Prologue
Elonian Prophecy
When the last star dims
and the dawn of an endless night looms,
the Starkeeper will burn,
for where it walks death follows.
Tens of thousands of years ago when the realms were racked by a hundred-year war between Fero and Saru, the twin gods of death and creation, a magi with the ichor of akasha in his veins and the runes of power etched onto his skin appeared to safeguard the world of men.
Though the guardians of the four Royal Stars and the forebearers of all magic—Venant, Tascheter, Satevis, and Haftorang—did not intervene in the ways of ruthless gods, when the mortal world was pushed to the edge of obliteration by Fero’s dark arcane followers, they gifted the magi with the might of the stars. Between his star-touched light and Saru’s spark, victory was achieved. The realm of men was saved from Fero’s eternal darkness.
Some say the magi’s powers vanished with him upon his death; others say they simply remained quiet as the years slipped into centuries. No matter the truth, the world was at peace... and Saru slept.
Eventually, the gods, the guardians, and the magi were forgotten by the very men they had saved, and human kings, sovereignty, and power became the new gods. Saru and Fero faded into obscurity, their existence reduced to legend and their godly powers distilled to myth.
But like all monstrous things, the god of death was infinitely patient...
The light of the stars could not endure forever, after all.
Chapter One
His Imperial Majesty, King Zarek Acharia, requests your presence as his esteemed guest.
The gold powder dusting the black scroll sticks to my clammy fingers like a layer of fine desert sand. The paper is thick and smooth to the touch, the lettering within inlaid with what looks like real gold and infused with some mysterious, honeyed fragrance. I rub the parchment between my thumb and forefinger, delighting in the distinctive quality of the stock.
Sands, but it’s gorgeous.
I glance around my cramped forge, half expecting to see a royal messenger standing at attention, but the elegant invitation from the Imperial House had had no escort. It’d been sitting on my anvil, quite visible and jarringly out of place, when I’d returned from a quick trip to the inn for a pitcher of water. My name is engraved on the outside in an elaborate sweeping script:MissSuraya Saab, House of Aldebaran.
I scan the contents again. If the invitation is to be believed, it’s a royal summons to appear at court as a potential bride for the crown prince. As in His Royal Highness, Prince Javed, the richest, most eligible bachelor in the entire kingdom. An invitation sent tome:barkeep, bladesmith, and most definitelynotfuture queen material.
I let out a snort of disbelief. It must be a mistake.
Or worse, a joke.
An expensive and outrageous joke, but one all the same. The puzzle pieces fall into place. If I weren’t inured to the ways of spiteful women, I’d bet this entire forge that the royal seal emblazoned on the summons was real; but knowing what I do, this steaming pile of horseshit has the stamp of Simin all over it.
Muttering a slew of curses upon my nemesis’s head, I crumple and toss the presumably fake invitation to the ground and turn my focus on the dagger I’d been working on before this nonsense prank appeared to ruin my day.
Don’t let her win. You have better things to do.
Pushing Simin to the back of my mind, I draw the cooled blade from the barrel of sand and nod with satisfaction. The metal gleams faintly with an opalescent color from the shard of jadu I’d carefully smelted into the steel. The magical properties of the crystal will allow the blade to cut through anything, from armor to bone. It’s practically indestructible.
And completely illegal.
Jadu shards are the only remaining slivers of magic in the kingdom. Every precious ounce is mined and measured, and can only be handled by crown-approved craftsmen or the king’s imperial runecasters. I’d haggled for the tiny sliver, paying an exorbitant ten gold pieces to a crooked trader passing through Coban a year ago—literally myentiremeager life savings and practically the cost of a house. I couldn’t let the opportunity pass, even if the consequences of being caught are dire. Magic thieves are gruesomely executed. I don’t want my skull on a pike and spelled to never rot by the king’s runemasters, thank you very much.
No one will find out. Stop obsessing about it.
Still, I feel a nervous twinge in my gut. While my self-taught forging skills are in some demand, my on-again, off-again employer, Vasha, a powerful lord in the House of Aldebaran from the neighboring city, will toss me to the wolves at the first hint of trouble. He is officially employed by the crown to work with regulated jadu in his forge. I am not.
Vasha had discovered my talent quite by accident during a visit to my family’s inn. The inn sits next door to my workshop, and when one of the patrons mentioned I was a bladesmith, he’d asked to see it. To my dismay, some of the runic symbols for fire and ice I’d been experimenting with had been carelessly visible on discarded bits of steel that littered the floor. It was dangerous for any commoner to be caught playing about with runes... especially caught by alord. I’d felt the sweat hot on my spine as my mind raced for some explanation.
Vasha had narrowed his eyes. “Have you ever worked with jadu before?” he’d asked.
