Whispers and Wind: A Tale of Gods and Ghosts from the Scroll of the Raithsworn, Chapters 4 - 8

After awakening with strange, creeping markings and fractured memories, Lyrra realizes something is deeply wrong within her. Before she can flee, devastating news arrives.

Chapter 4 continued…

I awoke with a start and no idea how long I had been unconscious.

I was disoriented and sore. My head ached. I inspected my arm. The markings were still, but they had moved, creeping a little higher, past my elbow, now. Like branches and blackened veins. The contrast stark against my otherwise pale skin.

Panic came again, fast and choking.

I searched my surroundings and remembered what I had been doing before...he came.

I didn’t know what was happening to me.

But I knew one thing.

It wasn’t safe for me to stay here. I had to get out of town. Away.

But first, I had to find Gren. Bring her back safely.

It was past dusk. The cabin was dark, shadows filling every crack and corner. Outside, the sky held the barest strip of orange as the sun set over the riverbed.

The Raiths would try to escape, using the dagger I’d placed within Lagna’s reach. I’d be the first person the D’ral would come for. I was the only one who had gone near them. If they broke free, or even tried, I would be considered an accomplice.

I needed to disappear.

I could not be caught.

I knew that down to the fibre of my soul.

Because the Empire didn’t question. Not the D’ral.

They punished. Swiftly. Brutally.

If I weren’t detained for questioning, which meant torture, they would hang me in the square. Or worse, cull me.

I started gathering my things, what little there was. I grabbed food and drink for the road. I put together a kit of herbs and remedies, in case illness or misfortune found me. Even some I could sell or barter with.

Then I heard a voice. Young. Familiar.

I froze, sucking in a breath to steady myself.

I wrapped my arm quickly, choking down the fire climbing beneath my skin. I sheathed the dagger at my waist, beneath my skirts. Then I grabbed the only other thing I kept hidden in the box beneath the floorboards. A brooch etched with a coat of arms, a phoenix in flight. It was pierced into a swatch of cracked leather. The other was a book. The book itself was not of import. It was filled with blank pages, but also these dried purple flowers. The pages of the book were yellowed, falling from their binding, but they kept the flowers safe. I had it with me when I was found.

I shoved them into my pockets.

I put the box back in the dirt beneath the cabin, reset the floorboard, and covered it.

I ran to the door.

“Beth!” Darah’s youngest, Caedraan, hollered. He skidded to a stop just beyond the porch.

“My ma sent me after you.”

“Why?”

He was panting hard, barely able to catch his breath.

“Spit it out, Caed!” I shouted from the porch.

“Slow down,” I pleaded, trying to piece together what he was telling me. But somewhere deep in my darkest thoughts, I knew. I already knew what he was trying to say. I just needed him to say it.

The small, scrawny, sandy-haired boy, who had only lived ten and three summers, struggled to catch his breath.

“What happened?!”

“They took Andi.”

No.

No.

No.

I said it aloud, over and over.

“And her father, too. Even Gren. They took them all.”

Black.

I saw black.

It crept into the edges of my vision, blotting out every thought. All I felt was rage, deep and primal, so strong it made my markings writhe. I thought I might tear the earth open beneath my feet.

I grabbed the porch railing to steady myself, shaking, gasping, trying to think through as the shadows closed in around me. Trying to breathe through it. To not let fear and panic overtake me. I had to stay strong, or all was lost.

And then, something inside me. Someone. Woke up. Another voice. A woman’s voice. Mine. Steady. Certain. Almost calm.

“You need to move. Now. Find a bloody horse.”

I stilled.

“Faster than this,” the voice in my head, snapped.

Right.

“Caed, I need a horse!” I barked.

He blinked at me like I’d just sprouted wings.

“Pa’s got one at the farm, but it’s not a riding horse! She plows fields—”

I didn’t wait for the rest. I took off. The farm was closer than the town, and I didn’t need a steed. I needed a beast that could carry me through Tahlmorren itself.

And a plow mare would have to do.

I barrelled through the trees faster than I could mentally keep up with.

The plow mare—bless her wide, stubborn heart—held a steady stride. I drove her hard, digging my heels into her flanks. My skirts were hiked up to my knees, scandalous by village standards. Riding bareback, no less. A fact that was appalling, even to me.

Ask me if I gave a shit.

I didn’t.

Not at the moment.

My mind was racing. Planning.

It would be dark by the time I reached town. And after dark… nothing good happened. Especially not on a White Culling night.

But Gren. I had to get to Gren.

They’d likely be holding her in the village square. Chained. Or worse.

Vel’ariin help me. My gut twisted. I whispered every prayer I could recall to every ancient spirit and ancestor I could name, and if they didn’t answer, I’d start praying to the old, dark Vel’ariin. The ones that got shit done.

Wait… how the hell did I know that?

Apparently, I just knew things, now.

My second priority was Andi.

She’d be taken to the Keep where the Ward and his Hand resided. They would prepare her, purify her, offer her to the Emperor’s stewards in Revyr’s name. That cursed god of “purity” who demanded virgin blood to keep the bloodlines clean and holy.

Fucking bollocks.

Ritual after ritual, all just smoke and mirrors to justify what they really wanted. To violate her.

Andi, bright and sharp, not even of age. Why her? Why any of them.

The thought gutted me.

Andi deserved a life. A long one. One that didn’t end with ritual raping and a death passed off as divine revelation.

My blood boiled. My thoughts darkened with violent resolve. Whatever they intended—whatever gods they invoked—if one of them laid a hand on her, I’d rip him apart.

Whether he was a steward, soldier, or emperor. It didn’t matter.

Chapter 5

I galloped into the village full tilt, dismounting while the damn horse was still moving. I skidded to a stop as she trotted off to the watering trough, satisfied with her work.

“Beth! Gods alive,” Caed’s father and Darah’s husband called. “Where’d you learn to ride like that?”

