A Shadow in the Ember (Flesh and Fire, #1)

by Jennifer L. Armentrout

“You may not be Chosen, but you were born into this realm, shrouded in the veil of the Primals. A Maiden as the Fates promised. And you shall leave this realm touched by life and death,”

Through the veil, I saw Queen Calliphe smile, or at least her lips went through the motions. I’d never seen her really smile at me, not like she did with my stepsiblings or her husband. But even though she had carried me for nine months and brought me into this world, I had never been hers. I had never been the people’s Princess.

I’d always belonged to the Primal of Death.

He was no brother of mine, not by blood nor bond, even though he was the son of the man my mother had married soon after my father’s death.

“They say he’s monstrous, that his skin is covered in the same scales as the beasts that guard him. That he has fangs for teeth. You must be terrified of what you must do.”

Tavius’s smile was a mockery as he brushed past me. I turned around. “Time for you to make yourself useful for once,” he said.

Shadowstone was the color of the deepest hour of night, a marvelous material that could be polished until it reflected any source of light and whetted into a blade sharp enough to pierce flesh and bone.

The back of the seat had been carved into the shape of a crescent moon. The exact shape of the birthmark I bore just above my left shoulder blade. The telltale sign that even before I was born, my life had never been mine.

If they learned that the songs and poems written about him had been based on a fable, what was left of the Mierel Dynasty would surely collapse.

And when he’d granted King Roderick’s request, this was the price the Primal of Death had requested: the firstborn daughter of the Mierel bloodline as his Consort.

A mist seeped out from the tear, licking across the stone floor and seeping toward the pews. Tiny bumps erupted all over my skin in response. Some called the mist Primal magic. It was eather. The potent essence that not only had created the mortal realm and Iliseeum but also what coursed through the blood of a god, giving even the lesser, unknown ones unthinkable power.

There was no way he could know that in the two hundred years it had taken for me to be born, the knowledge of how to kill a Primal had been obtained. Love. They had one fatal weakness that made them vulnerable enough to be killed, and that was love. Make him fall in love, become his weakness, and end him. That was my destiny.

The shadowstone dagger was rare in the mortal realm.

A whiteish light filled the veins of his face, the inside of his throat, and ran down into his chest and stomach.

Instead of kingdoms, each Primal ruled over a Court, and in place of noble titles, they had gods who answered to their Courts. Ten Primals held Court in Iliseeum. Ten that ruled over everything that lay between the skies and the seas, from love to birth, war and peace, life, and…yes, even death.

“Is that all, Madis?” A voice reached us from outside the tunnel, distant and feminine. “Yes, Cressa,” came the answer, spoken in a deep voice laden with power.

Three of them. Taric. Madis. Cressa. I repeated those names over and over as silence fell around us. I wasn’t familiar with them and I had no idea what Court they belonged to, but I would not forget their names.

I’d read that only the strongest could hide their presence from others—very much like a Primal.

“So, you know that the stone is quite toxic to a mortal’s flesh?” he said, and of course I knew that. If it came into contact with a mortal’s blood, it would slowly kill them even if the wound didn’t get them.

“And you, liessa, are very brave.” His thumb moved, sweeping over the curve of my jaw.

“Death wants nothing to do with life. None of you can be surprised.”

“You said I was touched by death and life. What does that mean? To be touched by both.”

I often wondered if they were mates of the heart—if there was even such a thing that was written about in poems and songs. Two halves of a whole. It was said that the touch between one was full of energy and that their souls would recognize one another. It was even said that they could walk in the dreams of another, and that the loss of one wasn’t something repairable.

He was suddenly in front of me, gripping the dagger blade-first. He yanked it from my hand. A second later, silver-white energy crackled over his knuckles. The light flared and pulsed, swallowing the blade and the hilt. The shadowstone and the iron handle crumbled under his grip.

“What I’m saying is that a Primal or a god can do whatever they please,” he said. “But every cause has an effect. There are always consequences for every action, even if they don’t impact me directly.”

“When someone dies and enters the Shadowlands, they are once more given physical form. Most will pass through the Pillars of Asphodel, which will guide them to where the soul must go. Guards there ensure that happens.”

