“Down here!” She squeaks.
Candlelight illuminates the concerned brow of her cousin, Duke Bertram Alexandrite. His shoulders relax as he spots her.
“I was worried sick about you.” He scoffs as if her falling through the hole was her fault.
“Sorry, Bertie.” She apologizes for worrying him.
“I found her,” he calls over his shoulder. “Bring a ladder.”
Avina is thrilled to be discovered by Bertie and not his sister, who has a habit of picking on her.
Bertie turns his attention back to his cousin. “Whatcha got there, Shadow?”
She sighs. “Why do you still call me that?”
“Because you might have that nifty little invisibility power, but I still know you’re here. You can never fully avoid me.” He laughs. “Stop ignoring me and tell me what’s in your hand.”
Her gaze falls to the parchment, and her fingers trace over the torn end of the mystery prince’s name. Her mouth opens to tell her best friend, but something stops her. She folds the paper, slipping it into a pocket of her dress.
“Nothing.” She lies. “It’s rubbish.”
5
SIGVID
Seventeen Winters Ago
Year 83, 9th Era
Toftlund City, Salt Province
Sigvid flexes his biceps as he stalks along the outer fence of the Toftlund City sparring ring. The opponents inside tumble and snarl at one another, stirring up a cloud of dust.
He leans against one of the canopy posts, tapping his finger absently on the railing as he watches his closest mate, Slode, a lean young man, sock his opponent between the eyes. Cheers roar in his ears as the Healer steps inside to assess the boy who has lost consciousness.
His opponent should have ducked, wrapped his leg, and pulled it out, knocking him to the ground.
“Am I lucky enough to see you fight today, my lord?”
A girl about his age slides up to him with a blushing smile. Her eyes shamelessly inspect the new tattoo of a nautilus shell over his heart before trailing to the side of his head, where five black dashes mark the lives he has taken.
He shakes his headwith a sigh.
The girl trails her fingers along his exposed forearm. “How about after the fight, Your Highness?”
Sigvid tilts his head to take in her low-cut bodice and cheap hip-hugging gown with a vicious smirk that falters her interest.
“You can not handle me.” He growls low before abandoning the ring and trudging to his home in the center of town.
“Sigvid!” his mother stands in the garden outside their home with her hands on her hips. “Where have you been? The advisors have already left the midday meeting with your father.”
Sigvid frowns. “Was there much for me to miss, Mother?”
She assesses him coolly, even if the faint twinkle in her eye betrays her affection for her oldest. “If you wish to be Lord Commander of the Salt Army one day. I daresay your Father wished to introduce you to many of our generals.”
“I will do better, Mum.”
When the front door opens, his younger brother, Thrain–munching loudly on an apple–emerges onto the top step. While even his mother wears a dirty old frock to pull the weeds, Thrain adorns himself in a regal sharp vest, trousers, and freshly brushed, shiny chestnut hair.
