PROLOGUE
LEYWANI
The first snow had arrived across the steppe. A pristine blanket of white had fallen, hiding the grime of the goat and sheep pens and sweeping away any traces of summer pasture and autumn harvest.
As if the past could be so easily erased.
Fingers numb from the cold, Leywani tugged at the rope, hoping the well hadn’t frozen again. The frigid air bit at her skin, but it was nothing compared to the dread coiling in her stomach. If she didn’t return with enough water, her husband would be angry, and she would pay the price.
She’d been paying that price for over four years now. Her parents had sold her like livestock to the violent man, ripping her from her home and the only people who’d ever made her feel safe—Katell and Scylas.
Leywani still remembered the look on Katell’s face when she’d heard the news. The horror. The disbelief. The way she’d run, screaming, as Leywani was marched to her husband’s cart. Her furious cries had echoed through Camp Bessi until distance swallowed them whole.
The memory clawed at Leywani’s chest. Anger surged, sharp and familiar, wrapping around the deep ache that never left her heart. Her parents had received piles of furs for their daughter, while she’d suffer a life of misery.
But over the years, Leywani had come to understand that blaming her parents was futile. Harbouring resentment for her fate only deepened the vast well of bitterness, offering poor comfort during the darkest nights.
Instead, she chose to focus on the future. Like Ana, the friend she met in secret on the rare days her husband was away. Ana—who was expecting a baby at winter’s end—always welcomed her with sweet tea and a kind smile. She pictured her husband leaving with the hunting party—he’d be gone for days on end to find food. And the cheese cakes she would bake during his absence.
Leywani cherished those fleeting moments of joy like drops of water to a parched soul.
A chilly gust of wind bit into the apples of her cheeks, and despite the furs wrapped around her lithe frame, the early winter cold seeped into her very bones. She needed to haul the pail of water back to the tent quickly, or the cold would take her fingers. Or worse—her husband would lose patience with her.
The rope attached to the water pail burned her bare palms, but she ignored the sting and heaved the bucket, her breath coming in laboured puffs. Another blast of cold air whipped her face and hair, carrying the faint smell of smoke—and something more unpleasant. Rot?
A horse whickered in the distance, but the milky fog ahead obscured her view of the boundless steppe. Sheep bleated in the pens behind her, their cries growing more frantic as they rushed from one side of the fence to the other.
What had frightened them so? A wolf? They never ventured this far out into the steppe. A fox was more likely, but the camp hounds would soon catch its scent and chase it away.
The relentless wind blew up patches of snow in the distance, signalling a brewing storm. Leywani berated herself for wasting time. Her fingers clutched the slick wooden bucket of the well—but slipped, tipping it sideways. Icy water sloshed over its side, soaking her boots. She cursed under her breath. Once she’d finally hauled the bucket into her arms, something caught her eye in the distance.
A dark silhouette emerged from the fog.
A rider at the heart of the storm.
Leywani blinked, trying to identify the silhouette—until another appeared by the first rider’s side. Then another, and another, until a whole line of riders emerged from the mist, seemingly untouched by the battering wind.
Fear gripped her, and her hands tightened around the bucket.
Were they riders from neighbouring camps? The Council hadn’t mentioned any visitors until spring, and such a large group was unheard of among the Freefolk. Hunting parties were usually a dozen at most, but the group looked to be three times that size.
Panic set in. Something was wrong.
A sliver of sunlight pierced through the clouds, illuminating the group ahead—and a glint of metal caught Leywani’s eye. She dropped the bucket and stumbled back, a shout of warning rising in her throat.
Not hunters. Not Freefolk. Soldiers.
Armedsoldiers.
And they were headed straight for the camp.
PART ONE
CHAPTER ONE
ALENA
Cold winds spilled down from the snow-dusted peaks above, tugging at cloaks and sending dry leaves skittering across the ground.
