1
The sky is starless. The constellations died on Culling Day, but I keep looking up, like the world might mend itself if I refuse to forget how it once was. That desolate sky entombs the borderlands. Still, the wind moves like a living thing, whispering through the grass.
My Order talisman brought me here, but it refuses to reveal Osian’s exact location. I don’t let myself wonder why. So I fix my eyes on the western horizon and wait.
Time barely moves.
Then a wail shivers across the hills, so distant it barely seems human.
There he is.
I run toward the sound, into the dark, my heart hammering as the uneven ground fights my every step. A rock catches my boot, and I stumble.
I go down hard. Coarse grass scrapes my palm, and the ground jolts my knees. I ignore the flare of pain and crawl to the ridge, my breath fogging in the dark. Another bellow cuts through the night—closer this time.
The wind stills, as if the borderlands are listening.
Below, the valley is awash with torchlight, and the scent of smoke thickens the air. A fugitive kneels over a fallen member of the Order with a blade pressed to his exposed throat. Osian’s blond hair gleams beneath the firelight.
My breath catches.
A harsh red line stains his neck. His eyes are closed, like he’s already gone.
No.My heart wrenches painfully.
My hands shake as I draw my stolen sword. It feels impossibly heavy, like it’s holding the weight of the world in its steel. The blade screams as it leaves the scabbard, echoing through the valley. The fugitive snaps his head up. His eyes sweep across the hills, and for a heartbeat, the world vanishes around us. Anger burns in my veins.
I hold still, though my bones itch beneath my skin, desperate torun. I am not a fighter. That’s Osian’s duty. And yet, I can’t donothing, not while the most important person in my life is slipping away. I only have a few moments left to bring him back.
The fugitive’s hollow gaze drifts past me. Like most rebels, a traitor tattoo brands his throat: two black lines surrounded by a near perfect circle. Matted hair clumps around his tipped elven ears, and thick stubble covers his jaw. The tunic hanging in scraps around his shoulders is more pearl gray than black, like his month on the run has leeched the life out of it—and him.
“Come on out. I know you’re there. A Rhyfelwr never goes anywhere without their Swynwraig,” he calls in a rough voice that scrapes my raw nerves like rottenstone.
Except Osiandidcome here without me. He despises our assigned partnership. Says my magic is an abomination to the dead.
Slowly, I rise from the grass. The fugitive’s eyes narrow. A soft wind dances across the land, blowing smoke through thevalley. Neither of us makes a move, though his body vibrates, like he’s a snake preparing to strike.
“Step away from him, and there’ll be no need for more bloodshed,” I call out.
His gaze finds me, and his lips curl into a sneer.
“I don’t think so. I know who you are and what you can do.” He huffs a bitter laugh, his sword trembling in his hands. “You’ll raise him from the dead, and then he’ll come after me again. And this time, he’ll want revenge.”
I swear beneath my breath. The Order has tried to suppress all talk of my magic, as rare as it is, but gossip is one thing they’ve never managed to control.
“It doesn’t work like that,” I counter, raising my voice so it carries across the distance between us. “I can only bring him back a short time.”
The fugitive scowls, tightening his grip on his sword. He doesn’t believe me, and I don’t blame him. The dead rarely awaken for more than a few moments, but Osian isn’t like the others. We’ve shared fifteen years of history—enough that my magic might raise him longer than it should. I have to hope it will.
That hope is the only thing keeping me from shattering, like glass hurled against stone.
Because despite how strained our friendship has become, the thought of losing him makes me feel as fragile as an ant beneath a boot.
“You’ll have to fight me first,” he growls.
He strides toward me with no hesitation in his steps. As he draws closer, the firelight illuminates his broad shoulders and the corded muscles on his arms and chest.His hands no longer tremble. He holds his sword with confidence, as if it’s an extension of his body. Clearly, this fugitive is no untrained rebel, which means his fight against Osian wouldn’t have been hisfirst.That’show he bested him. Even without magic giving him extra strength, Osian is a master swordsman. Once, he even took down six men alone.
This man is skilled. And I’m not, at least not with weapons.