“I’ve no idea. Where’s Gren?” I demanded, storming past him.

He grabbed my arm.

I stared down at his hand like he’d lost his mind. He stared back like I already had.

“Beth—Gren—”

No.

I said it aloud, whispered like a curse.

The voice in my head. Mine. Cold. Controlled.

“Don’t let him say it. You need to move. Now.”

“What did they do?” I barked. “Who was it?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. I was already running.

I sprinted straight to the village centre.

And there she was.

Gren.

Chained to the wooden post.

Her face bloodied. Her body. Lifeless.

No breath.

No movement.

Villagers surrounded her, their faces hollow, tear-streaked. Grief pooled like water in the dirt.

This night had already been a nightmare, and something in my bones told me it was only going to get worse.

I shoved through them and dropped to my knees in front of her.

I could almost see what had happened.

Andi’s name announced.

Gren crying out, begging the Ward and his Hand not to take her.

Her father rising to fight.

Gren refusing to back down.

A broken sob escaped my throat.

Darah appeared behind me, placing a hand on my shoulder. “She wouldn’t let them take her,” she said softly.

“I should have been here,” I whispered, voice breaking.

“What could you have done, love?” Tess murmured gently from the crowd.

What wouldn’t I have done?

I reached for Gren’s bloodied hand and pressed my palm to her chest, over her still heart. I whispered a prayer.

The villagers bowed their heads.

“May the Daeviryn take you and keep you.

 May you dine in the halls of their realm, blissful and light.

 May your descendants mourn you.

 May your memory be held in the hearts of those who loved you.”

I loved her.

And I would carry her always.

After several long breaths, I rose from the ground, bracing myself with one hand against the wooden post. My other hand gripped the chain bolted to the centre. I don’t know how I did it, but I pulled, and with a sharp groan of metal, the chain dropped to the ground.

“Help me,” I said to the gathered villagers.

And they did.

Together, we lifted Gren’s lifeless body and carried her to the small temple just beyond the town centre. There, they would wash her, bless her, and bury her properly, as she deserved.

I watched them take her.

The earth trembled beneath my feet.

A sound, deep, thunderous, rumbled across the village.

I turned.

Something was coming.

Someone.

My blood surged with fury. I was going to find whoever did this to Gren. Whoever dared to take Andriel. And I would make them pay.

But first, I had to reach Andriel. Fast.

She’d be held at the keep. But I couldn’t storm it alone.

My mind spun.

The Vey’raiths.

They were still here, likely imprisoned in the barracks across from the tavern.

Another low, booming rumble rolled across the air.

Thunder? Again?

I looked up.

The sky was black but clear. No clouds. No storm.

I clenched my fists, breath steadying.

Then I turned toward the tavern and started walking.

The streets were alive, but not with joy.

With ritual. With death.

People sang the Song of the White Culling. A morose tale of the fate that would befall Andriel tonight. They praised the false god it was meant to honour, and offered up their reverence like sheep to the slaughter. They praised the usurper who now ruled these lands, the one who had stolen everything. History, birth rites, even the dead and replaced it with corruption and fear.

Drunken men stumbled through the square, arms flung around each other in hollow celebration. Women of the night lured them away with promises of seduction and lust, drunk and moaning in plain view, wrapped in limbs and laughter and rebellion. Reckless. Raw. Desperate. Maybe they were taking their lives into their hands, but for what it was worth, they seemed to be resigned to it.

D’ral soldiers were everywhere, leaning in corners, stalking the alleys, watching with hungry eyes. A few leered at me, made obscene gestures as I passed. I kept the hood of my cloak low, shadowing my face.

But I was still in my skirts. Dangerous. Vulnerable. I needed pants. Something hard to get into.

I passed the tavern, ignoring the shouting and chaos spilling into the street, and made my way toward the barracks.

Ten soldiers stood guard outside. Swords unsheathed, expressions carved with bloodlust. They weren’t waiting for orders. They weren’t waiting for trials. I knew it in my bones. They were planning to slit the Raiths’ throats before sunrise.

I slipped around the corner, into a narrow alley that ran alongside the barracks, heart hammering. I scanned the building for a back entrance, a loose door, a window, something.

It was only then that I realized where I was.

A woman. Alone. In a dark alley. On Culling night. Still wearing skirts, still without armour, barely armed at all. Across from a tavern full of drunk men. In a city crawling with soldiers.

Gods.

What was I doing?

I was taking my life in my hands, is what.

I crept forward. The barracks had no windows. Just thick stone and silence.

“There you are, you sweet little morsel. Thought you could give me a taste and be done with me, eh?”

A gravelly voice. Familiar.

Bloody fucking hell.

I stilled, then turned slowly.

It was him. The soldier from earlier. The one who’d demanded a kiss. The one who spat in the water I gave the Raiths.

He grinned at me now. A menacing one. One that meant danger. His hand hovered near his belt. The look in his eyes wasn’t just bloodlust.

It was the other kind.

The kind that told me he would take what he wanted and leave me for the others to finish.

My blood went cold.

Chapter 6

I took a step back, slow and steady.

My right arm twitched. The markings there pulsed with heat.

I reached behind me, fingers wrapping around the hilt of my dagger.

The soldier let out a whistle.

Oh, brilliant. He had friends.

It took everything in me not to draw my dagger and press it to his throat.But I had to wait. The timing had to be perfect.I needed the element of surprise.

The three men he’d called joined him.

Well, that’s just horribly unrealistic.No woman could take four men in a row.And I had no intention of trying, not tonight. Not ever.

They began to circle me, slow and deliberate. It was a dance, eerily reminiscent of the White Culling ritual. The one where young girls weaved through the crowd of boys, performing innocence, purity… all for the slaughter to come.

Two in front. Two behind. I knew their plan without them saying a word.

