Fragments of a fight. Always the same. Never a whole memory—just scattered pieces.

A flash of steel in the dark. A scream. Pain, blinding and sharp, like metal heated red and pressed to skin. A woman—me—begging. The sounds are animal, guttural, desperate. Water follows. Cold and black as night. Then sand—soft, clinging. A beach. Light. A will. Something unseen driving me forward through the dark.

Then, silence. Then—him.

Strong arms. Dark hair in his eyes. Dark deep brown eyes almost black like ink. Skin gold-lit by firelight, black markings curling along his collarbone. The swirl of emotion—fear, relief, longing. The only place I’ve ever felt safe is there, in his arms, when he says we’ll survive this. That we always do.

But then it starts again. Every night.

Except tonight.

Tonight, he didn’t come. I didn’t feel him. Couldn’t.

It was the first night I didn’t dream of him.

I woke gasping, slick with sweat, hair pasted to my scalp. The air thick with the scent of smoke and damp herbs. Firelight danced across the cabin walls, the kettle hissing with steam. Outside, the garden called to me—soil and roots and the ever-present hum of life. The goats bleated, sharp and impatient.

I sat up, legs swinging over the edge of the straw-stuffed mattress. The cold wooden floor kissed my soles. My breath still came too fast, but I forced stillness into my limbs.

Whatever waited today, I had to meet it head-on.

It was Culling Day.

I hated the White Culling.

It set my teeth on edge. Made my skin crawl. I was too old to be taken—too hardened.

But fear doesn’t care for age or reason.

Everyone feared it.

The day the Empire’s soldiers—known here only as the Dral—came like a plague upon the villages. Every three moons, always after the full moon had waned and Daevryn’s light was little more than ash in the sky, they descended.

They came to take.

To choose.

The young. The pure. The unprotected.

They called it The Choosing of Veyra—a sacred rite, they claimed. A gift to Veyra, the one true god they worship.

The god of purity. Of righteousness. Of truth.

I called it what it was.

A barbaric tradition cloaked in holy names.

The Sularic Empire had conquered these lands long before I was born. They hadn’t just taken the land—they’d taken everything.

They toppled kings and gods alike.

Overthrew the old houses that once ruled—House Greysynd among them—and hunted every noble who bore their blood.

The scribes wrote that history ended there: one dynasty drowned in blood, and a new empire rising to rule the ashes.

But old tongues still remembered.

These lands had once been called Alyrion.

Not Laes. Not Empire soil.

And Alyrion had once been a realm of Houses, of Wards, of bloodlines sworn to protect not just their own, but the wild magick of the world itself.

Until the Empire came. Until they renamed everything. Burned the scrolls. Broke the sacred oaths.

I didn’t know much beyond that.

Just whispers.

Half-truths carried on the smoke of village fires.

Grenalda, my mentor, had told me what little she dared.

She found me when I was barely more than a ghost—took me in when no one else would.

She taught me everything I couldn’t remember—and so much more.

The healing arts.

Herbal lore.

The old midwives’ songs whispered over wounded bodies in the dark.

Truths that no longer had a place in the world the Empire had made.

She worshiped the Daevryns—the old gods.

As did I.

It was heresy now.

A crime punishable by death.

Many had converted under fear and fire; others, like us, practiced in secret.

And today, on this Culling Day, as the Dral marched in their red and gold, I remembered it all. 

And I hated them for it.

I rose from my bed and pulled on my shawl.

Gren was likely already in the garden. She was always there in the morning light—like a white rose rooted deep in the earth: graceful, grounded, and quietly radiant. A force of nature, wrapped in linen and wisdom.

I thanked Daevryn every day that she found me. That she gave me a place, a purpose, and a path back to myself.

Mostly because she feared I would be culled.

Despite the fact that I was no pure maiden—and far too old by several years—Gren sensed something in me. She told me as much. That I needed help, though she never could explain why. She didn’t understand it herself, only that time would reveal the truth.

I had no choice but to believe her. I didn’t know who I was—my name, my past, my family. I had simply appeared on the road one day by her cabin, half-dead, ravaged and beaten. Skin torn, eyes hollow, nothing left but will and breath. I was an inch from collapsing like a stone into the earth.

The only things I carried were a dagger, a brooch, and a threadbare bracelet, wrapped tightly around my wrist dozens of times, so tight it couldn't be undone—and strange black markings that twisted up my right forearm. At first glance, they looked gangrenous, like the limb was rotting, necrotic even. But the marks never spread.

