Chapter 1

For a desert dweller, one who knew the desert’s ways as intimately as the stories of their ancestors, there was always a path to safety. But this was no natural dust storm. This time, there might be no escape.

Hiran’s warm breath brushed my shoulder as we both watched the horizon. “Get Misha and head to the underkeep,” he said.

Our peaceful settlement had plunged into chaos, but it was the finality in my brother’s voice that sank through me like stones.

“We all go together.” I looked over my shoulder. His eyes, sharp steel on a face stone-hard with a jaw set. That look—I knew it, hated it. My pleas would fall on closed ears.

“Do as I say, Aara. Don’t fight me now.”

I spun to face my eldest brother, seizing him by the upper arms. “We agreed.” I gave him a little shake, trying to break through his infuriating stubbornness. 

“I never agreed.” He tore from my grasp and strode away from our tent without a backward glance. The parched ground sent eddies of dust in his wake.

No, you don’t. “Hiran!” I tried to catch him, but a rushing family buried me in their haste to reach the underkeep. I fought through them to find Hiran had broken into a jog, so I followed, my pulse racing me to catch him.  

Fisting his sleeve, I yanked him back before he disappeared between two tents. He spun toward me, bringing his face level with mine. “This isn’t a rehearsal,” he growled, his mounting fury darkening his gaze.  

“Dad said we stick together. You heard,” I yelled, but my plea shattered against his indomitable glare like fractured pottery.  

Hiran was a stubborn bastard, but I wouldn’t give up; I couldn’t. 

“He only said that to keep you quiet and to stop Misha from crying.” He pushed me in the chest, shoving me back into Thea, our neighbor two tents down, carrying a crying Georgia in her arms. “You should hurry, Aara.” Her gaze flicked to Hiran, then quickly away, her eyes betraying thoughts she dared not voice. She believed he should sacrifice himself like some of the other young men. My anger surged like a wild beast, primal, vicious. My nails itched to scratch her face.

“Get out of here,” Hiran shouted, waving me away. “You’re wasting time. Get Misha. Dad’s got to go with you.” His voice was steel-tipped, conviction iron-tough. He was beyond listening to me.  

“Nat,” I breathed. 

His expression softened. “I’ll get him.”

“Last I saw, he was with Rennal. I think they were—”

“I’ll find him,” he snapped. “He would’ve heard the call. You can’t miss it.” He jabbed a hand toward the dust storm, revealing the path of the king’s hunt. 

The dust cloud swallowed the blue from the sky. Our enemy was closing in. They were the true targets of my hatred, not my stubborn brother. I couldn’t afford to waste precious time arguing with him when he needed to find Nat and Dad.  

“Then you’ll come straight to the underkeep with Nat.” 

“Of course.”

Too many times he’d feigned compliance to stop me from harassing him. This time his unsteady half-smile couldn’t mask the anger and fear in his eyes—a volatile mix of emotions, the kind that forged heroes, no matter the cost.

I lunged toward him, terror clawing my throat, and grabbed the front of his shirt. “No, you won’t.” 

“Mercy’s sake, Aara, do what I say for once.” 

I shook my head, blinking through tears, throat so thin nothing could escape. “You bloody listen.” It’s the harshest thing I could say as panic consumed all my best barbed words. “We survive as a family.”

He thrust his face close to mine, his hot breath spraying across my cheeks. “Then get your ass back to camp and round up Mish and dad.” He cupped the back of my neck, his eyes locked on mine. “Aara. Do as I say. Okay. We’re going to be all right.”

I shook my head, aware of his lies, then nodded because I couldn’t consider the alternative. I wouldn’t, and I clenched my teeth to affirm it. “We will.” Yet the tears were spilling, my heart already breaking apart. I wiped the tears before they formed little rivers of red dust on my cheeks, noticing a few loose strands of hair clinging to my skin. No more of my family would join our ancestors. No more. It was too soon. 

Hiran’s embrace drained my soul as numbness crept like a cold pit. Helpless, I silently prayed to our ancestors. Please, save us.

“You and Mish. All right,” he spoke into my scalp. “Focus on you and Mish.” His fingers tangled in my knotted hair as he kissed my forehead. 

“What. No!” I shoved him away. “Dad, and you and Nat.” I clung to his arms, my lips quivering with accusations I dared not voice, fearing their truth. Hiran was going to sacrifice himself. 

Eyed closed, he nodded. “The five of us.”

I sensed the hollowness in his words. The truth lay in what was left unsaid; sacrifices were necessary to ensure the survival of as many tribeskin as possible. The king’s hunt wanted slaves, young, strong, preferably with talent, but they’d take whoever regardless. 

He peeled my hands away, aching from their death grip on his arms. It felt like he was already ripped from this land, the pain already tearing at my soul.  

“Aara, please.” He exhaled sharply, ducking his head. But it was too late; I witnessed the collapse of his expression, the resignation, and the acceptance of fate. 

“Don’t you dare.” I struggled through tears. “We all agreed.” I wanted to rip my weak, pitiable voice from my throat. 

This time, his hand cupped the back of my head, pressing my face firmly against his shoulder. His hot breath scorched my cheeks before he kissed my hair. It was a suffocating hold to awaken agony from its slumber, then he set me back, cradling the back of my head, and leaned down once more to gaze into my eyes.

“No emotions, Aara. You promise me that.” His eyes glistened. “Do you hear me? Swallow. Your. Emotions.” His voice quivered. Then he looked away, swallowing his own. “Don’t let them out. Don’t give the bastards any reason to choose you.”

I hadn’t realized I was shaking my head, holding my breath, drowning in fear and hopelessness. I heard his words as a farewell, the last instructions of the dying. Then he pushed me away from him.

“But you won’t because you’ll stay hidden. Right? Promise me, Aara.”

“Then promise me the same,” I screamed through my tears. 

He growled in anguish. “Please. For once, do as I say.”

His words were still in the air as he ran against our fleeing tribeskin, his shaggy brown hair flopping behind him. I closed my eyes, fists balled so my chipped and dirty nails bit into my skin, needing the pain. 

He was fast. No way would I catch him up. And there was Mish. If I chased him all over the village, I’d run out of time to get Mish to the underkeep.

Please, Hiran. Don’t sacrifice yourself.  

One. Two. Three were the deep breaths I allowed myself the leisure to make before I spun and ran back to our tent.

“Mish,” I cried, bursting through the tent flap. “Dad.” 

Like every home in the settlement, ours was modest: a room for Mish and me, another for Dad—and Mom, had she still been alive—and a communal space where we lived and ate. My three brothers, now reduced to two, slept outside.

The empty land is harsh and unforgiving, driving the nomadic tribes who claim it as home to guard their migratory routes. Yet, we welcome outsiders, especially young men seeking brides. That’s how I lost my second eldest brother, Jacob, now married into the southern Verdia tribe.

Mish wasn’t in the family space, so I moved into our bedroom and spotted the lump in the blanket. The sight of that mound eased the tight squeeze in my chest, allowing me to breathe more deeply and freely.

“Mish, hurry,” I yelled, ignoring the mound to gather some clothes. Leading a semi-nomadic life, we collected little furniture; the rug spread over the sandy floor served as a suitable spot to pile our modest collection of clothes.  

After rummaging through all our clothes in search of her favorite toy, Fur—a reed-stuffed figure made from fur and sewn into a body shape—I settled for her second favorite, a fabric toy similarly sewn but with a knot for a head, aptly named Knot. 

She had yet to move from under the cover by the time I stomped over and yanked the blanket off her, sending her long black hair tumbling over her face. “Come on.”

She clutched Fur to her chest, her head bowed, with her hair falling like a curtain to shield her from the cruelty about to be unleashed. I had no time to comfort her. Instead, I dragged her across the mattress, my grip firm and unyielding, my severity ignited by the panicked shouts of my friends and tribeskin outside and my burgeoning rage at Hiran’s decision. “We’ve got to go.” 

She refused to meet my eyes. Anxiety outpaced me, matching the frantic footfalls and chaos outside as everyone rushed to the underkeep before the king’s hunt arrived.

“Listen,” I growled, knowing she was going to be difficult. I didn’t have time for her willful nature, neither could I carry her all the way to the underkeep if she resisted me.

I took a deep breath, seeking to calm myself and explain what I needed from her, then brushed the hair from her face as I crouched before her. My stubborn sister had vanished, replaced by a seven-year-old child, dust clinging to her tear-streaked cheeks, eyes wide with fear.

“Mish,” I breathed. My little baby sister. I wiped the tears from beneath her eyes, my heart fracturing in too many places. “Good. You’ve got Fur. I was looking for him.” My voice was soft, despite feeling as though thick fingers gripped my throat tight.

Every second counted if I hoped to get Mish to the underkeep before the king’s hunt arrived. Dad wasn’t here, so Mish was my priority. 

Mish first, then dad, Hiran and Nat. We would all reach the underkeep. I would save us all. I would.

Dad, an avid collector of yellowed parchments and dog-eared tomes, bartered what little wares our tribeskin produced—intricately woven nalla-hair baskets, delicate pottery, fresh eggs, and crisp root vegetables—with passing merchants for the promise of knowledge bound in leather and ink.

The messy scrawl within these treasured texts was near impossible to decipher, but my siblings and I had discovered the Nairean tongue and our own were more kin than stranger. We also learned our empty land once lay within Nairean’s borders, before the kingdom even claimed that name.

“You remember what we talked about weeks ago?” Nat and I had even walked the route with Mish many times, familiarizing her with the path, in case none of us were there to take her. “We’re going to the underkeep.”

Beneath an outcrop of boulders just north of our settlement lay the underkeep—a maze of hand-carved tunnels extending natural springs and caves. It was one of many such sanctuaries, each meticulously carved by our forebears along our ancestral migratory path. These hidden refuges were our sanctum, ensuring our people would never be caught defenseless when the king’s hunt came. They were only large enough to shelter our tribe, so we guarded their locations with fierce secrecy from other dwellers of the empty land.

Our settlement lay beyond the borders of the powerful kingdom of Nairean, in the empty land, free from the shadow of any ruler. Nairean merchants, referred to the people of the empty land as Lumorians—a name bestowed upon our land by their rulers—yet we recognized no unifying identity, no allegiance to a greater realm. Our tribe, the Huion, was our kingdom.

