Then something moves. A dark shape vaults onto the bed with a low thump.
Kat shrieks, flinging the blanket over her head.
I instinctively reach for my dagger before a familiar yowl fills the air.
“Stars above—!” I gasp.
“Stormpaw!” Kat cries, yanking the blanket down. The cat blinks at us, unbothered, his tail curling smugly, as if he planned the scare.
Kat scoops him into her arms, pressing her face into his black and white fur. “You nearly stopped my heart, you wicked creature.”
Despite everything, I laugh. “You’ve always been too soft on him.”
She smirks. “You’re just jealous that he likes me better.”
Stormpaw’s loud purr fills the quiet like a balm. The tension breaks, and even the shadows seem to retreat.
Kat slips back under the covers, still clutching the overfed fluffball to her chest, and rests her head on my shoulder. “After tomorrow, everything will be different. The Bloodmoon will pass, and maybe the gods will finally leave our family alone.”
I want to believe her, I really do.
She yawns and curls closer. “Try to sleep, Rose.”
“I’ll try,” I whisper, brushing her hair from her face.
Her breathing steadies first. I lie awake longer, listening to the purring at my side mixed with Kat’s soft snore, which only grows louder the deeper she descends into sleep. She’d deny it, of course, but my sister snores like a man. I shake my head and tuck her close to me, smooshing Stormpaw tightly between us as sleep drags me under.
Chapter 3
Veyora
The sun rises blood-red. The morning of the Bloodmoon always feels like a curse.
To my surprise, my bed is empty. Kat, the girl who grew up refusing to get up before dawn, is out doing gods only know what. I turn toward the window and watch fire bleed across the sky, ablaze from horizon to horizon, as if it already knows what’s coming. Smoke from a thousand festival pyres stains the air, and the skin beneath my scar hums in response.
I don’t have the luxury of fear. Cattle and horses still need feeding. Reins need mending. Colts need training. Routine keeps the ghosts quiet.
I drag on my leather pants and tunic, every mechanical motion grounding me. The scent of roasted meat and sweet bread drifts through the open shutters, festive and cloying. Even miles from the city, Veyora’s noise and smoke reach the ranch. The Dragon Song has begun, low and steady as heartbeat:
Come, god of flame. Come take her away.
This bride is yours forever.
We give her heart. We give her soul.
Bring prosperity and good fortune to us all.
Let fire cleanse. Let ashes fall.
The cool morning air and heavy fragrances greet me as I head to the stables. My mare Ashwing greets me with an excited whinny, nickering playfully as she grabs her brush between her teeth and bobs her head up and down, demanding that I brush her.
“Alright, alright.” I reach into my pocket. “A biscuit for the brush.”
I hold out my hand just in time to catch the grooming tool before it clatters to the floor. Ashwing takes the treat from my hand in one bite, slobbering me in the process. I chuckle. She really loves her morning biscuit—especially now that she’s eating for two.
I gently brush her and clean her feet. Her coat is as black as cooled coal, patterned in smoky gold lines that curve like wings mid-beat. Her mane catches the pale light like frost, and her eyes, storm-touched and fierce, study me with an ancient wisdom, as if she remembers what the sky forgot.
She’s due to foal in a few months. Here, in the hush of the stables, the world still makes sense.
