So, I burned every bridge by setting fire to the Lord of Westfall’s precious manor. Without his protection, I’m no one. Worse … I have the biggest bounty on my head that the mortal kingdom of Vexamire has ever seen.
No backing out now.
Laughter, so out of place in this grim setting, reaches my ears. I note a group of noblemen and courtiers to my left—I’ve seen some of them at the Lord of Westfall’s manor, mingling in his raucous, sinful parties, or around the castle in drug dens and brothels. He keeps blackmail files on all of them, not that any of them know. They’re the only ones smiling, not bothering to keep their voices lowered, knowing their status means they’re unlikely to be Selected. Pricks. They’re also the exact people I need to avoid. If I recognize them, there’s a chance they’ll do the same. One of them looks up, attention perking, eyes narrowing my way. I tuck my hair beneath my deep hood, turning away from them, and push my way to the front.
My breaths quicken, legs trembling as I straighten out the new tunic I purchased with every last dreadpenny I owned. The eggplant coloring isn’t as rich as druid crimson, or black, but it’s the best I could afford. Human tailors can’t replicate the finery of the immortals’ garments. My new emerald cloak hangs loosely around my neck, matching my scuffed boots. They’re the only part of my ensemble I’ve had for years. My mother embroidered the boots with golden thread, sewing moons and stars into their velvet sides. They’re worn but clean, and perhaps the druids won’t notice. Though I’ve watched the elves turn their pointed noses up at dirty humans before.
The elves take the artistic and pure, while the seraphs select the strong and beautiful.
I’m neither of those things. But the druids? Maybe they’ll want someone who’s become nothing more than rage—someone more like them.
“Hells, moon-cursed,” a woman nearby mumbles, and sidesteps away from me, steering her child as if I’m a bad omen. My chest frosts, my heart closing off into something small and shriveled. Most don’t care about such things. I tuck my luminous hair behind my ears in frustration, the tell that some generations back someone in my bloodline mixed with an immortal, a seraph, judging by my curls’ snow-white color. Being “moon-cursed” was common on the Isle of Riches, but that’s a thousand miles from here.
Five people down from me, I catch the eye of a boy with deep crimson hair, cut close on the sides but longer on the top. He meets my gaze, eyes rolling at the woman who commented, a wry smile on his lips. He’s lava-cursed, druid-mixed, so I’m sure he gets as many stares as I do. I wonder if they’ll be more likely to choose him because of it.
I glance over my shoulder at the nobles, now quietly grumbling, some nodding toward me. Shit. Someone shuffles beside me and I jump. A young man with hair so blond it’s nearly silver. His features are uncommon for Westfall, so he’s not with the noblemen. He must be from somewhere farther east, someplace even colder. His crystal blue eyes narrow at the red sands ahead, flicking to the top of the Wall.
He searches for a nervous conversation starter, glancing at my skin tone, and blurts, “Where are you from? Near the equator?”
Classy.
“My father was from the Isle of Riches,” I say with a sigh. I take in his light tunic and poorly fitting patchwork cloak, yet his hands show no sign of working farms or lumberyards, not a callus to be seen. It’s suspicious.
“Your poster is quite memorable, Wraith of Westfall.” He says it so calmly, like there isn’t a massive bounty on my head. My nails bite into my palms hard enough to leave marks. The stranger scoffs, a sneer on his coy lips. “I heard the Lord of Westfall’s palace was left in ruins. His face so marred he’s barely recognizable. His Wraith was spotted fleeing the scene.”
“That’s too bad.” That he lived, anyway. I’d hoped Thane Blackwell would have died a slow, painful death by now.
The stranger rolls his eyes as I glare up at him. “Don’t worry, I’m not here for your bounty. Though I’m sure some here would be interested.”
This guy. I didn’t bring any weapons today, but I wouldn’t need one to knock him down a peg. But I can’t afford a fight, so I give him a tight smile.
“Let me guess, you’re from Eastgate? Shadowfell?” The second guess brings a slight tick to his jaw, a tell that I’m on the right track. I edge my words, a subtle knife readying to strikeshould he be a threat. “You wear the coat of a poor man but have the hands of a rich boy. You running away from something, little lord?”
I glance knowingly toward the nearest pillar of bounties and his smile falters. He growls, “Something like that.” There’s an edge of darkness in his eyes. A pain laced there that I recognize. “Most don’t run toward the immortals.” His cutting gaze scours me. “But looks like we both are.”
“Why don’t you tell me your name? Save me a walk to see what you’re worth.”
He raises a brow at me. “Kasper. You?”
I tug on a strand of my spider’s web, and the information bought or blackmailed clicks into place. He was truthful, as that’s the name of the adopted son of the Lord of Shadowfell. Was he running from home and got caught in Westfall’s Selection? Or does he want to be Selected, same as me? I lull him with a bite of the truth, to see if it might cause a drop in his guard. “Well, I’m not a Wraith anymore. My name is just Rune.”
He chuffs at that, and I can’t blame him for it. The name isn’t a common one.
The audience releases a collective gasp, and my attention jerks back to the front, to the red sands a hundred feet away. Darkness has spread like ink spilled in water, right at the line between our realm and theirs, warping the air around it, like a mirage on desert sands. But it’s only grown colder. Kasper no longer matters. I move him to the back of my mind. I’ve never been to a Selection where the druids were in charge, only the seraphs who appeared in streaks of light and thunder, and the elves who opened a tunnel draped in diamonds from the grounds at our feet.
Neither of them made my legs shake the way druids do, stepping out of shadows.
They remind me of the dark that lies in wait between the stars.
Powerful and mysterious, but in my world, that usually means dangerous.
They unfold from the shadows like liquid death. Every one of them filled with the confidence of killers, wolves on the hunt. They’re clad head to toe in intricate iron armor. Most have wings and horns of some kind, the only features that differentiate them from their militaristic uniforms and identical, expressionless masks. Some march with strange animal familiars trotting at their sides. Jackals and corvids. Serpents and jaguars. I’ve heard rumors they keep more magical varieties of creatures but despite my searching don’t see any with them. Do the druids speak to the beasts? What keeps the familiars tethered to their masters?
“Here we go.” Kasper shifts on his feet as if readying for a fight.
“Just stay out of my way,” I hiss back, letting a frightened elder slip between us.
My heart batters against my ribs as the reality of what I’m about to do seeps in. My father once told me druids were born from seraphs and demons, and that the pits of hells could be seen from their palace windows. I grit my teeth. It was just a fable, a bedtime story meant to warn of their danger, like a line of acid green on a venomous snake.