The back pair would grab my arms. Pin me down. The others would strip away any dignity my clothes could offer.

They didn’t draw their swords. Of course not.Four men didn’t need swords to overpower one woman.

“Take out the big one first,” the voice in my head commanded. “All men are soft in certain places, no matter their size. Then take out the water-spitter. He’s too determined. The others will either flee or fall. Once they see what you’re capable of.”

My voice. I sounded too confident. Familiar with this scenario. Like a memory resurfacing through blood and breath.

The water-spitter lunged first.

I struck, fast and instinctive. My palm snapped upward into his nose. Cartilage crunched. Blood gushed. I let out a yelp. He stumbled back, howling in pain.

I pivoted. The largest man reached for my arm. I let him. Then drove my dagger into his forearm, deep and swift. I twisted and pulled down as I withdrew. Muscle tore. Bone scraped.

He screamed. A jagged, animal sound. Loud and alarming.

I needed them silent. I couldn’t afford attention.

I turned back to the water-spitter. Dropped low and slashed the inside of his upper thigh. My blade sank into the soft flesh there, but I missed the artery, intentionally, immobilizing him. Rendering him useless for what he planned. He collapsed, clutching his groin, shrieking like a child.

Funny, I thought. Men ready to rape at the drop of a skirt, screaming like babes at the sight of their own blood.

The other two charged me.They grabbed my arms.

I let them pull me back, step by step, until we slammed into the alley wall. Their grip slipped, just enough. I twisted free, drove my knee into one’s groin so hard I felt his balls vanish. He doubled over.

Then I slammed his head into the stone wall with my palm.He dropped like a sack of grain.

The last one shoved me against the wall, snarling, clawing at my clothes. Tearing. Grabbing. Trying to own what was never his.

He turned me, big mistake.

I drew my dagger and drove it into the soft hollow between his collarbone and neck.I pulled down.Shoved him back with my knee.

Blood spilled like wine, staining everything.

I missed the jugular, but not by much.He’d bleed plenty.

I stood in the centre of the alley, chest heaving, the scent of blood thick in my nose. My body burned. My right arm tingled. The markings there crawled upward like smoke.

I looked around.Every man was down. Bleeding. Broken. Unconscious or close to it.

“Well done.”

I was panting. Shaking.

I felt powerful in a way I never had before.

Had I really just done that?The gardener. The healer.The girl with no memory. No past.

But I was starting to see. I had one. And it was something else entirely.

The big one still clutched his mangled arm, writhing in the dirt.

I walked over and kicked the last man who wasn’t completely unconscious across the face, hard. His head whipped sideways, and he slumped into the mud, unmoving.

The water-spitter had dragged himself to the alley wall, trying to stand.

I approached. Kneeling in front of him.

He looked up, dazed.

“Next time,” I said calmly, “don’t be so bloody handsy.”

Then I punched him in the face.

He slumped.

I looked around and peeked out of the alleyway.

No one had noticed. Yet.

I dragged the water-spitter to the back, then hauled the others one by one, shoving their bodies into the shadows. It took effort. Dead weight and all, but I managed. When someone eventually found them, they’d assume they were just a few drunk bastards passed out after some orgy of White Culling indulgence.

Let them believe that.

But I needed to change.These skirts? Not cutting it.

I turned to the medium-sized soldier. He looked about my height.

I stripped off his pants, quick and unceremoniously, then yanked them on over my own skirts. Once they were up, I reached under and untied my skirts, letting the fabric fall away to the alley floor.

Next, I took my dagger and slashed my chemise and kirtle short enough to tuck into the stolen leather pants. I pulled them tight, then knelt and stole the man’s boots too. Stiff, worn, but solid.

Everything fit well enough. Not comfortable. But mobile. Practical. Right.

I wasn’t done.

I searched his belt, his vest, his pouches. Took his every coin and blade. A few throwing knives. Another dagger. Then I took his sword. I moved to another soldier and stripped him of his weapons, too. Anything sharp and deadly, I kept.

Then I stood. Hood drawn over my hair, shadowing my face.

Armed. Ready. Focused.

Time to break out some ghosts.

I slipped out of the alley and back toward the barracks, edging past the guards stationed outside.

I needed a way in.

A distraction.

Something to pull the soldiers from the entrance.

I scanned the street.

The tavern was close and already in full chaos.

Perfect.

I smirked.

Wouldn’t take much to light the match on this powder keg.

I crossed the road and stepped inside.

It was pure madness.

Bodies everywhere. Soldiers drinking themselves blind, women of the night working the room with practiced ease. One grabbed a D’ral by the collar and hauled him toward the stairs. Another dragged a client out the back door, no doubt toward the local brothel. Every town had one or a few. Where there were soldiers, there were women they could pay to forget the world for an hour.

A flurry of hands and moans brushed past me.

Oddly, none of it scandalized me.Not as much as I thought it would.

Even though, as far as I knew, I had never experienced any of this.

Had I been to places like this before?

Was it by choice?

Once, maybe?

Or... often?

I leaned into the shadows at the edge of the room, pressing my back to the wall.

Across from me, a woman pinned a soldier to the entranceway. Their mouths tangled, her hand slipping into his pants. He groaned low, shameless.

I pushed off the wall and moved deeper into the crowd.

Everywhere I turned, groping, grinding, kissing, moaning. A twisted kind of celebration on such a grim, violent night.

But maybe that was the point.

Whatever took the edge off.

There was a pulse in the air, hot and thick and heavy. A tension. A scent. It clung to skin and breath and body like heat. And it all felt strangely familiar.

Had I felt that before?

Yes.

I must have. With a husband, most likely. There was no way I’d made it twenty-seven summers untouched and unmarried. Not with the way my body responded. Tight, aware, aching.

I wasn’t a virgin. I knew that much to be true.

A slow bloom unfurled low in my belly.

Lust.

Desire.

Dark and unrelenting.

