Chapter 1
The wagon jolted over a stone, and Delia's teeth cracked together hard enough to taste copper.
She'd stopped bracing for the ruts two days ago. There was no point. The road through Stonehall Pass was carved into the mountainside by generations of travelers who'd clearly hated anyone who came after them. Every bone in her body ached. Her wrists, bound loosely in front of her with rope that had long since rubbed the skin raw, throbbed with her pulse.
She'd learned to keep her head down. Eyes on her lap. On her hands. On the dirty hem of her dress, which had been her second-best dress once, before her mother had packed it for her with trembling fingers and saidit will be fine, Delia, noble households treat their servants well, you'll have good food and a warm bed, and when the debt is cleared—
Delia's jaw tightened. She made herself stop thinking about her mother.
The wagon hit another rut. The woman beside her swayed into Delia's shoulder. She was thin, all sharp angles and hollowcheeks, her wrists like kindling in their bindings. She didn't apologize for the contact. Didn't even seem to notice.
Three other workers shared the wagon bed. An older man with a rattling cough that had gotten worse each night. A boy who couldn't be more than fifteen, his eyes too large in his gaunt face. And a woman about Delia's age, though she looked a decade older, her gaze fixed on some middle distance that held nothing at all.
Delia had tried to speak with them the first day. Soft questions.Where are you from? How long is your contract? Do you know what household we're going to?
They'd looked at her like she was speaking another language. Or like she was a child who hadn't yet learned that speaking was pointless.
She understood now.
The canvas covering the wagon did nothing to keep out the cold. Wind knifed through the gaps, carrying the smell of pine and wet stone. They'd been climbing for hours. Climbing toward the border. Toward the edge of the kingdom, where civilization thinned and the stories got darker.
The Iron Wilds,her father had called them, late at night when he'd had too much ale and his tongue loosened.That's where the monsters live. The orcs. They'll tear a man apart just to watch him bleed.
The wagon slowed. Delia lifted her head despite herself, peering through the gap in the canvas. The light was failing, dusk turning the world gray and gold, and she could make out theshapes of the two guards on horseback, silhouetted against a sky heavy with clouds.
"We stop here," one of them called back. Harren, his name was. A thick man with a beard that didn't hide his weak chin. "Storm's coming. We'll shelter by the rocks."
The other guard—younger, meaner, with eyes that lingered on the bound workers like they were calculating livestock—made a sound of disgust. "Half a day from the worksite and you want to camp?"
"Feel free to ride through lightning on the mountain pass. I'm not explaining to Castellan Vorn why his cargo arrived crispy."
Delia's hands curled into fists.
She should be used to it by now. Should have made peace with it somewhere between her mother's tears and the moment the guards had locked the wagon gate behind her. But the word still landed like a blow, still made shame curl in her throat.
Cargo.As if she were bolts of cloth. Sacks of grain. Something to be weighed and measured and found—
Wanting.
The wagon lurched to a halt. Delia's body swayed forward, her bound hands catching on the bench. Beside her, the woman's eyes were closed, her breathing shallow, her skin too pale in the fading light.
She's sick,Delia thought.She's dying.
Then:That's going to be me.
The thought should have brought terror. Instead, it brought something worse—a numbness that spread through her chestlike frost. This was her life now. This was her future. Bound hands and silent companions and a destination that no one would tell her the truth about.
Household service,her mother had said.A noble family in the frontier territories needs staff. Clean work. Respectable.
Delia had believed her. Had wanted so desperately to believe her that she'd ignored the way her mother's voice shook, the way her father wouldn't meet her eyes, the way the debt collector had smiled when the contract was signed.
The guards dismounted. Delia heard the creak of leather, the stamp of hooves, the low murmur of conversation she couldn't quite make out.
She should stay still. Be invisible, the way she'd learned to be invisible her whole life, taking up too much space in a world that wanted her smaller, quieter, less.
You're too much,her aunt had told her once, pinching the soft flesh at her hip.No man wants a wife he can't get his arms around. You'll need to be useful in other ways.
Useful. That was the word they all used. As if she were a tool to be employed, not a person to be—
