1
RUNE & RUIN
Boots pounded on the cobblestones.
Rheya and I crouched behind a cart half-buried in the snow. If the guards caught us breaking into Arathi Manor, no amount of begging would save us—they’d slit our throats and toss us in the gutter.
Amber light spilled across the street as three Runecloaks marched past, steel clinking under their dark blue mantles. I pressed myself deeper into the shadows. Beside me, my sister’s breath misted in the air.
“Second patrol,” Rheya whispered. “As expected.”
Their drunken laughter echoed closer, boots flashing between the wagon’s spokes, until finally their voices faded. Only then did I let myself breathe.
I peeked above the wagon. The manor squatted in the fae quarter like a black toad among swans. Around it, townhomes preened in pale marble, and lamps floated above us like captive stars. Beautiful, if you could forget what powered them.
I tugged on Rheya’s sleeve, and we dashed across the road and around the manor, where a narrow archwayopened into a walled courtyard that seemed to belong to another realm.
I breathed in the magically warmed air, tinged sweet with jasmine. Rheya sneered at the flowering tree and ripped a cluster of cherries off a low-hanging branch, shoving them into her mouth. Cherry trees, blooming inwinter. In the human quarter, the rest of us made do with frost that never thawed, and brick stained black with soot.
The service door hid in the shadows. A locking rune burned on the wood, its pattern carved in spiraling paths that wound toward the center like a maze with no solution.
I rolled up my sleeves. “Watch the street.”
Rheya spat cherry seeds on the ground before slipping off.
I pressed my palm to the rune and closed my eyes, feeling for the magic. Heat sizzled as my fingers plucked at the carvings in the wood.
There. Glowing blue threads nestled deep in the wood’s grain, pulsating. I hooked my finger around the nearest strand. It writhed like a worm, fighting my touch. White-hot lightning shot up my arm, and I bit back a curse. Stronger than normal—probably not fueled by the blood of a common magical creature. Basilisk, maybe.
I slipped more threads over my finger. The dull ache sharpened. Hissing, I gripped them harder and pulled. They stretched like warm tar peeling off a surface.
I held on, teeth clenched.
The threads splintered. Sparks erupted from the breaks. I flinched, twisting my hand. The rune shattered like glass on stone, and a flash of light blinded me. When my vision cleared, the rune on the door had blackened.
I yanked it open.
We dashed inside the servant quarters and climbed themarble staircase. Tiny, suspended balls illuminated antique gold frames and vases spilling with everlasting flowers. We strode past an enchanted orchid and stopped at a black door tucked between two portraits.
My sister grabbed my wrist. “You’re shaking. It hurt you, didn’t it?”
“I’m okay. It’s here, right?”
“That’s what the maid said.”
I stepped closer, studying the rune on the door. “Did she mention what it’s protecting?”
“Just that the lady keeps her specials here.”
I touched a line, and the ink warped. It felt…wrong. Not sharp and hot like most runes, but organic like breathing flesh. My hand jerked back.
No.
I forced myself to reach back. We needed this. The Rite was in a few days, and half the city burned with fever. The infirmary’s empty shelves flashed through my mind.
I braced a hand against the wall and palmed the rune. It met me like a mouth. Wet heat. A slow suction against my skin. I found the center thread, grimacing at the greasy texture. This wasn’t the clean burn of most locking runes, but I yanked anyway.
Magic burst through my palm. The threads tried to sink into me, but I forced them back and tore them apart. The rune snapped, spraying red-black sparks across the doorframe. Then the door creaked open.
