PART I
FATE
CHAPTER ONE
I takethe route I’ve traced thousands of times through the slums of Virellin that allows me to slip from shadow to shadow with practised ease—this time, not for thieving or raiding, but for Ronyn.
I glide across thatched roofs, down walls blackened by soot, slowly making my way through narrow alleyways that twist like veins through a corpse. I need to get to The Black Stream markets—they stand between the slums and The Barrier District.
The Black Stream is notoriously difficult to cross—oily, enchanted, corrosive. It’s the sole access to the other side, and the unspoken boundary between the privileged and the forgotten.
After dark, The Black Stream markets are a pit of anguish. Smoke curls in the air, clinging to my skin as desperately as I cling to survival, and the murmurs of deals for lives, steel, secrets, and flesh drift between the shadows. I keep my hood low, my hand hovering near the hilt of my favorite blade at my thigh, and my gaze steady and scanning for a way across the bridge. The Black Stream churns below, dark and venomous, a warning to anyone reckless enough to cross without permission.
Fortunately, I’m reckless. And the thought of Ronyn in danger is all it takes to steel my resolve.
Then I see it—a line of wagons, heavy with crates and covered cages.
One wagon inches forward, its caged passengers unmistakable beneath flickering torchlight. The faces of women, their eyes hollow, their lips pressed into silent fear. My stomach twists, but this is what The Black Stream markets are known for, and it is also my only chance. There’s no other way across. Not unless I want to swim through flesh-eating sludge.
The wagon master is easy to spot—a hulking man with a shaved head, a jagged scar splitting his left brow. He moves with the arrogance of someone who trades in things he doesn’t care about—lives, virtue, innocence. He’s standing by the lead wagon, counting coins that clink against his ostentatious rings.
Fitting.
I adjust my cloak, pulling it lower to reveal the curve of my collarbone and the swell of my breasts. My heart pounds, but I shove the fear down. I’ve been prey before; this time, I’ll make them believe I’m willing.
I walk seductively towards Jagged Scar, forcing confidence into my voice. “Good evening, sir,” I lilt, fluttering my eyelashes and averting my gaze. “I hear you’re heading across the bridge tonight.”
The man doesn’t even deign to glance up. “And what of it?” He sneers.
I drop my voice, lowering my hood just enough to show my face. I graze my teeth lightly over my lips—just enough to look tempting. “I’m looking for passage. A face like mine could fetch a fair price, don’t you think?”
That gets his attention. His head snaps up, his indecent eyes locking on mine. They roam over me, slow and deliberate, and I fight the urge to flinch and recoil.
“You think you’re clever, don’t ya, girl? Listen up—they won’t care about your face, love. I’m not selling faces. I’m selling bodies. You hear me?” His voice is thick with disdain. “I’m lookin’ for girls who can spread their legs. Clever gets girls killed around here.”
I let out a soft laugh and draw my cloak lower, exposing more of my frame, letting him know I am no stranger to what he is selling, and that I consent to it—not that my consent is a prerequisite forhim. “I’m not here to be clever. I’m here for an opportunity. Take me, and you’ll have one more beauty to sell.”
The silence stretches, his suspicion hanging in the air between us. I hold my breath.Don’t blink. If he says no, I’ll have to find another way—and fast.
But finally, he grunts, his lips curling into a smirk that makes my skin crawl.
“Fine. Climb in. But if you cause trouble, I’ll throw you in the stream before the guards even get a look at you.”
I nod, keeping my face neutral as I move toward the last wagon. My hands tremble beneath my cloak, but I don’t let him see.
Inside, the air is suffocating. The women glance up—wary, dulled by resignation. I take a seat in the corner, folding into the shadows. The wood beneath me is splintered, digging into my thighs through the thin fabric of my trousers.
A girl next to me—I doubt she’s seen sixteen summers—leans closer. Her voice is a shaky whisper. “Did you come here... willingly?” She drops her voice even lower. “Like them.” She tilts her head subtly to the others.
I glance at her—her cheeks are hollow, her wrists thin enough to snap, and her eyes are a mirror of every nightmare I’ve had. I lower my voice. “No. I’m here for passage. What’s your name?”
“Tess,” she whispers. “My father sold me. Said the money would feed my brothers.”
My jaw tightens, the urge to run my blade through every man near this wagon rising hot and sharp in my chest. But I force my voice to stay soft. “Stay close to me, Tess. Don’t speak. Don’t make a sound.”
She nods, her small hands trembling against her lap.
The wagon surges forward, and the creak of wheels mingles with the steady clop of hooves. The bridge is close, I know it. I close my eyes, the reek of smoke and sweat clogging my lungs, willing myself to stay still. Stay calm. Just get across.
