drift higher, disappearing into the glare of the candlelit room up above.

Water had always been her friend, there for her even before Mikza. Her eternal escape. Her secret hideout. Some might call it magic, but to Leena it was as natural as breathing, sitting in those cool depths for hours without needing to fill her lungs, knowing she would never drown no matter how long she stayed below the surface. As a girl, she thought maybe her mother had gifted her with the powers, letting the pool provide a warm embrace since her nurturing arms had been stolen away.

Now, Leena did not know what to think. Dreams of her mother seemed childish, but she had no other explanation for the gift. She could not manipulate the water, could not move it, or produce it from thin air. It was more like a close friend. A place she could cry without fear of discovery. A place she could dream and pretend she was somewhere else.

For tonight, a place she could remember an innocent, beautiful little boy without facing the realities of her world. It wasn't his fault, she tried to remind herself, not really. Haydar was just becoming what he was groomed to be, what he knew, what he was taught. But still, it cut her deeply.

A shadow fell overhead, interrupting her thoughts and casting a dark circle through the water.

Leena looked up, smiling, as a memory flashed before her eyes. Two and a half years ago, on the day of her fifteenth birthday, the same thing had happened. Only then, it was met with fear instead of excitement...

Leena knew it was time to get out of the water. Her maid would be there any second to primp her for the party—for her party. Fifteen. It didn't feel so old, not really, but it was old enough for her father to take notice—to present her to the men of the court.

She never talked to boys, never spoke with them, and never showed any interest. She was happy in her solitude. In her freedom. Leena did not want anything to change. It was too fast.

Her hands shook, making bubbles in the pool, a drift of fizz that floated to the top of the surface, a trail of nerves.

She really should get out. But her limbs felt too heavy to move, so she continued to sit and ruminate, hidden from the world.

A sound made its way to her ear. A muffled noise she could not make out, something very loud for it to travel all the way down to her, breaking the silence.

Leena looked up and gasped, accidentally swallowing water.

A shadow looked down on her, a person, someone she could not recognize through the ripples.

Frozen. She was frozen in place. No one knew her secret. Not even her sisters.

Suddenly white blinded her, a splash and then a crash as a body hit the water, breaking it apart, sinking closer.

Where could she run? There was no place to hide—she was discovered. And now even this secret had been stolen from her.

Time seemed to stop as the body swam closer, as two brown eyes grew more distinct in the blue, a reassuring face that seemed to tell her it would be okay. Leena did not struggle as the man wrapped his arms around her waist, tugging, pulling her up and up, until her head broke the surface and she took a long gasping breath, shaky with fear.

Silence trapped her tongue and she did not speak as he lifted her from the water, laid her gently down, and cupped her cheek.

Words, but she was too distracted to listen. It was not a man but a boy, a boy who had to be hardly older than she, his olive skin tanned and his muscles firm as they held her. She had never been so close to one before.

"Are you alright, Princess?" He repeated. She didn't know how many times he said it before she finally found the courage to pay attention. And when she did, the entire situation came barreling forward into realization. She jumped from his embrace, stepping backward on unsteady feet.

"Who are you? How dare you manhandle a princess of Ourthuro? I demand to know your name."

He stood abruptly, moving his hands into a fist behind his back, squaring his shoulders and stepping his feet perfectly together.

"I am Mikzahooq, your new personal guard assigned by King Razzaq, my Princess."

_"Oh," she exclaimed, surprised, interested, trying to ignore the flutter of her heart as he said the word_ princess _. He was older than she had thought but gentler than she expected a soldier to be. "Well, please do not barge into my rooms unannounced again."_

"I won't, my Princess." He paused, squinted at her. "Only, may I ask what you were doing? When you did not respond to my knocks I grew worried that you were hurt. I saw you in the pool, and I feared, well, the worst, my Princess. I only ask so I can better protect you."

"I..." Leena bit her lip, shuffling uncomfortably on her feet. "I was swimming of course. I dropped a ring and I needed to go find it." She held up her hand, defiantly presenting him with the emerald band circling her finger.

"Of course, my Princess." He could not hide the smirk on his lips, the knowledge that she was lying, but he did not press. And Leena silently thanked him for that respect, a respect very few ever graced her with—one not out of duty but out of kindness.

"You may go," she said, covering her giggle as he jumped into action, suddenly realizing that she was in her undergarments and clearly safe from any harm.

Leena followed him to the door, shutting it gently when he left and falling back against the metal, biting her lip, thinking how fun fifteen might be.

Leena remembered that night so clearly—it was the night her reputation as a flirt first began. Throughout the ball she danced with every boy, remembering no faces because she pictured each with the same features, Mikza's features, imagining she danced with him, her accidental savior.

It had taken months for her to break down his walls, to make him talk to her so openly again, but it had been worth it. He was a man of duty and of honor, a soldier with rules to follow, but love was strong enough to weaken those barriers. Eventually, Leena had told him the truth about her magic, which was why he had now learned to wait for her to rise from the waters on her own.

With one shove of her feet, Leena pushed off from the tile floor, swimming up through the blue until his face became ever more clear. As he had done a hundred times before, Mikza reached both of his palms below the surface, holding her gently and pulling her from the water so she stood in his arms.

Staring into his deep brown eyes, glittered by the candlelight, Leena finally felt relaxed. Mikza lifted a warm palm to her cheek, using his thumb to brush away the water masking her tears, concerned.

But Leena did not want to talk about her brother. Not yet.

"Do you remember the first time we met? How you tried to save me?"

Mikza grinned, nodding as he slipped his hand to the back of her neck and ran his long fingers through her dripping hair.

"I remember the seven other times you made me save you, too, before you finally confessed your secret."

"What secret?" She teased, opening her already large eyes even wider, feigning innocence.

"That you love having my arms wrapped around you," he whispered.

"I don't think that was ever a secret."

Her hands drifted further up his chest until they found his shoulders and pulled him slightly down, just enough to meet her lips.

Immediately, her heart fluttered as though airborne in her chest, lifting her closer to Mikza, making her arms squeeze him tighter. His touch was soothing, comforting, but still burned a slow fire in her belly—a heat she hoped time would never take away. His kisses were the only thing she feared she might drown in, so she clung to him.

Mikza's arms wrapped firmer around her waist, lifting her to the ends of her toes. He was tall and lean, but strong and perfectly fit to her body. They molded together like water, with a fluid grace. As he moved, so did she.

When Mikza pulled his neck back, she tried to follow, but Leena knew that move. He rested his forehead against hers, breath unsteady in the small space between them, leaving an unbearably long inch between their lips, and an even longer pause. She waited for the words she knew would come, the ones she hated for ruining their perfect slice of happiness, but also ones that needed to be said.

"Leena..."

She dropped back down so that her heels came to rest on the floor and stepped back, escaping for a few seconds longer. Mikza watched, waited, but Leena kept moving, running.

Walking past her private pool, she stepped into the night air, onto the balcony outside her bedroom. It was cool, prickling her moist skin and bringing an instant chill to her body. But the cityscape below provided the distraction she needed, the one she searched for.

Da'astiku. The capital city of their island kingdom, Ourthuro. The golden palace belonging to her father sat at the top of the mountainous city, and each level below degraded slowly down in class, from the glimmering silver coated plateau of the nobles to the bronze plateau of the merchants, all the way down through iron and rock until one reached the sea.

Many loved the beauty of Da'astiku during the day, the way the sunlight bounced from metal roof to metal roof, but Leena found those glares too harsh, too blinding. The moonlight was more beautiful, it made the jagged rock look gentle, the ferocious waters look calm. Even the roofs sparkled, not enough to make her wince, just enough to glisten like diamonds, mirroring the shimmering surface of the water.

Ourthuro was a hard place. The islands were steep with cliffs, with edges that cut. The rock they lived on was relentless, filled with metal ores that made their people rich in coins and jewels but left room for little else. Their land could not grow food, could not nurture plant life. The hunger and the heat had made their citizens tough. But in the night, under a bed of stars, Leena could sometimes forget that her home was an unforgiving place. Under this silky sapphire, she thought maybe there was room for love.

Mikza stepped beside her, dropping his arm over her shoulder and pulling her in close. Heat billowed from his skin, warming her, melting away the harsh exterior of an Ourthuri princess until she was just a girl, hurt and lost. Leena relaxed into his embrace, bringing her arms around his waist, using his sturdiness as her strength.

"He is just a boy," she whispered.

"I know." His deep voice was soft and soothing.

"I don't think I can do this anymore," she said slowly, hardly believing herself. But it was the truth.

Mikza's heart paused. She felt the beat stop in her ear, heard the shock in his chest. "Are you...?"

He drifted off, letting the breeze speak for him. But Leena understood. They had spoken about this many times before, always with her ending the conversation, saying she could not abandon her little brother, could not leave him to this fate.

But time had worked against her. He was already beyond her reach.

"I want to leave." Leena arched her neck up, resting her chin on his chest so she could see into his eyes.

"When?" He asked.

"As soon as possible. In little more than a week, Fayrih will be wed and then my father will turn to me, his next youngest daughter. We've both known for a while that my time is running out. I'll be matched soon, and once that happens, there will be no escape for us."

Mikza brought his hands to her cheeks, cupping Leena's face. His deep brown eyes bored into hers. They always grew darker when his passions were high. Now, they seemed almost black.

"Are you sure you want this? A life on the run?"

His gaze explored her face, searching for the truth. Leena slipped her hands from his back, bringing them over his, holding him, squeezing just slightly, emphasizing her truth.

"I love you, Mikza. I could never want a life that did not have you in it, and so we will run if that is the only option we have."

"I will have nothing to offer you. I will be disgraced. There will be no fancy clothes or luxurious baths or servants to help us."

"I don't care," Leena urged. "The way we feel is richer than this golden palace to me."

A war raged in his mind. Leena could see it. His entire life was about saving hers—always a soldier, always looking to protect her, always putting her needs before his own. In a way, it made her love him more. But in another way, she worried it was the one thing that would ruin them.

If he thought she would be happier married to a noble lord, living in Da'astiku for the rest of her life, raising a herd of children her father would turn cruel before her eyes—if he really thought that fate would be better for her, he would do it. He would sacrifice. But Leena would not let him decide for her.

"Mikza," she sighed, "please trust me. If I stay here any longer, I will die. Perhaps not my body, but my soul. I can already feel it slipping away, hardening. That is what this place does to people, that is what my father does. We must fight it. I need you to help me fight."

He dipped his head, gently pressing his lips against hers, holding onto the moment. This time, Leena was the one who pulled back, who implored, who forced him to speak.

"My Princess," he sighed, lips lifting ever so slightly. Leena's heart followed with them. "Such a handful. Yes, let's do the impossible. Let's defy the king. Let's find our sliver of forever."

Before he finished speaking, Leena had jumped into his chest, trusting him to catch her. Burying her head in his neck, she smiled, wider than she ever had before, happier in that moment than any time she had ever known—as though her heart would burst, unable to contain the mounting joy.

Mikza caught her, held her high, and laughed carefree with her, mad with love. He spun her around, letting the water on her dress fly off into the night air, spatter around the room, each droplet a little beat in their song.

We'll do it. We'll escape.

Leena had faith. Love was the only thing her father did not understand, so she had to believe it was the only thing he would not suspect. Love, after all, was not the Ourthuri way.

But it was her way.

Their way.

Their freedom.

Three

Marriages were supposed to be happy things, but Leena could not remove the ribbon of panic knotting her insides. With every passing hour, she was brought closer and closer to her father's attention. And in a few short minutes, all eyes would be on her.

Her sister's wedding had taken place that afternoon in the garden terrace with the sun god playing witness as well as most of the city. It had been beautiful, not that Leena paid much more attention than sitting silently with a smile on her face, a mask covering her growing neurosis, her tumultuous and distracting emotions.

During the ceremony, her sister had been the center of attention. But now, the celebrations were about to begin. Tonight, every lord in Da'astiku would approach the king, asking to wed his son to the newest available princess of the kingdom. Unfortunately, Leena was next in line—a shiny gold coin they would now all want to own.

The same thing had happened to Fayrih. In less than four months after their elder sister's wedding, she was engaged to a wealthy noble house, chained and bound to this city forever.

Leena vowed never to share that fate.

She glanced in the mirror, confused by the woman who stood before her. Pale skin from a lifetime spent pampered indoors, naturally olive, begging for the sun. Dark ebony hair that fell down in curled tresses, uncut for most of her life, now twisted and spun into an overflowing knot atop her head. Large eyes, too large for her petite face, with golden accents painted all around, bringing out the honey in her irises.

A princess.

But it was not how she saw herself. This girl was weak, demure, meant for nothing other than a life of birthing sons. Leena wanted so much more for herself. She was stronger than that fate.

"Almost done, my Princess," her maid said. Leena smiled her consent—she was used to these preparations. A few more metal trinkets in her hair and it would be complete.

She stared into the mirror, looking behind her face and toward her bed. Hidden underneath, scrunched among her dress boxes, was a small suitcase, almost filled.

Mikza had gathered peasant clothes for both of them, dried food reserves, and weapons just in case. Leena had stolen gold coins and a few pieces of jewelry from her vast collection. Not enough to go unnoticed in this palace, but enough for some people to live off for a lifetime.

There was only one more item they needed in order to leave. One Mikza promised he could find tonight.

"Time for your veil, my Princess."

Leena refocused her gaze, watching as elegantly woven chain-link gold was dropped over her face. So odd that so much time and effort went into beautifying her features, only to have them covered up and hidden from the world.

"Stop," Leena said, lifting a hand. "I will do it myself. Please leave, I would like a few minutes alone."

Mikza waited outside her door, guarding it, as was his duty. But she wanted to see him just for a minute without metal hanging over her eyes, slightly obscuring her vision.

"As you wish, my Princess."

Her maid turned and left, closing the door softly behind her. Leena stood, eyes still on the stranger before her. The dress was new, sewn especially for this occasion. Her sleeves were open and translucent, revealing the tattoos that painted her arms. The golden silks flowed around her narrow frame, elongating her legs. An ornate belt cinched her waist, sparkling with diamonds, matching the coins around her ankles. Every time she stepped, she jingled slightly.

What would it be like to wear dull brown garments, roughly woven so they scratched the skin? To be able to dress herself? To show her face, rather than cover it with lotions and powders and veils?

To be with Mikza in the daylight, surrounded by other people without fear of discovery?

Would she ever feel so free?

The knot squeezed tighter. Leena took a deep breath, pushing her stomach against her belt as far as it would go, trying to calm her rising nerves. For some reason, she could not shake this feeling of dread rising inside her.

A knock sounded. Two fast followed by one slow. Their sign.

Her anxiety lifted slightly as she walked to the door, opening it to let Mikza inside.

"I found it," he said, excited as he entered and quickly shut the door behind him. He pulled a small jar from his pocket, holding it so Leena could see. There was no label, but she knew what it was.

A very expensive lotion. A lotion created to perfectly match her skin-tone. Thin enough to easily slide over her arms, but thick enough to hide the black swirls branding her as princess. In a country where tattoos meant class and everyone spent the days with arms uncovered in the heat, this lotion was her only ticket to freedom.

And it had cost a fortune.

Mikza had found a merchant used to working outside the law, a man he would normally have arrested, but instead paid very well to procure this ointment for them.

Leena ached to try it, to cover her arms and run that very instant, but instead she covered Mikza's hands with hers and kissed him quickly.