Though our powerful neighbors made no overt attempts to claim the empty land, the specter of violence loomed large in our collective memory. Our ancestors—blessings on their souls—and the elders of every settlement bore the scars of steel and the echoes of war, for the king’s hunt was a hallowed tradition, each Nairean king claiming the sparsely populated lands of Lumoria as their hunting grounds. In a desperate bid to preserve their people from the devastation of these brutal hunts—which left more dead than enslaved—our forebears took to the earth, carving out these hidden sanctuaries on the faint hope of survival.

Everything had to work if we were to survive. We had a plan and talked of it repeatedly after we received the warning of the king’s hunt. Then we grew complacent.  

“Daddy?” she whispered. 

“He’s probably already on his way. We planned it all. Remember? We all know what we have to do.” 

“No.” Mish ripped her hand from mine before I could react and ran from the room. 

I failed to grasp the back of her shirt and tripped over scattered clothes, stumbling like those foolish drunkards who had indulged too heavily in old man Dagon’s brew. “Mish. Don’t do this,” I gasped, trying to stay on my feet. 

“Remember what we said. We don’t have time.” But she wasn’t in the family space. Mercy on lost souls. What if she ran outside?  

“Mish.” I burst into the midday sun, scanning left and right, and cursed when I spotted her darting between two tents, heading towards the settlement’s center. Ours was the last within the spiral pattern of tents, the closest to the underkeep. Mish was running away from safety.

My breath caught in my throat at the sight of the dust storm swirling across the desert sand, approaching with harrowing speed. Hiran was right; this was no time to let emotions reign. But it was too late; fear had seized me in its paralyzing grip. 

Mish. I had to ensure her safety. 

I turned to give chase and collided with Peon, Ambriss’s orphaned herd boy, a whisper of flesh and bone, who had miraculously survived wandering the desert and found his way to our settlement two years prior. Despite passing time and loving care, his ribs, visible beneath papery skin, formed a lattice of shadows and cheekbones jutted from his gaunt face, like craggy overhangs. The unforgiving sun charred his pale lips, leaving them perpetually chapped and bleeding. Neither had he ever spoken a word.

“Peon,” I gasped, catching him around the waist before he fell. “You know where to go?” 

Our home became Peon’s second refuge, a place where he and Mish found the effortless bond that all small children seemed to share. I couldn’t help but see him as an extension of our family.

His large gray eyes were empty of emotion, his face a mask, offering no sign that he had heard or understood me. I knew to expect no different. 

“Go.” I pushed him toward the underkeep. 

He tottered, then stopped, gazing over his shoulder with those full gray eyes that always reminded me of the baby satyr we once found wandering among our nalla herd. We kept the sleek desert kit, until its muscles thickened, fangs elongated and claws sharpened. Our little foundling turned fierce, growing into a whirlwind of destruction. In the end, only its sandy colored pelt remained—transformed into Fur, Mish’s cherished plaything.

“Peon, run.” It felt cruel to shoo him away like an animal, but time’s hands pulled on my body for me to be gone. Peon need to reach the underkeep, and I needed to find Mish.

He remained motionless, one eye peeking out from under his ashen hair now falling across his face like strands of billow reed.  

Go. There was no time for this. Every wasted moment brought the king’s hunt upon us, while Mish was far from safety. The thunderous beat reverberated through the ground with the resonant charge of the hunt’s nalla. The lethal rhythm echoed through my body louder than the tattoo of my heart.   

“They’re coming. Get to the underkeep.” 

Time betrayed us. As grit rained from the sky, I seized his arm and dragged him along with me. 

“Run,” I yelled, but he tripped and stumbled over his feet.

Only the stragglers remained: the elderly, the disabled, and those willing to sacrifice themselves for their loved ones. Hiran and Nat had promised they wouldn’t be among them. It wasn’t fair to expect others to lose their family while I kept mine, but in that moment, I didn’t care about fairness—I wanted my family.

The first sign was the stray nalla, drawn by our own herd. We recognized them as domesticated by their leather binds, though their riders were missing.

Days later, few riders arrived, bearing severe sunburn, nearly starved and dying of thirst. They had fled from a settlement within the Nairean border. After weeks of travel on nalla, they lost most of their companions and beasts to packs of roving vargr. In their panic, the remaining nalla scattered, leaving the survivors to reach us on foot.

At twenty-three I stood on the cusp of a horror I had only known through tales—it was a generational curse. This was no mere raid, but a premeditated culling, claiming those old enough to wield a sword, yet with cold pragmatism they left some of breeding age, mostly women, to ensure a perpetual cycle of victims.

“Keep up,” I growled, unable to temper my fear and frustration as I hurried through the gaps between the tents, moving further and further away from the underkeep.

“Aara.” It was Ernest, an elderly cripple. Just this morning, I had traded three plump yams for some of his sweet knat syrup. “You shouldn’t be here, girl. Get to the underkeep.”

“Mish’s run away.”

His eyes darted to Peon. “He’s young. They may ignore him. He needs to be hidden all the same.” Poking a finger at Peon, he said. “You run to the underkeep, boy.”

Peon stared at him, unmoving.  

Not needing his reply, Ernest continued. “You still got time.” He turned his gaze toward the approaching cloud.

The dry air vanished my saliva, the grit coating the back of my throat as the sun’s color turned to copper. 

None of my family was in the underkeep.

“You should go back inside,” I unhelpfully told Ernest. He was proud, would never accept help and had told the tribe frequently he would rather perish than hide. 

The dust cloud rolled over our settlement, devouring all in its path. Gripping Peon’s hand, and using my sleeve as a mask, I buried us deeper into the maze of tents, until a single, blood-freezing scream clawed at the air, ripping my stomach from its fleshy cradle. The sound lingered like the scent of roasting meat after a feast—no joy but death in its echo. They had arrived. A vanguard of hunters had caught us unawares. 

I stifled my cry and pushed Peon backward. 

“This way,” I hissed, retracing our steps, circling around the dust-coated tent.  

Where are you, Mish? To spare those already hidden within, I could no longer seek refuge in the underkeep. Once I had Mish, I would have to find another place for us to hide.

Another scream, another moment of tortured fear, more claws scraping out my heart. Pain was agony to hear, but the cries of defiance were my shackles, unwinding my haste. Hiran. Was one of those voices his?  

I crushed Peon to my stomach, placing my hand across his mouth. “Shh.” 

Think. I pulled Peon backward to the nearest tent entrance and pushed him inside, quickly following. Dropping to my knees in front of him, I took both his hands. “Listen, Peon. Stay here. Okay? You must stay put, no matter what. I’m going to get Mish, Hiran, my family, and bring them back here. Promise me. Okay?”

I gently shook his shoulders to the pulse of the nalla’s stampeding pads as the rest of the hunt overran our settlement. “Give me a sign you understand. As long as you stay here, you’re safe.”

He gave me nothing.

“Tell me,” I growled, not daring to raise my voice. 

I finally got my nod.

“Good.” I ran my trembling hands down the sides of his face. “Good boy.” 

The low guttural grunts of the nallas enticed our own herd to join the chorus, bleeding into the victorious shouts of the invaders.  

I placed my hand over Peon’s heart. “I’ll be back.”

Without giving him another glance, I slipped from the tent, gritting my teeth to force the knot from my throat. Those were not my last words to Peon. They couldn’t be.

I shielded my eyes as best I could, struggling to see the tents through the thick, burnt-orange haze, and for a moment, disorientation gripped me like a vise. Stifling a cough, I hugged close to the backend of a tent as plumes of grit settled on my hair and shoulders. 

A cry skittered over my shoulder, dragging me from my shelter and scuttling across to the next tent along. I was compelled by one force alone, saving my family. 

With the vibration of running feet, pounding nearer, I crouched low, a dozen scenarios playing through my head—stay hidden, confront and fight, turn and run. 

My good friend Troy rushed past. Merciful ancestors. What was he doing outside the underkeep?

“Troy.” I dashed forward as I called his name. 

He appeared like a phantom rising from the swirling burnt-orange haze. His expression blanketed beneath layers of dust and shadow, though the look in his eyes couldn’t be screened. Terror, horror both melded into an entity of its own, curling around my chest like a twisted embrace. 

“Aara,” he shouted. The exact moment hands clamped down on my arms, pinning them to my side and sweeping me off my feet. 

“Troy,” I yelled. Another man loomed behind him. 

My feet kicking uselessly through the air, my captor swung me away, not quick enough to spare me the sight of the blade slice, Troy’s head leaving his body, an arch of crimson spurting in its wake. 

“Troy. No, Troy,” I cried, feeble in my captor’s steel clutch.

Desert people were no strangers to death, but violence was something else. It created a stain that never faded from the sand or the soul, leaving a crippling mark.

My strength drained as Troy’s essence faded, both seeping into the indifferent sand. My cries, once primal and raw, withered to whispers, then to silence as I turned to stone, my body limp in my captor’s arms. 

“Curse’s, witch,” the hunter grunted, forced to support my weight. 

Dumped on the ground, I rolled onto my side, curled inward, cradled my severed heart, and fought my tears until I tasted blood on my tongue. The vision would never be unseen. It would greet me every night when I closed my eyes and linger with me until dawn. It was now a part of me.

“Stupid bitch, you can walk.” 

I curled myself tighter. No emotions. Swallow your emotions.  

“Get up.” He kicked me in the back.

The sudden shock of his kick and I cried out, arching my back away from his cruel blow.

“I said, get up.” His voice like a vargr’s snarls. 

I suffocated on agony as vast as the desert plains. 

Swallow your emotions. Hiran’s echo faded, swallowed by the brutality of Troy’s death, the axe to cleave my chains, allowing agony to find its lethal friend, fury, setting my heart ablaze. 

They intertwined like a lover’s embrace, nurturing what I had tried to suppress for Hiran’s sake. 

I couldn’t stop. Neither did I want to. 

“Come on.” The hunter leveled another kick at my back, sending a blinding white flame across my vision, jolting me into fashioning a roughly made weapon. 

My talent wasn’t strong, so I could only solidify extreme emotions, gouged out of the savagery from Troy’s beheading and the echoing torment of my tribeskin. These were the instruments I used to carve and create.