It had been a while. Years. My body suddenly felt every day of it.

I wondered about him. More often than I ever cared to admit. My husband. What he looked like. Felt like. His strength. His features. Height.

The questions plagued me. Usually, after dreaming of candlelight moments and whispered promises. Soft, full lips on sacred parts. Pressure and rhythm. Moans and hands gripping flesh. The pull. The release.

I pulled back my left sleeve and unwrapped the cloth from my wrist.

There, tarnished and dirty, were the golden threads, lashed tight and looped too many times to count. The knot was fused long ago, permanent and unbreakable. I had never been able to remove it.

And for the first time in months, I felt them pulse. Like a spark to dry kindling, laced with something powerful. It was wholly different from the power that came from the markings. That power and voice were terrifying, but this one. This one was warm. Firm. Steadying, in a way, that felt like it was made of the earth and whatever magicks it was comprised of. The sky. The stars in the Tharvallen.

I understood so little about this thread.

Gren had inspected the bindings countless times. Dumbfounded by them.

I wrapped them once again. Pulled my sleeve to cover my wrist, swallowed it all down. I had no time to dwell on such matters. I needed to get to Andi. But I needed help. Their help.

I made my way to the bar, slid onto a stool, and nodded at the barkeep.

“A pint,” I said, flipping him a coin from the purse I’d stolen off the soldiers.

He didn’t blink. Just passed the mug down the line.

I downed it in three gulps. Almost.

It tasted of grain and sour water. Not bad. Not good, either.

Add stealing and excessive drinking to the list of things we are discovering about ourselves today.

Just then someone slammed into my back. Snapping me out of my reverie.

Time to focus, Lyrraveth.

That’s what the voice in my head called me. Lyrraveth.

So had the male voice attached to the markings.

Gods, I was a mess. Gold threads and black veins. No memory of anything or anyone. Yet I could fight, run for miles, and plan an attack.

I shook off the panic creeping in at the list of things stacked against the idea that I was a simple woman with a life similar to the one I had come to know here, in Ferren Hill.

Distraction. Now. Use it.

I turned and shoved the soldier who’d rammed into me, deepening my voice, roughening the edge. I was tall. Wrapped in my cloak, chest bound and hidden, I could pass, barely, as a man.

“What in the seven realms of Tahlmorren?” I growled, shoving him hard.

Gods, it felt good to curse. Out loud.

“Eh, watch it, you bloody fucking sod,” he snapped back, jabbing a finger at my chest.

Hey. Watch the breasts, blighter. 

I flung his hand away. Straightened. Adjusted my stance. Closed my cloak tighter across my corset and chemise. I couldn’t let him get too close. At a distance, I was convincing. Up close, I was one misplaced step from being sheathed like a scabbard.

“Who you calling a sod, you piss-poor excuse for a bloody soldier?” I barked. “You and your whole lot are a bunch of usurping wankers.”

That did it.

He slammed his mug down on a nearby table. “Take that back before I cut out your tongue, boy.”

His mates were already egging him on.

“I’d like to see you try,” I said, voice sharp as steel.

“Long live the High Lords of A’Leas!” someone shouted from the back.

And that was the match.

The tavern exploded.

Soldiers started cuffing villagers. Villagers fought back. Tables overturned. Bottles shattered. Fists flew.

An all-out scuffle broke loose. Loud enough to draw every soldier within earshot.

The one in front of me cocked back his fist. I ducked and shoved him into his friends. They went tumbling. I broke into a sprint through the crowd and bolted for the back stairwell, taking the steps two at a time.

A surge of soldiers barrelled into the tavern.

The chaos exploded.

I burst through the first unlocked door, once I was upstairs.

Only to find a couple… mid-rut.

The woman shrieked and scrambled for the sheet.

“Pardon me,” I muttered, spinning around and failing entirely not to catch a full view of her from head to toe.

Bloody hell.

I threw the window open and looked across the street.

The barracks entrance. Only two soldiers remained.

Brilliant.

Now, I just had to get down.

I leapt onto the rooftop. Clay tiles greeted my boots, slick, loose, and utterly useless for grip.

I caught the window ledge with both hands, steadied myself for a breath, and scooted along the second-floor wall, inching toward the edge.

My boot slid. I skidded.

Tiles shattered beneath me as I tumbled off the rooftop, flipped upside down, and landed hard in the muck below.

The impact knocked the wind out of me. But I was alive.

I lay there, wheezing.

“Well,” I muttered, voice rasping. “That was graceful. Well done.”

Apparently, letting my body lead wasn’t the same as knowing what the fuck I was doing.

Up, Lyrraveth. Or Beth. Or whoever you are.

I pushed myself to my feet. Sword clanking, metal creaking, cloak dragging. Everything was askew. I readjusted it all and slipped toward the edge of the street.

It was dimly lit.

Two guards stood watch near the entrance.

I needed them gone.

As I waited in the shadows, two drunk men stumbled past, singing and slurring the cursed White Culling Song. Loud, off-key, obnoxious.

Use it.

The soldiers gave them wary looks, but didn’t stop them. The drunkards couldn’t care less about anything.

I followed behind, mimicking their stagger, joining in their awful rendition of the song. Vel’ar help me. I hated that song.

As I passed, I stumbled into one of the guards. Intentionally.

“Oi! Watch where you’re going, you bloody drunken twat!” he snapped, shoving me into the others arms.

“This one’s actually got a twat,” the second one said, yanking aside my cloak.

“While that is true. It’s really none of your concern,” I said, and kicked the first man in the face.

Hard.

He reeled back. I slammed the second guard into the frame of the doorway, flipped him to the ground, and knocked him out cold with a single blow. Clean. Efficient.

I glanced around. No witnesses.

All clear.

I grabbed both their arms and dragged them inside the barracks foyer, out of view.

Then I turned around, and froze.

More soldiers. At least ten.