Gren thought I was dying. She brewed me a tea made from ancient herbs to stave off infection. But as my body mended, the truth emerged: the markings were not decay. They were permanent.

A part of me.

Gren insisted I keep them hidden. So I wore laced wristbands, snug and dark, to hide the truth from any eyes that might ask questions neither of us could answer.

I walked to the large stone fireplace, where the kettle hung above the fire’s low flame. With the iron tongs, I poured the steaming water into a crafted clay pot to steep tea—mint leaves and a pinch of rose hips. The scent curled up with the steam, fresh and calming. I filled my cup, then added a sprinkle of sweetleaf.

I took a sip—and hissed in pain.

“Gods! Dammit,” I swore under my breath, wincing as the hot liquid scalded my lips and tongue.

Gren always said I swore too much. She made me pray for mercy—and forgiveness.

Three prayers a day, without fail: one upon rising, to bless the day ahead; one after our work, to sanctify our labor; and one before sleep, to give thanks for whatever blessings we could count.

Andriel would be here soon. I still needed to pray, get dressed, and finish my chores before her visit.

I knelt in front of the wooden altar in the small square cabin we shared. Two beds—one for Gren, one for me. The altar stood on the far side of the room, beneath the east-facing window.

I lit the candles and incense. The familiar scent filled the air as I lifted the small wooden effigies into my hands—one in each. In my left, Daev Broonah, guardian of the seasons and life’s rhythm; in my right, Deiv Zyna, patron of healing and protection. The wood was worn smooth in some places, chipped in others.

I closed my eyes and whispered the old prayer.

“Protect the innocent and the righteous. Mend the broken and the sick. Shield us from the D'ral. Guide us to our purpose. Grant the D'ral army and the Sularic Empire mercy for their tyranny and cruelty.

In the names of Broonah and Zyna, I pray.”

I rose and readied myself for the day.

I washed in a basin of warm water drawn from the stream. Braided my long hair—thick and unruly now. I hadn’t trimmed it since the day I was found, and it had grown past the small of my back. The ends were black. That part had always been black. I’d tried to cut them once, early on, thinking they were a stain or rot. But no matter how much I trimmed, the black returned. It was stubborn—unyielding. The dark crept upward, like it was consuming the gold at the ends like ink in water.

Gren had once suggested I wear it up in a bonnet—modest and concealing. But bonnets were customarily worn by married women. I wasn’t married. Not that I knew of. If I had a husband, he hadn’t come looking for me. Which meant either he never existed, or he was dead. The alternative—that I had once been married and simply didn’t remember—was equally plausible.

Women my age often lost men. To the sackings of villages. To the wilds along the borders. To the rebel uprisings that flared and died like lightning in dry brush. Whether they were soldiers, innocents, or just in the wrong place at the wrong time—death found everyone eventually. Sickness, violence, thieves on the roads, men who took what they wanted from farmers and travelers alike. There were many ways to die in these lands, and none of them were kind.

I knew little of my past. And it was unlikely, given my age, that I had no family, no children, no tether to anyone. A woman like me, traveling alone? Unheard of. That no one had come looking for me all these years... well, Gren had reasoned that my husband must have died, and any children I might have had perished with him. It was the most merciful version of the truth we could tell ourselves.

So, to the villagers, I was Gren’s widowed cousin from Weufeolf Hills, where she claimed distant kin in case anyone ever asked questions.

I dressed quickly—pulled on my front-laced corset over my chemise and kirtle, then stepped into my muslin skirts, green and worn brown at the hem and knees from hours spent in the garden. I shuffled into my weathered leather boots, wrapped my shawl over my shoulders, and tied a white cloth over my hair.

Basket in hand and tea in the other—still piping hot, scented with mint and rose hips—I stepped outside. Before I left, I plucked a fresh mint leaf from the bundle drying on the rafters and chewed it idly. The coolness bloomed in my mouth as I stepped into the crisp morning air.

Gylan greeted me from the porch.

“Good morning, you grumpy old goat,” I said, ruffling the fur between his horns. He blinked at me with lazy defiance, bleating low and long.

Gren’s head popped up from the onion bed.

“You slept in?”

“I did,” I replied. “Rough night.”