The hunter grabbed my braid, yanked my head back into a painfully awkward angle, and leaned over my shoulder.  

“I said get your ass off the ground before I decide you’re not worth it and take your head as well.” 

I fingered the weapon encased in my hands, buried between my thighs. It was as real and solid as any blade, but immensely fragile. As long as agony and fury, plus a new welcomed friend, fear, kept my blood rampaging through my veins, I held something against the hunter. I had to sustain these emotions and hold them close, or I would lose my weapon. 

“Okay,” I stammered. “Okay.”

He released my braid, allowing me to curl forward onto my knees, the weapon pressed firm between my thighs. Gradually, I rose to one foot, glancing at the weapon I had fashioned from my dark emotions. It was a roughly hewn dagger, misshapen and ugly, barely recognizable as such, but the blade appeared sharp. Sharper than any axe, thanks to the barbarity of Troy’s death. I clenched my teeth and inhaled, practically tasting the fury in my mouth, like charred meat scorching my tongue.

“I’m missing the killing, so hurry.” 

Once I was on both feet, he grabbed me. The sensation of his warm, clammy fingers wrapping around my upper arm acted like the release of a trap. I barricaded my conscience—my actions would make my family weep—and surrendered, allowing my emotions sear away my hesitation. 

The sequence of events unfolded in my mind’s eye. And when I spun, spearing the dagger into his gut, time lost its hold, unwound and then froze. I sliced upward, goring through his stomach. 

I needed to do this. I wanted him dead.

Though not the man to take Troy’s head, the hunters were now one, each contributing to the destruction of the life I loved, ripping my family from me. 

I was so far out of my mind enacting something so savage and brutal, but emotions made manifest into something real, something tangible, became more infectious, more intense, more deadly. 

The hunter’s eyes widened in shock, his once fierce grip on my arm slackened, then dropped limply to his side. The warm slickness of his blood seeped onto my hand, which still clutched the crudely fashioned dagger’s hilt. We locked gazes, suspended in the space beyond time—killer and victim. I didn’t see a man before me; just something that needed to die.

I followed his gaze to the fast-spreading crimson stain, soaking through his jacket. There was a hollow void where there should be horror to see what I had wrought.  

“You fucking bitch,” he groaned.

He clumsily lunged, I stumbled backward, the sudden movement and I lost my grip on my weaponized feelings. The dagger drooped like melting metal, then poured out of his stomach toward the ground, disappearing before it even hit the dirt.   

The hunter’s gaze shifted from the vanishing dagger to me. “You,” he hissed. “You’re what we seek.” His end was not approaching swiftly enough.

Damn it. He still possessed enough strength to raise his voice, crying he had found one.

I lurched at him, throwing a desperate punch to his jaw, needing to silence him. His head jerked sideways, and his body swayed, teetering on the brink of collapse. Despite stumbling and staggering, he wouldn’t shut his damn mouth.  

Instinct sharpened my focus. Suppressing a panicked cry, I kicked at the nearest wooden peg anchoring the tent, rocking it back and forth until the soil’s grip loosened. Then, with a swift yank, I freed it and charged toward him.

“Shut up,” I growled, fisting his jacket front and holding the sharper fashioned end of the peg to his face. “Shut up or I put this through your eye.”

My hand trembled, a visible sign he couldn’t miss. I knew I had to do it, but doubts lingered. My mind was now clear of the consuming pulse of hatred and rage. This would be my first kill. He needed to be silenced, or my secret would be known.  

“You’re gone, bitch. We got you,” he sneered. But his face was as pale as bone, with sweat beads pebbling on his forehead. He could barely stand, yet he still laughed—a pathetic, mirthless, malevolent sound that spiked like thorns along my skin. It would have ignited my fury once more if the stench of smoke hadn’t wafted through the air.

I backed away from the hunter and glanced around, seeing the flames creeping across the tent like sinister fingers. Peon. The ravenous fire was rapidly tearing through the engulfed tent, and Peon waited for me only two tents away. 

“Shit.” 

With my distraction, the hunter bellowed once more, his voice, carrying his agony and impending death, struggled to compete against the crackling and roaring of the hungry flames. The final silencer was not coming swiftly enough for him. If I were to drive the wooden peg into his eye, straight into his brain, I would gain his silence but likely risk losing Peon. 

I dropped the peg and ran back toward the tent.

“Peon,” I shouted, falling into the entrance in my haste and slamming into the small boy who was on his way out. We both fell backward through the entrance onto the grit-soaked rug.

“Come on.” I scrambled off him.

Blood from my hands smeared across the front of Peon’s shirt, painting the violence I enacted for our survival. 

His eyes fell to my hands, covered in the hunter’s blood.

“It’s nothing,” I said. “It had to be done.” 

I hid my hands behind my back. “You understand. Don’t you?” I wiped them on my pants. “It’s us or them, Peon.” I gripped his upper arms. “Sometimes you have to make decisions, you’re forced to do things you wouldn’t normally do unless you were pushed to the edge. When it happens like that, you move on instincts alone.”

Peon’s silence drilled through my ears.

“I did it for my family. For you.” I shook my head. “It doesn’t make me evil. I’m not evil. They’re evil. They’re the ones destroying our settlement. They want to hurt us. Enslave us. Kill us. We have to fight first before we’re all dead.”

I sucked in a shaky breath, turmoil surging through my chest, begging to erupt as a scream. When I exhaled, it came out as a groan. Instinctively, I pulled Peon close, hugging him tightly as I blinked away the sting in my eyes, forcing myself to breathe through the violent tremors wracking my body.

Where was my little Mish? I gripped Peon’s small body extra tight.

I had failed. 

My heart languished in a desolate wasteland. 

The smell of the smoke brought me back. “They’ve set fire to the tents. We have to get out of here.”

I held Peon back with a hand on his chest while I peeked through the crack in the entrance. With no one in sight, I cautiously stepped outside, allowing him to follow. “We’ll go this way,” I whispered.

Ashes of my life remained. I had nowhere to go, and only one thought to keep my body moving. Find my family. Save my family. Or die with my family. 

They would likely kill Dad; he held no value to them. Neither Hiran nor Nat possessed the talent—it wasn’t inherited—but they were young and strong enough to be of use; enslaved, sent to the front lines to fight the king’s war if the hunters could restrain their love of death long enough to spare them.

Fueled by the dry air and swirling winds, the fire spread rapidly, engulfing two nearby tents. In moments, we would be engulfed, too. I covered my nose with my shirt and motioned for Peon to do the same, then took his hand.

We ducked between the two tents, leaping over the ropes and pegs embedded in the ground. Peon lagged, stumbled and tripped, never as fit or agile as other kids his age. I slowed to lift him off his knees, then turned to dash away and collided with the solid wall of a man.

“Hiran,” I cried, dropping Peon and throwing myself at my brother. 

“Aara,” he growled. “I told you to get to the underkeep.” 

Blood matted his hair, and a nasty sneer of bone peeked out from the gash on his left cheek. My hands spidered over his body, feeling for wounds, unable to believe I had found him. 

“Hiran,” was all I could say, then I saw what poked out from between the buttons on his shirt. “Fur,” I gasped, ripping Mish’s favorite toy from his shirt while my eyes sought his.

“Your hands.” He seized them, inspecting the blood.

“Not mine.” I tried to tug them away, but he resisted.

“What happened?”

“Really?!” There was no time for this. “Where’s Mish?” 

His expression was hard, furious even. “I don’t know,” he shouted. “Go now,” he barked and released me.

“It’s too late,” I whispered, then banged my fists on his chest. “You lied to me. You promised we’d all be in the underkeep.”

A terrible moment for an argument, but fear-spawned relief and the words spilled from my mouth. I locked eyes with Hiran, seeing the blade piercing the hunter’s skin. I was an abhorrent creature now, a murderer wielding her loathsome talent. My tribe would shun me, my family would recoil in horror at the poison I had become.   

“You expect me to hide when my friends are sacrificing themselves?” he spat. 

“Yes. Yes, I do. For us. Your family.” They had destroyed us, both our bodies and our souls. 

He had closed his ears to my plea at the start, and he did so now. I read it in the taut lines around his mouth and eyes.   

I tucked Fur into my shirt, close to my heart.

He pressed his lips together, forming a pucker. Hiran was too honorable, too compassionate, too virtuous to be swayed. He was a hero, a fact he would deny as fervently as he now resisted me.

I just wanted to save my brother.   

“This is a massacre,” he growled. 

“You can’t stop it, Hiran. Hide.” 

I cowardly begged him to hide while his friends sacrificed themselves to the hunt. If he survived, guilt would destroy him; his death would destroy me, and because I was selfish and cruel I wouldn’t let that happen. “I think I know where Mish is. Take Peon and hide somewhere. I can get to her faster than you.” I pushed at his chest.

“You’re out of your mind, Aara.” He resisted my shove. “Why didn’t you obey? You never do as you’re told.”

“Stop arguing,” I screeched, then catching myself, I said. “Go. Hiran. Go. They want you more.” 

“You’re talented.”

“They don’t know. I’m useless. They won’t want me. Take Peon and go. I’ll get Mish, Nat and dad.”

I had silenced him, but not in the way I had hoped. Hiran looked at me as if I had sprouted a second head, both of which he seemed eager to punch. He was shocked and infuriated by my words, so he wasn’t thinking clearly or taking action. It was sheer luck no one had discovered us yet.

“You’re wasting—”

A hunter dashed past, catching us in his periphery. I grabbed Hiran’s arm the moment the hunter skidded to a halt.

“Run,” I shouted, trying to pull Hiran away. 

He was much bigger, much stronger than me, yanking free from my grip like my fingers were mere parchment, and spun to face the hunter. 

Unarmed and facing the hunter’s sword, Hiran charged toward him, shouting words indiscernible in his fury. He was heedless of the odds, because that was the man my brother was.

My heart exploded the exact moment I saw the hunter’s sword slice through the air. I shouted his name, as Troy’s head flew in front of my eyes; a vision I would never lose.  

“Hiran,” I screamed. “No!”

I ran toward him, instincts seizing my mind, a feral river surging through my veins, surfacing a torrent of lethal emotions. I dared glance at my hands as I ran, feeling a sudden weight pulling them downward. Momentum lost, I stumbled, whimpered in surprise, unable to believe the unfathomable. My fingernails were blades, gleaming sharp steel with a metal sheen. Long and deadly. 