“Well… fuck,” I whispered.

Didn’t anticipate that, did you?

What’s the plan now?

I was standing in an open room. All of them in front of me. All of them watching. And now… surrounding.

I was doomed.

My heartbeat thundered in my chest. My right arm buzzed beneath the wrappings. I raised my hands slowly.

Then, the shadows moved.

Not with the flicker of firelight. With intention.

Whispers and wind filled my head.

A riptide of energy surged through me. The ground trembled. A low rumble echoed beneath my feet.

The darkness twisted across the walls like snakes. Alive, slithering.

A cold, crawling terror raced up my spine.

I was summoning…him. Ancient and terrifying.

Born of Tahlmorren. The underworld. The void beneath all things. The shadow realms.

A tingling climbed up my fingers, up my arm. My markings lit, flaring like ink catching fire.

Blackness.

I saw nothing. Felt nothing. Heard nothing.

Just absence.

Cold. Total. Endless.

And heard the deep, dark laughing of a demon.

In the darkness, I couldn’t see.

Water pooled at my feet, cold, shallow, like before, but like I was underwater, untouched by it. Standing in the void between life and death. Trapped in an endless dark hallway with no lantern light. Just black. Silence. A pounding in the distance. A voice. A faint call, like someone was on the other side of a wall I couldn’t see, like I was trapped behind a looking glass.

Then… a hand. Just barely visible, brighter than the absolute dark.

“Where are you? Tell me.” The voice was deep. Rough. Familiar.

But not like the deep, dark timbre of that terrifying Vel’ar from before.

This one was different. My gold bands on my left wrist started to glow. Bright with light. Staving off the darkness.

I sucked in a breath. “I’m here. I’m right here.” I called.

“Where? I can’t feel you. I haven’t been able to—”

His voice echoed, close and impossibly far. The connection waned. The light fluttering.

“Feren Hill,” I said quickly. “A village. In Arora. Upper east part of Laes. Past the Wyvern Mountains and the Dredging Forest.”

Then I felt it, like I was being pulled backward, sucked deeper into the dark. He was coming for me.

“No! No! Wait! Wait!”

I jolted awake like I’d been dragged from the depths of the Gaelveryn Sea. A northern sea known for being as cold as the dead. Gasping. Reeling.

The world around me was on fire.

Smoke. Screams.The scent of blood in the air. Copper and ash.

I was flat on my back in the muck, covered in mud, and what I prayed was horse shit. If it was the other kind… I’d need several baths, a bottle of spirits, and a bucket of lycan moss to scrub myself raw.

Gods. This night had a very real chance of ending with me dying covered in shit.

Lagna hovered over me.

“What the bloody fucking hell was that?” she snapped, grabbing my arm and hauling me up. Krag was beside her, helping.

“Let’s not have storytime right now,” Krag added. “How about we get the hell out of here before more D’ral show up, yeah?”

They pulled me to my feet.

Grim was still fighting. So was Skara, along with the fifth member of their Talon—I hadn’t caught his name. He was a walking wall.

“Did you see what the fuck that was?” Skara shouted at me.

I blinked at the destruction around me.

“No,” I admitted. “I feel like I got hit by a horse.”

“I think you did get hit by a horse,” Krag added.

Grim burst out laughing.

“She’d be dead, Krag,” He said.

“We need to move, now!” Lagna barked. “Hask! Grab her!”

The massive one, Hask, lumbered over and scooped me up like I weighed nothing. Which, for him, I probably did.

I flailed. “Wait! Wait! I need Andriel! I am not leaving this godsforsaken village without her!”

“Who the fuck is Andriel?” Grim shouted, throwing his hands in the air just as Hask let me drop to the ground.Pretty sure he meant to. Cheeky bastard.

I scrambled upright.“Andi,” I panted. “She’s the girl they took for the Culling. The ritual.”

“Oh fuck me,” Krag groaned. “No. We can’t. We need to leave. Meet with the rest of the Vyres before they decide we’re dead and move on without us.”

Lagna twisted her lips.

“Lagna! No!” Krag barked at her.

“We go.”

They all groaned.

“We cannot risk our asses to save this woman and her…Andi. We need to leave this burning outhouse of a village?”

“I know,” Lagna muttered, eyes narrowing on me. “But she’s one of us. That much I know. Leave none behind, Krag.”

She stepped closer, studied me.“You look so fucking familiar. It’s driving me mad.”

“I think… I am one of you.” I pulled the dagger from my belt and showed her.

Lagna’s eyes lit up.

“I knew it.” Her grin was feral, triumphant. “Where the fuck have you been?”

“I—”

“Ah, ladies,” Grim interrupted, nodding toward the square.

An almost full battalion of soldiers had marched beside what was left of the barracks.

“You may get your wish, water nymph,” he added.

“No bloody way in the seven hells,” Lagna hissed, shifting into a battle stance. I couldn’t tell if she was ready to fight or flee.

“We are not getting caught again.”

“Yes. We are,” I said. I said it.

I ordered it.

“Stand down. Let them take us.”

“Are you joking?” Skara shouted.

“She’s mad is what she is,” Krag added.

I made a face. “At this point? It’s a fair assumption.”

Lagna stared at me. Hard. Then gave a reluctant nod to her Talon.

“I hate Cullings. Almost as much as I hate D’ral. Once we get your girl? We’re out of this godsdamned hole.”

“If we get Andriel and get out of this alive,” I said, “I’ll do whatever you bloody want.”

“I’m gonna hold you to that,” Grim smirked, wicked.

“I want a fucking promotion,” Lagna added.

I looked back at her.Her mouth curled into a grin.

Chapter 7

The D’ral, just as I’d hoped, dragged us to Cullgrave Keep. But not before manhandling us, getting their filthy Gods damned hands everywhere.

They searched us and confiscated our weapons.

But not all of them.