"We should leave tonight, after the celebration," she pleaded. The knot in her stomach was lessening now that she knew they had everything they needed. "Everyone will be resting, probably drunk and not at all on guard. The palace will be quiet."

"I agree," he said, and she released a heavy breath, forcing the tension from her body. Tonight. She had a timeline now, a countdown to freedom. She was almost out of her father's grasp. "Keep this with you, in case anything happens. Is there anywhere you can hide it?"

Leena looked down at her gown. The jar was smaller than her fist, but there were no pockets, no folds that could hold it.

"I will have to keep it here," she said and pulled the glass free from his grip. Their bag was sandwiched too far under her bed to retrieve now, but there was nowhere else she trusted the vial to remain hidden.

Her clothes belonged to the maids that dressed her. It was their job to rifle through her drawers. And the topside of the bed belonged to the servants who snuck in every morning to carefully pull her sheets back into place and fluff the pillows. Even in her room, nothing truly belonged to just her.

Nothing, except...

Leena jumped into action, remembering the one thing no one would dare touch. On the lower shelf of her bedside table rested a jeweled box, just large enough to hold her shoes. But it held something much more precious. A lock of her mother's hair, a strand of her pearls, and the note she had written her unborn child in case it was a girl and they would never meet. Even in this place so devoid of love, the servants knew to leave those possessions alone.

Careful not to wrinkle her dress, Leena knelt down and slipped the little jar into her mother's box, hoping an angel would protect it.

Mikza dropped a hand on her shoulder. She felt his skin through the thin layer of her dress, warm and inviting. Leena stood, meeting him, sharing words without needing to speak. He brushed his fingers along her cheek, careful not to smudge her makeup, just light enough to make her skin buzz.

Leena did not need to be so cautious, and she gripped his arms, never wanting to let go, wishing that if she just held on strong enough he could carry her away.

"I should leave," he sighed. They had been too long already. He started to turn away, but Leena would not let go.

"If this is to be my last ball, I want to dance with you. Just once, I want to be all dressed up, staring at the man I love, smiling and not pretending."

His eyes softened and his hand fell to her waist, gripping her ribs just above her belt, a little higher than was proper. With his other hand, he traced the length of her arm, searching for and eventually finding her fingers.

"Just once, I will be the man you are dancing with," he whispered, "instead of the man watching from the shadows."

There was no music, but at the same time, Leena felt she heard strains of a melody on the breeze. A secret song meant just for them, a beat they both stepped to, swayed their hips to. The coins around her ankles sounded like bells, beautiful and melodic as she followed Mikza's lead. Leena wished to let her head fall against his chest, to pull him close, but she could not risk damaging her carefully created face, not if her father actually did choose tonight to finally notice her.

So instead, she let the feel of his muscles shifting below her fingers, coiling and releasing, lull her. The perfect curve of his smile brought one to her lips, the twinkle in his eyes, she was sure, did the same.

Time seemed to stop, and then he pushed her away, spinning her in a wide triumphant circle, only to pull her close again, laughter adding to their song.

Leena could stay like this forever.

But they both seemed to sense when their time drew to an end.

"Tonight," Leena whispered, like a prayer.

Mikza nodded, reaching for the door, but before he got there, the knob moved, twisting, scratchy and rough in Leena's ear.

Her jaw dropped, eyes widening, and Mikza jumped to the side just as the door swung open. His body was still visible, a thin shadow cast along the floor, but he was mostly hidden behind the now open frame.

"Leenaka?"

She couldn't breathe. It was her elder sister, Yasmine, dressed up for the ball.

"Is someone else in here?"

Leena found her voice, rushing toward her sister to keep her from stepping any farther into the room.

"No, of course not. I was just singing to myself. Are you ready to go?"

"I did not see your guard, is he not supposed to be here as your escort? Even in the palace, your safety is not assured."

Leena rolled her eyes, trying her best to look exasperated. "Yes, I know. I have heard the same lecture before, but I sent him off early to the ball. I was hoping for a few minutes alone."

"Nervous?" Her sister smiled, putting up a display of nicety but only to hide the sinister undertone of that statement. They looked similar, but Leena had no foolish notions of affection from Yasmine. Siblings, especially twelve girls, were not encouraged to love one another, not in this family. Each had their own mother to mourn, their own marriage to secure, their own ploys to gain the attention of their father. No, competition was the Ourthuri way, not love.

Yasmine was older, married, and a mother. But that did not mean she would not rat Leena out to their father if she thought it might gain his favor.

"Of course not, why should I be?" Leena shrugged, innocently widening her gaze and raising her eyebrows. "It is my turn next, though I guess someone as old and wise as you barely remembers what it was like before you were engaged. I bet you can hardly recall the rush of having suitors begging for a dance."

Her sister's smile faltered. "Yes, the foolish whims of teenage girls are behind me. Are you ready to leave? I will walk you, so you do not dishonor this house meandering the halls alone."

"Thank you, Yasmine. I trust you always have my best interest at heart. I will just need a moment to put on my veil."

Leena stepped backward, hoping her sister would not follow, unsure if Mikza was well enough hidden for scrutiny. But Yasmine just waited in the doorway with arms crossed, a slight scowl dirtying her otherwise lovely face.

Quickly, Leena grasped her veil, fixing the crown in the bed of her hair and slipping in two gold clasps to keep it steady. She kept her eyes on Yasmine as best she could, watching her sister's gaze travel around the length of her room, searching for some secret. But her expression never changed to one of victory. Her cool stance never lightened. And before she could look any further, Leena turned back around, ready to face the party.

Sparing just one quick glance at the door, wishing she could say goodbye and look into Mikza's eyes one more time before the ball, Leena followed her sister outside.

Four

For what felt like the one hundredth time that evening, Leena reached out her hand, accepting an offer to dance.

This time it was Lord Padmir, a wifeless and childless bachelor far too old for her. At least she hoped her father wouldn't actually consider him. While hunched shoulders and a rotund belly wouldn't concern the king, the man's falling fortunes would likely be enough to remove him from the list.

A leer spread across his lips, sending a shiver down Leena's back. She spared a glance over her shoulder, searching for Mikza. Still in their spot, he watched on, lips pressed in a tight line. Normally that move was made in anger, but by the slight glimmer in his eye, Leena thought he might be holding in a laugh.

Glad someone is enjoying himself.

She rolled her eyes, turning back to the lord, trying to keep her small dinner firmly in her stomach.

He bowed.

She curtsied.

Then the music began anew, and he pulled her from the sideline into the center of the ballroom, gripping her waist tighter than was comfortable. Luckily, it was frowned upon to talk during a dance, so Leena just had to smile and step, two motions that came naturally to her.

After a few spins, Leena found herself in a daze. Eyes glazing over, she began to picture Lord Padmir as Mikza. Young, handsome, in love with her. It made her giggle to imagine people's reactions—the shock that would spread around the room if a soldier walked out with the princess and put all of their dancing to shame.

Because the two of them would have done just that.

They would have blazed, setting fire to the room, blinding everyone with the force of their passion. No one would be able to look away. All would stand transfixed, jealous, and curious, in awe.

Tonight.

The word had become her prayer for the evening. Repeating it soothed her, snipping the nervous threads coiling through her limbs. Tonight she would be gone. Tonight she would be free. And she would never have to pretend for any man ever again. Mikza would be hers and she would be his, and everyone they met would know it.

Tonight.

The music began to wind down and the vision faded, replaced by graying hairs and a too wide smile that made Leena flinch.

"Enjoying ourselves?"

She stiffened, feet halting immediately. Leena knew that voice.

"Of course, my King," Lord Padmir rushed, bowing so quickly that he almost toppled over.

Leena moved more slowly, cautiously. Her father had paid her no attention all night, but it seemed that gift was finally gone. Standing behind her, he looked as commanding as ever. Off the throne, but still graced with the crown and an air of arrogance, King Razzaq knew how to impose. And at that moment, his umber eyes glimmered with intelligence, putting Leena on edge.

What did he know?

"Yes, my King," she said, forcing a smile through her teeth, trying to calm her suddenly racing pulse. "Who could do anything less than enjoy such a wonderful party, especially in honor of the wedding of my dear sister?"

"Who indeed?" He smiled, too sweetly. Eyes flicking to the lord, he said, "Leave us."

Leena gulped, resisting the urge to find Mikza, to make sure he was all right. Looking at him now would only encourage her father's suspicions, would only endanger them both.

"You seem happy tonight."

"Of course, Father," she answered, mouth suddenly dry. "I am only excited that it is now my time to be matched."

"Do not lie to me, girl," he said, gripping her wrist tight enough to bruise. To an outside observer, it might look like a touch of affection. But his eyes were furious. "I have heard it all before. Do not forget that I had sisters, and there were other daughters before you."

"I'm not sure what you mean, Father." Leena fought to keep her voice even, but the pain in her wrist only mirrored the fear in her heart, both making her body shake.

"Enough," he growled, pulling her in close, digging his fingers into her arm. "You will share one more dance of my choosing and then retire for the evening. Understood?"

Leena nodded, not trusting her voice. His rings were scraping her skin, chafing it raw, so she closed her eyes against the hurt.

Somehow, he knew.

Yasmine. It was the only explanation Leena could think of, but they had given nothing away.

Mikza?

Leena forced her neck still, fought to keep her head from jerking to the side, from finding him. Moments ago she had seen his smile, was it possible he had so quickly been taken? That things could so quickly change?

"Good," the king sneered, releasing Leena and stepping back. Placing his hand at her back, he pushed her forward. Not forceful enough to be noticed, but with power. Leena could not run, she could only step where her father wished, feeling like she marched to her grave and not to a dance partner.

"Lord Biitar," her father called, voice suddenly jovial. The old lord turned, Leena recognized him.

"My King," he said, bowing informally in greeting. No surprise shone on his mature face. This moment had been planned, Leena was sure of it. "May I introduce my son, Amosaan. Amo to our closest companions, which I hope you will soon become."

A young man stepped forward, skin firm with hardened muscles. Tattoos of curved daggers and harsh waves decorated his forearms. His face was pleasant, jaw square with soft lips and eyes a muddled hazel, unusual for the Ourthuri. She knew him, of course, but couldn't remember interacting with him before. Something about his smile seemed too kind to be trusted.

"Our daughter, Princess Leenaka," her father said, shoving her closer to the boy. She curtsied and offered her hand. He lifted it gently, placing a soft kiss on the backside of her palm. Fighting the urge to scream and run, Leena let her hand fall slowly back to her side.

"We think you should share a dance. The two of you certainly make a fine," King Razzaq said, then paused, eyes shifting to Leena, grip tightening just enough to make her listen, "match."

Leena caught the gasp before it slipped past her tongue, but the triumphant look on her father's face was enough to tell her something had been given away. So this was the boy he wanted to match her with, the man he wanted her to marry.

"Princess?" Amo said, offering his hand to lead her to the floor.

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

Her mind protested, but under the watchful eyes of her father, Leena could do nothing but smile and accept. Amo led her out, placed his hand on her hip, and confidently began the steps.

Shorter than Mikza—that was what she noticed first. He had none of Mikza's grace, none of his fluidity. This boy was stone where Mikza was water. His movements jerked her around, pulling instead of leading, commanding instead of sharing.

He was a son of Ourthuro.

He was everything she wanted to escape.

Tonight.

Leena tried to calm herself, but the prayer wasn't working. As she spun, her eyes shifted around the room, spotting Mikza unharmed and still standing guard.

Safe.

He was still safe.

But for how long? Her father had to know something. Or hinting at her match would not have been so satisfying to him, so sinister. Like a ghost, Leena still felt his grip on her arm, felt the rings of a king taking hold. He would never let her go.

The room began to blur. Heat built under her skin. The columns circling the dance floor seemed to expand, to close in, a beautiful prison, a golden cage. The laughter in the room grew unbearable, the candles blinded, the colors grew so saturated that she could hardly make out one person from the next. Suddenly her father's face seemed to loom in the air, to grow larger, an image she could not escape.

"Princess?" Amo said, breaking her trance.

They had stopped without her realizing. The room felt silent without music, empty, everyone seemed to be staring at her.

But they weren't. Leena looked around, her anxiety becoming too much, but no eyes met hers. No one had been watching, not really.

"I apologize," she said, voice hoarse. Leena took a deep breath. "I suddenly do not feel very well. I think I will retire to my rooms."

Amo tugged on her arm, and in her weakened state, Leena fell forward. His hands caught her, just as her fingers landed on his chest, trying to find her balance. Just like a young couple in love might look, as though her father had planned it himself.

"If we're to be matched," he whispered, voice low, tone like iron, "I demand more respect than you have shown tonight. My wife will know her place, one way or another."

And then he released her, warm smile back on his lips. "Are you all right?" He cooed, settling her back on her feet, lightly running his hand from her shoulder to her elbow before letting go.

Leena could not think of a word to say. Her dry lips seemed glued shut. Her body trembled, and she felt as though she might faint. So without a response, she turned and walked slowly out of the ballroom, into the shadows, the cool night, wondering how long she could hide before someone would find her.

Fearing who that someone might be.

Five

"Leena?" Mikza's soft voice called, breaking her reverie.

She had found her way onto the balcony outside the ballroom, seeking the comfort of the moonlight. The stone floor was lined with shadows cast by the candlelight inside the room, creating stripes as the beams broke through the spaces between each towering column.

"Mikza," she breathed, hating how weak she sounded. Maybe she was that princess after all, that girl with no backbone, the girl who hid instead of fighting.

"What's wrong?" he whispered, just loud enough to be heard. Standing four feet away, still in the doorway, he seemed a lifetime from her. But he could come no closer. They were still in public, still surrounded by her father's guests, and a guard was not supposed to talk to his charge.

Leena kept her gaze focused on the rippling ocean below, letting the rolling waves and the sound of his voice soothe her. If her father suspected Mikza, he would be locked up by now—maybe dead already.

"I met my match."

He sucked in a pained breath, one so loud she could hear it cut through his lungs, a knife in his chest. "Already? So fast..."

"I think my father suspects something. Not you, but that my heart already belongs to another, that my dreams lay outside of his hold."

"But we've been careful."

"Have we?" She asked, sparing a glance his way. Mikza had unconsciously stepped closer, within a foot of her body. She could feel the heat of his skin on her arm, a magnetic pull teasing her to close the gap.

He met her eyes, dark and downcast, before stepping back into the light of the ballroom, across the invisible barrier.

"We're so close," he murmured, more to himself.

Leena cast one more glance over the edge, down the steep cliffs, all the way to the crashing splashes of water below. _So close, but so far._

"Let's go now," she whispered, turning quickly around, saying goodbye to the night. "Let's leave before the ball is over. Everyone is here. Everyone is occupied. No one will know."

Indecision stopped him. Leena could read it. He was no longer sure what was best for her.

"Mikza," she pleaded, "I am leaving, tonight. With or without you, but I cannot stay. I refuse to be married to that man."

He nodded, not certain enough to bind it with words, but that was all she needed.

Taking the long route, Leena stepped between the shadows, letting the light flicker over her, disappear, only to illuminate her again. Mikza watched from behind as she finally stepped back into the outskirts of the room. He followed from a proper distance, the way a bodyguard should—emotionless, detached—death with a sword to any who might mean her harm.

Leena spared no glances toward the interior of the room. There was no one she wished to see again. Prince Haydar would be her only regret, that she could not save him, that she was giving up on him.