I had never transformed a bodily part before. I staggered, frantically clawing at the air with my razor-sharp fingernails, struggling to keep myself upright.

“Aara, run,” came Hiran’s guttural cry.

He was on his knee, both hands pressed to his chest, a crimson torrent poured mere inches from his heart, painting the desert sand with his ebbing life.

I collapsed to my knees just as the hunter raised his sword, now drenched in Hiran’s blood. “Stop. I beg you.” 

His sword remained motionless, his gaze roaming my face before dropping to where I held my hands aloft.  

“Aara, no.” 

The fragility of his voice wrenched a strangled sob from my throat. You have to survive. Resolute, fierce words as ineffectual as the weeping metal of my fingernails, the wounds of my heart destroying what fury had created.     

“Spare him. Please. I’m what you want.” I held up my hands, the lethality of my fingernails long lost, but not before the hunter had seen.

“Aara, no.” Hiran’s fading voice was the sound to forever cripple my joy, the dagger to end my heartbeat.

“He’s already dead,” the hunter declared, and with a kick to Hiran’s chest, sent him toppling backward. I cried out his name, feeling as though his falling body passed through me, the weight of it pulling away my life. A plume of dust rose as he hit the ground, marking his grave.  

Despair robbed my strength, forcing me to crawl on my hands and knees through the blur of my tear-addle vision. My cries primal, guttural sounds that barely resembled language.  

I didn’t get far when someone grabbed my braid, yanked my head backward, splintering a sharp pain through my neck.

“That’s far enough,” came a thick male voice from behind me.

“We want this one, so don’t kill her.”

“Pity. I haven’t had my share of the killing yet.”

I collapsed sideways as searing pain tore through my head. From where I lay, I saw Hiran, a crumpled form on blood-stained sand, his life already consumed by the thirsty desert. Hands splayed beside him as if in surrender, he stared unseeing up at the sky. My lips formed his name, a soundless plea, as darkness engulfed me.

Peon. 

Chapter 2

I awoke to the reek of stale sweat, the acrid stench of urine, and the metallic tang of blood. A sharp pain lanced through my skull, and a crushing weight pressed on my chest, as if I were buried beneath stone. My throat burned with each swallow, raw and scraped, as though I had swallowed the entire desert.

Why did I hurt so much?

My body swayed with the rhythmic grinding of wheels on sand. Were we moving already? It wasn’t time yet—the dust storms were still months away, when we would usually follow the migrating herds and seek refuge in the sheltered Ravnion Valley to the south.

Through a half-opened eye, I glimpsed a grim procession of haggard figures trudging in pairs behind the wagon. Their hands were bound by coarse rope to the person in front, forming a chain of helpless misery.

We were surrounded by hunters, riding tall on their thick-set nalla, draped in garments as dark as the night itself. They moved like shadows—shadows so vile that even the dead would refuse their company in the great silence. Weapons hung from their belts, and scarves masked their faces, leaving only their eyes exposed—both as protection from the sun and to keep their intentions hidden. Their nallas bore the Nairean crest—crossed swords with a crown at the center—tattooed onto the leathery rumps of their hulking bodies, a constant reminder of their allegiance.

Merciless memories dragged me from my confusion. Blood, fire, and death swirled like a storm. Death.

“Hiran,” I whispered.

Troy.

“Mish,” I gasped, struggling to sit against the onslaught of pain hammering into my skull.

“You’re awake.” A fragile voice came from behind me.

Slowly, my awareness expanded—rough boards beneath me, creaking wheels, distant voices. I winced, my eyes shutting tight as pain lanced through my left temple. With unsteady fingers, I found a crusted wound, fresh blood oozing beneath my touch. My head throbbed mercilessly, a testament to the unseen damage.

“It looks nasty. I wondered if you would ever wake.”

“Peon?” I uttered, my voice dry and rasping.

I turned to meet large brown eyes. A woman my age gazed back at me, tangled blonde hair framing a dust-caked face. Tear tracks carved pale rivulets through the grime. She shook her head—her solemn response to what I had truly asked.

Words crumbled to dust in my throat as anguish solidified in my core. The pain in my temple, I could withstand. The bleed of my heart was insurmountable. When her face blurred, I turned away, clamping my lips shut, squeezing my eyes closed—grateful for the sting of physical pain.

The fractured pieces of my soul lay far behind me—corpses turning to dust, the fates of my family lost to the unknown. Who had survived? Who had perished?

“I know.” Her voice was a whisper, but no less painful in its compassion.

Her two words were as comforting as they were lethal, cleaving the final threads of my battered heart. It had happened. The memories were undeniable, but her words sealed the finality of any lingering doubt.

Hiran. His name branded my soul. I crumpled, wishing to flee the unbearable truth. Each breath was a battle—I should be dead, not them. His name repeated in my mind, rivaling the thunderous pain in my temples. If only physical agony could eclipse my grief. But sorrow crushed me. I yearned to escape—not just captivity, but this new, merciless life and the hollow void within.

Shut up. I banged my fists against my temples, pleading for silence.

It hurt. It fucking hurt to be alive. 

The young woman gently touched my shoulder. “I know.”

I wrapped myself in my own embrace, grimacing as I fought back the tears threatening to spill. Then, feeling the familiar soft bulge beneath my shirt, I pressed my palm against my chest, feeling Fur, the closest thing I had to Mish.  Mish. The name echoed in my mind like a haunting refrain. I clenched the fabric, gripping Fur through my shirt.

Legends claimed the hunters never took the young. The King, they said, didn’t want to waste resources housing and feeding those too young to be useful. Instead, they left the children behind to grow with their families—if they survived—only to be taken in the next generational hunt.

“My name’s Cesyn Galadon of the Kavira tribe.”

I nodded. “Aara Kronella of the Huion tribe.” 

Hearing the fractured pain in my voice, the tears broke free once more. Cesyn took my hand, gently squeezing. My back was to her, so it must be awkward, but she did it nonetheless. A small shard of warmth pierced the icy grip around my heart. I drew in a shaky breath, pulling it deep into my lungs as I clutched her hand. I couldn’t let the agony out—not now. It was too vast, too suffocating, too overwhelming to be released. 

“I spent the last day or so crying. I’ve probably got plenty more tears in me, but I’m exhausted now.”

Last day? I glanced over my shoulder. “How long—” I tried to swallow, looking for some saliva to help me speak. “—have I been unconscious?”

Cesyn’s expression mirrored my pain, her gentle features reflecting an unspoken sorrow that weighed heavily on us both. She was small and delicate, with a softness that seemed amiss in our harsh world. Her filthy, blonde hair framed her face like a veil, falling to her shoulders, any sheen hidden beneath powdered sand and grit.

Her warm, brown eyes held a depth of emotion that words couldn’t capture. There was a quiet strength in her sadness, a resilience I needed to feel, making her presence a comforting balm. “I can’t say. But they threw you in the wagon with me more than a day ago.”

“Just me?” Of course they would have ignored Peon. 

She nodded. “Just you.” She shared an earnest smile as she squeezed my hand. 

I respected the space she gave me to keep my trauma buried deep without burdening me with questions. Maybe there would be a time for sharing, but not now; not when will alone prevented me from splintering.    

Behind her lay a man and a woman, their backs to me, so I couldn’t determine if they were alive, awake, or the extent of their injuries. No blood was promising.

I shifted into a better position, leaning my back against the side of the wagon, gripping Cesyn’s hand—it was impossible to let go—and watching the weary line of enslaved trailing behind us. They staggered, linked by rope and shared misery, enduring the grueling march with blistered skin and seeping wounds. Their tattered clothes, painted crimson and dust-brown by the hunt, hung from their exhausted bodies.

I scanned the horizon, searching for familiar landmarks, but we were heading north—territory my tribe had always avoided, staying far from the Nairean border. In just one day, we had traveled far enough that the landscape had become unrecognizable. The dunes stretched endlessly toward the horizon, and to my left, craggy outcroppings hinted at caves—potential hiding places just beyond reach.

“How many settlements have been destroyed?” I didn’t expect Cesyn to know the answer.

“Too many,” was all she said. “There was already a line behind the wagon when they took me. You came next.”

“Did you see how many came from my settlement?”

“No.” She ducked her head. “I wasn’t much better off than you. That’s why I ended up in the wagon. It’s my leg, mostly.”

“I’m sorry.” I shuffled my legs away, thinking perhaps I had knocked her in some way and caused her pain.

“Don’t worry. My leg is the least painful thing I feel.” She gave me a bitter smile. “You know they have healers in Nairean? Proper healers.” She said it like a curse. “That’s what a hunter told me when he threw me in the back of the wagon. I doubt he said it out of compassion. More likely, he wanted me to understand that nothing—not even injury—would keep me from whatever plans they have for us.”

I wasn’t ready to contemplate those possibilities, so I turned my gaze back to the enslaved. Our fates depended on our usefulness, but with the king’s hunts happening so sporadically, there were few merchants left who could recall what truly awaited us.

Some speculated that any who showed skill with a sword were drafted into King Takasi Medichi’s army, a constant churn of bodies required to sustain his relentless war with the southern kingdom. I was certain a portion of us would end up as slaves, performing menial tasks for Yhedo’s elite. Whatever our fate, I prayed we would avoid the Vertex.

The Nairean merchants whined about the weather, taxes, Takasi and his vacuous wife, bandits, and trade, yet mention of the Vertex was the only topic that brought their conversation to life.

I tried to drown my thoughts of our fate and swiveled to glance ahead, but there was nothing beyond the endless stretch of desert. “How far do you think we are from Yhedo?”

Cesyn shook her head, absently playing with a simple chain around her neck.

I had no idea what a vast city might look like, but I was certain the desert couldn’t conceal it. Once we stopped tonight, I would search among the enslaved for my people. Someone would have information on Nat or Dad—maybe even Mish.

Damn it. The pain never slumbered. Thoughts of my family ripped my heart anew. Fists clenched, jaw tight, I waged war against my own tears.

“Hey,” came Cesyn’s gentle voice.

I turned away from her, squeezing my eyes shut, willing the flood back.