I’d hidden my dagger the moment we saw them—and they didn’t find it. I was willing to bet they didn’t find Lagna’s or Skara’s either.

What they did find… was my broach.

“What’s this?” one of the soldiers asked, holding it out.

The rest of the squad went still. Wide-eyed, then unreadable.

The soldier holding it looked spooked.

“You’ll give that back,” I said coolly, spitting the words at him.

He laughed, nervous and uncertain.

I laughed back, just once. Then stopped. Let the silence settle. Let him feel it.

Then I glared at him as two soldiers grabbed my arms and dragged me away.

He dropped the brooch in the mud.Stomped on it.

I didn’t flinch.

They shoved me forward. Ghost Talon followed behind, silent and watching.

I needed to know so much more than I did.

But I didn’t have the luxury of knowing.

So I had to lean into instinct.

All this time, I thought I was some lost villager. Maybe a widow, maybe a mother, someone who’d been broken by fate.But I wasn’t.I was something else.More.

And I had barely scratched the surface.

And now…now I had no choice.

My thoughts snapped back to Andi. She was my focus now.

A twelve-year-old girl.Trapped in a keep.Surrounded by men old enough to be her grandfathers. Men who only wanted one thing.

I’d seen the aftermath.

No girl came back from Cullgrave Keep the morning after a White Culling intact. Not one. If they came back at all, they came back in pieces.

My stomach dropped. My chest tightened. My heart began to hammer.

Andi was alive. I knew that.

What came after… I’d figure out when I had to.

First, I needed to get to her. Everything else could wait.

I had five strong fighters behind me.Ghost Talon who had, for some reason, decided to follow me. A stranger with a familiar face, an old dagger, and enough conviction to light a torch in the void.

Adrenaline.Fear.Rage.

That’s all I had to run on.

I prayed it would be enough, because if it wasn’t, I didn’t know what more it would take.

And I wasn’t sure what it would cost me to find out.

When we reached the Keep.

It loomed above us, massive and jagged, cutting into the black sky like a blade. There were no stars tonight. The Vel’ariin had turned their backs.

A godless night.

A White Culling.

It all felt like I was walking into a prophecy.

Or the mouth of a monster.

Tiny archers’ slits cut into the sides of keep like watchful eyes.

The wall sheer and high seemed impossible to scale. The descent from the turrets would be end in certain death.

A wide moat circled the base, dark and brackish, choked with filth. Falling in would likely mean a slow death from infection. If the weight of the dead already rotting in it didn’t drown you first.

Rats skittered along the edges. Insects buzzed. The scent of rot clung to the air.

The small battalion, maybe twenty-five D’ral soldiers, marched us across the rickety wooden bridge and through the gates. Iron gates. They groaned shut behind us, sealed with a thick locking bar the width of a grown man’s torso.

A fortress. Impenetrable. Inescapable.

We were sealed in. Trapped. No escape routes I could see from the outside.

I shook my head. Took in a steadying breath.

Had I walked us straight to our deaths?Were we going to be culled next?

A cold ripple of fear crept down my spine. It didn’t let go. My arm buzzed against the metal of my shackles. I smirked, though I had no idea why.

I had no plan.

Just a blackened arm, scorched hair tips, and a whisper of some forbidden prophecy the D’ral had burned from the histories centuries ago.

Maybe I was mad.But I was also a betting woman, apparently, and a quick study.

They dragged us down a narrow stairwell, spiraling like a descent into Tahlmorren itself. The dungeon was a wide, square chamber with six corridors branching from the walls, each leading to six tight, narrow cells.

We were separated.One to each cell.Locked up. Left to rot.

Chapter 8

“So what’s the plan, princess?” Grim called to me once the soldiers were gone, their boots echoing up the stairs.

“Oi! I’m still your Captain, you git. The ranking officer,” Lagna snapped. “I just happened to be on board with rescuing a defenseless girl from rape and murder. Seemed a decent enough end to this damned flare.”

“Well, great job, boss,” Skara said dryly, throwing her hands in the air.

“Shut up, all of you,” Lagna growled and sat on the floor of her cell.

“Flare?”

“Mission,” Lagna informed me.

“What was the flare?” I asked, curious despite myself.

They exchanged a look.

“It’s classified,” Lagna said eventually. “High-risk flare. Hear-nothing, see-nothing, can’t-lie kind of mission.”

Krag tested the bars. “What do we call you, anyway? Besides mad.”

I hesitated.

“…Beth,” I said quietly.

“Beth, huh?” Grim said, skeptical. “Doesn’t sound right. Doesn’t sound like the name of a Talon leader.”

I narrowed my eyes at him.

“I don’t know that I was one,” I said flatly.

“You must’ve been,” Lagna said without hesitation.

“Yeah. That broach? That’s from a very old house,” Krag added. “Ancient. That kind of emblem usually means noble blood. Eyrenian, Vyeth, of men. It doesn’t matter. It means “high rank.”

“I don’t remember,” I admitted. “I had an accident. I was found wandering on the road leading into the village with no memory, just this dagger and that broach. Gren took me in when no one else would. She was my mentor. My friend.”

I paused.

“They beat her to death for trying to rescue a child.”

The memory of her chained to a post punched the air from my lungs. The guilt was unbearable.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Skara said softly.

Krag muttered a quiet prayer.

“Thank you,” I murmured, eyes lowered.

“Beth’s not your name then?” Lagna said bluntly.

“No,” I said. “Gren gave it to me. It means home in the old tongue.”

“Which one?” Krag huffed.

“Don’t know. A’Laesish?” I shrugged.

“I wonder who you were,” she said. “I think we’ve met. I’m shite with names, but faces? I don’t forget. Maybe we trained together. Maybe we fought side by side or did a flare together.”

My heart rate beat like a drum.

It was the first time anyone had said something like that. The first sliver of recognition. A glimpse. Small, but real.

