Prologue
Freville
The cloth bagthrown over Freville’s head threatened to suffocate him. He spied through the small holes at his surroundings, sniffing the woodsy air. His legs were cramping, and the rifle pushing at his back wasn’t doing him any favors, nor were his bound hands.
Only hours ago, he thought he’d make it safely to Luana Bay. He’d been close, but his gnawing hunger had gotten the better of him. He’d managed to catch a silverling. It’d been his first kill without the assistance of one of his servants. Usually, he only hunted for sport, but he hadn’t eaten in two days. Only small villages with whispering gossips littered the woods between Luana Bay and Duncaster, and he couldn’t afford to be spotted within one of the local taverns or inns. As a lord, he would’ve been recognized immediately.
He’d been only a day’s ride from Luana Bay, where he planned to seek refuge and warn the Duke of Luana, but they’d caught up to him. Days of riding through the woods had left Freville exhausted and careless. His fire had likely given away his position.
Freville took another step, the impact contorting his ankle. Pain shotup his leg, and he tumbled to the ground in a pitiful display of nobility. His frock coat was somewhere among the leaves and dirt back in Duncaster, and his waistcoat made of the finest silk from Soyenia was in ripped shambles.What a miserable way to die.
“Get up!” his captor barked.
The barrel of the man’s rifle dug into the back of Freville’s skull. A hoarse cough escaped him, built through the decades of smoking badaka and uppaway. He forced himself to stand.
After another hour, his captor grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and threw him into the dirt. His old knees protested, but he waited. The bag was ripped from his head and the waning hours of the sun cascaded an aura around the man standing with his rifle aimed at Freville’s chest. He was a tall and lanky man with cinnamon-colored hair. Freville recognized him as one of Drauna’s men who accompanied her in their last meeting. If only he could remember the man’s name.
“Let’s get this over with,” he grumbled, lifting his rifle and closing a silver eye.
“Wait!” Freville begged, raising his hands and further chafing his wrists against the rope.
A rustle sent the hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end.
“Why should I bother giving you any more breath?”
It was her.
Drauna stepped from the dense foliage and planted a long, pointed nail on the end of the barrel. Her brunette locks were thrown in a wind-gusted braid, and her golden eyes bore holes into Freville’s soul. He squirmed at her close proximity, but he felt a moment of reprieve when she forced her companion to lower his weapon.
“Please,” he pleaded.
Drauna picked a bit of lint from her shoulder and flicked it into the leaf covered terrain, as if she were bored. “You crossed me.”
“I’d never—”
“Then why were you running like a frightened lemchy with your tail between your legs?”
“I…” Freville stammered. “I’m headed to Luana Bay now.”
Drauna kneeled before him, her red jacket spilling around her like a ceremonial gown. Streaks of black were embroidered in interconnected lines, rendering a lightning storm. She grabbed his chin with her nails, caressing his graying beard.
“He’s lying,” the man with the rifle spat.
Drauna smirked. “You don’t think I know that?”
The temperature dropped, and Freville’s ears popped. He gazed around the small clearing as the sky darkened and thunderclouds rolled in at an impossible speed. He gaped at the woman before him, but any words died in his throat.
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Drauna began. “Diggory is going to put a round ball in your heart, and maybe I’ll let your family live. They can spend their days without your nuisance on your estate, drinking kusu in excess and relishing in your absence. How does that sound?”
The blood drained from his face. “Drauna, I promise you—”
“You’re through making promises you can’t keep. I’ve waited too long for a measly squirm like you to come along and ruin what I’ve spent years building.” She tapped her nails down his neck as an echo to the beat of his hammering pulse.
Diggory grunted in approval and once again raised his rifle.
“What you ask is treason!”
“It’s only treason if you’re on the wrong side.” She drew her nails over his skin, pressing until a trickle of blood seeped from the cut.