“You don’t have to do that.” She meant I didn’t have to cry alone, yet she didn’t understand how deep my river of tears would flow. If I cried, I would break.

“I do.”

Rage—a balm for anguish—I should nurture that instead. I recalled the hunter I’d gutted, his blood a warm memory on my hands. The act had left me hollow, yet killing had become a grim necessity—for survival, for family.

Fury had consumed me, a purifying fire burning away compassion, leaving only hardened purpose. It honed my mind to a razor’s edge, transmuting grief into a weapon of cold, precise retribution.

Rage had forged me anew. But what did it matter? Troy, Hiran, and so many others of my tribe had died, and now I was adrift.

I glanced at Cesyn and caught the subtle grimace on her face. Following her gaze, I realized our hands were still entwined—her fingers white from my grip.

“Sorry,” I muttered, reluctantly releasing her hand.

She looked past me to the dejected sight of the shuffling, defeated souls. “Seeing them…it just makes me feel small. Beaten. Alone.”

This time, I initiated contact, gently clasping her hand and meeting her gaze.

“I killed one of them.” The admission soured my mood—not as a confession, but as a catalyst for the churning, furious heat in my gut.

“I cowered,” Cesyn whispered, her voice as diminished as she felt.

“It doesn’t matter. I had the opportunity.”

I turned back to watch the enslaved’s agonizing progression.

I distracted Hiran. The hunter might have missed him, or perhaps captured rather than killed him. If only I had chosen differently, heeded Hiran’s words—perhaps fate would have carved another path.

The deaths of Troy, my tribeskin; my brother; perhaps my entire family, all stemmed from what lurked within me. 

“I wish I had your courage,” Cesyn said.

What courage? “You’ve got your own. You shared it with me just now. You helped me…” Bury my pain. I swallowed. Fury was the easier path.

I gingerly wiped sudden tears from the corner of my eyes. “I wish I knew what happened to Peon. He was with me when they knocked me out.” 

“If he was young, they may have left him behind. Is he your brother?”

I shook my head. “No. An orphan. But he felt like kin. I was supposed to protect him. And Mish. That was my one task.”

“They’ll pick the young ones up in the next hunt once they’re grown,” she continued.

The wounds felt too fresh to ask about Cesyn’s family, about who she had left behind. The hollow echo in her voice spoke of too much loss.

I clutched my shirt, fist pressed against my heart. “It’s suffocating in here. But I can’t release it—this pain. Not yet.”

Our eyes locked, the silence between us heavy with unspoken understanding.

“I really am a coward.” A ghost smile flickered across her face as she absently traced her necklace. “But…” She shook her head, a gentle denial. “Listening to you… You’re brave. A fighter.”

There’s no courage in this body.

“The pain…” My gaze drifted to the captives, my mind recoiling at the solitary torment that awaited me. “It’s unbearable.” The admission cut deep, like the dagger I’d plunged into the hunter’s gut.

Meeting her eyes again, I whispered, “You hear only anguish. Beneath it all, I’m a coward too. But perhaps two cowards together can become stronger.”

She nodded. “Do you have a talent?”

Her question struck me, its brazen simplicity leaving me stunned. Talent—it was the lure that drew the King’s gaze to our barren lands. The very thing that incited attacks on our tribes, kindling the King’s insatiable greed for the power some of us harbored within.

In my tribe, I alone possessed talent—a gift that both distinguished and isolated me. It was the sole treasure the King coveted, prompting Hiran to forbid me from even whispering of it or honing it. Years of enforced silence had left me mute in the face of her question.

“I see sound waves, and I can manipulate them, though I’m not very good. Like right now, everything around us is so soft the sound waves are like ripples on a well. There’s not a lot I could do with them, not while they’re so gentle. But I’ve captured the waves of my shout and turned them into a breeze across my wet skin when the heat gets unbearable.     

“I can make a barrier of sorts out of them as well, if the sound is loud enough, and I used them once like a broom and swept my brother across…” She suddenly sucked in her lips and ducked her head, pressing her palms into her eyes.  

I pulled her to me, nestling her head at my nape. “We’re all carrying those memories.”

Her slim body melted into mine, her rigid posture crumbling under the weight of grief. Her despair scorched my heart, her anguish as suffocating as acrid smoke, clawing at my throat and searing my eyes. Yet the white-hot fury at my core smoldered for the shadowed riders—and for their master, King Takasi Medichi.

“I gutted one hunter. Put my blade through his stomach and gored it right up to his ribs.”

Cesyn was like me. She’d suffered as much. She deserved an honest answer. “I fashioned the blade out of the very thing he created. My rage.”

She lifted her head, her brow creased. 

“I can solidify my emotions.” It felt wrong to admit, like I was betraying my family, my tribe, to talk about something loathed, which ultimately brought their end. My vaunted talent had failed to shield me and my brother from this cruel fate.

“But like you, I’m not very good at it. Hiran forbid me from using it. ‘Swallow your emotions,’ he’d say. ‘That’s what the King wants—it’s why he destroys our families.’” Repeating his words rang his voice in my ear. Tears prickled in my eyes, but I brushed them away with the back of my hand, clenching my teeth to continue. “So I did. I swallowed my emotions, buried them deep, thinking they could never hurt us. But I was wrong.” My gaze drifted beyond her to the vast desert expanse, where Hiran’s blood-soaked, lifeless body rose in my mind’s eye. The vision cut through me like a thousand blades, each one slicing into my heart.

My next words emerged strangled, ladened with sorrow. “My tribeskin were afraid of me. I saw it in their eyes—the fear, the blame.” 

Cesyn gripped my hand. “I don’t believe that. The king’s hunt comes regardless. This wasn’t your fault. Your tribeskin knew that.”

I clutched her hand tighter, drawing solace from her touch rather than her words—I was unworthy of her compassion.

“I can only manipulate the most extreme emotions, the ones that really sink their teeth in and darken your soul.” For her kindness, I would give her the truth—that I was unskilled with my ability. “And I can’t sustain them for long, or else I would’ve claimed more than one life by now. Perhaps I could’ve saved Hiran.”

Cesyn nestled her head back against my shoulder, her arm snaking around my waist. I drew in a ragged breath, eyes falling shut as I sank into the comforting weight of her body. In this embrace, the jagged edges of my heart seemed to soften, and the crushing solitude began to ebb.

* * *

A hunter riding ahead of the wagon called for a halt as the horizon bled into pinks and oranges. The wagon and its driver blocked my view of what lay ahead, but I could hear the noise of a gathering and the yipping of vargr. My main concern, however, was getting off the wagon before any hunters came to force us off.

My ass was sore, and Cesyn had fallen asleep across my lap. The other two passengers on the wagon had yet to wake, which wasn’t a good sign.

“Hey.” I gently shook Cesyn awake.

She winced as she slowly sat up, and I grimaced, hoping her injury wasn’t permanent. I knew they would consider anyone with a disability worthless, and I refused to dwell on the fate that followed.

Before the hunters could harass us, I jumped down from the wagon, then offered Cesyn my hand. The pounding in my head hadn’t eased, but I pushed it aside—it was a minor inconvenience compared to the dangers we faced.

“Should we wake those two?” she asked.

I pressed my lips together and stared at her, unable to say what I thought: the two were likely dead. She held my gaze, unmoving, and I realized she was too traumatized to decide for herself.

“Come.” I waved her toward the edge of the wagon. “I’ll help you down.”

“So…” She cast a quick glance over her shoulder before turning back to me, her eyes mirroring Mish’s fear before she fled the tent. A savage bolt of pain lanced through my chest, sending shockwaves rippling through my body as I clenched my jaw against the onslaught.

“Maybe they’re the lucky ones,” I mumbled.

“Don’t think about it,” I said aloud. “You’d best get down before a hunter comes to lend a hand.”

She stifled her moans of pain as she carefully swung her leg over the side. Thankfully, she was smaller than me—though I wasn’t particularly big. Once she slid down, I shouldered her weight, and together we hobbled around the side of the wagon, only to be met by the unexpected sight of an encampment.

“Ancestors be praised,” Cesyn uttered.

“So many of our enemy,” I whispered.

“So many enslaved,” she replied.

This was the muster point for all hunting parties, but how far were we from Yhedo? According to merchants’ boasts, our most distant settlement lay roughly three hundred leagues from the Nairean border. But traders—ever eager to remind us of their arduous journeys—carved winding routes through the barren lands, threading between as many settlements as possible before returning to Nairean. Their estimates could be wildly inaccurate.

In a few days, we could not have covered that distance—not at our laborious pace. Three hundred leagues would take weeks. At least three. And once we reached Yhedo, there would be no escape.

We joined the shuffling line, not toward the tents—those weren’t meant for us—but to where the other captives huddled on the desert sand, resembling sand bugs in their misery. Surprisingly, the hunters had spared a thought for their quarry, erecting a shade on wooden poles to offer scant relief from the merciless sun.

Their motive was likely greed: ensuring we reached Yhedo alive to maximize their bounty. I couldn’t be certain how it worked, but it wouldn’t shock me—coin often trumped even a king’s decree.

“Find a place,” snapped one hunter, pointing toward the shade. No longer bothering with us, he headed toward the tents, not even glancing back to see if we obeyed.

Men outnumbered women. If they were anything like Hiran, they had willingly sacrificed their freedom for the good of their tribe. Beneath tattered rags and layers of grime, their bodies bore no visible wounds, yet weariness etched deep lines into their faces. Some fixed me with gazes framed by red-rimmed eyes, still glistening with the remnants of countless tears—a testament to the unseen scars that lay buried within.

Eyes followed Cesyn and me as we approached, reminding me that blood crusted my brow, stained my hands, and streaked my shirt. Murmurs rippled through the group as I guided Cesyn to the back of the huddle and helped her ease down onto the sand beside a young man, about my age.

“Hi. My name’s Emis Chronia of the Nerimor tribe.” He offered his hand, then, seeing his filth, withdrew it again.

I offered my bloody hand instead. Emis hesitated, meeting my eyes.

It belongs to one of them.” The hardness in my voice didn’t surprise me.