“Some special cases must be judged in person.” His gaze bore into mine. “Those who need to be seen to determine what their fate may be.”

I drew in a shallow breath, frowning at the sudden, strange scent of lilacs. Stale lilacs.

“What does liessa mean?” The god didn’t answer for what felt like a small eternity. “It has different meanings to different people.” The eather pulsed in his eyes, swirling once more through the silver. “But all of them mean something beautiful and powerful.”

But I had a soft spot for animals—well, except for barrats. Animals didn’t judge. They didn’t care about worthiness. They didn’t choose to use or hurt another. They simply lived and expected to either be left alone or loved. That was all.

It all seemed unbelievable, but that was my gift. It allowed me to sense that a death had just occurred—like it had done with Andreia. It also brought the dead back to life, but not like what had been done to the seamstress.

No one knew how I’d gained such a gift or why I’d been marked for death before I was even born. It made no sense that I would carry an ability that linked me to the Primal of Life—to Kolis.

“I don’t even know your name,” I pointed out. “Some call me Ash.”

“There are two types of Gyrms. These were mortals who had summoned a god. In exchange for whatever need or desire they had, they offered themselves for eternal servitude. Once they died, that is what they became.”

“Those who offered eternal servitude in return are typically known as Hunters and Seekers. Their purpose is usually to locate and retrieve things. There are other classes of Gyrms, dozens really, but those are the main ones.” Ash’s fingers moved over my collarbone in a slow, idle circle, startling me. “Then there are those who enter servitude as a way to atone for their sins in lieu of being sentenced to the Abyss.”

“What is written in your histories about the gods, Primals, and Iliseeum is not always accurate. Some Primals’ age would shock you.”

“Because they’re so young in comparison,” he corrected. “The Primals you know of now didn’t always hold those positions of power.”

Dalos. The City of the Gods, where the Primal of Life—Kolis—and his Court resided.

Tavius hardly has spare coin,” Ezra explained. “I know this because he’s always trying to borrow from me. He spends whatever he has on Miss Anneka.”

His name is Callum.” Her chin dipped. “He’s from the Court of Dalos.”

“My name is Ector.”

The blade itself was at least seven inches long and shaped like a thin hourglass—deadly sharp on both sides. Someone had etched an elaborate design into the dagger—a spiked tail on the blade, and the muscular, scaled body and head of a dragon carved into the hilt, its powerful jaws open and breathing fire. The dagger was made of shadowstone.

I gasped. Or maybe it was Ezra. It could’ve been both of us at the sight of the faint whitish glow seeping out from under my skin and along the edges of my fingers.

The light…it was eather. The thing that had to fuel my gift. I had just never seen it coming from me before.

And away from the cold kiss I felt against the nape of my neck, the dread that was steadily replacing all that warmth, settling like a stone in the center of my chest and warning me that I had crossed a line. I had done as Odetta had warned. Played like a Primal.

“I am known as the Asher,” he said, and I shuddered. Is it short for something? I’d asked when he told me his name. It is short for many things. “The One who is Blessed. I am the Guardian of Souls and the Primal God of Common Men and Endings.” His voice traveled through the Great Hall, and absolute silence answered. I could barely force air through my lungs. “I am Nyktos, ruler of the Shadowlands, the Primal of Death.”

Nyktos looked to his right, to who I slowly realized was the god who’d given me the shadowstone dagger. Ector nodded curtly before turning to me.

“Saion?” Ector carefully touched my shoulders. “Can you get rid of the ropes?”

“This is the only place in the mortal realm where you’ll find shadowstone. There’s a reason for that.” His chest brushed my shoulder and arm, and I tensed. “There’s a reason mortals fear these woods. Why spirits haunt them.”

“There are ways to travel to Iliseeum. One is to travel east—far east until we cross not only the Skotos Mountains but even farther to where mortals believe the world simply ceases.” He shifted Odin’s reins into my numb hands. “That would take far too long. There are quicker ways, through what one would consider gateways. Only those from Iliseeum know how to find and reveal them. Use them. Each gateway can take one into a certain part of Iliseeum. Your lake is a gateway to the Shadowlands.”