CHAPTER ONE
At the base of the Northern Kadoka Mountains lies Chickasaw, a quiet ice-mining village situated in the fork of the frozen Kadoka River. Snow swirls in every direction, great gusts that squeeze between houses and thick, towering tree trunks.
The frigid temperature bites at any exposed flesh and makes Nefari Ashcroft’s fingers stiffen and painfully numb. She wiggles them to generate warmth while she glares at the situation stretched out before them.
Together with all the other Chickasaw villagers lined up along the river’s edge, everyone’s wrists, including hers, are bound tightly with rope. Together, they wait, seated in the packed snow for further demands of the small Salix army unit.
The army had invaded at first light. Their lion sigil is not a symbol Nefari would soon forget. But still, and as predicted, they took the village swiftly just as Nefari had hoped they would.
Smoke from the hovels’ chimneys are carried away, and the mountains tower over Chickasaw like a god seated on his throne. The breeze carries the scent of the surrounding pine trees, and behind them, the ice speaks, creaking as the gentle current underneath pushes against the thick, frozen sheet.
The prisoners shiver as an oncoming storm is crawling along the sky. Most of the snowstorms do not come from the mountains. No. They build and travel from the Frozen Fades, a place even the brave do not go.
This particular storm, with dark gray and puffy clouds, stretches on the horizon like a large wraith’s outstretched hand.
Some are superstitious enough to believe the crones who live in the Frozen Fades taint the Divine Realm’s atmosphere with their wicked ways. As if nature itself sucks up all crones’ evil, churns it in the clouds, and releases it across the land as punishment for buried and exposed sins.
Nefari knows better. She knows the evil isn’t rooted in the Fades but eyes the storm with distaste just the same. Unlike her companions in the Kadoka Mountains, she’s seen more evil – more devastation – than most would in an ordinary lifetime. Probably more than these soldiers hovering over the abused and beaten villagers while the others finish raiding their homes.
The soldiers guarding the villagers stand too close, bodies tense. And with good reason, she supposes.
Before Nefari had been bound, she had put up a good fight. And though she was meant to get caught, she hadn’t been able to resist getting in a good punch or two. It was with pleasure that she had taken down three of theirs. The dead bodies still lay bleeding in the shadow of a hovel, and their blood creates rivers in the sloped snowy paths. The bodies had been dragged there, dropped, and left entirely forgotten.
When they finally managed to obtain her, her many weapons had been taken along with her beloved sword. The weapons carried by the other villagers were also pilfered and stored inside the hovel near the line of captives.
A terrible choice, in Nefari’s opinion. Weapons shouldn’t be placed so close to them, but Nefari is well aware that those of the Salix’s army who travel this far west are usually the least skilled.
One crooked-nosed soldier stands out to her, though. Unlike the others, his posture is wide and confident – authoritative, one might surmise. He glares at her now, and Nefari glares right back.
Patrix Eiling, a satyr and the only person she knows within the sobbing and frightened group, leans to discreetly whisper in her ear. “We better pray to the Divine that they come for us before we’re marched off to Caw’s Cove by these fools.” He juts his chin toward the mountains in emphasis.
Caw’s Cove, the largest slave trade on the Divine Realm, is feared by anyone who has enough breath in their lungs to scream. Nefari fears many things – though she pretends otherwise. Caw’s Cove isn’t one of them.
She looks to the mountains with him and nibbles on the inside of her cheek, knowing he’s right. She and Patrix could easily get out of captivity, but the other villagers . . .
“Haven’t you heard? There’s no Divine left to pray to,” she mutters back, mindful of her expression. One wrong move – one misplaced twitch – and the soldier eye-balling her will draw his sword and relieve her of her head. He’s twitchy enough as it is because it wouldn’t be the first time an entire village tried to take on the army, but this soldier needn’t worry. Not one of those villages had been successful. They hadn’t stood a chance.
Recently, it’s been noted that half of Salix’s armies are possessed with darkness. It angers Nefari that those who are possessed are often her own kind: Shadow People. It’s an entirely different form of slavery, forcing those possessed to do things they wouldn’t normally do. The realm calls these people – be it Shadow Person or human – harvestmen.
Harvestmen, or harvestwomen, are people whose minds are controlled by dark divine magic. A single wraith carries this magic, and a single touch from them makes the individual a puppet for eternity.
Patrix chuckles darkly. The sound is raspy from years of sucking on his pipe. Nefari switches her attention to him and visually traces his goat-like features. His ears are large and pointed, but their tips stretch far past the top of his head. His nose is nearly flat against his face, a long bridge and slits for nostrils. Black paint circles his slitted eyes, and his scruffy beard is rugged and lengthier than the last time she’d seen him.
The satyr’s calloused fingers grip his ropes while his hooved feet sprawl out before them.
Out of all of his features, Patrix’s hooves are her favorite. They’re delicate compared to his muscular frame and scruffy and furred legs.
She and Patrix often find themselves in enemy arms. On purpose, of course. They’re usually sent out together because they work well as a pair – one trained to protect and the other skilled in strategy.
Satyrs, by nature, are supposed to be neutral beings. Serene, even. Anyone born and raised in Loess is immediately trusted, for the country itself has refused to pick sides in the battlefield that has become the Divine Realm.
Patrix is so trusted that he can waltz into any kingdom without being questioned. He’s a confidant to kings and queens if it suits him and often returns to the mountains carrying the secrets they share with him. If it wasn’t for him and a few other spies peppered across the countries, the Kadoka centaurs wouldn’t know about Salix’s attempts to stretch its influence this far west. If it wasn’t for him – if he hadn’t received word from a friend in Urbana – this entire village would be marching to Caw’s Cove, sailed across Widow’s Bay, and given an ax to work in one of Salix’s gold mines or a pitchfork to harvest their fields.
Nefari is determined to not see that happen even if they do get paid for protecting the villages around Kadoka Mountain’s – the Rebel Legion’s – territory.
“I suppose one could say we could pray to you, then,” Patrix teases.
“Don’t you dare.” Nefari lifts her bound hands and uses the rough ropes to scratch an itch on the tip of her nose. The soldier jolts at the movement and grips the pommel of his sword, shrewd lips sneering. The human woman next to her flinches at the soldier’s wordless threat, but Nefari pays him no mind.
Nefari hushes her voice until it sounds more like a threat. “I am the last person you – or anyone – should pray to.”
His burly shoulder bumps into hers, and the leather of his meager armor pokes at her skin through her black cloak. Without the usual clank of their weapons being jostled, the gesture feels empty. “You’re the closest thing we’ve got, little shadow, whether you own that you’re Fate-blessed or not.”