He gave me a small, genuine smile, the sort that immediately set me at ease, and shook my hand with a firm, reassuring grip before turning to Cesyn. It was hard to resist the kindness of his face, but what truly caught my attention were his deep green eyes—an unusual color among desert dwellers, reminiscent of the lush leaves of an oasis hidden within the dunes. Equally striking was the spray of freckles scattered across his nose and cheeks, softening his features and giving him an approachable charm.

After we exchanged names, Emis returned his attention to me.

“You need seeing to.” His eyes flicked to my temple.

“Cesyn needs it more.”

His gaze shifted to Cesyn, scanning for injuries.

“It’s her leg,” I blurted out.

Perhaps I should let Cesyn speak for herself.

“Oh, right. Well, they have a healer here. He’s been dealing with the injured all day. What he can do is pretty amazing.”

Why did he sound impressed? I had no reason to be annoyed with him—he was as much a victim as we were—but nothing about them should impress us.

“Kill our families, beat us nearly to death, then bring someone to heal us. Sounds callous to me,” I snapped.

Judging by the expression on Emis’s face, my words were nails in his heart. His cheeks flushed, and he stared at the sand between his legs, his brown hair flopping down to hide his eyes. Guilt noosed my neck.

Cesyn interrupted before the moment turned awkward. “How long have you been here?”

“I arrived this morning. They forced us to travel through most of the night, which was a blessing because of the heat.”

How could he be gracious toward the very butchers who had razed his life and likely slaughtered his family?

Unable to meet his gaze, I turned away and stared at the tents. At least ten were pitched side by side. From here, it was difficult to tell what material they were made of, but they weren’t woven from wool.

Four vargr—fierce, pack-dwelling beasts—were tethered to poles staked around the outer rim of the tents. With long, muscular legs built for sprinting across the dunes and broad, hairless snouts bristling with jagged fangs, they were pure, raw aggression. Their coats, the color of desert sand, blended with their surroundings, making them stealthy, near-perfect predators.

A short distance from the settlement, a group of hunters lounged on makeshift seats around a bonfire, sipping from bronze mugs. I didn’t know why the sight of the servants surprised me. They moved back and forth from the nearest tent to the fire, weaving through the hunters as they refilled mugs and tended to whatever was simmering in a large copper pot over the flames.

I watched them until every burst of laughter seemed to chip away at my bones and burn a hole in my chest. The urge to grab a blade and drive it between their eyes simmered beneath the surface just watching them guzzle ale until they were drunk, their raucous laughter mocking the day with false promises of joy—all while our families’ blood still stained their hands.

I buried my head in my hands, releasing a quiet groan as I fought to keep my emotions subdued.

Swallow. Your. Emotions. I inhaled a sudden, shaky breath, recalling the words Hiran wanted me to promise.

“Aara.” Cesyn wrapped an arm around my shoulders, her voice a tentative whisper.

“I’m fine.” I lifted my head and swallowed past the thickening in my throat. “Whose is the largest tent?” It was a diversion, not really a question. 

The tent stood alone at the back of the others, as if its owner despised the company of their companions. The black and gold colors of the Nairean crest hung from the two front poles, marking it as the dwelling of someone important.

“I overheard some mention a Prince Hamron. I guess that would be his.”

“Have you seen him?” Cesyn said. There was a dash of surprise in her voice, which I would not interpret as awe. 

“No. He wasn’t here when I arrived. I guess he’s off…” Emis sucked in his lips. 

“Destroying all our settlements, killing our families,” I finished for him. I didn’t mean to give him such a hard stare, filled with residual hatred, stirred by the laughter I could still hear. 

Cesyn took my hand in both of hers, then rested it in her lap. “I hope we don’t see him. He’s a member of the family whose decisions make this all happen.” 

I clenched my teeth, unsure if Cesyn said that for my sake or if she truly meant it. Her voice lacked the sharp edge that was in mine. Maybe the venom festering inside me was clouding my judgment. I had liked Cesyn from the moment we met, and Emis was just as much a victim as me. They didn’t deserve my anger.

“How many more wagons like ours have arrived since you came?” I said. 

“I overheard a conversation saying your wagon was the last one. Those from closer settlements have been here for days, waiting for the rest of the king’s hunt to arrive.”

I was about to ask another question when Cesyn’s gaze shifted over my shoulder, her eyes squinting to see across the distance.

A nalla and its rider lumbered toward the encampment. The desert creatures were large and sturdy, with barrel-like chests and broad, pads that kept them from sinking into the sand. Their short, muscular necks and thick hides made them well-suited for the harsh conditions, and they had no tail to speak of. Docile yet stubborn, nallas could survive for weeks without food or water, thanks to the generous ring of fat and fluid stored around their midsection.

The three of us remained silent, watching as the lone rider approached the camp. Dressed entirely in black, he was indistinguishable from the rest of our enemies, his face concealed behind a protective cloth wrapped around his head to guard against the sand and sun, though the light was now fading.

He rode the nalla hard, its pads kicking up sand as it thundered along the trail made by the wagons. As he drew closer, I could hear the creature’s labored grunts, struggling under the strain of the relentless pace.

To my surprise, the rider steered straight toward us rather than the waiting hunter, who had barely bothered to rise from his seat by the fire.

Was this the prince?

He reined in his mount at the front of the group, his eyes scanning over us, searching—or counting his captives, tallying his profit.

From where I sat, I could tell he was tall by the way his legs stretched across the wide girth of the nalla. His broad chest and powerful thighs, likely muscular beneath the black fabric, suggested a formidable opponent. There was no doubt he was a fighter—agile, fast, and skilled, with a weapon strapped to the leather sheath attached to his nalla’s saddle.

I tried to recall the size and build of the hunter I had killed. Were they comparable? Could I succeed again when the right moment came? This man had to die. He may not have struck the killing blow to Hiran, but as prince of Nairean, he was responsible.

I didn’t realize I was clenching my teeth until I heard them grinding. Lowering my head, I stared at the sand, the memory of the raw power surging through my veins when my talent took over played in my mind. Next time, I would make it count—I would take down this prince and as many hunters as I could before my emotions broke. They would get me in the end, but what did it matter?

Finally, I felt composed enough to lift my head and glance toward the prince. As he swung his leg over the rump of his nalla to dismount, I thought I caught a flicker of something from his sleeve—a flash of blue light, quick as a lightning strike. I blinked, but it was gone. Maybe I had imagined it.

He dismounted with swift, practiced grace, clearly a trained fighter. I made a mental note of that.

I was no fighter. Our tribe had been peaceful. Sometimes, after too much ale or fermented sallow bush bitters, a few men would end up brawling, rolling in the sand, throwing sloppy punches. The scuffles rarely lasted long, ending as quickly as they began. The men would be left to sleep off their drunkenness in the dirt.

Still, I had gutted one hunter; I could gut another, even if he was twice my size—and the prince was exactly that. He was taller than Hiran, one of the tallest men in our settlement, and built for battle. He likely had the strength and stamina of a hunting satyr. Maybe I would only succeed in killing him before they cut me down, but at least he would be dead. For Hiran. For my family and Peon. I would do it.

A shout from one of the hunters broke through my murderous thoughts. It sounded serious, as the rest of the encampment scrambled from their seats.

“Look,” Emis whispered, his chin jutting westward—the direction from which the prince had emerged.

More riders approached, a group of eight. How many more did we have to endure? There were already too many. I was unlikely to reach the prince, and with these additional riders, my chances of success seemed even slimmer.

The camp came to life as the hunters found tasks to do beyond sitting around the fire drinking until they were drunk. A greeting party formed on the eastern side of the camp, prepared for the new arrivals.

I shot a glance at the prince, but he was already walking away toward the tents, unraveling the black cloth from around his head. A cascade of black hair fell to his shoulders as he draped the cloth loosely around his neck.

He was tall, broad, and powerful, his strides radiating a silent, arrogant fury. His clothes fit him to perfection, outlining an imposing physique. It would be impossible to get close to him, even more reckless to think I could kill a man like him—a man who, I was certain, possessed a talent. Still, as I watched him march off, I mentally placed a target between his shoulder blades, right where his heart beat beneath his chest.

Beside me, Cesyn gasped, pulling me from my macabre thoughts. Forgetting the prince, I turned to see the riders were now close. Among the eight, one stood out, dressed differently from his companions and the entire camp of hunters. Riding at the head of the party, his jacket was trimmed in gold along the cuffs and collar, the buttons catching the early dusk light. Differing from the others, he had wrapped the protective scarf around his neck, leaving his long blond hair to catch the colors of the sunset-streaked sky.

“Prince Hamron,” whispered Emis, as if I needed that clarified. 

This was why the camp had come to life. This was the man deserving my wrath—the one who deserved to die.

His dismount lacked the grace and agility of the larger man, and his smaller frame was far less intimidating by comparison. My chances of success seemed better with him, but I would still need to wait for the perfect moment to strike. There was no telling if he possessed a talent—another thing I would have to consider.

He handed his nalla’s reins to a nearby hunter with a dismissive tilt of his chin, then strode over to where we sat on the sand. Staggering to keep pace was another man, drenched in sweat under a thick, fur-lined cloak. Beneath it, he wore a deep emerald green jacket and trousers, with a leather satchel slung over one shoulder. Two male servants, dressed in simple pale garments, hurried behind them—one carrying a seat, the other balancing a goblet on a tray.

Prince Hamron gestured for his seat, then slumped into it as if he had earned the rest. Without a word, he snatched the goblet from the tray and guzzled it down, snapping his fingers at the man in green.

The summoned man knelt beside him, rummaging through his satchel before producing a parchment. Hamron grabbed it and read in silence, his deep blue eyes skimming the page as he continued to drink. Blue eyes were another rarity among desert folk, as was his pale skin—paler than the sand itself, and likely as smooth as a baby’s. He appeared a man unworthy of his title. His cheekbones were sharp, his face narrow and angular, and his lips oddly full.

I placed an imaginary mark over his heart. That’s where I would drive my iron-coated fingernail when the time came.

“That’s it? You’ve been beside me one month and that’s all you’ve written.” Hamron barked, throwing the contents and his goblet into the sand, showing no care for the preciousness of liquid. 