“I can’t say with any certainty. Only that I had the same dagger.”

Thankfully, I still had that littel dagger, tucked into the boning of my corset.Thank the Vel’ariin for stealth blades.Whoever invented that little miracle deserved a crown.

“I might’ve been a Raith,” I added.

“You were,” she said.

“Then you definitely had a different name, princess,” Grim muttered, resting his arms through the bars.

“No self-respecting Raith would let themselves be called Beth,” Skara added.

“Unless it meant something,” Krag said.

Hask, silent as ever, nodded once. His massive frame barely fit inside his cell.

“Now, what might’ve been your real name,” Krag mused aloud.

I closed my eyes.

“It’s Lyrraveth,” I said, voice soft. “That name... that’s who I was.”

“Lyrraveth,” Lagna repeated. She rubbed her lips with her knuckles. “Vel’ar. That sounds familiar.”

“Still shite,” Grim muttered under his breath.

I rolled my eyes.

Lagna tilted her head. “Do you remember anything else?”

I hesitated.

Then shook my head.

“No. I remember almost nothing.”

“Damn, eh? You must have knocked that beautiful melon right good, then,” Grim’s smile grew wide.

“Is that meant to be charming?” I shot back.

Ghost Talon started laughing.

“Careful. She’s got teeth,” Lagna grinned.

“And she’s got you pretty well figured out, Grim,” Skara added.

“Alright,” He waved us all off. “Clearly my powers don’t work on your kind.”

“My kind? Females?” I asked.

Everyone began laughing again. I tried the bars, rattling them, pulling at them, pushing. I don’t know what I expected to happen, maybe whatever it was that came over me when I ripped the chains apart when I found Gren. But maybe that was just the grief, the rage, the anger.

We needed to get out of here, now.

“What happens if we survive this flare?”

Lagna let out a short laugh. “We rally with our Warden. Warden Illvaris. That’s our Vyre leader. A Veyre is…”

“Like a battalion?”

“Close. More like a company.”

“Warden Illyvaris is the leader of the Third Vyre. The Windborne. Ghost Talon falls under his charge. We find him meet up with the others at base camp.”

“Will he take Andi and myself under his care?” I asked.

“Perhaps. Warden Illyvaris is a good man.” Lagna said.

“He’s also a bloody legend among Raiths. Rides a fucking Myrrketh,” Grim said, shaking his head with that particular awe that bordered dangerously on envy.

I narrowed my eyes. “Myrrketh?”

“Skaeryn,” Krag supplied.

I blinked.

“It’s Eeyrenian for winged-flying-beasts.”

Still blinking.

“A hybrid. Like a dragon but not. He’s a rider,” Lagna clarified at last.

“Those mythical beasts that are said to be part dragon, part animal, part bird beasts, are real?”

They all nodded.

“Vel’ar,” I balked.

“Yes,” Grim said. “They’re also deadly. Agile. Fast as a blink. Huge bloody things. Tear your arms off if you approach them without their rider.”

“Yes. And there are many different kinds,” Krag added. “A Myrrketh is a breed known for flight under the cover of darkness. Only Raiths who are basically legends ride them. They’re lethal as shit, and twice as rare. He raised his from a hatchling. Everyone talks about it. You really don’t remember shit do you?”

“I really don’t,” I said, with a huff.

“They say his Eyrenian lineage traces back to the kingdoms of Valerion’theil,” Skara said. “The ones who ruled before men ever walked these lands. Warriors. Sacred bloodlines. One of eight Cryscent Kingdoms.”

She smirked. “That’s why he fights like a god and looks like sin.”

“Well, he sounds… impressive,” I said.

“Oh, he is,” Lagna said. “One of the best.”

“Skara’s in love with him,” Grim laughed.

“Shut up!” she snapped. “I just appreciate Eyrenian deliciousness when I see it.”

“He’s only partly Eyrenian,” Krag said, flicking one of his own ears, mostly rounded with a faint lift at the top. “He’s also Vyeth. No one’s fully anything anymore.” He nodded to Lagna, whose tight curls concealed similar features.

“He’s also deeply committed to the old ways,” Lagna added with pride.

“You know there are old tales,” Grim said, grinning wide, “about Eyrenian warriors and high born Vyeth beguiling young women with their charms. Luring them into their realms to fall in love, just to have their way with them. Until they die from it.”

My blood turned hot in my veins.

“That can’t be true,” I said flatly.

Grim smirked. “Seems to’ve worked on Skara.”

“Your prejudice is doing a phenomenal job of highlighting your insecurity,” Lagna said sharply. “The old ways aren’t something to mock. They’re sacred. We lost so much when the Vyeth and Eyrenian bloodlines fled the kingdoms. Most were murdered. Worse. Warden Illyvaris is doing more than most to bring it back. Before every battle, he prays to the Vel’ariin. Makes offerings to the ancestors for protection. For mercy. Even for his enemies.”

“He uses old magic, too,” Skara added. “Blasting. Fire-casting. Shadow work. All that forbidden shit. But not love enchantments or glamours as Grim suggests. He doesn’t need them.”

“Please, stop fetishizing your commander,” Lagna snapped at her. “It’s embarrassing.”

Skara just shrugged, unbothered.

Lagna turned to me. “You do not need to fear the Warden, princess.”

I gripped my right wrist. The one blackened and terrifying.

“I always fear males,” I said. “Eyrenian or Vyeth or a combination of both.”

“Wise,” Lagna said, flatly.

“You and every there female,” Grim muttered. “Except Skara. She loves the dangerous ones and apparently her overly controlling superiors.”

“I do not love him. I have a crush,” Skara snapped, crossing her arms hard enough to rattle her armor. “I’m not some wide-eyed virginal maiden.”

“You’re acting like one,” Grim teased.

“And you’re acting like a jealous ass,” She shot back.

