chapter one
BRONICH IS A DIMLY LIT city at best. At this time of night, the city is shrouded in darkness, so I’m not particularly concerned anyone will discover me peeking through the hole in the wall of one of the tiny wooden houses clustered together on the northern hillside of town.
Turning to lean back against the wall, I pull my felt cloak tighter around myself, watching puffs of frosty smoke dance in the air with each warm exhale. It creates a beautiful but fleeting display—a moment of grace in air heavy with the sickly sweet stench of ash and charred bone.
I drop my head back and allow tiny snowflakes to kiss my face as I stare into dark nothingness. Even the towering peaks of the surrounding mountains are invisible in the impenetrable darkness that envelops the city at night.
Anyone caught using candles or oil lamps after nightfall—anything apart from the fires necessary for cooking and warmth—will suffer severe consequences.
The minister proclaims that possessing lights other thanHimis sacrilege, and nobody dares challenge his authority. Perhaps I should have listened to the minister too, stayed at home in my bed instead of sneaking around on the outskirts of town in the dead of night. I’m sure to receive a whipping if I get caught—and that’s if I’m lucky.
Cursing the cold, I rub my half-frozen hands together in a desperate attempt to regain some warmth. It’s the humid type of cold that chills you to your bones, and it leaves me with no desire to stay outside for much longer. Neither does the excruciating pain caused by the brace I’m wearing on my left arm. Although there are days when I welcome the distraction, this is not one of them. Another wave of pain moves through my body, and my right hand grasps the brace so hard I’m surprised my nails don’t leave marks in the cold metal. Teeth clenched, I squeeze my eyes shut.
Do not make a sound, Laïna. Donotmake a sound.
I’m pushing my limits tonight, and only the Father knows if it will be worth it to have wandered this far from Master Coperie’s estate. But secrets are currency in Bronich, and I desperately need the coin.
A primal scream echoes through the night, followed by a softer wail, and I turn my attention back to the hole in the wall.Finally. In the dim room, I see her.
Drenched in sweat, she’s clearly exhausted, slumped against the blankets of her makeshift bed. In her arms, a tiny, fragile baby cries out, filling the silence of the room with its plaintive wails. The scene is both beautiful and heart-wrenching, giving me a glimpse of the monumental journey into motherhood.
I study the small hands waving in the air, a bittersweet ache filling my heart for a moment before I push it away. It is not for me. Even if I manage to buy my freedom, I haven’t even had my first bleed yet, and at my age, it is likely I never will. Still, I can’t help the undeniable longing in my chest as I watch the family, their bond almost palpable.
The husband adds another log to the fire, making sure the room is warm enough for the newborn member of their family. After dipping a scrap of cloth into a bucket of water, he wipes his wife’s forehead and leans down to place a tender kiss on her mouth.
Embarrassment tinges my cheeks for having witnessed such an intimate moment, yet I find myself unable to tear my gaze away. What would it be like to experience such deep affection from someone?
My attention shifts at the sound of a door slamming followed by heavy boots on the wooden floor. I squint to see better and struggle to suppress a gasp as a tall figure emerges from the shadows of the hallway, cane in hand. Striding into the room, towering over everyone with his commanding presence, is the minister himself.
What is he doing here?I’m left with no time to ponder the implications of his presence as a second figure slides into my view.
Darkness obscures its features, making it impossible to discern any distinguishing characteristics. Still, there is no mistaking the malevolent aura surrounding it.
Upon seeing the intruders, the mother scrambles away. Her eyes wide with terror, she clutches her newborn baby close to her chest in an attempt to shield it from the two menacing figures.
The minister strides forward and snatches the baby out of the woman's arms, his cane clattering to the floor. With cold efficiency, he snaps the baby's neck.
Fingers trembling, I steady myself against the rough exterior of the house, taking deep breaths to control the intense feeling of sickness in my stomach.
Did I just witness the minister take the life of an infant?
The woman appears as confused as I feel, and there’s a moment of suffocating silence while she stares at the minister with a look of utter disbelief. Then, realizing her newborn now hangs lifeless and still in his arms, her confusion and disbelief transform into unbridled rage. With a scream that pierces the night—so raw and primal thatshards of glass might as well be slicing my skin, digging their way through to my very soul—she throws herself toward the minister, reaching for her baby.
“Murderer!” Rabid, with tears streaming down her face, she claws and spits, hitting him over and over with what little energy she has left, blood from the recent birth pooling on the floor underneath her. “Murderer!” Her legs give out, and she crumples to the floor, still screaming.
Her husband—who so far appeared to be in a state of shock—now rushes toward his wife, kneeling by her side.
“Know your place, mudling.” The minister kicks the man with a forceful blow that causes him to flail across the room. He doesn’t get back up. The minister smirks down at the raging woman—like she’s no more than a mere nuisance—and gives her a solid kick that sends her tumbling on top of her limp husband.
The scene unfolding before me is a bloody, chaotic mess, yet, in the midst of it, the minister appears calm and unconcerned. He picks his cane back up, then turns toward the shadow in the corner. “Take their memories.” Narrowing his eyes, he turns back toward the couple.
“Witch,” the minister snarls. “Only witches give birth to moonborn creatures.” He spits at her feet—as if the word itself has given him a foul taste in his mouth. “What you gave birth to is not human. The moonborn are evil—a threat to our very existence. They are better off dead.Weare better off with them dead.” He reaches forward with his cane, causing the woman to push backward, but there’s nowhere for her to go. Cornered by the minister, she’s helpless as he cuts her face with a blade that extends from the cane’s tip.
The minister pushes to the top, retracting the blade, and he takes a step back as if to admire the bloodyWthat now decorates her cheek. “It’s always sad to ruin such a pretty face.” He offers her a small apologetic smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I trust you can handle it from here.”
The shadow figure offers a slight nod and glides forward, its ominous aura so palpable that I can feel it even where I stand outside the wooden walls of the house. Its tall stature is enveloped by swirling, shadowy tendrils that occasionally reach out like dark tentacles of death.
One of them brushes across my skin, as if there are neither walls nor several layers of clothes between us, and I let out an involuntary gasp. I slam a hand across my mouth, but it’s too late.Oh, Father.