The halls were quiet, almost eerie, causing goose bumps to rise on her skin. Unease curled her stomach, quickened her pace, and she could not shake it. The emptiness seemed to whisper in her ear, _it is too calm, too easy._

No one seemed to be around, even the guards normally kept at the doors. Leena could not remember the last time they had left their posts. Some of them she had actually wished to see, friends, guards that had helped keep their secret, people she wanted to thank and say a hasty goodbye to.

When they reached her room, Leena stopped. The royal quarters had never been so abandoned. Holding up her hand, she signaled Mikza to halt, to not follow her inside. Just in case someone watched, he needed to keep up appearances for as long as possible.

Heart in her throat, she turned the knob.

The door swung open.

Leena broke.

Everything she had, every hope, every ounce of strength, every dream, seemed to rush from her body, leaving her empty inside. A shell of a person.

Their bag sat ripped apart on the bed, empty, contents splayed across the ground. Their clothes, their food, torn apart. Weapons broken to pieces. Jewels and coins scattered.

And behind it, her father stood with his personal guard, waiting for her arrival.

Hate coursed through her veins.

Pure.

Strong.

The sort of loathing that built over time, waiting for the right moment to take hold, waiting for this moment when she had nothing but that one feeling to give her the strength to carry on, to fight.

"Father," she growled, muscles clenched.

"Will you deny it now, Daughter?"

Leena said nothing. Did not even move.

"You do not know this, but every time you attend a ball, I send my guards to search your room. You and your unmarried sisters. I've seen it all before." He was calm, standing straight and tall, soldiers at his back, all the power in his hands. "You are not the only one who has tried to run, but you are the first to be so well prepared, to have men's clothes also packed for the journey."

Still Leena remained silent, refusing to give anything away, to give him any information he did not have. Defiance was not something the king was used to. Leena tried to picture any of her older sisters trying to run, but she knew them, in her position they would have already fallen at his feet, groveling to be forgiven.

The image only gave her more strength to fight.

"Is that all?" She asked, voice as cold as she could make it, hard like an Ourthuri.

In a flash, her father was next to her. Before Leena could anticipate the impact, she was hit. His hand slammed into her cheek, and she could not help but cry out as she fell, landing cushioned by the clothes he had destroyed. Her veil was ripped from her head by the blow, and it landed beside her with a deafening ring.

"Who is he?" The king demanded.

Gripping her cheek, Leena looked up from the floor, fearless. Mikza was the one thing the king could never have. Love could not be slapped away, torn out of her heart by soldiers. Her love would burn no matter what he did.

"I will never tell you."

With a roar, the king leaned down, gripping her throat. "You will tell me now. Do not think I won't harm you. There are worse fates than marriage, girl, far worse."

"I welcome them," Leena choked out the words, coughing as his grip tightened and her airway seemed to close.

"When I scar your pretty face, maim you, make you unfit for the public so you must live in the shadows. What will your love do then?"

"He—"

"It was me," a soft voice interrupted.

Leena gasped. "No!"

But Mikza walked into the doorway, head bowed in surrender. He knelt down, removed his sword from his waist, letting it drop to the ground with a resounding clang, and placed his hands behind his head. All the while, he refused to meet her eyes.

Leena fell back to the ground as the king dropped her, turning his attention to a new conquest.

"Mikza," she murmured, voice cracking as her chest burned, as her eyes blurred. Why? Why didn't he let her fight? It was her father, her battle. He had no right to take that away, to save her when she wanted to be the one to save him.

But it was too late. The king had a hunger in his eyes, a feral gleam. There would be no escaping him now.

"A soldier in our own household," the king said, his tone sadistically light. Leena closed her eyes, trying to erase the pictures zipping to the front of her mind. Her father was going to enjoy this. "Take him away."

At those three words, words she had heard over and over again in her nightmares, Leena snapped. Invaded by some animalistic spirit, she sprang from the ground, jumping on her father, ripping the crown from his head and using her arms to strangle him. She screamed, cried, fought with everything she had.

Like a fly, he swatted her away.

It took no effort at all to throw her back to the floor, where one guard came to hold her down. Try as she might to break his grip—pulling, biting, scratching, pinching—nothing would loosen his grasp. For the first time, she realized how much strength Mikza had to control, how gentle he had truly been with her.

And that thought broke her in a different way.

It stilled her.

Slowed her.

Made her eyes rise, watching as he was led through the door, slowly out of her room, disappearing in the night never to be seen again. Her body shook, a tremble that grew more violent with each passing second. A wave of cold splashed over her, stealing her thoughts, vanishing her strength, and she collapsed in a ball.

Sobs wracked her body. Sobs that sounded less than human, as though her soul was being ripped from her chest. Sobs that even a soldier could not bear to hear.

"Princess," a warm hand landed on her arm, caressing her, trying to soothe her. Through blurred eyes, Leena looked up toward the sound, barely recognizing the figure as a man, let alone a specific person.

But his features gnawed through the numbness—she remembered them. Childlike almost, as though he had the body of a man but the innocent face of a boy—plump cheeks with dimples and round eyes. Mikza's closest friend, a friend who had always risked much to help their doomed romance.

"Tam?" She questioned, hushed and weak. "What will they do to him?"

"I don't know, Princess," he shook his head. Hurt was written across his face. Hurt that he had been a part of the capture. Hurt that he had not been able to keep Mikza safe. Hurt that he could not help her. Leena saw each thought flicker across his eyes, like an apology, one she did not want from him.

"Tam, you need to go to him in my place. I will not run, I promise. I will not break your trust. But you have to go and pull him back from the brink of death, which is where my father will surely leave him."

Her voice did not waver, did not break.

"I will, Princess. And here is my promise to you. When he is safe, I will bring you to him. I will give the two of you a proper goodbye."

Tam squeezed her hand, then dropped it, gently releasing his hold on her body. With one glance back, he left and closed the door behind him. Like a strong tide, her heart went with him, sucked from her body, pulled free.

Leena walked emotionless across her room, throat raw, limbs weak. Then she stepped off the edge and sunk deep into her pool, letting its warm waters embrace her, not sure if she would ever surface again.

Six

Time ceased to exist underwater.

Had it been hours? One day? Two days? An entire week? Leena did not know, and she did not care. Her stomach growled, but she ignored it. Her limbs ached for their weight, but she continued to drift, to float, ambivalent.

Down here, it was easier to pretend. To let her memories take over, to let her dreams unfurl. Sound was muffled. Light was softer. The world seemed far away and out of reach.

Leena was happy to leave it that way.

Without Mikza to save her, Leena could just drift until the end of her days. No one else dared enter her quarters without permission, not while she was inside. He had been the only one willing to save her, to ignore protocol. The servants might inform the guards of her silence, the guards might inform the king of his daughter's deep mourning. When she started to miss events, balls or dinners, he might be angry enough to intervene.

Leena almost hoped her father would be the one to discover her, to see her at the bottom of the pool. Maybe he would think her drowned, defiant until the end. Maybe then she would be free of him.

As if reading her mind, a body slid under the surface, distracting Leena, tearing her eyes open for the first time in she didn't know how long. Arms encircled her, and for a moment, she let herself dream it was Mikza, let her heart soften and her body curl into the warm chest.

And then they broke through the surface, and the dream shattered. Noise jerked her senses, unwelcome after all the silence. The roar of waves, the tinker of metalworking, the hum of human voices screaming from below. The sounds of her city infiltrating her peace.

The sun was bright, painful, and its heat stung her cold skin, sizzling the water droplets away.

"He said you would be in the water," a soft voice said, and he gently placed her on the ground.

"Mikza? He's alive?" Leena turned over, rolling up from the ground to face Tam. She recognized his caring voice, but his face seemed older, somehow aged since the last time they had met.

Tam nodded, but held something back, words he seemed unable to bring himself to say aloud. "Come, Princess, there isn't much time. He is to be moved from the palace dungeons in a few hours."

Leena needed no other prompting. Despite her protesting muscles, soft from so much time spent unused, she stood and then raced into her bedroom for dry clothes. Within minutes, hair unpinned and face free of powder, Leena met Tam outside her quarters. Mikza wouldn't mind. He preferred her this way, simple and uncovered, more like the girl she wanted to be instead of the princess she was.

"Follow me, my Princess," Tam whispered.

Leena noticed that there was no new guard stationed outside her door. Maybe Tam had inherited the honor, or maybe he had bribed someone away for an hour. Leena did not question, she was beyond her area of expertise.

The palace might be her home, but it still seemed foreign in many ways. And the farther Tam led her down the open corridors, the more she realized just how small her life truly was. These were halls she had never walked.

There was an entire world outside the palace, but aside from a few trips to silver levels or maybe even to the bronze merchant plateau, she had never seen it. The ocean lay just outside her balcony, but she had never dipped her toes in the cold currents. Never stepped foot on the docks at the base of her city. Never ventured to any of the other islands in their kingdom, let alone to foreign shores.

But today was a start, and Leena followed Tam down to a part of the golden palace that the sun did not illuminate, a place where cages did not pretend to be anything but prisons, and chains did not masquerade as jewelry.

The place Mikza had been damned to because of her.

"Tam?" A dry voice whispered. A voice she remembered as clearly as her own.

"Mikza," Leena sighed, searching for him in the dark. Tam had come to a stop outside a gate, and inserted a key into the lock.

"My Leena," his deep voice sighed, pain etched in the words. "You should not be here."

"I had to see you," she said, reaching for Tam's torch. But he stopped her and walked deeper into the cell, leaving Leena at the entrance.

With every step, she waited for Mikza to come into view, his strong legs, his soft eyes. Tam continued, not pausing, not searching, until he reached the back wall and placed the torch in a socket. Then his head shifted, his gaze slid across the stone to the corner of the room.

Leena gasped, her hand automatically rising to catch the cry on her lips.

Mikza was there, huddled in the corner, covered in dry blood. His back was striped with deep lines, marks left over from who knew how many lashes. His cheeks were swollen, enlarged enough to almost close his eyes, red and raw.

But the worst were his arms.

His unmarked arms.

Mikza's tattoos had been removed. His skin had been cut deeply, burned and shredded apart so it still bled just a little around his wrists.

Leena stepped forward, but he flinched away. Too proud to want her to see him in such a state. But Leena cared little for his pride right now.

"Why?" She asked softly, continuing to move closer. "Why did you have to confess? Why couldn't you let me fight? I don't care about my face. I don't care how deep my father would have cut me. It would have been better than this. Oh, Mikza, I love you. Why did you give that away?"

Leena knelt down, hand floating an inch beside his wounded cheek, unsure if it would only bring more pain for her to touch him. He didn't need to answer, she knew the truth already. He would never let anyone hurt her. He would give anything to protect her, to keep her safe.

And he had.

"I am no longer Mikzahooq." His words contained no bitter edge, only the emptiness of defeat. The unmarked had no name. No identity. No individuality. With their tattoos, so went everything about their former lives. They were less than human in the eyes of the Ourthuri.

"You will always be Mikza to me." Leena caressed his face with the back of her fingers, and despite the wounds, Mikza leaned into her touch. "We can still find a way. I'll leave tomorrow, I'll go wherever you want. We can figure something out."

He pulled away.

"You must forget me, Leena. You must move on with your life. I want better than this for you. I want you to be happy. So..." he paused.

Leena's throat caught. _What have you done?_ A mounting sense of dread filled her chest.

"I made a promise to your father."

"No." Leena winced, gripping his arm. "No, Mikza, what did you do?"

"He didn't want to kill me. He said it was too quick—not enough of a punishment for me and that it would only make you more defiant. Instead, he did this, and he is sending me away. I don't know where, very little was explained, just that I am to be gone from Da'astiku on a ship leaving in a few days time."

"I will come," Leena interrupted, eyes shifting across his bruised features, trying to read the emotions on his swollen face. "I will find you."

"No." He shook his head, wincing. "No, Leena." He gripped her hand, moving slowly to entwine their fingers one last time. "I promised him that I would let you go. That I would never return. That I would never speak to you again. And if I defy him in any way, break that promise—"

"He will kill you," Leena finished his sentence—solemn, stuck.

"No," Mikza squeezed his eyes shut, letting one wet tear slide free. "He will kill you."

_I am already dead_ , Leena thought but kept silent. It would be no use. Mikza had already sacrificed everything for her, and she would not let him know it was in vain. The girl he knew was dead, and Leena could only guess at the woman she was about to become.

"I love you," she whispered. That was the only certainty left in her life, a truth she would hold onto and let guide her into the future.

"I love you, too."

There was nothing else that needed to be said, not then, not in their final minutes together. So Leena sat back against the wall and pulled Mikza's head into her chest. Running her hands along his limbs, she tried to soothe his pain, to pour out all her love so the memory of this moment would last.

He hugged her close and they stayed like that. Intertwined. Not moving. Barely breathing. Just being.

But in the silence Leena's mind spun. She had a promise of her own to make. A promise to never stop fighting until her father was in the ground, buried, dead, unable to spread any more cruelty into the world.

If he was the hard rock of their island kingdom, she was the water crashing into their shores, slowly breaking it down, slowly chipping the stone away until there was nothing left. If he believed that love had weakened her, he was wrong. If he thought this would break her, he was wrong.

Leena felt strong for the first time in her life.

Empowered.

Love was her weapon.