The two of them kept on bickering, their voices rising, snapping back and forth like siblings who’d been raised on the art of verbal warfare.

“Oh Vel’ar,” Krag muttered, rubbing his temples. “Here we bloody go.”

While they continued, I pulled out my dagger. Maybe I could pick a lock.

I crouched by the bars and jammed the blade into the keyhole, jiggling it around like I had even the faintest clue what I was doing.

I didn’t.

No click. No give. Just resistance. Frustration building like pressure behind my ribs.

With a sigh, I sheathed the dagger and wrapped my hands around the bars. Gave them another hard yank.

Nothing.

I pressed my blackened arm, tightly wrapped, against the lock. I closed my eyes. Breathed in.

Slow.Steady.

Focus.

Something in me whispered that this, this should work.

But nothing happened.

“I just tried that, Princess,” Grim finally said from across the corridor, sounding entirely unimpressed.

“Stop calling me that,” I grumbled, yanking again anyway.

“Well, I’m not calling you Lyrraveth. It doesn’t fit.”

He turned, leaned back against the bars like he had all the time in the world.

“‘Princess’ doesn’t either. ‘Water nymph’ was closer. Lyrra is best.”

“Lyrra? I could get behind that. But, water nymph is better,” he said with that shit eating smirk.

I rolled my eyes. If I had to choose a brother, it’d be someone like him.Annoying. Loyal. Infuriatingly smug.

I huffed, tried to piece everything I knew together. Make sense of the madness of this day. This night.

The blackout. The rip in the earth. The shifting shadows. The whispering. The markings burned into my skin. The prophecy I rattled off like I was possessed by Ashvalen.

A bearer born in shadow’s breath,Will rise to bind the hands of death.

Suddenly, the shadows moved at the edges of my cell.

Slithered. Shifted. Reacted.

I startled and slammed into the bars behind me.

Whispers rose, low and ancient, layered like wind through dead leaves. I couldn’t make out the words, but I could feel them. Deep in my bones. In my blood.

Calling me.

Dark. Intoxicating.

Alright, I thought. Show me.

The lock snapped open with a sharp metallic crack. The bars opened slightly with a soft creak.

Grim turned.Skara spun, wide-eyed.

“What the fuck?” Lagna muttered from the next cell.

“Rusty old locks, maybe?” I said, stepping out like I hadn’t just magic-ed my way into a jailbreak.

“Oi!” a guard called from the hallway once he saw me. His voice bounced off the stone walls, sharp and startled.

The Raiths were still locked in and I was the only one free.

Alone.

“What the hell are you doing out of there?” the guard growled, already reaching for his weapon.

“Take him down,” Lagna said coolly. “Now.”

He came at me fast, spear aimed for my chest.

I spotted a hanging chain. No hesitation. I grabbed it from where it swayed, looped it around the spear’s shaft, twisted, and spun him like a dancer in a tavern or brothel. He slammed into the far wall with a grunt, the spear clattering to the ground.

I stepped on it, flipped it up into my hand, and froze for just a breath.

It felt natural. Like second nature.

Then came the sound behind me.

Movement. Fast.

I spun, spear twirling in my grip.

Another guard. Then two more. Then five.

All charging down the corridor.

The guards couldn’t surround me, not in this tight space. I had the advantage.

The spear gave me range, front and back, and I moved through them like I knew what I was doing.

The Raiths scrambled in their cells, working at their locks with no success.

“Keys, Princess!” Skara shouted.

I gritted my teeth.

The keys were on a hook. On a wooden post down the hall and across the main chamber of the dungeon.

Beyond the guards.

I twirled the spear again, the motion smooth, practiced.

Like a muscle memory from another life.

The guards knew how to use their spears, technically. But they weren’t skilled. Not in a way that mattered.

And I was.

I used their own momentum against them. Breaking their lines, disarming them, flinging their weapons aside like kindling.

My hands moved on instinct. My mind stayed clear, focused. I let my body lead.

At one point, I cracked my spear across a soldier’s helmet and the shaft split in two.

I kept fighting, one half in each hand like twin battle batons. One got the jump on me and used his spear against my neck.

I tried to hold him back but he was strong. Too strong.

“Back up, back up,” Grim said. He grabbed the guards face and I pushed back. We pushed him against the bars once, twice. He released me enough to break free and I cracked him across the face as hard as I could with one half of my spear.

Then I turned and every single guard was down.

“Well done,” Lagna offered.

“Safe to say at this point that you were not only one of us, Princess, but pretty high up the chain. Only high rankers can fight like that,” Krag said, looking at the guards.

“Now…keys.”

“Right.” I dropped the broken spear halves and sprinted toward the wooden post near the chamber’s center.

And ran straight into a guard.

His hands clamped around my throat, yanking me against his body. His breath hot in my ear as he whispered all the vile, unspeakable things he was going to do to me, as he ripped at my trousers.

My heel found the post.

I stepped up, walked my way halfway up it, and used all my weight to launch us backward.

We slammed into the wall.Hard.He crumpled under me, unconscious.

I didn’t stop to breathe.

I yanked the keys from the hook and sprinted back to the Raiths, fumbling to unlock the first cell.

Six hallways.Six cells.Six Raiths.Six guards down.

“We need to change into the guards’ uniforms,” I said, already moving.

“Oh, bloody hell,” Grim groaned, hauling one of the unconscious guards toward him. “I don’t fancy my sweaty ball sack touching the same fabric his sweaty ball sack has.”

“Quickly!” I sing-songed as I tossed a tunic over my corset.

“Maybe you are a princess,” Skara smirked, pulling off a guard’s chest plate.

“I doubt it,” I said. “I curse far too fucking much for that.”

“Grim definitely is one,” Krag muttered. “Even with all the cursing.”

“Shut up, Krag,” Grim shot back as he stripped off his shirt. “Just for that, I hope you get a case of crotch itch.”

Coming soon…