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The last breath of Rhya Fleetwood. Ward of the renowned Eli Fleetwood. Orphan. Faery. Halfling. Fugitive. Point.
The heart makes you soft. The stomach makes you weak. Ignore their fleeting impulses. It is your mind you must mind.
For there, the stone runs thick with iron deposits. Thick enough to drain me on a good day—and a good day this was not.
Carvage. Eastwood. Lordale. Nythia. Dymmeria. The Reaches.
Nothing matters anymore, Rhya. By morning, you’ll be a pile of ash.
“Captain, if I wanted my ass kissed I’d be in a brothel. Take me to the prisoner. Now.”
In the flickering torchlight, he appears more daemon than man.
“I was beginning to think you were a mute.”
“I think I preferred her mute.”
Snowflakes drift down, blanketing the world like a thin coat of sugar on an apple tart.
“Barley would make for far more tolerable company.”
Your heart continues to beat because I have seen fit to make it so.
His eyes seem to glitter in the darkness, full of thoughts I cannot decipher.
No paper king calls him subject. He is of the Northlands. Of that I am now certain.
I know which mushroom caps will make you see daemons, which ones will taste particularly savory in a stew, and which ones will stop your heart cold in your chest.
Me? Why would anyone be looking for me? I’m no one.
Me? An answer to prayers? Absurd. “Jac,” Scythe warns. “Perhaps you’ve been praying to the wrong gods, if I’m the answer you’ve received.”
“She bears a Remnant mark.”
“Who the hell are you?”
Scythe is not my friend. Not my protector. Not my savior. But… He gave you socks. He brought you salve. He kept you warm and fed and safe. He saved your life on more than one occasion.
will be this monster’s final kill. And it will be mine.
I need no more memories of her burned into my mind. The ones I already possess will haunt me well enough.
“I do wish the centipedes had eaten you.”
a bath would go a long way before you throw her to the court wolves.”
“Apologies. There wasn’t much time to pretty myself for your viewing pleasure,” I seethe. “I’ve been a bit busy trying not to be lynched or gutted or eaten alive. Next time I’m kidnapped and dragged to the Northlands, I’ll bring a lady’s maid along with me to keep my countenance fresh as a daisy in spring. Unless you’d like to volunteer for the role. How are you with plaiting hair?” My eyes narrow on his long blond mane. “Seeing as your own looks like it hasn’t seen a brush since you left civilization, I’m guessing not so great.”
The Cull spared few fae records. Even the maps were destroyed when the empire fell. The mortal kings were resolved to erase all lingering traces of maegic. Not only those who could wield it, but every aspect of their—your—very culture, Rhya.
It’s deliciously warm, and it smells like flame. Like him.
There is absolutely nothing safe about Commander Scythe. Penn. Whoever he is.
“Would you believe me if I told you I was kidnapped mid-execution, nearly died of a raging fever, narrowly escaped demise on a decrepit rope bridge, and battled a den of carnivorous cyntroedi?”
“Prince Pendefyre,”
“Perhaps I desired a glimpse at Prince Pendefyre’s new pet.”
“The long-awaited Dyved heir has finally returned to the north. He does not come alone, but with a fae girl in tow. Slip of a thing, with strange silver eyes.”
“You don’t have any idea what you are, do you?”
Penn may not be a fool, but you certainly are one, Rhya Fleetwood.
There is no denying what it is. A Remnant.
“Who am I?” The stranger’s mouth twists in a half grin as he finally answers my question. “I am…Water.”
“A wind weaver in my colors. That is something I never thought to see again in all my days.”
His colors. Who is this man? A general? A lord?
“I make it my business to know a great deal about a great many people,”
“You, on the other hand, remain an enigma. Especially as you haven’t answered a single one of my questions, while I have entertained several of yours.”
Despite his youthful appearance, there is something about him—a stillness, a sense of unflinching control—that seems unquestionably… Older.
“Left unchecked, untrained…you have no idea how easily your own power can break you. It will crack your mind like the shell of an egg if you are not careful. And everything that makes you who you are will spill out onto the
pavestones of your skull, a useless puddle of wasted potential.”
“You need more than some fierce warrior on the battlefield. You need someone to teach you how to wield that power you carry within you. How to channel it without letting it crush you completely. The biggest threat you will ever face, the toughest battle you will ever fight, is against your own limits.” He pauses. “You have only begun to scratch the surface of who you are, little wind weaver. Of what you are. Of what you will become.”
“Death is never a blessing.”
“I know I bear a Remnant mark…I know I am…” I shrug helplessly. “Air.”
But only four souls bear a Remnant mark. One for each of the elements. Water, air, fire, earth.”
“Anwyvn is sick. The land is dying. It has been for a very long time. Since long before your lifetime. It began the day the mortals killed the royal family—slaughtered the fae emperor and wiped out his bloodline.”
“Four elements. Four Remnants, reincarnated in flesh and blood. A fated tetrad, bearing the marks of the gods. Scattered across the land. Should all four come together and be bound as one, the balance will be restored. Maegic will return, the blight will end, the land will recover, all will rejoice. Bounty, glory, et cetera.”
“Of course this is out of my understanding! You’ve just told me I’m one of four keys that, together, unlock the door to the world’s salvation,”
