ROYAL DECREE
YEAR OF OUR SAINTS, 1252
By royal decree of His Majesty, King Edric Leonard Renaudin III,
In His Majesty’s mercy, those born without magical gifts are to be exiled to the eastern Colony of the Ungifted.
There shall be no marriage or mixed offspring between higher and lower order magics.
All Twilights are considered enemies of the realm after the fall of Kilstrand and are to be executed upon capture.
FOURTEEN DAYS REMAINING
YEAR OF OUR SAINTS, 1583
PROLOGUE
QUINN
The first gasp of breath after a century of sleep always sent knives carving through my lungs.
Despite this being my third awakening under the spell, the agony never dulled. Dust billowed up around me in a pale, choking cloud. I coughed until my throat burned, waving the haze aside. The grit clung stubbornly to my skin, my hair, the folds of my threadbare gown—as though time itself refused to release me.
Every joint protested as I pushed upright, creaking and stiff, feeling more akin to armor than flesh. When I finally managed to stand, my legs wobbled like those of a fawn set too soon upon the ice.
The tower greeted me with its usual silence. Stone walls slick with damp, air thick and musty with disuse. Thunder rolled somewhere beyond the narrow window, its sound dragging through the bones of the structure. I sighed. The walk to find the next tether was never pleasant; storms only served to worsen the experience.
With small, quavering steps, I crossedto the dresser, its surface coated in years of neglect. A worn comb rested there beside a glass bottle that once held lavender. Only brittle stems remained. I yanked the comb through my hair, each pull snapping through tangles as I winced. When I caught my reflection in the darkened windowpane, I scarcely recognized the woman staring back.
The comb had made little progress on the snarled mass of my long, dark hair. Between my pale skin and light blue eyes, my reflection appeared more phantom than female.
The leather boots by the hearth had shriveled to husks in the decades since their abandonment. Upon lifting one, the sole cracked clean through. “Barefoot, then,” I murmured.
The wood groaned as I made my way down the spiral staircase, my hand trailing the banister to keep my balance. Dust parted beneath my fingertips, leaving a thin, uneven line through the gray.
At the base, I unlatched the great wooden door. Its hinges screamed like a dying animal before yielding. The forest was sodden and endless. Rain slicked the moss-dark path ahead, gleaming beneath the gathering dawn.
I had a fortnight to find another soul in need, to bind myself once more, and attempt to break the spell before sleep claimed me for another hundred years.
Stepping out into the rain, I lifted my chin to the sky.
The countdown had begun.
1
MAV
The first punch landed somewhere between my shoulder and my pride. Hard to say which hurt more. The next cut squarely across my jaw. I staggered back, boots sliding on spilled ale, and grunted out a laugh. Not because it was funny, but because it didn’t hurt enough.
Most men ran from pain. I chased it like it owed me something. Some men drank to forget. Others prayed. Not knowing how to do either well enough, I fought. The war ended, the banners burned, and no one told me what to do with the pieces left over. I let my fists speak the only other language I still spoke fluently.
The tavern was a riot of overturned benches, flailing limbs, and bellowed vows of vengeance. It was glorious chaos. A senseless thing that made perfect sense to me. A bard snored beneath an overturned stool, one shoe gone to Saints-knew-where. At the bar, a woman cackled as if she’d wagered on my funeral and liked her odds. Near the hearth, two men grappled and crashed into the spit, sending the steaming mound tumbling to the stones with a sodden thud. I didn’t consider myself to be a religiousman, but I’d never had enough faith to trust unrecognizable tavern meat.
A smarter man would’ve ducked out. A better man wouldn’t have been here at all. I identified as neither smarter nor better, so I found myself in the center of yet another brawl in an even seedier tavern than the last. Catching myself on a battered table, my lungs pulled in smoke-thick air. For a moment, I considered yielding, letting the next blow drop me. Letting someone else win for once. But old habits are stubborn things. When another fist came for me, I swung first.
Knuckles met bone with a sickening crack. Flesh split. Blood hit the warped floorboards in red flecks. I didn’t stop to see if it was his or mine. A blow caught my side. Another slammed into my gut, curling me forward. The pain dulled quickly, courtesy of the inordinate amount of ale I’d consumed. Lucky for me, the others were just as drunk, which meant fists and fury instead of magic—the way a real fight should be.
A drunk in the corner shouted, “Kick him in the shins! Works on the goats!” Helpful, had I been fighting a goat instead of a six-foot-five wall of grudges. I ducked another swing, twisted low, and drove my shoulder into the stomach of the man who’d started it—Asshole McStoneface, I’d named him. He stumbled, wheezing, but two more men were already closing in, hungry for blood, sport, or both.
