Prologue
In the blood of the innocent, roses bloom darkest.”
—ANCIENT IRON KINGDOM PROVERB
One late winter’s afternoon in the Iron Kingdoms, snowflakes fell like dying stars to a market street forgotten by warmth. Most merchants packed up for the day, eager to return home before night settled—all except for a single boy and girl who lingered, their innocent laughter cutting through the war-deadened silence.
Each carried bundles wrapped against the frost—bread, salted fish, dried berries. A feast in a town close to battle lines.
Eyes followed their path. Hungry eyes, resentful eyes. Not for their food but for the youthful hands carrying it.
Children had become as rare as green fields in this cold, war-torn world. Females were few. Fertile females were rare, and friends were even scarcer. The girl counted envious stares like stones in her pocket—three men at the baker’s stall, a cluster of elders by the well she once fell down, and the butcher’s wife whose belly had never swelled with child.
The girl tightened her scarf around her head and went quiet. Her companion either didn’t notice or chose to disregard the stares. Then again, he was male. He had nothing to worry about apart from his next meal.
She glanced up at the rising moon on the other side of the sunset. A few more months and her childless fate would be sealed. Soon, she’d have no worries either.
“Your thinking face always means trouble.” The boy nudged her shoulder.
“Then you should stop watching my face,” she countered, but her smile didn’t reach her eyes.
“Impossible!” When she cast a curious look his way, he quickly added, “Maybe you should stop worrying about what people are thinking.”
“I’m not.” She lifted her chin.
He scoffed. “Then what are you thinking about?”
She hesitated. “About how lucky I am.”
The boy glanced at her with a familiar lopsided smile that usually preceded his worst ideas. That look had led him down the wrong path more times than she could count—stealing apples from the merchant’s cart, sneaking onto rooftops to watch the stars, then target practice with daggers aimed at apples on crates until they fell to the street below… hitting bystanders on the heads.
But no trouble came today—just a blush. Perhaps the boy was feeling sick. Or maybe she wasn’t as familiar with his faces as he was with hers.
“Lucky?” He swiped a damp, blond curl from his forehead.
“Yeah.” A knot of anxiety tightened in her stomach. “The chances are almost nothing, right? Most girls my age would have shown signs by now if they were… you know.”
“Most girls your age don’t have blue hair,” he teased, flicking an escaped strand of her unusual blue locks. For generations,the God Kasaros had brought women from other worlds for the Bride Hunt, so she was unsure of her ancestors’ origins.
She shrugged, feigning indifference. “Blue or not, I’m probably still barren.”
The boy didn’t respond immediately. His gloved fingers tightened around his bundle. “Does that make you sad?” he asked finally.
The girl stopped and faced him.
“No,” she replied. “If anything, it’s freeing. No one will cart me off to the Pen or parade me through the streets. I won’t be painted and stuffed into silly dresses or taught to kneel and serve. I can just… live. Like we talked about. We can join the military and get out of this frozen pit of a town.” Her eyes widened with excitement. “Or even better, become raiders! We can see the world.”
The boy nodded slowly, his gaze dropping to the snow.
She nudged his shoulder. “And what about you?”
His answer was soft. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little sad. About not having children.”
She tilted her head and laughed. “Really? You, a father?”
He tugged on his woolen hat, but it failed to hide the flushed tip of his ears. “What’s so funny about that?”
“Nothing! I just can’t picture it.” She felt heavy at his disappointed expression and supposed he had a lonely childhood. His mother had died in childbirth, and his father lost his life in one of the many wars. The boy had come to her house every evening for a meal but stayed for the company.
