In this blasted Netherworld of a kingdom, mortals insisted their women stayed weak as lambs, without proper weapons or skills to survive alone.
A rare grin found his face. King Horace would have a fit if he knew the Companion Guard to his eldest son was entering Muirwood Forest and slaughtering Shadowlings at night.
Perhaps that’s why Archeron no longer bristled quite so much at the girl’s presence. Why he whispered a small thanks to the Goddess every time she came back alive. She was a passing distraction in his immortal existence, a reminder of the fierce warrior Sun Queens of his homeland. That was all.
But if she truly survived a Noctis tonight, then a part of him was glad.
Archeron plucked a moonberry from the short, bell-shaped tree by the fountain and then popped the tart berry into his mouth.
If he were in Effendier, he would’ve had to climb to the highest branches to find any left, but they had no effect on mortals so the firm, amethyst berries went untouched by everyone but him. They also made a potent tea, but he wasn’t interested in tea.
Not tonight. Not for the past countless years of servitude to this incompetent king.
Warmth spread inside his chest as sour juice rolled over his tongue. He sighed, leaning against the tree.
For a breath, he could see the white shores and pounding turquoise waves of his homeland. Could smell the air perfumed with the wild orchids and tiny nightblood roses that tangled along the rocky paths leading to the sea, mixed with the salty essence of the water.
For a bittersweet moment, he was free.
But then the effect wore off and he was back in Penryth, stuck in a mortal realm that stank of sweat and death, chained to a mortal king whom he could kill with a thought but was instead forced to carry out his every cruel whim.
Archeron Halfbane, bastard son of the Effendier Sun Sovereign, was a slave.
Damn the law of the Shadeling and Goddess. If he could, he would’ve ripped his own heart out years ago rather than feel the agony and longing he felt for Effendier.
Archeron stripped another berry from the heart-shaped, golden leaves and crunched the fruit between his teeth until he was back on those rocky shores, a thousand miles from the cursed land of mortals.
Lost in his waking dream, he swore someday he would find a way back to his homeland, whatever the cost.
The Shade Lord’s blood tingled and burned on the tip of Haven’s tongue, and no amount of wiping her mouth on her sleeve or spitting could erase it. Down the hall, two giggling ladies-in-waiting stared at her longer than was polite, so she bared her teeth and spit near their shiny, fashionable boots.
That sent them scurrying off like empty-headed mice, and a weary smile stretched across her lips.
By the Shadeling’s horns! She couldn’t wait for this day to end, and it wasn’t even dawn yet. She paused by an open window, candles flickering from the ledge.
Centuries before, runelight filled these halls. Gifted from the Solis, the eternal light was supposed to last forever.
That was before the Curse, though. Its greedy, dark magick feasting on all the light magick until there was hardly a grain of it left anywhere.
A distant scream drew her attention to Muirwood Forest, and a chill wracked her chest.
Even now, she could feel the Noctis’s scalding gaze.
Had the Shade Lord and his beasts found more prey? She bit her lip. The Shadowlings could have easily caught her.
And the Shade Lord could’ve stopped her in the tree if he’d wanted to. Could have frozen her dagger before it ever dared kiss his chest, or turned the blade into a frog, a mouse, or a toadstool. Anything he wanted.
Why did he let her go?
The question tugged at her. She held up the elk-horn dagger, its ivory handle smooth from use, and frowned. The blade was clean—she’d smeared the syrupy blood on the wet grass—but still, she couldn’t get rid of the feeling that she should bury the knife deep into the earth and forget about it.
Wasn’t there supposed to be strong magick in a high-ranking Noctis’s blood?
And if he truly were the Lord of the Netherworld . . .
Stop it. She was safe now inside the wall. And maybe the blood hadn’t actually touched her tongue. Maybe it didn’t contain the dark magick that devoured everything in its path.
Maybe. She despised the word.
Haven released a breath and focused on the pale runewall that protected Penryth, slithering all the way from the western coast of Eritrayia to the far east.
A shudder skittered down her spine. If the monsters broke through the wall and invaded, the last of the protected southern cities would fall in a day. With the mortal lords drained of rune magick and the Solis hiding across the Glittering Sea, they were defenseless against the monstrous Noctis and the Curse.
Don’t think like that. The wall was forged in the sacred moonstone of the Goddess, the magick impregnating the stone cast by Solis and meant to last a thousand years.
Those same spells permeated the castle, whispering of long ago when famed Solis warriors roamed Fenwick and Penryth found favor with the Sun Sovereign of Effendier.
No Shade Lord, however powerful, would be crossing the wall tonight.
She yawned. Already the air shivered pink with the promise of dawn. Another sleepless night in the books. Her sleepy gaze slid over the royal gardens that speckled the grounds, flanked by trellises of climbing roses, lush green hedges, and weeping willow trees.
Ribbons and streamers of every color hung from the delicate branches, their bronze bells chiming softly, and lanterns twinkled like the stars above. It had taken weeks for the servants to hang them all.
Today was Bell’s day, and Shadeling be damned if she would let that horned monster ruin it.
Pushing the memory of the night’s events away, she hurried to the armory and talked Master Lorain out of a fine yew wood longbow and four sleek arrows. All it took was a few coins and a smile. Usually.
Sometimes the battle-scarred armorer would lecture her on the importance of safeguarding the king’s property, but always under his wine-soaked breath, as if even he were a little bit afraid of her.
Most of the kingdom was wary when it came to Haven, a fact she’d grown used to. She could tell by the way the courtiers averted their gazes and attendants scuttled past her in the hallways. Even the servants avoided her when they could, and not just because she was good with a blade—which she was.
She was a female, trained in the fighting arts. Instead of jewelry, she dripped steel. Instead of satin gowns, she donned worn leather scabbards and baldrics. And instead of wearing her tresses elaborately coiffed like a peacock’s tail feathers, she preferred a dusty old trader’s hat.
Women here were expected to flaunt bright, unnatural colors. But other than the ruby cloak Bell had gifted her, or the riotous rose-toned hair the Goddess saw fit to give her, she preferred the muted colors of nature.
Haven was different, and in mortal Penryth, there was nothing more terrifying than that.
Despite the early hour, Fenwick castle was alive with servants and guests. Haven drew up her hood, slinking by the perfumed nobles from the surrounding estates.
Runes, she missed her hat. If she had time today, she would go searching for it.
The castle residents were used to the way she dressed, but outsiders made a habit of staring at the leather pants that clung to her long legs, and the corset-less tunic that swung from her athletic shoulders.
And when they saw her hair . . .