Love would bring the king to his knees.

~~~

**Want more? The story continues in** _The Shadow Soul (A Dance of Dragons #1)_ **– Available for free wherever books are sold!**

**From bestselling author Kaitlyn Davis comes a fantasy adventure perfect for fans of Sarah J. Maas, Kristin Cashore, and Tamora Pierce! Told in alternating male and female perspectives, THE SHADOW SOUL has been hailed as "an amazing start to a new series that is going to have people of all ages wanting so much more."** (Happy Tails & Tales Reviews)

When Jinji's home is destroyed, she is left with nowhere to run and no one to run to—until she meets Rhen, a prince chasing rumors that foreign enemies have landed on his shores. Masquerading as a boy, Jinji joins Rhen with vengeance in her heart. But traveling together doesn't mean trusting one another, and both are keeping a deep secret—magic. Jinji can weave the elements to create master illusions and Rhen can pull burning flames into his flesh.

But while they struggle to hide the truth, a shadow lurks in the night. An ancient evil has reawakened, and unbeknownst to them, these two unlikely companions hold the key to its defeat. Because their meeting was not coincidence—it was fate. And their story has played out before, in a long forgotten time, an age of myth that is about to be reborn...

Keep reading for a preview of The Shadow Soul – free wherever eBooks are sold!

1

Jinji

~ Northmore Forest ~

A shadow was just the absence of light, a spot the sun could not reach. It was empty. But floating below her, drifting and dancing along the landscape, her shadow seemed full—not a reflection, but an impostor.

She pumped her leathery wings. The shadow did too.

She dipped closer to the trees. The shadow condensed, its points sharpening to match the outline of her body.

She arched up, farther into the cloudless sky. The shadow expanded and lost focus, rippling over the pointed trees below.

Enough, _she thought, gliding with the wind_. Time for food. _She focused on the horizon, spotting a deeper blue against the sky. Her mouth watered._

Keeping her eyes on the ground, she watched as forest gave way to rocks that cut deep into the sea, a molten sapphire speckled with white. She swerved left along the shore, focusing on the cerulean expanse of the reef, searching for movement.

There.

The lazy undulation of a fin.

She dove, jaws widening.

A black shape flicked into her peripheral vision. She turned.

Bright white eyes opened in the darkness. Jaws clamped around her neck. She reached out with her claws, sinking razor-sharp nails into the invader's flesh.

They fell as one, smacking into the water, a mass of light and dark, plummeting below the surface. The jaws tightened. Her vision condensed. Air slowed.

They continued to descend deeper and deeper into the shadows, to the part of the world the sun could not penetrate, where the darkness gained a life of its own...

Jinji awoke with a start, gasping for air and clutching her aching chest. Her lungs screamed. Her mind fought to escape the daze. She blinked, but the darkness would not recede, even as her memory ignited.

It was the same dream. A dream she had only had once before but would never forget. A dream that was somehow more.

Another blink and a soft orange light leaked into her vision. She looked up through the smoke circle in the roof, toward the sky.

Dawn.

Jinji stood, throwing her furs to the side and stepping quietly past her mother and father. Soft dirt muted her steps, and her parents didn't stir as she crossed the small expanse of their home. Lifting the pelt aside, she stepped into the morning mist and began to run. Her feet followed the path along the longhouse, past the rest of her sleeping tribe and into the forest beyond. No thought was necessary—she had taken this path too many times before.

Besides, concentration was beyond her. Jinji's thoughts had drifted out of the world and into her memories, all the way back to her brother.

_Janu_ , her heart cried softly, remembering him.

The last time she dreamed that dream had been on the eve of his death—what did it mean that it had happened again, a decade later on the dawn of her joining?

Jinji stopped.

She had reached the clearing, her sacred haven. A place shared only with her closest friend Leoa. Away from the game and too close to the outside world for anyone else in her tribe to discover—this place was their secret. The only place two girls could talk away from the attentive ears of the elders and the only place she could go to truly escape.

Jinji fell to her knees and opened her eyes wide, searching the air for something only she could find. She looked along the ground, over the flecks of dew spotting the grass, along the twining roots, up the rough bark and over her head toward the clouds.

There.

A shimmer. A dull glow. And now that she saw it, the light brightened and Jinji smiled. The spirits were still there for her.

For as long as she could remember, Jinji could see them. Everywhere. In everything. Minute strands of green, red, yellow, and blue, twining together to create the world. Earth, air, water, and fire spirits hidden in plain sight for no one but Jinji to see, and sometimes they tried hiding even from her. But not today. Not when she needed them.

Jinji studied the weaving strands, looking through the intricate patterns she would never begin to understand. And there she saw what she had truly been searching for: the space between the elements, the pure white wisps binding the colorful strands together—the mother spirit, the source of everything.

Jinjiajanu.

That was the name her people gave it. Her brother and she were named for it. But as far as Jinji knew, she was the only one who could manipulate it.

Closing her eyes, Jinji cupped her hands into a ball, envisioning the pearly glow between the strands of air she had trapped.

_Jinjiajanu_ , she thought. The image changed to that of a face that was stolen ten years before.

Jinjiajanu. Bring Janu back to me—bring my other half back.

She opened her hands, facing them out toward the open air, keeping her eyes closed, using her memory to draw a picture in the wind. His tanned skin, the color of freshly exposed bark. His deep brown irises set in wide eyes and framed with full lashes. His smile, always mischievous and often taking over the whole expanse of his face.

She imagined him taller and broader than he had been as a boy, with muscles hardened from long hunts. The frame of a sixteen-year-old man. The frame of her twin as he would be if he were standing with her today.

After a minute, Jinji dropped her hands and let her eyes ease open. No matter how many times she wove the illusion, her heart stopped at the sight and a lump caught in her throat.

Janu. How I miss you.

Jinji rose and standing next to her, vivid as a real man but unnaturally still, was her brother. Her fingers brushed his, passing through his hand, as she knew they would. He was, after all, an illusion made of spirits. But still, she always tried to touch him, hoping to meet resistance just once.

Jinji could manipulate jinjiajanu, but no one could bring the dead back to life.

"Janu," she said softly, pleading. "What are you trying to tell me?"

But there was no answer. She could make his lips move, could make it look as though he were alive, but this wasn't her brother.

Jinji let the illusion fall and, in the blink of an eye, it had disappeared. The elemental spirits snapped back into their proper place, and their subtle glow faded out. She was alone once more with only the trees to keep her company.

A knot hardened in her stomach, a sense of fear she couldn't dislodge.

The last time she dreamed of the shadow, she had woken in a fright and turned to rouse her brother only to find him missing from their shared pallet. Immediately, she shook her father awake. Using his authority as chief, he woke the hunters and charged into the woods. But the minute she had turned to see Janu missing, Jinji knew that he was gone forever. When the hunters returned holding the carcass of a great bear followed by her father cradling a pouch that dripped with blood, she had fallen to the ground—devastated but not surprised. She heard her mother wail and felt the ground rumble as she dropped, but Jinji's eyes saw only a great shadow waiting to swallow her whole.

And now it had returned. On the day she was meant to be joined with Maniuk, to be named the future leaders of their people, the Arpapajo tribe—the last remaining oldworlders.

Dread rippled down her limbs.

What did it all mean?

"Jinji? Are you there?"

She turned to see her dearest friend, Leoa, push a tree branch aside and step into the clearing.

"I thought maybe..." Leoa trailed off, shaking her head and glancing at the ground before meeting Jinji's eyes again. Her friend's face warmed, nervous creases smoothed out, and a grin lifted the left side of her lip. "What are you doing?"

Jinji took a deep breath, trying to relax. "Thinking of Janu."

Leoa nodded, understanding dawning in her eyes. She stepped closer, placing her warm palm on Jinji's shoulder. "He would want you to be happy. Maniuk was his friend."

Jinji nodded.

Maybe that was it. Maybe she was just nervous, just wishing for her brother on such an important day in her life, just afraid that the joining would give her another man to lose.

She sighed and her shoulders slumped as she pushed the shadow from her mind and glanced at her friend again. The knot in her stomach still curled uncomfortably tight, but there was no use in trying to untie it now.

"Are you here to take me back to my mother?" Jinji asked, already thinking of all she needed to do before the ceremony began, especially of her braid.

Leoa shifted and it was then that Jinji noticed the stark white skins on her friend's arm, almost as pure as jinjiajanu in color.

Her gown.

The edges had been tied into hundreds of knots decorated with dried berries. Feathers of all hues were woven through the fabric, shimmering in the sun, changing colors with each minute move of Leoa's arm. Twine had been specially dyed just so the ancient ceremonial patterns could be woven in, patterns Jinji didn't even truly understand.

She had seen her mother painstakingly work on every inch of the garment, had watched as she laid it on the drying rack to bleach in the sun every day and brought it inside to clean and embroider every night.

Everyone in their tribe would eventually wear exquisite leathers to their joining, but none would ever be as fine as the one Jinji's mother had prepared. Yet the sight of it just made the knot in Jinji's stomach tighten.

She looked up just in time to catch the concern in Leoa's eyes.

"What's wrong, Jinji?"

"Nothing."

"Is it Maniuk? Did something happen?" She stepped closer, but Jinji moved away. It was ridiculous to be so concerned with a dream, absolutely ridiculous.

"No, of course not. He's a friend. He'll be a great leader."

"And so will you."

Jinji nodded absently. She had been born to lead her people; it was the only thing she knew how to do. No, that was not the cause of her anxiety.

"I know what's wrong," Leoa said with a smirk and stepped toward the edge of the clearing to lay Jinji's dress neatly on the grass. She held out her hands and cleared her throat. "You're going to miss me. That's what this is all about."

Jinji smiled. "Yes, Leoa, this is all about you."

"I knew it." She straightened her hands again, urging Jinji to take them. "But I know just the thing to help." She impatiently shook her fingertips one more time. Knowing not to disobey her friend, Jinji obliged and held on.

The smirk on Leoa's face widened. From years of experience, Jinji knew exactly what that look meant.

"One," Leoa said.

"Two," Jinji laughed, her mood already lifting.

"Three," they said in unison, completing the routine. And then they were off, spinning in circles like the center of a great storm. Jinji gripped Leoa's hands tighter and shuffled her feet to the left, trying not to fall. Their weight pulled them apart, but still they held on, straining to stay connected.

The world was a blur, rushing behind Leoa's face in a daze of colors that Jinji couldn't unwind. Her smile widened, pushing against her cheeks, straining her muscles so that they hurt in a good way—a way they hadn't in a while. And suddenly, the joining seemed far off. She was a child with her best friend, feeling girlish and untouched. The pressure of growing up had fallen from her shoulders, thrown off by the force of her sudden glee.

And then it was over.

In a heartbeat, Jinji's fingers slipped free of Leoa's, and she was thrown to the side, landing on the ground with an _oomph_.

But giggles invaded her senses before the pain took any toll, and she rolled to her side, shaking uncontrollably with an innocent joy that pushed itself out into the world because there was simply no way to contain it. So she let it go and unknowingly let her fears go with it.

"That was fun," Leoa said when the silence returned.

"It was," Jinji said, glancing over her shoulder with a contented sigh. Like always, Leoa had known exactly what she needed.

"Are you ready now?"

"I am," Jinji said and slowly sat up. She brought her hand to her hair, running her fingers through the long, ebony tresses, already missing them when she had reached the end. But before Jinji could make another move, her palm was slapped away.

"I'll do that," Leoa said, taking over the job of weeding out the knots, "just enjoy it. You're finally getting your braid." Her friend's voice was wistful, but to Jinji, this was the worst part of the joining.

Her braid.

She would miss the wind flowing through her hair, the way it moved with the spirits. She would miss the feel of it floating around her face when she dove deep down into a stream. But mostly, she would miss the feeling that it was hers alone, a part of her that belonged to no one else—not yet.

Her future belonged to her tribe. Her past belonged to her brother. Her essence belonged to the spirits. But her hair, as unimportant as it seemed, still belonged to her.

But soon it would belong to Maniuk, to their family, and to her people. No longer would it flow freely down her back, curling in soft tendrils down her spine. No, after sixteen years of freedom, it would be bound for the rest of her life. One strand for Maniuk, one strand for their future children, and one strand for the tribe—three parts braided together to show she had matured into adulthood and had left her carefree childhood behind. It would never be cut or undone, not unless it needed to be.

Jinji had only seen her mother unbraided once. When Janu passed, she had cut one strand of her braid off to be burned with his body, a symbol that their bond had been broken. She let her hair free until the cut strands had grown even with the other two portions and were ready to be braided again, a sign that her heart had healed.

Jinji touched the tips of her silky locks. No, if she was going to be braided, she hoped it would be forever.

"You're usually quiet," Leoa said, continuing to run her fingers through Jinji's untamable hair, "but usually I can tell what's going on in your head."

"I'm just thinking."

"I should be used to that by now. All this thinking you do, it always seems exhausting. More exhausting than all the talking I always do. I wonder what would happen if we changed places for once."

"I would grow hoarse, and you would grow bored."

Jinji was sure Leoa's pause was from rolling her eyes.

"Then I'll keep talking..." She tapped her fingers along Jinji's back, something Leoa always did when she was thinking, or more accurately, scheming.

"Hmm," she said after a minute—an idea had sparked to life, something Jinji probably wouldn't like. "Maniuk is so handsome, don't you think? Have you seen how far he can throw the spears? How easily he can wrestle the other men to the ground? So strong, a great warrior, and well," her voice dipped lower, "I'm sure a great lover, too."

"Leoa!" Jinji tried to turn, but her friend gripped her shoulders, keeping her straight so her hair remained still.

"Don't tell me you haven't thought about it, with the joining so close. I know he has. I've seen him watching you."

"We're friends," Jinji growled, her face burning.

"Well, soon you'll be a lot more than that, and I want to hear all about it, but for now, the braiding."

"Is my mother coming?" Jinji asked, surprised they were not returning to the village before beginning the preparations.

"She knew you wouldn't want everyone around to watch. That's why she sent me to find you."

Jinji smiled, sending her thank you to the spirits since her mother was not there to hear. The last thing she needed was the scrutiny of the elders, picking over her flaws, telling her how to sit and stand and walk and speak. No, it was much better this way.

"I'm glad."

"Me too. Now," Leoa started and then separated the first third of Jinji's hair, placing it gently over her right shoulder, "for your joined."

"Taikeno," Jinji whispered, repeating the word in their native language, the one that had been stolen from them hundreds of years ago when the newworlders had taken over the land. But still, there were some things that could only be said in Arpapajo words. Some things only the ancient words could really express.

Leoa took the next third and draped it over Jinji's left shoulder. "For your children."

"Ka'shasten," Jinji responded, closing her eyes and saying it like a prayer.

Leoa gathered the remaining locks, tugging gently on them while she said, "For your people."

"Arpapajona." Jinji bowed her head, bringing her palms together, trying to catch the words and fuse them into the spirits around her.

As she wove the three parts together, Leoa began to hum. Following the rhythm, Jinji let her hands dance, weaving the words and the spirits together in an invisible braid, copying her friend's movements in a personal prayer.

Taikeno.

Ka'shasten.

Arpapajona.

Jinji repeated the words again and again in her mind, turning them into a song. A song of hope for a future that was happier than her past.

And then it was done.

Leoa tightened the strands, tying a series of intricate knots at the base of Jinji's braid to keep it tight and strong.

Just like that, she was a woman.

Waiting one more breath, Jinji opened her eyes.

And screamed.

Jumping up and backing quickly away from the spot, she stumbled over Leoa's feet until they had both fallen to the ground again.

Eyes.

She had seen bright white eyes staring out of her shadow.

"We must go," Jinji urged, breathlessly struggling to stand on her feet. Was that a yell she heard off in the distance? Were cries riding on the wind? "Do you hear that?"

Leoa gripped her hands, keeping her steady. "What? There is nothing. You're scaring me."

Jinji paused, took a deep breath, and listened. She heard nothing. Leoa was right.