“Mmm.” She stood and rubbed the crook of her nose, her blue eyes squinting at me. Her skirts were already soiled with garden muck, her grey corset flecked with dirt. Her silver curls were tucked neatly beneath a white bonnet. “Still dreaming?”

“Yes.”

“The same?”

I nodded.

She sighed. “Well, best get to the tending. There’s nothing for it.” She dusted her hands on her skirts and knelt back down. “We’ll head into town after morning tea. The White Culling ceremonies will be starting early, I imagine. Dancing, drinking, and the like. Best arrive before everyone’s too drunk to stand.”

I nodded again and turned to start my chores, Gylan bleating and plodding along behind me like the old nag he was.

“I’m off to feed the hens,” I called over my shoulder.

Gren waved without looking. “Gy, leave her be, you old goat.”

I laughed uneasily as I walked with purpose toward the coop. Best to keep moving. Best to focus on the task at hand, and not the one that would follow morning tea.

I would feed the hens…

And try not to think about feeding an innocent girl to the wolves.

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After tending the animals and gathering eggs, I sat back on my knees in the east garden, picking medicines to sell.

The air was warm, the late summer bringing with it a whisper of coolness.

Autumn would soon be here, and with it the brief brilliance of color—before winter put everything to sleep.

The wildflowers swayed around me, a living sea of color.

And then—

A pang.

An ache for something lost.

Memories flooded in.

Suddenly, I was eight years old, running barefoot through a field as a boy chased me and my three younger sisters.

A baby watched from a woman’s lap, nestled in the shade of a wildflower-covered hill.

She wore a blue and gold dress, her long brown curls falling down her back, her eyes bright with laughter as she called after us.

The memory broke sharply.

“You’re always on your knees,” Andriel said, smirking as he leaned lazily against the fence post, arms crossed.

I glanced up at her, my hands full of Kressell fern stalks, still half-lost in the past.

Kressell—used to treat men who couldn’t perform for their wives—was one of our most profitable crops.

It fetched a high price at market.

Merchants were always after it.

Some adventurous couples used it for… other purposes too.

We sold it wholesale or bartered it for supplies.

“It’s a rewarding practice,” I said dryly, smirking—

And realized a heartbeat too late how my words could be taken.

Andriel was only ten-and-two. Hardly old enough for such jokes. Gren, of course, had a wicked sense of humor when it came to Kressell—often praying for forgiveness between fits of laughter. And I, cursed tongue and all, had to do the same.

“—Being in the garden, I mean. And praying, too,” I added quickly.

“I knew what you meant,” Andriel said, stepping into the garden and placing a handkerchief on the dirt so she could kneel beside me. She was tall and slight, her deep brown eyes matching the cascade of hair that fell past her waist. She wore it half up, half down—an old signal that a girl was nearly of marrying age. Not yet culling age, but frighteningly close. Her pale blue dress marked her as untouched. Pure.

On this day, like so many before, I feared for her.

Whenever that fear and anger stirred too much, the markings on my arm began to burn—buzzing with life and warmth, crawling up my skin like wildfire. I pressed my hand to my wrist, steadying my breath.

“How could you?” I asked her finally.

“I’ve heard things. Seen things around Feren Hill,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “I’m not as innocent as everyone thinks.”

“I assume your father’s been lecturing you again? About the behavior of proper young maidens?”

“When does he not?” she snorted. “He sold my sisters’ innocence for their safety, married them off to whoever would have them. Now he preaches chastity and modesty like it’s scripture.” She mimicked a demure look, batting her lashes.

I couldn’t help but laugh.

“Yes, well. Men do that. Do as I say, not as I do.”

“How do you know?”

“I don’t,” I admitted with a smile. “Just seems to be a pattern.”

Andriel was sharp—too sharp. Beautiful, well-read, and far too observant. Her father, a tradesman, kept her under close watch, but he was busy. And her mother had died giving birth to her. Her two older sisters escaped the culling only because her father had made arrangements—political ones—with Amr Sala, the Ward of our region, and his advisor, Dúnchad Medaw. It was filthy business. But he likely chose the lesser of two evils—better to be ruined by someone you knew than handed to the D'ral.

Gren and I were outsiders here. She was a druid, a healer. They needed her, but rarely welcomed her. And by extension, they shunned me as well. I didn’t mind. I preferred the quiet. The solitude. The safety of being overlooked.

Andriel tossed her hair back, grabbed a trowel, and began digging up a Kressell stalk.

“Do you think your husband was handsome?” she asked, too casually.

