A scraping noise echoes from the far end of the room, and I tense, instinctively reaching for the knife that should be strapped to my thigh, only to realize it’s gone.
Panic spikes in my chest as an iron door groans open, spilling golden light into the chamber as a tall silhouette steps through.
It’s then I see them—five other girls scattered around me, each curled on her own bed of cushions with white-wrapped limbs and dirt-streaked faces, none of which I recognize. We’re all in ceremonial gowns, some more intact than mine. I’m the only one fully upright, but others are stirring now. A cough here, a whimper there. One girl moans as she rolls to her side, spitting out the same black fluid I did.
We’re bruised. Bloodied. But breathing.
The figure approaches, moving like a breeze through silk. Tall and otherworldly, she has skin the color of moonstone, a pale lavender with a faint shimmer, and narrow, tilted eyes. Her golden hair falls in a thick, beaded braid. Her dress shifts like smoke, indigo melting into night-black, embroidered with falling stars.
“Good morning,” she says, her voice a slow drag of silk over polished stone.
More doors open along the far walls, and morning light streams in, illuminating the obsidian chamber in warm, dappled gold. The other girls groan and shift, some sitting up, others still clutching their sides.
“My name is Mayverius,” she says, folding her hands, “high attendant to His Majesty’s Bloodmoon Brides and ambassador to Eldrien. You may call me Mae.”
No one responds.
“I imagine you have questions,” she continues. “And you shall have answers—but not while you’re half-dead. Come. The bathsawait. You are to be healed, dressed, and prepared for your introduction.”
“Introduction?” a husky voice croaks beside me, threaded with an accent I don’t recognize. She’s tall, copper-skinned, and freckled. Her long, dark hair is matted in ropes. Blood dots her temple, but her eyes are sharp and alert.
Mae nods serenely. “You are guests of His Majesty. Tomorrow night, a grand ball will be held in your honor. You will be presented to the court… and to the king.”
“The king?” a tremulous voice asks, and I swing my attention to a slight girl on the far sofa. Her curls cling to damp cheeks, her large hazel eyes darting like a cornered rabbit.
“But Solmere has no king,” I rasp, my throat dry.
Mae arches one brow. “My dear, this is not Solmere.”
A hush falls over us.
That’s when I realize that the last two other girls standing near the back wall dressed in clean, pale gowns. They stand up straight, and their eyes are clear and unafraid. One is tall, with soft brown waves and eyes like pale glass. Her skin is creamy, untouched by the sun. The other is equally tall but more imposing. Her intricately braided black hair is threaded in silver, and her violet eyes seem to catch every flicker of movement like a hunting hawk.
Even the way they glance at each other, as if bored, tired of the peasantry, says this isn’t news to them.
Northerners, I realize.
They must be fromGrathmoor, a province ruled by iron and order, with money old as their fortresses. To thesouth,Solmeregleams—all temples, vineyards, and silk-tongued politics, with laws that make leaving harder than arriving. In theeast,Eldrien keeps its own counsel in the forests, full of guilds, old magic, and debts written in runes and ink. Finally, to thewest,Korran Valeruns wide and wind-born:They’re horsepeople and traders, families who measure wealth by miles, not coins.
Abrellia was once a kingdom united, and we still call the vast continent we share by its ancestral name. But in practice, Abrellia is no longer one realm but four. Four regions, four ways of surviving. Two wealthy, two barely scraping by. Each suspicious of the others.
What keeps us divided isn’t borders drawn on maps but policy. Tariffs. Papers. Patrols.
We may share a kingdom in name, but in truth, each region keeps to itself. In Solmere, we are forbidden from leaving our borders without explicit permission from the Council. Travel is regulated. Knowledge is rationed. The world beyond our vineyards and coastlines is kept deliberately vague, blurred by law and tradition alike.
That ignorance is not accidental. It’s enforced.
And yet these girls—these daughters of Grathmoor—move through the halls as if they belong here. As if the rules that bind us do not apply to them. There is ice in their veins and certainty in their steps. Even the fairy attendants hovering at their sides look different—sharper, colder, less ornamental.
The North, apparently, is nothing like Solmere. And seeing them here, so at ease, I realize just how little we’ve been told.
A shadow-winged servant hovers near the brown-haired girl with the poise of a warden, and another that sparkles like icy flecks over obsidian guards the raven-haired beauty. The rest keep their distance, efficient and unblinking.
Mae turns in a swish of skirts, beckoning us toward the arched corridor. “Follow me,” she says. “The sooner we begin, the sooner you will understand the honor you’ve been granted.”
We follow her in a hushed procession, bare feet brushing obsidian tile as the corridor curves downward. The air grows warmer, fragrant with lavender, juniper, and something sharper—coppery, almost like blood. Every surface gleams. Veins of silver run through the walls like living vines, pulsing with light.
The corridor opens into a cavern so beautiful that my breath catches.