Using a scornful voice, Hamron read aloud, “He rode bravely into battle.” With a toss of his head, he flicked his blond hair from his face, then glared down at the man in green, who was now staring at the sand. “Bravely! That’s it? Where are all the other descriptives? There’s no color or flare. There’s nothing about my appearance as I rode into battle.” He pulled some strands of his blond hair. “My seat on my nalla? My saddle is crafted from hargong leather, no less. Do you have any idea how expensive that is?” He struck the parchment with the back of his hand. “And not a word about how I wielded my sword, forged from vythrilite steel. It’s worth more than you’ll earn in a lifetime,” he boasted.

Against a peaceful tribe of nomads, whose only weapons were hammers and spades. My nails dug into the soft skin on my palm.

“I see no mention of my talent. Are you blind, or lazy?” He clicked his fingers again. “I need another drink.” 

What might his talent be? It was easy to forget others possessed talents, given I had been the only one in my tribe gifted with the skill. We usually avoided other nomadic tribes, and the merchants who passed through never displayed any abilities. Among the captives, though, there were bound to be more, since their intent was to strip the nomads of their talented sons and daughters, dragging them to Yhedo for the King to exploit.

My understanding of talent was limited, so I couldn’t begin to guess what deadly ability the prince might wield.

Hamron ripped the parchment in two as the male servant scurried away to fetch him another goblet. “This is how you choose to immortalize my role in the conquest of the desert people? This paltry account? It seems I need a new battle scribe who understands the gravity of my deeds and the glory of my triumphs.” 

He sat forward, resting his hands on his knees, bringing his face close to the scribe’s. He drew a lazy gaze over the man’s face before flicking a curl from the scribe’s brow. “If you could use your pen half as good as your mouth, I wouldn’t feel tempted to take your head.”

He exhaled and slumped back in his seat, seeming to lose interest in his scribe as his gaze finally settled on us. A smirk curled across his lips as he stood, and my loathing rose with him.

Maybe his talent didn’t matter. My chances were already slim to none. I would die trying to avenge my family, just as Hiran had died trying to save me.

Chapter 3

In two days, I learned three things: Prince Hamron was a mean drunk, their healers were miraculous—that, I had reluctantly agreed—and they had taken Peon. On the second day of our capture, I spotted him on the back of Hamron’s nalla. It made little sense why they took him, and even less why they kept him separate from us. Cesyn silenced me before I called his name, her warning clear—stay invisible.

The day begun grueling and hot, much like the one before. Drenched in sweat, we staggered behind the wagons, bound to each other in chains. Lack of food, only mouthfuls of water to drink, we were dead on our feet by the time Hamron called a halt. 

After tracking him all day, I lost sight of Peon while we set their camp. The next time I saw him was during feasting. He sat beside Hamron, on the sand, a bowl of food in his lap, untouched.

My thoughts of vengeance were pushed aside now I knew they had Peon. He looked small, fragile, and alone. If I were killed, he would have no one to understand his silence. I had to abandon my plan to kill Hamron. For now.

“You should finish that,” Emis said.

“You have it,” I replied.

“You need your strength. We all do. They give us so little, you really should eat.”

“I’ve lost my appetite.” I handed him my plate.

“Do you see him?” Cesyn asked, leaning in close, her eyes following my gaze. “You haven’t taken your eyes off their camp since we sat down.”

“He’s sharing Hamron’s tent,” I spat, fury barely leashed. “Why would the prince do that? Why did they even take him?”

“It is strange,” Cesyn offered. 

I had asked them both the same question repeatedly since spotting Peon.

“He’s sickly. Always has been. He’s not a fighter,” I added.

“It certainly makes no sense. Maybe we’ve heard the tales wrong. Perhaps they do take the young,” Emis said.

“They murder indiscriminately,” I muttered, voicing a stray thought, echoing my darker musings. If the King wanted talented, why make it a blood-soaked frenzy? It epitomized the Nairean King’s depravity and his ravenous hunger for power.

“A hunter took him back to the tent a while ago. I’m sure he didn’t touch any of his food,” I added, my voice low.

I glanced over at Hamron, hair loose around his face, slouching in his seat with a goblet of ale resting on his stomach. This distance, I couldn’t make out his expression, but he sat as stone, staring into the fire, as he had the last two nights. Soon, he would either break into drunken song or rage. Peon was vulnerable to his unpredictability.

I had to reach him, speak to him, let him know I was here.

As I moved to stand, Cesyn grabbed my elbow. “Aara, no.”

“I need privacy,” I whispered, though my intent was clear.

Even in the moonlit shadows, her resolute head shake was unmistakable.

“I don’t believe you.”

“What?” Emis’s gaze darted between us.

I frowned at his raised voice. “Nothing,” I muttered under my breath. “I’m just going to relieve myself, that’s all.”

“I’ll come with you,” Cesyn said.

“I’m not a child.”

“I know what you’re planning,” she whispered.

I sighed and slumped down beside her, defeated.

“Your eyes keep darting between the prince and his tent.” Her voice was thick with accusation.

“I need to speak to Peon.”

“No way.” Emis choked on a piece of flatbread and launched into a coughing fit.

“Shut up.” I glanced toward the nearest guard.

Four guards were tasked with watching over us. They rotated nightly, and tonight, two of them were more interested in chatting than paying attention to us. One glance at the other captives, and I understood why. Most were lying on the sand, too exhausted to even think about escaping. Some were already asleep.

“That’s crazy,” Emis whispered hoarsely. “You’ll never get near their camp. Look how many there are.”

“Feel free to announce that to everyone,” I hissed, giving the guards another nervous glance.

“What about him?” Emis tilted his head toward the closest guard.

I leaned in closer to Cesyn and Emis. “They’re barely paying attention. I’ve been watching the one on the far side—his head’s been nodding up and down for the past hour. Any minute now, he’ll be asleep. And the two behind us are too busy talking to care.”

“It won’t work.” Cesyn’s voice was tight with concern.

“We’re allowed privacy breaks.”

“Not long enough for you to reach the camp and speak to Peon,” Cesyn argued.

I wasn’t asking for their help, nor did I need their approval. But Cesyn had a point. Peon was so close, alone and terrified—it tore at me. The thought of him suffering under Hamron’s rage pained me more than the risk of getting caught.

I had to at least try. Hugging my knees, I stared at Hamron’s tent. “Hamron’s completely drunk.”

“It’s not Hamron you need to worry about,” Cesyn replied.

“I can’t risk him stumbling back to his tent.”

“They’re watching all of us closely.” She wasn’t going to let this go.

“Maybe someone among us has a helpful talent,” I muttered, recognizing the irony. After years of loathing and suppressing my talent, it was now too feeble to serve me, forcing me to seek aid elsewhere.

The bloodshed had shattered us all. Few dared to form alliances among the enslaved. I had seen only three others from my settlement—two men and a woman—none of whom I liked, and none of whom had talent. Cesyn and Emis had spoken with the few tribeskin they knew, but they were content to stay close to me.

“No, Aara. You can’t use talent against them. They’ll kill you without hesitation,” Cesyn snapped, her hand unconsciously gripping the necklace around her neck.

“All these hunters have talent,” Emis unhelpfully reminded me. “And they’re far more skilled than us. It’s madness. What about the vargr?”

“I’ll stay away from them.” It was a huge risk.

At every camp, they tied the vargr to stakes. The noisy things yipped and growled well into the night.

“I know the route I’ll take. It should keep me clear of them.” I didn’t want to hear their logic or reasoning.

“They’re taking care of him, Aara. You know they’re feeding him, and he’s never had to walk. He doesn’t look abused,” Cesyn said gently.

“Hamron is wicked. They all are. I don’t trust any of them. They don’t know how to care for him. He doesn’t speak. He’s fragile. He’ll fret himself to death.”

Cesyn placed a hand on my arm. “You couldn’t save your family. None of this is your fault. None of us are to blame.”

Eyes squeezed shut against sudden tears, I clutched Fur to my chest. “Peon is all I have left of my family. All I have left of my tribe.”

Our stories remained locked inside us, shattered fragments of our lives too horrific to share. Not yet. They haunted Cesyn and Emis as much as they haunted me—I heard their cries at night, as they heard mine.

I wiped away a stubborn tear.

“Okay, look,” Emis said suddenly. “I’ll come with you. If the guard stirs trouble, I’ll distract him. But I won’t be able to keep it up for long.”

“Emis,” Cesyn hissed. “You can’t. What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. I’ll overheat myself. He’ll think I’ve caught a fever.”

Cesyn and Emis spoke of their talents without shame. The moment felt significant, strengthening our bonds forged through pain. Yet my own reveal tasted sharp, slicing my tongue as it came out—a transgression against Hiran’s memory, a betrayal of his trust.

Emis’s talent was thermal tethering. Like Cesyn and me, he had limited control. He could only manipulate his own body heat and that of small objects.

“That’s too dangerous,” Cesyn argued.

She was right. Once, his family had thrown him into a well when he lost control and raised his body temperature to dangerous levels—all because of a stupid game with his brother.

“As long as I don’t push too hard,” Emis replied.

“This is crazy,” Cesyn squeaked.

I should have said no.

“I’ll be quick,” I insisted, though guilt gnawed at me for accepting his help. “Besides, everyone else is drunk. There are only the four guards we need to worry about.” I glanced at the nearest one.

“It’s a terrible idea,” Cesyn repeated.

I squeezed her hand. “You stay here. Emis and I won’t be long.”

She grabbed my elbow with her other hand. “No. I’ll come.”

“The fewer, the better,” Emis said.

“I’ll keep watch over you while you’re down,” she insisted, looking at Emis.

“Ces,” he groaned.

“No way. You’re not leaving me behind. I’ll convince the guard you have a fever.”

I clenched my teeth. Too many people would draw attention. Emis’s plan might buy me time, but Cesyn wasn’t bold, and under pressure, she could falter. She would likely crumble during a crucial moment or crack under interrogation, exposing everything. But convincing her to stay wasted precious time.

We stared at each other, moonlight casting shadows across our faces, none of us daring to make the first move.

I wasn’t brave—just impulsive, impatient, reckless, according to my brothers. I had made plenty of mistakes, but never had my decisions risked the lives of others. My life was mine to gamble with, but it was wrong to gamble with theirs.

Peon was my responsibility. The last fragment of my life I had to hold on to.

“Are you sure you want to be involved? It may not end well. I’ll understand if you want no part of it, but I can’t back out. I just can’t. I can’t do that to Peon.”