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Maybe he was a knight. Or a warrior. Or a fae halfling. Or an elven halfling.” Her eyes widened with wonder. “They exist, you know? The Children of the Vaen’Liora.” 

“They are myths. Tales of old.” I said. 

“Fae and Elven elders left these lands long ago to another realm.”

“Honestly, Andi, where do you get these ideas?” 

“Books. Scrolls. The stories my tutor tells me.” She said simply. 

“You’ve been spending too much time with the scribe in the temple archives,” I said, amused.

“Yes. Father has me scolded for it often. He thinks it’s important for me to learn to read. Although he doesn’t approve of the materials I choose. He’s hoping I’ll marry above our station, since he couldn’t do that with my sisters. So he thinks I should read books on how to remain pious and good natured.”

“That’s wise. You’re lucky, in a way,” I said. “Most girls aren’t even allowed that kind of education. It does make you more noticeable, though. More vulnerable to being cullled. They like to take the most beautiful flowers.”

I tucked a hair behind her ear. 

“Yes,” She said looking down. She stared off for a moment. She looked gripped by fear. 

“He did what he thought was best.” I said to her. 

“I disagree,” she said flatly. “You didn’t see what I saw. You didn’t see the aftermath.”

The marks on my arm throbbed under the band. A fire burned deep and low inside me. 

I nodded. “That’s true. I only wanted to ease your anger toward him.” 

“You won’t,” she said simply. “Not when I saw the price my sisters paid. The only thing worse than what they endured was the culling itself.”

“How did you escape it?” she asked, studying me.

“I couldn’t begin to tell you. Maybe I married young.”

“Maybe. You’re beautiful, Beth. I’m sure they would have wanted you. Some handsome man swept you off your feet early.”

Something prickled at the edges of my mind and the hair on my next stood on edge. Another lost memory perhaps? I shook it off, laughed softly. “Those books of yours are filling your head with utter nonsense.”

“Maybe. But you’re—refined. Smart. Articulate. Beneath all the dirt, quite... elegant. Do you remember being taught manners? Etiquette? Propriety?”

“I’ve told you many times—I remember very little.”

She didn’t look convinced. “I thought maybe talking about it might help.” 

“It doesn’t seem to,” I said as I dug up more fern. “Nothing seems to.” 

My frustration grew. 

“Well maybe one day someone will come for you like in the story of the Fall of Draryja—the elder Daevi, guardian of fire and flame. When she fell from Thalvareth, she forgot everything. Except her fire and she gifted it to humans. That’s why the Daevyiryn abandoned her. But Bereus, her lover, found her and brought her back to fight against the evil Noctavell and Ashvalen sending them back to Tahlmorren with a flame so big and beautiful and bright, Thalvareth could be seen from below.” 

“Those are old fae and elvish tales,” I said.

“But you do know them,” she said, beaming. “So you must have read them.”

“I don’t know. They just... feel familiar.”

I scratched at my armband. The markings were growing hot, humming beneath the skin as my frustration built. The earth gave a subtle tremble beneath us. 

Andriel stilled. “What was that?”

“I don’t know.” Then an unmistakable sounds filled the air. I rose quickly, scanning the horizon. “Come.” 

I helped her to her feet, my stomach knotted. The sensation was unlike anything I’d felt before. Urgent. Electric. Like something in me had snapped awake. 

We walked through the trees to a low hill that overlooked the road leading into the village.

The rumbling grew louder. Hoofbeats.

I dropped to the ground and pulled Andriel down beside me.

Over the crest, we saw them:
The red and gold banners emblazoned with a spiraling golden sun, the crest of the Sularic Empire.

A line of horsemen thundered past. Carriages. Carts. A small battalion. 

My chest clenched. Why so many men? The Cullings never required this kind of force.

My heart pounded. My wrist burned. I gripped it. 

“What’s wrong?” Andriel asked.

“Nothing. Just an old injury. Acts up when the weather turns damp.” In this region, that was all the bloody time—a good enough lie.

“Come,” I said, crawling back and rising to my feet. “You should go to your father. I need to find Gren.”

“Beth, wait! That’s a lot of men.”

“I know,” I said, keeping my voice calm. “But it’s likely they’re not just here for the culling. Perhaps they are after someone not on the Culling list.”

Even as I spoke, a voice—quiet, primal—whispered through my mind.
One I had only heard once before.

Run.

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