Looking down at her feet, Jinji let her eyes run over the edge of her shadow, looking deep into the depths for some sign of betrayal.

But it was all a dream. It must have been a trick of the light. An illusion she had woven without realizing it.

Everything was fine. Everything was as it should be.

Her breath slowed as she tried to relax. _Everything will be all right. The past is the past—I will not let it determine my future._

She would not let the shadows drive her crazy—she had moved beyond that, past the craze that Janu's death had left her in. She was better now. Stronger.

"Come here," Leoa said, holding up the dress.

Jinji stepped closer, turning around and slipping off the furs that she currently wore. They were brown, covered in dirt and grass stains, blending into the spot where they fell.

She raised her arms up, letting the fresh dress slide down over her body. It was still rough and unworn, scratchy against her skin. But it was beautiful. And it made her copper skin glow.

Leoa tugged on the strap around Jinji's waist securing it tightly before stepping back. Jinji turned, meeting her friend's smile with a weak one of her own.

"Let's go—" Leoa began.

But she never got the chance to finish, because the imagined scream Jinji had heard on the wind turned into a real one, piercing both of their ears like a dagger.

Their eyes met. After years of friendship, of sisterhood, no words were needed. The fear in their gazes said it all, spoke more than words could, and they ran.

Another wail cut through the forest.

Then a growl and a grunt.

The howl of a warrior cry.

Then silence.

Leoa ran faster, her long legs carried her farther than Jinji's petite frame could match. Before long, her friend had become a phantom dashing farther and farther out of Jinji's sight.

The fringe on Jinji's dress pulled against branches, tangling her in the forest as if the trees themselves were trying to stop her. The wind pressed against her limbs, strong gusts that acted like a wall holding her body. Her feet dipped deep into soft mud that should have been hard and dry.

But Jinji pressed on, speeding through the small stream at the edge of their home until she spotted a figure in the distance, just beyond the entrance to the great longhouse.

She sighed, slowing her steps. It was Leoa.

If her friend had stopped running, then there was nothing to fear. Jinji had gotten them both worked up over nothing.

"Leoa?" She called.

Her friend turned just enough for Jinji to see a long stick protruding from her chest, a red spot seeping through her skins.

"Leoa!" Jinji screamed. Her eyes widened in horror and her heart pounded, but she was stuck. Her feet felt too heavy to move, as if everything was happening in slow motion. Janu's face flashed before her eyes. This could not be happening. Not again. Her limbs were stiff, her mouth dry, her brain just repeated _no, no, no_ unable to comprehend anything but agony.

And then a whisper filtered through the wind, "Jinji," and Leoa's arm reached out.

Her instincts kicked in. Jinji dashed to her friend, her sister, catching her just as her knees gave out and her body fell. They landed together, sliding slowly to the ground as Leoa's weight pulled them down. Jinji hugged Leoa to her chest, wishing that the beat of her heart would somehow spread to that of her friend's.

But she felt the body in her arms slacken, felt it drop an extra inch into her lap, heard one last gasp of desperate air, and knew.

Her arms lost their grip and Leoa tumbled onto Jinji's lap, lifeless and wide-eyed, shock written across her features.

"Ka'shasten," she whispered, ignoring the tears that blurred her vision _. My family_. "Pajora jinjiajanu." _Be with the spirits_.

Her voice cracked and she screamed.

And then her vision went red. She was not a little girl this time. She was a warrior. And she would find out who did this.

Jinji stood. Her eyes scanned the trees, searching for the bow that loosed the arrow, searching for any movement. But the village was still.

"Who are you?" She screamed.

A shuffling noise drew her attention. Just beyond the longhouse, someone was moving.

Jinji crept closer, pressing her body against the curved wood of the house, using it as a shield, hiding from the invader.

Heart pounding, she peered around the corner.

But it was a man she recognized.

"Maniuk," she hissed, trying to catch his attention. His spear was poised at the ready, a bow was slung over his shoulder, and the knife at his waist dripped red.

Part of her was proud. He was already a great warrior, and he would be a great leader when this fight was over.

But another part was afraid. Where was everyone else?

Maniuk didn't turn to her call. All of his attention was focused on the trees opposite them. She followed the line of his head, unable to see his eyes, and scanned the woods.

There was nothing there.

"Maniuk," she called again. Chills ran along her limbs. It was not the time to be fighting alone.

Suddenly he jerked into action. His arm lashed out, releasing the spear in a low arc that sailed through the center of their small village until with a thud, it landed.

A body fell forward, scratching against bark as it dropped.

But it couldn't be.

Jinji stepped back.

Maniuk?

He would never...

But there was Kekohi, one of their own, an Arpapajo, facedown with the spear through his chest.

Jinji's trembling hands rose to cover her lips, holding in the cry.

And then Maniuk turned around.

White.

His eyes were white, drained of all color, of all spirit, empty and somehow full at the same time.

The shadow had found her. It had come for her.

She stepped back again and again, moving away from the monster before her until her foot caught, and she stumbled.

Looking down, Jinji saw what she had missed earlier. The feathers along the arrow piercing Leoa's chest were raven black with red painted tips. They were Arpapajo, not newworlder. They were Maniuk's—Jinji had plucked those feathers herself.

He moved closer.

Jinji didn't try to run. She had no weapons, no hope of outpacing him. She had nothing left to run for.

Three feet from her body, Maniuk stopped. He slipped the knife from his waist and held it before him, arm out, almost as if he were offering it her.

Her eyes narrowed, traced the bulging veins up his wrist to his shoulder, until she stared into those absent yet knowing eyes.

The knife rose higher, up and up, over the height of her head, until it rested at his throat.

"No," she reached forward.

But in one quick motion, it was over.

Jinji didn't look away. Instead, she searched those eyes, and the instant before Maniuk's life was gone, she saw what she had been looking for. The shadow disappeared and Maniuk, her taikeno, was back. A deep despair flashed in his irises, and they froze that way as death took him.

He dropped to her feet.

Jinji knelt down, put her palm to his cheek, and closed his eyelids. "We would have done great things together," she whispered, brushing her fingers up through his hair, "I'm sorry I brought the shadow to you. I'm so sorry, my taikeno."

Jinji lowered her head until her lips pressed softly against his. Their first kiss. The one they should have shared at their joining. The one that should have been the first of many, yet would be their last. The only kiss they would ever know.

Suddenly adrenaline punched through her veins. This couldn't be the end, there had to be someone alive. Her mother. Her father. The children.

She jumped over his body and paused at the edge of her home.

To her left, the longhouse where her tribe slept each night. To her right, the longhouse where food was stored. Across from her, the smaller hut where she lived with her parents. And behind, the ceremonial grounds—today, the burial grounds.

It did not take long to decide where to check first, and before she realized she had moved, Jinji was pulling the furs of the longhouse aside.

The stench hit her like a punch in the gut, and she stumbled. Red splashed over the dirt floor, against the wooden slabs of the walls, dripping from the beams.

The only way to keep moving was to turn her mind off. She walked emotionless down the rows of bed pallets, checking each cut throat for a pulse, not caring as her hand stained maroon.

The children looked asleep, and she was happy for that, happy they had drifted away in ignorance, without experiencing the slow terror that was spreading along her nerves.

None.

There were none alive. And barely any sign of a struggle.

It was too much.

Jinji burst from the door and gulped in fresh air, heaving and coughing until spit dribbled from the corner of her lips—spit and tears.

Lifelessly, she moved back to Leoa's body and lifted her by the arms, dragging her over to the longhouse.

Jinji did the same for the bodies of the warriors she found sprinkled through the trees. She did the same for Maniuk, because she knew in her heart it wasn't really his fault—it was her fault, her burden to bear.

And when all of the bodies were safely tucked inside, she turned to her family's hut, knowing without a doubt what she would find.

She saw her father first, face down in the dirt. She turned him over, hand trembling above the wound that had opened his chest, and threw his furs over his stomach before pulling him to the rest of their people.

And finally, her mother, hand tucked under her cheek—peaceful and unaware.

And then it was done.

Before she could think, Jinji moved to the great fire always burning in the center of their village. She pulled a stick free and placed it against the dried wood of the longhouse, watching it spark, flare, and spread wildly.

Jinji stepped back, letting it burn her eyes.

Better to blaze than to drown.

Everyone she knew. Everyone she loved. An entire people wiped out. An entire culture gone.

But no, not everyone.

She was still here.

Alone.

Jinji looked down at the red stains covering her white dress, oozing wider with every second. Suffocating. The dress was suffocating her. It scratched her throat, sucked close to her body, constricting her breath, closing in on her lungs.

She screamed, ripping the dress down the seams, pulling the skins her mother had spent hours preparing apart, until she was standing completely bare in the sun.

Like a ghost, she turned around. Her eyes were vacant. Her arms hung lifelessly by her side. Her feet shuffled forward, barely lifting off the dirt.

Jinji went inside her home, reached for the box she always kept by her sleeping mat, and lifted the lid. Her brother's clothes. Tiny as she was, Jinji still fit in Janu's boyhood clothes. She still wore them sometimes, when she needed to feel like she was not alone. So she slipped them on, sliding her legs through the breeches and her arms through the leather shirt, both worn soft by time.

Reaching down again, Jinji gripped his hunting knife and grasped the end of her braid. Barely there an hour, and already all was lost. Her prayer had failed.

Slowly, she sliced through her thick hair, back and forth, back and forth, mechanically.

The braid dropped to the ground.

Her body shivered.

She reached back up again, eyes wide and wild, fighting the tears that were bound to come.

Crazed, Jinji kept cutting, grabbing any loose hairs she could, forcing herself as bald as she could go, as though cutting it all off could somehow bring them back, or at least bring them peace.

When it was done, she lay down, curled on her side with her legs pulled firm against her chest, so she could cry away from the world—whatever was left of it.

And deep in her heart, she wished for one thing, a wish she had longed for years ago—that she had died instead of Janu.

Before, it had been a selfless wish, a wish that her twin could live a long, happy life. She would have died to give him that chance. But now, she was acting selfishly. She was alone, and she wished beyond all things that she were the one with her people in the spirit world.

Her eyes closed and she cupped her hands, imagining the spirits and the jinjiajanu she had trapped in that small place.

And as she wished, she wove, tying the elemental spirits around her body in an intricate illusion, so for at least a little while she could pretend that she was the twin who had died, instead of the twin who was alone—the last remaining Arpapajo in this hopeless world.

2

Rhen

~ Roninhythe ~

"Faster, Ember," Rhen called, urging his horse onward, leaving only the echo of a carefree laugh behind him on the breeze.

_Free again_.

Rhen grinned, relishing his narrow escape. Adrenaline punched through his veins, fiery and intense, urging him to run as fast as possible. That nobleman had been inches away from gutting him. Of course, he couldn't blame the man. Rhen had spent the night in his daughter's bed, and it was a father's job to protect her virtue after all. Lucky for him, the old man's sword arm was a little slow.

He did, however, feel slightly uneasy. It really wasn't the girl's fault that he had slipped into her room just before dawn. He had a reputation to protect—and he needed a reason to be run from the city. But the fist's worth of gold arriving at their door later that afternoon should be payment enough, Rhen assured himself. That was assuming Cal, his loyal friend and future Lord of Roninhythe, was on time with the delivery.

Rhen rolled his shoulders, loosening the knots court life left, ridding his body of the weight of nobility.

Despite the cost, there was no question in his mind. Now, riding Ember—carefree for a few minutes of peace—everything had been worth it. There were few things he wouldn't do to just be Rhen again.

Not Whylrhen, son of Whylfrick.

Not Whylrhen, Prince of the Kingdom of Whylkin.

Not Whylrhen, blood of Whyl, the great conqueror who united the lands.

No, just Rhen, a nineteen-year-old man with no strings attached.

As the walls of the city faded into the horizon, Rhen slowed Ember, patting her soft muddy-red hairs until her breath calmed, and she understood that the urgency had passed. Aside from his mother, she was the only female who had ever held his heart, and though she was old, she had never failed him. Not as a foal, when she had kicked down the stable door, saving his older brother Whyllem from the blazing flames. And not as a mare, when she had saved his life time after time, never demanding more than a light scratch along her neck.

Well, sometimes demanding more...okay, often demanding more, but Rhen was soft when it came to his horse.

He dropped the reins, trusting Ember to keep the pace, and reached into his saddlebag to grab the plain brown tunic resting inside. Stripping off the bright red silks of the crown, he let his bare chest soak in the sun before donning the less noticeable, but also less comfortable, common shirt. His boots and pants were still of the noble variety, but he wouldn't be able to fully hide his station without leaving Ember—and that just wasn't an option.

She neighed.

"Alright, alright," he said, grabbing hold of the leather straps again. "I suppose you deserve it." He pulled back, bringing Ember to a slow halt, and jumped from the saddle.

"Here you go," he said, slipping an apple from his bag. She greedily stole it away from his hand in one bite. A minute later, she stomped her foot, twisting her neck to look at him with distinctly pouting eyes. Rhen rolled his own eyes and reached for another.

Stroking her neck, he felt a sigh rumble down her nerves and knew she was satisfied.

"Okay, Cal, what did you find?" He muttered to himself, unrolling the parchment he had stashed in his belt just before sneaking out of the castle.

_Whylrhen_ , the note began. Rhen sneered at the use of his formal name before continuing _. I feel it is my duty as your friend and loyal servant to first advise you on the idiocy of your current plan to pursue..._

Rhen sighed, skimming over the rest of the first paragraph. _Irresponsible. Dangerous. Foolhardy._ Blah. Blah. Blah. Did his best friend write this or the king? The similarities in the phrasing were almost uncanny.

He ran a hand through his hair, looking up at the endless sky for a brief moment, disregarding the paper in his hands.

All Rhen had ever wanted to do was protect his family. His father always said there were more than enough men who wished to be king. What a kingdom really needed were less people looking for glory and more people looking for honor.

Well, his eldest brother would be king and his other brother would be the right hand of the king. But what few people knew was that Rhen planned to become the left hand of the king—the unseen hand, the one that lived in the shadows, catching secrets on the wind.

To the world, Rhen would always be the third son—the useless son, the extra son, the afterthought. He was known as a womanizer, a gambler, and a fool—a reputation he did nothing to stop. No, quite the opposite. It was a reputation he was usually proud to build and strengthen. Better they think that than know the truth. That he was smart. That he was always listening. And that he was creating something his father had forbid, something he had banished after—

Rhen shook his head, blinked, stopped his mind from finishing those dark thoughts. That was history. And there were more important things happening here and now that required his absolute attention. Awenine, wife of his eldest brother Whyltarin and future Queen of Whylkin, was with child. There would be a new royal heir soon, a royal heir who needed Rhen's protection.

And for the first time since Rhen had chosen this path, there was something stirring, something waiting to be heard. There were no coincidences. Secrets were being whispered on the winds, if only he could just reach out far enough to catch them...

Ember pressed her forehead against his arm, nudging him into action as though she had felt his mood shift. He patted the white patch between her eyes, thanking her, and then lifted his body back into the saddle.

"Follow the road," he whispered into her alert ear and lightly kicked her belly to emphasize the command. She kept walking, and Rhen turned back to the letter, skipping down farther until Cal's words finally grew interesting.

I asked my father about your information, and he said he has heard nothing of the sort. His squire, however, said differently. Just as you described, the merchants and their crews are talking. Rumors of the spotting of unflagged ships on the horizon have begun to spread around the docks, though no one seems to take it too seriously, as there haven't been pirates in these waters since Whyl the Conqueror united the lands.

In other news...

Rhen paused, chewing on his bottom lip, ignoring the hair that had fallen over his eyes.

