Daughter of No Worlds (The War of Lost Hearts, #1)

by Carissa Broadbent

It begins with two souls who find themselves suddenly, utterly alone.

“That bleeding heart will get you killed one day, you know.”

She had her unusual appearance, looks that might one day turn into something worth desiring. She was a good listener and a fast learner. She had her magic — silver butterflies and pretty illusions, yes, but more importantly, she had the ability to feel what people wanted of her. And, most valuable of all, she had the gift that her mother had given her: permission to do whatever it took to survive, without apology, without regret. She would do absolutely anything, except cry.

I knew how tragedy like that, no matter the circumstances, could so easily become a core piece of your being. Mine had. I just set it on fire and let it fuel me. It just as easily could have eaten me alive.

That victory meant another’s defeat, and sometimes our own defeat. That winning meant sacrifices, and sometimes ones that even our own people were not willing to make. That in war, someone always paid.

I didn’t even think to be self-conscious until I turned around to see Max standing completely still in the water. He looked like he wasn’t even breathing, his searing gaze hurling an arrow through my chest — the intensity of it paralyzing me. What?, I wanted to ask, but the force of his stare was so strong that the question died before it left my lips. “I hope that whoever did that to you died a terrible, painful death,” he said at last, words hissing like steam. “And I hope that if there is an underworld, they suffer there forever.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I did not graduate from the Zeryth Aldris school of shitty friendship.”

It was amazing, the mental somersaults minds and hearts could do to justify their actions in the name of love.

“And who the hell are we,” he finally said, voice low and thick, “to carry something so precious?”

“The way I look at it,” he said, very solemnly, so quietly that his words slipped into the air like steam, “you didn’t forget what you were. I think you remembered. And I hope no one ever again has the fucking audacity to tell you otherwise.”

Inside the box was a golden necklace in a bed of black silk. The back of it was an elegant thread of gold, which then widened into a beautiful, tangled mass of glimmering butterflies. Their wings were so perfectly crafted I could have sworn they quivered— the metal so delicate that it seemed like light refracted through it. Glinting vines and thorns and familiar blossoms twined between them, weaving them into a wild landscape. On closer inspection, I saw that there was one snake nestled in between it all, small and unassuming, curling off to one side. He’d had this crafted for me. He must have. It was too specific. My chest hurt.

“Flip it over,” Max said, quietly. I obeyed. And there, where the metal would rest against my skin, were three tiny Stratagrams. I didn’t notice that he had moved until I felt his breath next to my face, leaning over my shoulder. “This one,” he said, pointing to the first Stratagram, “will help you heal. Not a lot, but enough for little cuts and bruises. I had Sammerin help with it.” That thought touched me so deeply I thought my heart might fold in on itself. His finger moved to the next circle. “This one will bring you warmth. Help you start fires. Again, limited, but—” He paused, letting out an awkward, scuffing laugh. “I thought maybe if you’re traveling all over Threll, you might need that kind of thing.” I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. There was a long pause. Max’s hand hovered. “What about this?” I said at last, pointing to the third Stratagram. Max straightened. When he spoke again, his voice was lower, rougher, as if he were tethering something back. “That one will bring you here.” He paused, cleared his throat. “If— if you ever wanted to return. It’ll only work within a few miles, but…”

The real gift was not the necklace. The gift was a home to come back to.

I let my hair drop. His fingers slid from my shoulders. “I figured you should have something both beautiful and functional, like you.”

“Max,” I breathed, touching my heart with exaggerated awe, “you think I’m functional?” A dancing smile glinted in his eyes. “I think,” he said, “that you are breathtakingly functional.”

Honestly? I thought he was breathtakingly functional too. He was the most breathtakingly functional thing I had ever seen.

“I want you to know, Tisaanah, that I have complete and utter faith in your ability to do this,” he said. “Now let’s go show those bastards what you’re capable of.”

How did you get here, little bird? Why didn’t you fly away? Sometimes I found myself looking at Max, at the aftermath of all those hidden scars written across every inch of his body and mind, and wondering the same thing — What happened? Why didn’t you fly away?

Because it’s too much. Because my fury petrifies me. Because the last time I got angry, I felt a man’s life wither in my hands. I opened my eyes and looked into Max’s, cloudy and blue, a reflection of my own. “Because if I allow myself to be angry, I will never stop.”

Always a step further, a step further. She drove forward with such relentless determination, always, no matter what. How could I not follow? And while every one of those steps hurt, like muscles creaking back to life after years of disuse, they still felt so right. A slow, tentative, utterly fucking terrifying return to a natural state.

After the deaths of my family, I lost years to drugs, wine, and aimless wandering. A slower kind of suicide, perhaps. And when I finally clawed my way out of that self-destruction, I built a cottage too far away from the world to be bothered. I planted hundreds upon hundreds of flowers and told myself they were all the company I needed. Better than people anyway, I’d mutter to myself. Simpler to care for. More predictable. And much prettier.

All the things I’d missed, just so I could lock myself up in a fucking cabin somewhere and pray at the altar of my own isolation.

Then he cocked his head, smirking. “Perhaps next time, though, you could choose a more mundane paramour. Maybe a baker. Then we could just sit around eating pies instead of throwing our lives into such exciting disarray.”

I pushed aside one strand of hair that cut across her green eye. “Show me that unrelenting brute force, Tisaanah.” She didn’t move, didn’t speak. But a fiery glitter seeped into her eyes, and I let their flames strip me, burn me, consume me, until there was nothing left but ash.

“Men want power because it makes them feel good. Women want power because it lets us do things. And imagine, Tisaanah, the things we could do with you.”

My blade was out, the edge as sharp as the terror of the girl I was and the rage of the woman I became.

My name is Tisaanah. I am a free woman and yet still a slave. I am fragments of many things but a whole of only myself. I am a daughter of no worlds, and all worlds. And I am not done yet.