“You’ll fail on your own,” Cesyn said.

“Between the three of us, we’ll make it work,” Emis added.

I squeezed both their hands, then took a deep breath.

“Okay. Let’s do it.”

We rose as one.

My heart kicked up a beat, sending a rush of numbness through my fingers as I led them to the edge of our dismal camp, aiming for the lone guard stationed at the northern end of the huddled slaves.

The guard straightened from his slouch against the post, a hand drifting toward the hilt of his sword.

“We need the privy,” I said, a waver in my voice.

I felt the brush of Cesyn’s fingers against mine—an unconscious plea for comfort. I grasped her hand behind my back, needing the reassurance as much as she did.

“You.” The guard jabbed Emis in the shoulder, then gestured to his left. “Go to the western guard. You two, follow me. Don’t stray too far. Five minutes. After that, I’m coming for you, and I’ll bring the vargr.”

This wasn’t exactly going to plan—we barely had one—but there was no turning back now.

Cesyn made a soft sound of protest, but I pulled her along as I hurried past the guard.

“What’re—” she began to whisper.

“Shh.” I quickened my pace, but Cesyn struggled to keep up, her eyes flicking toward Emis as he headed for the western guard.

Once we reached a small rise in the sand, partially concealing us, I yanked her down beside me.

“Don’t take any risks. If it doesn’t feel right, head back. Forget about me.”

Before she could argue, I scrambled off on my hands and knees, using the rise as cover, clogging doubts screaming in my mind with every shuffle.

It felt as though the moments sped past, and I’d run out of time. Please don’t let this get bad for Emis and Cesyn. 

Sand filled my boots and flicked into my eyes as I crawled on my hands and knees, gasping for breath in my panic. I aimed for a scrub bush ahead—knee-high at best, but enough to offer some cover.

I was closer now to the back of the camp, where the tents obscured the campfire. Tonight, Hamron’s habit of erecting his tent farther from the others and the vargr played to my advantage.  

With their keen eyesight, they were likely tracking me at this moment, but they tended to stalk their prey in eerie silence. Hopefully, any excited yips they might make, would blend into the background noise of the campfire chatter.

After a sharp exhale, I pushed myself forward, crawling only a short distance before the harsh whisper of my name stopped me. I glanced over my shoulder to see Cesyn crawling toward me.

Shit.

Once she reached me, I grabbed her arm, pulling her up as I rose into a crouch and dashed toward the back of the nearest tent.

“What?” I whispered, dragging her down beside me once we reached the tent.

“I couldn’t stay there. Not by my—”

I clamped a hand over her mouth, biting back my frustration.

Time was collapsing on me, fear filling my mouth like sand. If we turned back now, the guard might not notice, and I could spare Cesyn whatever punishment awaited. But I couldn’t abandon Peon—I was too close. I peeked around the corner of the tent, eyeing Hamron’s tent just a short dash away.

“Stay here.” My whisper failed to hide the anger in my voice.

Leaving her without another word, I stalked down the side of the tent, while time whispered in my ear, telling me mine was running out.

Fear raced through my veins like stampeding nalla, but I swallowed it down and crept forward. Laughter echoed through the night from the campfire, sparking yips of excitement from the vargr.

I closed my eyes, taking a shaky breath.

Go.

I darted out from behind the tent, made it three steps, and tripped over something, falling face-first into the sand. It scratched at my eyes, but I didn’t stop to look back. No sooner had I scrambled to my feet than something yanked my right leg out from under me. I hit the ground hard, eating sand, choking on grit.

Rolling onto my back, I saw black-clad legs looming over me. My gaze traveled up over a broad, solid body, then to his face, as fear chained my arms, legs, and mind.

He lowered himself onto a low-cut stool.

“So, you’re my entertainment for tonight?” His voice was a low rumble, like a brewing storm.

In the faint glow of the campfire, his features were as ruthless as his physique—sharp and angular, with no trace of kindness. His tanned skin matched my own, unusual among the rest of the hunters. Also uncommon was the shadow of a beard across his jaw.

He reached down, retrieved his mug, and took a slow sip. As he moved, I caught the same flash of blue light peeking from beneath his sleeve. The moment was so brief I could have dismissed it as imagination.

But this was the second time I’d seen it. It was real.

He slouched against the tent pole, his eyes obsidian pools beneath night-black lashes, devouring what little light remained.

“Though dressed like that, you’re not very entertaining,” he drawled.

I spat out the dregs of sand in my mouth, hoping Cesyn would stay put. The moment I thought of her, she appeared, peeking her head around the side of the tent.

“I lost my way,” I blurted, though I was sure Cesyn had heard him speak. Why had she not run back to the slave camp?

“That’s ironic for a desert dweller,” he mused, voice dripping with boredom.

What do I say? I sat up, choking on the grit lodged in my throat.

He arched a brow, taking another sip from his mug.

“I… I was trying to… I was going to…” Before I could finish, I spat more sand onto the ground, wiping away the saliva trailing from my lips.

“Sneak into the prince’s tent?” he asked with a slow smirk.

“What…? No… Oh… that’s the prince’s tent?”

My pulse roared in my ears. If I looked at Ces, he would know she was there.

“I was just trying to steal some food. They’re not feeding us enough, and I’m starving. We all are.”

“And you’re the one who volunteered to steal for the rest? Or is this just for you?”

He leaned forward, broadening his chest and shoulders, a monolith of muscle, resting his elbows on his knees. He’d cornered me as surely as the vargr.

His gaze impaled me, razor-sharp and unyielding, a slow smile twitching his lips.

“There’s nothing wrong with looking out for yourself.”

“I’d expect you to say that,” I snapped.

Damn it, where had that come from? I clenched my fingers into the sand, holding my breath, waiting for his fury.

He huffed out a dry, humorless laugh and took another drink before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Community, camaraderie, family, ancestry—all those things matter to you tribal people, don’t they?” He laced the word tribal with disgust.

“The vargr survive in this harsh land because they hunt in packs, live in packs, protect each other.”

“You think they do that because they care for each other?” His voice hardened like iron, his gaze crushing down on me like an anvil. “The mother eats her dead pups. The males kill the weakest to keep the pack strong. And when the leader can’t hold his own, he’s torn limb. From. Limb.” He delivered each word with chilling precision, his lips slicing through them like a blade.

I swallowed hard. Each word was another shovelful of sand in my verbal grave. His obsidian gaze dissected me, peeling away layers with predatory precision.

Suddenly, a shout rang through the night—the alarm signaling Cesyn’s and my absence.

My heart lurched, and before I could stop myself, I glanced toward her.

The dark hunter reclined, his smile unfurling with quiet menace.

“Looks like you’ve run out of time.”

With slow, methodical movements, I rose to my feet, brushing my hands along my thighs, struggling to form a plan.

Get out of here, Ces.

Sharp talons of dread scraped across my gut. The camp came to life—vargr yips and throaty growls adding to the brutal chaos. The hunters would release them soon.

Stupid, stupid.

I took one step, and he rose to his feet, towering over me.

“I was after food. That’s all. And I need to get back before the vargr come.”

His axe-sharp gaze narrowed. He folded his arms across his chest, his already intimidating frame somehow broadening further.

“Try a more believable story.”

“I’m not foolish enough to do anything else.” The anger in my voice surprised me.

I was a fool with a poorly thought-out plan, risking Cesyn’s life—just as I had Hiran’s.

Shit. Not now.

Grief was a desolate partner, leaving me barren inside.

Courage, strength—I needed those things to survive, but all I had left was cowardice. Had I possessed speed, strength, or skill, Hiran might still be alive. I could’ve gutted that bastard before he killed my brother. Instead, I had crawled on my knees, begging, sniveling, as Hiran died.

“Please. Just let me go. It was stupid. I was stupid, but desperate.”

And then, as if answering a silent call for help, my stomach grumbled.

The hunter’s smirk deepened.

“How fast do you think you can run?”

My heart stopped.

“They say nothing can outrun a vargr.”

He wanted entertainment—my death beneath vargr fangs.

My mind painted the image of Hiran’s death, his lifeless eyes staring at the sky.

My breathing came fast and shallow as I curled my fingers into my palms and clenched my teeth against the hatred burning through my chest. 

I glared at the hunter. “Sometimes the weak become the most devastating force.”

A breath of silence.

Then, he stepped closer, eliminating what little distance remained between us.

“I’ve been waiting for this,” he murmured, his voice as dangerous as a satyr’s purr.

The chorus of howls shattered the night air.

And then, Cesyn screamed.

In an instant, he lunged for the tent, his arm raised. My darkest memories erupted in vivid horror—blood spraying, lives stolen—transforming my hatred into horror.  

Cesyn!

This time, I wasn’t too late. I felt the weight of the malformed dagger in my hand as I rushed toward the hunter. The howls of the vargr grew louder—a bloodthirsty chorus closing in for the kill. 

Ugly, malformed, but sharpened to perfection, the dagger pierced his side, sliced through his body as though passing through water. 

He glanced at the wound, watching as the blade bled like molten iron from his side as horror gripped me in its claws. I had struck effortlessly and ruthlessly as though he wasn’t human. 

Slowly, he turned to face me, holding Cesyn firmly by the waist unharmed. His gaze was a weapon more lethal than a blade, as he discarded Cesyn without a flicker of emotion. She staggered toward me, her labored breaths mixing with the rhythmic pounding of padded paws closing in from behind.

Cesyn’s scream pierced the air. I spun around, arms raised, bracing for the leaping vargr. A blur of movement. The hunter stepped in front of me, driving his fist into the vargr’s snout with such force its skull smashed back into its neck.

The creature dropped to the ground, lifeless, mid-leap.

Cesyn collapsed into me, sobbing, and we both fell to the ground. I sat listless, numb and mute, as the hunter, his fist dripping blood, turned toward us. He flexed his fingers slowly, as though testing them, and all I could do was think of the raw power it took to kill that creature.

Thank the ancestors for my luck. Had I confronted him, tried to kill him without knowing his strength, I would have met the same fate.

He crouched before us, his eyes locked on mine. “Only I get to decide when you live and die,” he said, his voice as hard and unyielding as the fist that had just destroyed the vargr.