Nothing new, and yet, the word was spreading. Weeks ago while visiting the royal shipyard, Rhen had overheard sailors talking about spotting unflagged ships—ships that belonged to no kingdom and no king. Later that day he returned, looking distinctly less royal, and weeded out more information. Unidentified ships had been spotted along the northwest shore of the kingdom, a shore almost completely uninhabited due to the miles upon miles of steep cliffs blocking access to the ocean.

But there were only two kingdoms left in this world, the Kingdom of Whylkin and their neighboring Kingdom of Ourthuro. Secret ships could only mean one thing—the Ourthuri were looking for something, something that hinted of war.

Unless Rhen could stop it.

He kept reading.

In other news, the game has been lacking of late. The butchers have been complaining that no meat is being brought into the city, that they are losing their income. Unless the oldworlders are hoarding animals in their little wooden huts, someone else is taking them or something else is killing them. I probably shouldn't be telling you this, as it will only spur you on, but I find it my duty as a friend to keep your trust—even if you end up killed.

Perhaps my last piece of information will dissuade you from that course of action though. Unexplained deaths have been a recent phenomenon—bodies found with their throats slit, suicides we presume—though gossips have been labeling them as something far worse. I wouldn't have believed them, but Henry, a knight in my father's guard, and his wife recently passed the same way. And he was a strong fighter, an honorable man. He would not have done it to himself or to her.

So again, I would advise against chasing down these mercenary, and currently quite imaginary, ships on your own. Stay in Roninhythe and we can explore these mysterious deaths together; a noble cause I assure you.

You are a prince and someday you will have to understand that. But until that day, I will do my best as a friend to make sure it is something you do not forget.

Rhen snorted—as if he could ever forget. No, Roninhythe was not where he needed to be. Disappearing game sounded like a good lead—perhaps the unflagged ships had dropped off unspotted infiltrators. Cal had mentioned the oldworlders, which meant Rhen's destination was the Northmore Forest—home of the Arpapajo and another day's ride away.

"What do you say we move a little faster?" He asked. Ember's ears pricked at the sound of his voice and before he had fully gripped the reins, her slow walk had turned into a gallop.

There were few things Rhen loved more than the air whipping past his face as Ember raced through the countryside. In that time, the two of them were one. Her eyes were his eyes. Her legs his legs. Their minds were so connected that he didn't even need to speak to give her directions, she just understood.

Sometimes he would close his eyes and just let the smell of the grass fill his senses. Or open them so wide that tears leaked out the side from the wind. Heart thumping to the beat of her feet, all other sounds faded away and every dark memory seemed to disappear.

They covered miles in what felt like minutes, but the drowning sun betrayed the real time. Shadows elongated and the air cooled until eventually, Rhen could barely see a few feet before Ember's nose.

"Alright, girl," he said sadly, wishing it were not time to stop, "let's settle down for the night." He had spotted a tree line ahead, just before the light disappeared, and the last thing he wanted was to lead Ember straight into raised roots or a wide trunk. There was no use risking injury.

He slipped from the saddle and unhooked the buckle under her belly, letting the heavy leather seat fall from her back. Then without giving her time to protest, he pushed on her behind, signaling that it was time to lay down. She often preferred sleeping upright, but tonight, with the last remaining winter nips still on the breeze, Rhen would need her warmth. And after a long run, she would need her sleep.

Once Ember settled, Rhen curled in next to her side, and the two of them let sleep come quickly.

But it didn't last very long.

Just before sunrise, Rhen woke with a long gasp and coughed, flipping over onto his hands and knees while his lungs rebelled against his body. Within seconds, Ember had smelled it too, hopping to her feet and letting out a long screech that scratched its way down Rhen's spine.

Smoke.

Plumes and plumes of smoke.

"Easy, girl," he jumped to his feet, wrapping his arms around Ember's neck until she calmed. "You know I won't let anything happen to you." She curved inward, using her head to complete the hug while Rhen continued to pat her short hairs.

He looked down her long body toward the forest, and farther still to the large black tunnel drifting from the treetops. It was moving with the wind, which just happened to be smacking the two of them in the face.

Excellent.

Quickly, Rhen reached down and resecured the saddle. He walked before Ember and gripped her nose, making her look at him. Fear was written across her dark black pupils.

"I know what this is putting you through," he said as she winced, "but you must trust me. Fire is something that will never hurt you, not when you are with me."

She pulled against his hand, her vision going back to the forest for a quick second. She kicked the ground, complaining, letting him know just how unhappy she was.

His heart sank. There was no need to remind him of her fears. Though her name was Ember, fire was the last thing she was made of. Her skin trembled, remembering the barn and the fire that had almost claimed her life.

But there was no choice. He had to find the cause of the flames, and he had to put them out. Because fire was exactly what Rhen was made of.

Jumping up into the saddle, he urged Ember forward, bringing them closer to the trees but to the side away from the smoke. They would follow it like a great river, along the edge and just out of reach.

Cutting through the forest was slow moving as they maneuvered around low branches and tall bushes. He held the reins steady, keeping Ember's movements controlled and not frantic.

Even from afar, the smoke permeated his senses, making his breath feel tight and his eyes burn. It seemed endless, as though the smoke came from the ground itself, bursting forth from the soil to wreak havoc on the world.

After what seemed like an eternity, a bright flame flickered in the distance. He spotted it an instant before Ember.

Flinging his feet to the side, Rhen landed almost upright a split second before her forelegs lifted from the ground and she jumped away, backing from the bright orange blinding her eyes. He let her. Better Ember act on her fear, better she feel some control.

Besides, he had work to do.

Rhen stretched out his hands, reaching his palms before him, and crept closer and closer until he felt the pull. His fingertips burned, still feet from the flames, but they called to him. His body zinged, energy bouncing from limb to limb. He let it build—let the need go crazy. And then, as though sucking in a large breath of air, he pulled with his mind and the fire listened, crashing into him like a wave.

As a boy, Rhen had loved playing with flames. He would stand by the candles in the great hall, poking at them with his fingers, letting his palm absorb their heat, until one day his mother ran over with a scream and pulled him away. _You cannot do that_ , he remembered her exclaiming quite vehemently as she checked his chubby hands for burns. But there were none. Because it never burned him, and until that boyhood moment, Rhen had never realized that it was strange, that it wasn't normal. Ever since that day, he had kept these powers to himself.

The fire spoke to him. He couldn't create it—he had tried that many times to no avail. He couldn't even move it or shape it or aim it. All he could do was absorb it and let the flames fill his body until he felt like all he needed to do was open his mouth to breathe smoke.

But at times like these, he was grateful for the gift, or curse, whichever it was.

So he stood, letting the heat crawl under his skin, letting it bubble under the surface, until the onslaught passed and he could feel the breeze on his cheeks again.

Rhen opened his eyes.

Like giant claws, the trees rose from the ground, bare and blackened, stripped of leaves and life. But the fire, at least, was gone.

He spun.

"Ember!" But he didn't see her behind him where the forest turned green again.

He whistled, body stiff and alert, until thunderous hoofbeats reached his ears and Rhen relaxed. Moments later Ember emerged, but she stopped beside an untouched tree, not stepping one hoof into the blackened soot of the burnt forest floor before her.

"Come here," he commanded.

She stepped back.

Rhen crossed his arms.

She shook her head.

He stomped.

She did too.

"So dramatic," he rolled his eyes and stepped forward, giving Ember the victory, scratching the soft patch in her forehead until she finally showed her forgiveness by padding into the ash.

"I'm sorry," he whispered before swinging into the saddle.

Moving opposite the wind, the two of them pushed onward. _It's worse than a battlefield_ , Rhen thought as he looked around. Tree trunks rose up into sharp, blackened points and then stopped. A field of topless trees, of stake-like spires, stretched out before them. All color was gone from the world. Little clouds of ash followed Ember's footsteps, blackening her russet coat.

But worse was the eerie quiet. No birds chirped. The wind licked his face, but there were no swaying branches or whispering leaves. When they came upon a splashing stream, it sounded as roaring as a great river, as though the crashing waves were the size of a man instead of a toad.

Rhen had never ventured this far into the Northmore Forest. No one did, aside from the missionary his father sent once a year to ensure the Arpapajo were still adhering to the laws of the land and speaking the king's tongue. There was no need. They lived a secluded life apart from the rest of the world, and as far as Rhen was concerned, they should keep it that way.

Everyone spoke of the strange people, still dressed in poorly sewn animal hides, running around with stone-tipped arrows and paint on their faces. It was a bedtime story to frighten young children into sticking close to home.

Yet out here alone without the forest to cover his movements, Rhen almost felt as though he were being watched. The hairs on his forearm rose, and he darted glances from side to side, searching for movement.

He might be a prince, but no one in these woods would know what that truly meant—and even if they did, he wasn't sure that they would care.

_I better not die out here_ , he joked and tried to calm his rising nerves, _Cal would never let me hear the end of it._

And then he spotted green in the distance.

The origin of the fire.

Rhen pressed Ember forward, forgetting caution as his excitement and nerves compounded into a sudden burst of energy.

But as he neared, his confusion grew. It almost seemed like a village. Was it possible the Arpapajo had burned their own home down?

He searched the ground but there were no bodies in sight. A pile of smoking wood, burnt down to little more than rubble, caught his attention. It drew a line in the fire—one side black and one side green. Had it been a house?

The start of the fire for sure, but it was now completely unrecognizable.

Rhen dropped to the ground, noticing a great wooden structure behind the collapsed heap. A second house?

He moved quickly, searching the length of the twisted branches and bark for some sort of door. A breeze blew in, lifting a slip of tanned hide and Rhen caught it with his hand, flipping it over his shoulder as he entered.

Dried fruits hung from the ceiling. Carcasses that were half-cleaned and now buzzing with insects were piled along the wall. A putrid smell filled his nostrils and he retreated quickly.

There was nothing human in there.

He spun in a circle. If this had been the food house, maybe the other had been a living house? He turned one more time, trying to differentiate a wooden structure from the trees behind it.

Nothing.

Nothing.

And then all of a sudden a smaller hut materialized from the woods, almost invisible against the forest.

He ran, pushing back the now obvious skins of the door.

Blood was the first thing he saw. At his feet, a great red circle spread against the entrance of the home, dried into the dirt and stained that way. He followed the line, and farther into the room was another spot, also dry but on a raised wooden expanse that must have been a bed.

If there was blood, there must have been an attack.

And if there was an attack, there must be foreign invaders.

Which meant one thing: his kingdom wasn't safe—no, his family wasn't safe.

Rhen whipped around, bringing his fingers to his lips to whistle for Ember when a shape caught his eyes. A smaller bed sat to the left of the entrance and it looked...

He crept closer, slowly, trying not to make any noise.

His heart pumped wildly in his chest. He flexed his fingers, reaching his hand out to grab the animal skin, cursing himself for being unarmed.

He pulled back and brought his hands around a thin throat, making to choke the body before his brain caught up with his muscles, and he realized it was just a boy. Not a mercenary, not even a fighter, just a child.

Rhen sat, his body heavy with surprise.

The boy hadn't even stirred at his touch.

He leaned down, bringing an ear to the immobile chest, and there was a soft thud of a beat—very faint and very slow, but still there.

Rhen scooped the boy into his arms, taking just a moment to loosen the small fist from a crudely created rock knife, and then sounded his whistle loud and clear. By the time the two of them emerged, Ember was waiting—dare he say it, impatiently.

But her look softened when she noticed the small figure in his arms, and she knelt to the ground, making it easier for Rhen to climb on without jostling the fragile body he held.

"Back to the stream," he told her.

Ember stuck to the unburned forest, keeping out of the sun as best she could, moving as carefully and quickly as possible.

Within minutes, they reached the same stream as before, but this time the edges were lined with soft grass instead of ash. Clean water was exactly what they needed, not something blackened with soot.

Rhen slipped from Ember as she knelt down and settled the boy on the grass. Digging through his things, he pulled out a canister of water and gently opened the boy's mouth. Being careful not to pour too much, he tilted the bottle. Reflexively, the boy swallowed, opening his mouth for more. Rhen obliged with another small dose, but then stopped. He didn't want all of that water coming back up and out the boy's mouth.

Next, Rhen dipped his hands into the stream. Without drying off, he patted the boy's cheeks, his forehead. Going back for more water, he wet the boy's hair and arms, and then repositioned the body so the child's feet slipped into the water, hopefully absorbing it.

Rhen leaned down. Already the heartbeat sounded stronger.

He poured some more water into the child's throat before sitting back up.

There was no blood, no wound, and no foreseeable reason why the boy had gone so long without food. He seemed old enough to take care of himself, maybe ten or twelve. Scrawny still, but surely able to hunt in the absence of adults.

No, this seemed like something else. Perhaps the result of a mental incapacity.

But Rhen thought back to the blood, the ash, the burnt pile of wood. Perhaps it was just a lack of will.

Rhen understood that—the feeling of failure when a loved one died, of helplessness, of wanting to drift away never to be found again. But he had overcome it, with help.

Rhen looked at the boy again. His skin was dark, born that way and not just tanned from the sun. His hair was black and chopped so haphazardly that it stood out at all different directions. He had lived with wooden huts instead of stone castles. With animal skins instead of fine silks.

So different from the people Rhen had grown up with.

And yet, still the same somehow. Still fragile, just like someone else Rhen remembered—someone he so often tried to forget.

He reached for the water again.

If this child was truly alone, then Rhen was the only one left who could save him.

A thunderous boom sounded through the trees.

Rhen dropped the bottle.

It fell, rolling along the ground, sinking closer to the water. He dove, catching the canister just before it fell into the stream, but half of the contents had been emptied. He turned it, looking through the top to judge the remaining amount, when something just behind the bottle caught his attention instead.

A footprint.

_No_ , he corrected himself, _a bootprint_. Something that could never belong to an Arpapajo.

Invaders had been here.

Rhen looked at the boy, torn. He really shouldn't leave, not when the child was still so weak. But his skin had brightened. He looked better. And those prints could be the key to saving a lot more than one boy. They could be the key to saving the kingdom.

He had no choice.

Decision made, Rhen stood.

Scooping the boy up one more time, he gently placed him under a tree, hidden from the riverbank in case anyone approached.

"Keep him safe," Rhen whispered into Ember's ear. She stomped a hoof, letting Rhen know she would not let him down.

"I'll be back soon," he said, but still grabbed his sword and scabbard, belting them tightly around his waist.

Sloshing through the water, Rhen moved to the opposite side of the bank to examine the print further.

Most definitely a boot.

He looked close by, scouring the ground until a second print identified itself. Rhen stepped closer, repeating until he had a solid trail to follow. Crushed branches and chopped bushes created a line through the normally untouched forest, a track that was easy for Rhen to find. He was used to stone, something that left a much more invisible path. Compared to that, this was simple.

Before long, Rhen happened upon a camp. A few tents were set up. Weapons lazily rested against a tree. A fire was still warm though the flames had died. And behind, stacks of logs were piled up, tied together in tight bushels like those resting beside the fires in his family's castle.

The loud noise must have been a tree falling, but why? Why so much wood? Unless they were planning to make camp for a long time—or for a much larger crowd—an army, perhaps.

His mind spun.

This was more proof than Rhen had ever hoped to find, more information than he was prepared for. The king had to know, immediately. Biting his lip, Rhen reassured himself that his father would believe him. With news such as this, with stakes so high, surely just this once, everyone would believe him...

Rhen moved to turn.

But before his feet had even shifted, something heavy slammed into the back of his skull.

The last thing Rhen thought before he crashed to the ground, slipping into the darkness, was _Damn it, Cal, why must you always be right?_

3

Jinji

~ Northmore Forest ~

Blue. There were so many shades of blue.

The deep midnight of a heart in mourning.

The gray shadow behind closed eyes.

The hot white when they first open.

The oscillating flashes of blinks, until it's just one bright hue against the clouds.

Jinji saw them all, lying there, staring up through the trees because her body had forgotten how to move. Even if she had strength left in her muscles, there was none left anywhere else. Her spirit was spent, was broken.

So she kept watching the clouds drift, even as her eyes began to sting and tear and dry again, she kept looking up. Because the other option was to close them, and every time she did, all she saw were shadows—darting between flames, circling in blood, hiding behind big, brown eyes.

The shadow had taken everything, but it still hunted her. In her dreams, in her sleep, even in her waking eyes—it was always there.

Something nudged Jinji's foot, but she didn't stir.

Then something wet and slightly scratchy brushed her hand.

Hot breath tickled the hairs on her arm.

_Just let me be_ , Jinji thought, ignoring the sensations. She wanted to join her family in the spirit realm, to drift away unnoticed by the world.

And she had been so close.

What happened?

And then Jinji really looked at the blue sky above her, noticing it as if for the first time. How was she outside? Why wasn't she still in her pallet, blanketed by the memory of her parents and of Janu?

And that little twinge of curiosity was enough to finally push her into movement. After days of indifference, something had broken through the hurt.

Slowly, carefully cajoling her muscles back to life, Jinji lifted her head and looked into two bulbous black eyes.

She jerked back—her entire body shocked into movement.

A very large animal was looking at her, leaning over her, but Jinji wasn't afraid. If it had meant to hurt her, it would have. Instead, the creature leaned its head forward, slapping a soaked tongue against Jinji's cheek.

She rolled away, standing quickly. Blinded from the head rush, she wobbled on unsteady feet until she felt soft fur under her fingertips and held on for balance.

"Thank you," she whispered and opened her eyes.

Jinji ran her hands over the soft hairs and felt the animal sigh. At the sight of a large leather seat, Jinji remembered what it was called—a horse. The newworlder who came to give the children language lessons always rode one.

"Who traveled with you?" Jinji asked, continuing to pet its neck.

The horse stomped, dipping its head in the direction of the water. Following the line, Jinji looked along the ground. Sure enough, she saw footsteps into the stream and out the other side.

Large footsteps.

The footsteps of man.

Suddenly, Jinji's hands dipped to her legs, feeling for her animal skins.

She let out a breath—they were still there. Her eyes searched for any maltreatment, but there were no rips or tears in her clothes, no aches in her body where there shouldn't be.

Her parents had warned her about males in the new world, especially about ones who could not control their urges. It was the reason she had never traveled to the great cities her father spoke of—she was not allowed to until she joined, and then Maniuk would—

_No_ , Jinji thought as her chest clenched tight and her mouth dried. Maniuk would not be taking her anywhere. Nor would her father. Or her mother. Or...

Water. I need water.

Jinji ran, fell next to the river, and dipped her hands deep into its cooling currents, splashing her face.

A moment later, Jinji realized the curtain of hair normally falling over her shoulders was not there. Goosebumps rose on her neck and she reached back, grasping the air.

Her braid.

She had chopped it off.

The memory slowly returned as she rubbed her fingers over the mess that remained, chopped and ripped, her own personal battlefield.

Hesitant, she leaned over the water. It had been so long since she had seen herself without long, flowing locks—the sight of her face free of the frame of black would be a shock, but she needed it.

They were gone.

Her prayer had failed and she had to face it.

As much as she wished to fade away, to leave this place, she had been kept alive for a reason. And right now, remembering her people, that reason was vengeance. She would find the shadow, and she would destroy it.

Taking a deep breath, Jinji forced her eyes to the water to look into her braidless, tribeless, but not purposeless reflection.

The image of Janu stared back at her.

With a yelp, Jinji fell onto the grass. An electric shock pulsed through her body, setting all of her hairs on end. Disbelief.

Reservedly, she sat up and leaned over the water again.

The image was slightly distorted by the moving current, but it was unmistakable to her eyes. The slightly flatter, higher cheekbones of her brother. His slightly wider eyes and thinner mouth.

Almost the same as she, yet completely different in Jinji's eyes.

The blue spirit strands flowing through the water appeared in her vision, almost as if they could read her mind. Searching through the spirits, she peered closer and closer, until the white spaces, the mother spirit of jinjiajanu was there. She grasped it, and almost instantly felt the illusion woven across her facial features.

Using only her mind, she felt along the tightly knotted strands circling her face, and she remembered—remembered lying in that bed dressed in Janu's clothes, wishing beyond everything else that he were there instead of her.

In their own way, the spirits had listened to her prayer. They couldn't let her trade places with the dead, but they could for a time, let her pretend.

She felt her clothes again.

Her savior, whoever he was, must have thought her a boy.

Well, she was happy to keep it that way. And feeling the knots tied tight across her face, Jinji realized that this illusion was built to last—was permanent. Nothing would unravel until Jinji decided it was time to reveal her true face, to let the mask of her brother's features fall away.

Now was not that time.

Releasing her connection with the spirits, Jinji stood and looked over the water one more time. The sight of her brother gave her strength and made her feel less alone, even if it was just an illusion.

Masked by Janu's face, she felt ready to find this man—her unknown protector.

The Arpapajo were gone, but not forgotten. They lived through her, and venturing into the new world was the only way Jinji would ever be able to find the answers they all so desperately needed. So that was exactly what she planned to do.

And maybe, after all of the mysteries had been solved and the shadow was gone, maybe then the spirits would let her drift away—maybe then they would let her truly enter their world.

With a sigh, she turned and waved to the horse.

"Follow," she said and the horse stepped forward. Satisfied, Jinji turned toward the tracks.

The sun was starting to lower in the sky. They would have to move fast.

Wasting no time, Jinji splashed through the water and ventured farther into the woods.

The more she walked, the more footprints she saw and the more signs of life. Bushes carelessly chopped. Branches thoughtlessly broken. Something had been in her woods.

After a long while, when the sky had already started turning pink, Jinji heard what she was searching for.

Laughter.

Deep, boastful, taunting laughter. The sound of men who thought they had won without even realizing the fight had yet to be fought.

Behind her, the horse neighed and stomped its feet. Jinji reached for the leather straps hanging from its body, calming the poor animal down before securing it to a low-hanging tree branch. The time had come for them to part ways, at least for a little while.

Using the growing darkness as a cover, Jinji moved closer to the noise. In these moments, her body felt as one with the forest. The dirt seemed to soften under her feet, muting any sound. The trees opened wide, letting her move swiftly between them. Even the animals quieted, as though they were in on the mission.

Normally, she hunted for game. But not tonight.

As the sun disappeared, a fire brightened into view, flickering through the woods like a beacon for her to follow.

Jinji crept as close as she dared before stopping behind a large tree trunk and peering around the edge to survey the scene.

There were five men—four smiling, and one distinctly more sullen.

_My rescuer_ , Jinji thought dryly, taking in the straps binding his ankles and the harsh angles of his arms, which must be bound behind his back. His skin was pale, reminding her of her joining dress, bleached by the sun rather than baked by it. His hair was light brown, fused with red, almost like a bird's feathers—a color Jinji had never seen on a man. Even sitting, he seemed rather large, stockier than the boys she had grown up with.

But more than anything, Jinji found herself drawn to his eyes. They were green, like the forest, filled with a deep despair that Jinji understood. Hopelessness. The feeling of failure.

Even though the two of them could not be more different, Jinji felt as though she looked into her own reflection. Her eyes, brown as they were, told the same story. And that sense of shared loss made her want to help.

But how?

Jinji shifted slightly, taking in the other four men. It was their laughter that had rung through the trees.

They were not particularly large or threatening, more like foxes than bears, but still she was outnumbered. Jinji looked at the red tint to their cheeks, the jugs in their hands, the wide smiles plastered on their lips. Something was odd about them, like they had leaned too long over a fire and breathed in too many fumes. Their eyes were vacant, open, but unaware.

Perhaps it would be easier than she realized.

Jinji reached for the knife at her waist, but grasped nothing. She looked down, wincing at her idiocy. Her brother's skins. She was in her brother's skins, not her own. Her knife was a long distance away, back home laying useless on the floor.

Using the firelight, she searched the ground, but a branch would not be nimble enough to wield against four foes. She could knock out one maybe, but four? No.

Jinji turned back to the camp. They had to have weapons.

She crept in a circle, moving behind the trees and just out of sight. The men looked unarmed and relaxed. But surely they kept protection with them.

And then a bright light caught her eye.

She looked closer.

The hint of flickering fire gleamed from the dark.

A newworlder weapon. Jinji had only seen them a few times; like hardened water they shimmered. _Metal_ , she thought. The newworlders fought with metal and not rock. _But_ , she sighed, _it will have to do_.

It looked like her knife, slightly longer with a curved edge rather than a straight one, and a cuff circled the handle.

But it was a few feet out of reach. She would have to make herself known before grabbing it, would have to expose herself. If one of them held a weapon she couldn't see, Jinji would be dead. And she would never avenge her people.

Oh what she wouldn't give for a spear—something she could throw from the shadows. Slamming a fist against her leg in frustration, she searched for another option. But there was none.

A drumming sound caught her ear, pounding closer and closer.

From her peripheral, Jinji saw her rescuer look up with a gleam of hope, the smallest hint of a smile.

A squeal sounded through the darkness.

All four captors looked up from the fire, brows furrowed.

_The horse_ , Jinji realized. Her knot hadn't been tight enough—thank the spirits.

The thunder got louder, quicker.

The men stood and turned toward the darkness on swaying feet, searching for the cause of the noise.

Before she had time to second guess, Jinji jumped from the trees and ran the short distance to the gleaming knife, gripping its cool hilt.

She felt eyes on her.

Jinji looked up, right into the crystal green irises of her former rescuer. They were wide, shocked, and then satisfied.

A deep yell interrupted her focus, and Jinji stood swiftly, swinging the knife into the throat of the man reaching for the weapons at her feet. Blooded spurted out, raining on her like a wave as he crashed to the ground.

Before it was too late, Jinji gripped another knife from the pile, this one smaller and more like the ones she was used to.

Another man turned from the darkness, looking straight at her, and she acted out of reflex.

The blade landed with a thud against his forehead, sinking until only the hilt remained. All life left his face before he fell, knees first, to the ground.

The last two men spun, taking Jinji in with surprise. She was small, she knew, but that didn't mean she wasn't threatening. And two of their companions were already down.

They stepped apart, circling her, coming closer at two different angles, and her heart sank.

These men were trained—intelligence reflected in their eyes, their movements. She had never been in a real fight before, not one against people. Animals were different; they tried to run. But these men had turned in challenge.

She brought the curved knife up in front of her face, flicking her gaze from side to side, never taking either man out of sight.

They were creeping in.

The man who had saved her before was wriggling his body, trying to get free of his bindings, was yelling out to her, but she couldn't hear his words.

Jinji's own breath filled her ears, loud and ragged. Her heart hammered with the decision to move left or right. Which man would she face and which would she turn her back on? She had to choose soon before they were both on her, unchallenged.

One.

She flicked to the smaller man, coming in from the right.

Two.

Her attention shifted to the larger man on the left, his eyes more unfocused, and his footing a little more unsure.

Three.

Jinji jumped and feigned right before moving all of her weight to the left. The man was slow, but his bicep rose just in time to block her blow with his forearm. The knife dug deep into the leather strapped to his skin, and though blood seeped through, it was not enough.

She pulled, but the curved side of the knife had dug too deeply and Jinji could not get it free.

The man reached with his uninjured arm, wrapping long fingers around her throat. He was too big. She kicked as his grip tightened. Her breath wouldn't come. His fingers squeezed, lifting her onto her toes as she tried to fight.

_Did I survive just to die like this?_ Could life really be so cruel—to give a glimmer of hope and then take it so swiftly?

Over her shoulder, the other man grabbed a weapon and raised it high over his head.

She tugged at the hand trapping her, but it did not budge.

The other man readied his aim, preparing to lunge the metal straight through her back.

Jinji closed her eyes, prepping for the blow, her family's faces flashing in the darkness. A new sense of failure and loss penetrated her heart.

But the pain never came.

Instead, pounding hooves broke into the clearing and the crunch of shattering bones sounded in Jinji's ears.

The grip on her throat tightened.

She opened her eyes, looking over her shoulder at the broken body under the horse's feet. The man's skull had caved in—his insides oozed out onto the grass.

She looked forward into the fearful eyes of her captor, and knew what to do.

His muscles held her, so Jinji jumped, using his arm as an anchor, and kicked both of her feet against his chest.

A second later, she landed on the ground, banging her already sore head against the dirt.

The man stumbled back, and the body of the horse soared into Jinji's view, ramming into his chest.

The man fell, coughing up blood.

Jinji reached for the knife that the other captor had dropped and stood.

He was already dying, she could see. The strength had left his limbs, the knowledge of his own mortality seeped into his features.

She arched back, brought the knife deep down into his chest, and twisted until the body stilled.

Jinji dropped the weapon and stumbled back, shuffling her feet closer to the stools by the fire until her body fell heavily on top of one.

Her hands were red, wet.

She wiped them on the ground, trying to fight the sudden awareness shocking her senses.

She had killed people. Killed them like they were food. No, like less than food. Animals at least served a purpose; they were not wasted. Their bodies fed the tribe, their skins clothed the tribe, their bones made weapons, and whatever remained was given back to the earth, to other animals that might use it.

But these men, these four bodies were like a weight on the world. Useless and heavy.

And why had she killed them?

Jinji's eyes moved across the dirt, over the fire, and into the wary expression of the only other living person around.

For him.

For a guide.

For answers.

The horse had moved closer, nudging its head against the man's thick shoulder. He whispered something into the animal's ear and it stood, backing a foot away as though standing guard.

He turned, looking through the flames and right at Jinji.

When their eyes met, the spirits jumped into Jinji's vision, reaching out to her in a way they rarely did, making their presence known even in the darkness. And she winced at the brightness.

Fire.

All she saw were strands of fire, swirling and circling his body, spirits alive and constantly weaving new forms around his torso.

It was dizzying.

The bright red threads muted all of the other spirits, almost like he himself was a walking flame. She had never seen the spirits cling to a living being like this—they lived in the earth, in the soil and the leaves and the air and the streams, not in people.

Jinji blinked and the spirits disappeared.

The clearing was just a clearing, the fire just a fire, the trees just the trees. But the man was not just a man, not anymore.

The spirits were guiding Jinji's path now—they had enshrouded her in the image of her brother, they had brought her to this man, they had circled him in fire. They were the only things left in the world that Jinji trusted, and they were telling her to trust him.

She didn't.

Not yet.

But still, Jinji stood and grabbed the knife, cutting his bindings free.

4

Rhen

~ Northmore Forest ~

For a third time that day, Rhen thought he was going to die.

The first, perhaps obviously, was when he had been knocked unconscious. _Always check behind you_ —the lesson had been drilled into him since infancy, and still he had forgotten in his excitement. _Idiot_ , he cursed as the pounding in his skull continued—the pain a constant reminder of his stupidity.

But then he woke, bound and bruised, yet somehow alive. And he cursed his awareness, because he knew his entire family and kingdom were at risk, yet there he was, powerless to stop it.

The second time was when the boy had been seized by the neck, his weightless body dangling from the ground as the two remaining Ourthuri tried their best to kill him. And Rhen, trained as a knight by the best Whylkin had to offer, could do nothing but watch and wait for his turn on the sword.

But then Ember, beautiful horse that she was, swooped in to save them both with the most perfect head-bashing stomp Rhen had ever seen.

And the third was now as the boy knelt, staring at the blood on his hands with emptiness in his eyes. He was young and the Arpapajo were a peaceful people—those four men were most likely the only he had ever killed. And sometimes, that feeling could swallow a man, could make him lose his sanity, could make him lash out at the nearest living being...which just happened to be Rhen, still bound like a babe on the ground.

He sighed, wriggling his wrists one more time.

If his brothers saw him now, Rhen shook his head—he didn't even want to imagine the endless banter, the ceaseless taunts.

Ember knelt, nudging Rhen's shoulder with her forehead as if to ask, "What is taking you so long?"

"Well fought, girl," he whispered, returning her nudge with one of his own. Pleased, Ember neighed softly and stood alert at his side.

When he turned, the boy was staring at him. As their eyes met through the flames, the boy winced, jerking back ever so slightly, but not breaking contact. And then those dark brown eyes, flecked with gold, illuminated by the fire, jumped wildly around Rhen's figure, circling him.

Rhen watched, unmoving, not wanting to break the trance. What did the boy see? What had him so wide-eyed? So intrigued?

For a moment, Rhen's eyes flashed to the fire. But it was at least a foot away, and he had not touched it, despite the pull he felt in his bones. _No_ , he mentally shook his head. There was no way the boy could know about that. It was his own paranoia sneaking up on him.

Movement caught his attention. Rhen pulled his gaze from the flames back to the boy, who had stood. His features had hardened, resolute. He gripped the knife, stepping closer to Rhen, who leaned into the log at his back. Did he need to sic Ember on the boy? Or was he being freed?

Sad, really, that he couldn't tell, but the boy was iron, hard to crack. Either that, or Rhen had simply lost his touch—a very poor spymaster in the making.

_No_ , Rhen sat up and shifted his feet. He had saved the boy, and the boy had saved him. There was trust there, thin maybe, but existent.

And a second later, the binds around his ankles had been slashed. Leaning forward, Rhen moved to give the boy access to the ropes tying his wrists behind his back.

Free at last.

Rhen sighed, rolling sore bones, and stood to stretch his muscles.

"Thank you," he said, sounding loud against the quiet night.

Silence answered him.

Rhen spun to find the boy sitting back down, his gaze fastened on the hilt protruding from one Ourthuri's skull. It had been a nice hit, something to be proud of.

"Did you know these men?" Rhen asked. "Were they the ones who destroyed your village?"

The boy twisted, looking into the dark forest and away from him, but Rhen continued, urged on by the lack of a response.

"Did they fight you? Surprise you? Is there anyone else alive? People who were away, who might have run from the fire? People who fought? Anyone we need to find?"

"Please," the boy said, his voice ragged and scratchy, still high pitched due to his youth, "no more."

Rhen sat still. His mouth had run away again. The urgency to save his own family, to gather as much information as possible, to fill this painful silence—it had stolen his common decency.

It was a boy. Only a boy. And his silence assured Rhen that he was definitely alone in the world.

"I'm Rhen, from the Kingdom of Whylkin. Do you have a name?" He reached out, touching a bony shoulder, but the child flinched away. Rhen pulled his hand back and settled it on his own lap.

He waited, very much against his instincts, until the boy glanced one wet, lost, crinkled brown eye over his shoulder.

"Ji—" he started and then paused. "I am called Jin."

"Jin," Rhen said, stumbling over the strange word before nodding. "Well, Jin, it seems we're stuck together, unless you have some place better to be?" He raised an eyebrow in question, hoping to lighten the mood even the slightest bit.

"No," Jin said, turning his body to reflect his word, placing himself very much in the camp with Rhen.

"Do you know why these men were here?"

Jin shook his head.

"Would you like to hear my theory?"

Jin nodded, still too wary for words.

"Do you know the histories? Did anyone ever teach them to you?"

"I know some," Jin said, his voice meek and quiet. "The newworlder who visited told us stories."

_The newworlder who visited?_ Rhen thought, confused. And then he remembered. The emissary sent on behalf of the crown. Once a year he visited the tribe to ensure they were obeying the laws created by Whyl the Conqueror ages ago, the rules that forced the Arpapajo to give up their own language and customs to conform to those of the land.

A nauseous feeling stirred in Rhen's stomach.

The Arpapajo or oldworlders, as some called them, were a fantasy, a people he learned about but never saw, never interacted with. They never entered his mind once the lesson was over.

But looking at Jin, Rhen had to face his own ignorance.

No matter how many years ago, it was his family, his blood, who had torn their identity away. Jin spoke the king's language very well, but still, it sounded foreign on his tongue, as though it wasn't really supposed to be there.

There were many lands in this kingdom that Whyl the Conqueror united, many cities and peoples he had merged into one, but all of them looked and lived alike—the differences were so few and far between that uniting was almost natural.

But not the Arpapajo.

They were outsiders, myths—at least to everyone but that sole emissary sent by the king.

Rhen felt the urge to apologize stir on his lips, but what could he say? Stealing a way of life was not something an _I'm sorry_ would really fix.

And now Jin was alone.

His culture would fade completely away, dust in the wind.

Rhen was staring, dumbstruck.

He didn't realize it until Jin shifted his brows and leaned forward, inquiring, "Your theory?"

"Right!" Rhen jumped into motion. There was nothing he could say to make up for the past. Better to befriend the boy and keep him safe—safe enough to keep the Arpapajo alive.

His hand went to his waist, searching for his sword, but of course it was gone. Sighing, Rhen turned to Jin. "One minute."

He walked to the pile of weapons, searching for the gold hilt of his sword. Being a prince did have its perks, and his weapon was one of them—made from the finest metals by the finest blacksmith. He did not want to part with it.

He scanned the dull gray blades.

Not there.

He stood, hand on hip, searching and feeling like an imbecile as Jin's gaze grew more and more doubtful.

There.

He spotted it across the fire, unscratched.

Picking the sword up, Rhen walked back to his spot next to the boy and drew a large circle on the ground, then a smaller one in the middle of it.

"This is the Kingdom of Whylkin," he said, pointing to the outer circle. "Over here is the Northmore Forest, where we are now." He shaded in a spot on the upper right of the circle. "This," he said, outlining the smaller circle in the middle of Whylkin, "is the White Stone Sea, named because there is a great mountain range in the center of the water composed of a pearly rock, so all of the sands in the sea are bright white. And down here is my home, Rayfort, commonly called the King's City because it is the home of the royal family." Rhen poked a deep circle in the dirt on the lower left bank of the White Stone Sea—the motion mirrored by a stabbing pressure on his heart. His home, the one he wanted—no, needed—to protect. "Do you understand?"

Jin nodded. Rhen took the silence as a sign to continue.

"Over here," he drew a series of small ovals to the left of the circle that represented his kingdom, "are the Golden Isles, or the Kingdom of Ourthuro. And the men who attacked your village, these men you just killed, are Ourthuri—are from those islands. See how their skin is darker, slightly olive, and their hair a thick black? That's one way to tell. But more obvious," he leaned down, picking up the wrist of one of the dead men, "all Ourthuri are marked at birth with their station. These men all have one thick band tattooed on each wrist, a very simple design. It means they were from the outer isles, most likely farmers, or workers of some sort."

He dropped the arm, letting it thunk back into the dirt and paused, taking a second look at the design. It was definitely the simple design of a commoner—not the more intricate dot and striped design of an Ourthuri warrior.

But what would they be doing in Whylkin? Why farmers and not soldiers?

"And why were they here?" Jin asked, thinking the same thing.

Rhen grinned. Finally, the boy was showing some interest, some life.

"I think they were here as a scouting team, to see how difficult it would be to make land without my king knowing. I think they were here to prepare for war."

"War?" Jin scrunched his face. The word sounded ugly on his lips, like something he never thought of, let alone said. Something foreign he didn't understand.

"Yes, war." Rhen said. The word, he noticed, sounded much smoother on his lips, much more familiar. "Ourthuro was once the most powerful kingdom in the world. We call their lands the Golden Isles because the soil is practically made of the stuff. They had riches that no one in this land could ever understand. It was before the time of Whylkin, when our kingdom was divided and composed of many different cities and kings constantly fighting with each other.

"But almost three hundred years ago, one of those kings, King Whyl of Rayfort, conquered the land and united us all under his name, creating the Kingdom of Whylkin—to be ruled forevermore by his blood, the family of Whyl."

The words rolled off Rhen's tongue.

Whylrhen.

His name. His blood.

This tale was his personal bedtime story, the one his mother had told him over and over again until he didn't even have to think to repeat it.

Rhen looked up from his drawing, and Jin looked away quickly.

But not fast enough to hide the bitter edge to his gaze. The boy knew this part of the story—the part where a lot of his people were killed and their culture stripped away.

Rhen skipped ahead.

"Throughout history, the Ourthuri have mounted attacks, trying to regain their former power, but nothing has worked. And I think they are trying again, here and now."

"But why?" Jin asked. "Why?" He repeated, a slight shake in his voice.

_Because it's what they do_ , Rhen thought, but he kept silent. Somehow the answer didn't seem like enough.

"Because power is everything," he said instead. Another lesson drilled into him from infancy.

"Not to the dead," Jin whispered.

Rhen had no reply. Instead, he watched Jin, watched him take a heavy breath, watched him bite his lip, watched him furrow his brows. The boy was smart, smarter than his years. There was more going on inside of that head than he let on—a puzzle Rhen intended to solve.

But not tonight.

Tonight, he intended to sleep off the ache in his muscles.

"We should both rest. We've a long day's journey ahead of us tomorrow." Rhen stretched his arms high above his head, creaking like an old man. _But_ , he shrugged, _that's what getting knocked out will do._

Not a word to his brothers, he sighed, not a word. And definitely not one to Cal—Rhen was in no state for another lecture. The bump on his head was quite enough.

There was a tent across the fire with his name on it—all he was hoping for was a sleeping mat, something soft for his sore, royal behind.

"Where are we going?" Jin asked.

The sound surprised Rhen—the boy was becoming a regular chatterbox.

He eased his weight back down. Sleep would have to wait.

But he understood.

"To Roninhythe, a nearby city, and then probably on to Rayfort so I can speak with m—" Rhen stopped short, biting the word _father_ back into his lip. He looked up sharply, but Jin's concentration was elsewhere. Eventually, the boy would have to be told, but not yet. He still wanted to be Rhen, just Rhen, at least for a little while longer. "So I can get word to the king," he said, finishing the sentence softly.

"Is Roninhythe," Jin stumbled over the word, forcing it out, "is it a stone city?"

Rhen laughed loudly—he didn't know what he had been expecting, but not that. The question was so simple, so straightforward when compared to the events of the day.

"Yes, Jin, it's a stone city. There is a large defensive wall around the limits and beside the port there is a great castle towering into the sky."

He smirked as Jin's eyes widened, imagining the scene. The oldworlder boy was about to be in for a big shock. _Just wait until we reach Rayfort_ , Rhen thought, picturing his home. Its multiple defensive walls, the glittering town homes of the rich, and of course, the palace—stained glass windows, halls lined with silk tapestries, walls of white rock slabs that blinded in the sun.

Much different from animal skins and the forest.

"How tall?" Jin asked, looking up at the nearest tree.

"So tall," Rhen said, leaning in close, "that you can see this very forest on the horizon even though it is miles away. So tall that the highest tree you have ever climbed will seem small in comparison."

"It seems unnatural to build such a thing," the boy shook his head, disapproving.

Rhen smiled, raising his eyebrows in jest. "To my people, it would seem unnatural to live in the woods, without horses and carriages and stone walls."

"To my people, it—" Jin stopped short, drawing his knees into his chest, shaking slightly.

Rhen winced. Just witnessing the sadness on the boy's face was painful.

"To your people?" Rhen asked, trying to cajole the boy, to let him know it was okay to speak about them even though they were gone.

But Jin shook his head, digging his chin farther into his knees.

Rhen backed off, giving him space. He needed time to heal, time to adjust.

So instead, Rhen stood, completed the stretch he had started just before Jin began speaking, and reached for Ember. She walked over to his outstretched hand, rubbing her soft neck into his palm.

Scratching behind her ears, Rhen listened for the contented rumble of a sigh, the sign that she forgave him for needing to be rescued yet again. And there it was, vibrating against his hand. Ember dipped her head down low enough for Rhen to kiss the white patch on her forehead and then stepped to the side.

He undid the straps on the heavy saddle, rubbing down the disrupted hairs and pulling an apple from the pouch. Ember took it happily.

"What is your horse's name?"

"Ember," Rhen answered, not turning around as he peered into the bag again. His red silk shirt was still there, untouched. A pit in his stomach dropped, and Rhen brought his hand quickly to his chest, sighing with relief when he felt the small bump under the roughly woven shirt.

His ring was still there. His unique royal seal. The only thing on his person that truly denoted his birthright. His safeguard.

And the only way to ensure any letter he wrote would go straight to the king.

"Ember..." Jin said in a drawn out breath, "to go with fire?"

At that Rhen did turn, meeting the boy's questioning gaze.

He squinted, trying to read through the silence.

He couldn't know.

Rhen hadn't touched the fire. He hadn't breathed it in like his body had begged him to do. And Jin had practically been dead, lying in a hut, when he had drawn the forest flames in.

There was no way the boy could know.

And yet, some intelligence sparked in those dark eyes, some impossible knowledge seemed hidden in their depths.

"Ember," Rhen said slowly, "because her coat is the color of dying flames, and because as a foal she saved my brother from almost certain death by fire."

"It's a girl?" The boy straightened, excited.

"Relax, she's still a horse," Rhen laughed. Jin tilted his head, confused.

Apparently, raunchy jokes were not part of the Arpapajo culture. _Something to add to the boy's education_ , Rhen noted wryly.

Having a traveling companion could be more fun than he expected.

"I'll explain later." He sighed, looking at the tent over Ember's head. "But for right now, we should both sleep."

Rhen stepped forward, lifting the flap of the enclosure.

_Yes_ , he grinned. His prayer had been answered. There was a sleeping mat, not extremely thick, not even very luxurious looking, but still softer than the ground.

He looked back into the night, where Jin now stood scratching Ember's neck. The two were getting along quite nicely, leaving Rhen completely shocked—Ember was normally quite dramatic around other people, a little bit of a princess in a castle made only of princes.

But the sight calmed his nerves too.

Jin was keeping secrets, of that Rhen was certain. And in time, he would uncover them. But for now, it was enough to know that Ember trusted the boy. She was the best judge of character he had ever seen—after all, she almost got sent to the butcher for spitting on the king.

Rhen laughed quietly at the memory. It had been years ago, but his father still referred to Ember as Rhen's _damn horse_.

He blinked, refocusing on the current night.

"Do you want to sleep in the shelter?" He called out.

"No," Jin shook his head. "Tonight, I want to see the stars."

Rhen shrugged.

He had slept under the stars enough times to know it was not as romantic as it seemed in the stories. _No_ , he thought as he lay down on the mat. Soft cushions were much more awe-inspiring.

As sleep sought to overtake him, Rhen's overactive mind did its best to keep him awake. There was so much left to do. He had to find Cal, he had to get word to the king, and he had to determine if more Ourthuri had disembarked on his lands.

Where were these unflagged ships? How did they go unnoticed? And how could he stop it?

And just as Rhen was on the brink of a breakthrough, the answer surely on the tip of his tongue, a snore sounded on his lips—loud and thunderous enough to be heard in his dreams.

Dark dreams.

Dreams of a future he hoped beyond all hopes to change.

~~~

The Shadow Soul is available for FREE wherever eBooks are sold!

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Bestselling author Kaitlyn Davis writes young adult fantasy novels under the name Kaitlyn Davis and contemporary romance novels under the name Kay Marie.

Always blessed with an overactive imagination, Kaitlyn has been writing ever since she picked up her first crayon and is overjoyed to share her work with the world. When she's not daydreaming, typing stories, or getting lost in fictional worlds, Kaitlyn can be found indulging in some puppy videos, watching a little too much television, or spending time with her family.

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