Prologue
In my mind, Sainte Nytestorm stood out among everyone else. In the midst of my world’s darkness, he shone like the brightest star. His constant proximity, his mere presence, was a soothing balm to my childhood wounds. It was he who saved me, rescued me from a sure death at the hands of my mad brother, Prince Regent of Wynterborne.
That night, the chill in the air had nothing to do with the foul weather and everything to do with my brother’s resentment. At six years old, I was bereft of my mother, who died giving birth to me, and my father, who succumbed to Winter’s Bite not two days prior.
I recalled the chilling sensation of pressing myself into the corner, seeking solace against the unyielding, icy stone wall. All I had for warmth and concealment was a thin tapestry, barely enough to shield me from the passing soldiers. Shouts rang out for me, harsh and demanding, chased by my brother’s hysterical laughter, echoing down the frigid corridors. Confused and scared, hopeless and cold, I hid, not knowing where to go or who to run to.
My brother was so much bigger, and my father was no longer there to protect me from his unpredictable bouts of violence and rage. Throughout my youth, Adastrus incessantly boasted of his impending kingship, and our father deflected his claims by reminding him of my potential to ascend the throne. However, with his demise, this only painted a target on my back. So I huddled behind the thick brocade, relying on its meager protection from my brother and the soldiers under his command.
Then Sainte found me.
Compared to my slight frame, he was a giant. He towered over, lifting the tapestry while I gripped the fabric with my tiny fists, as if it was my soleanchor to safety. He didn’t smile, didn’t offer words of comfort. In fact, I couldn’t recall a single moment he held my hand or coddled me as a child. It wasn’t in his nature.
I could still taste that surge of terror as he stooped low, then hoisted me over his broad, mail-plated shoulder. His pauldron dug into my abdomen with every jarring step as he rushed us out of the castle. Despite the pain, I was too terrified to emit anything more than a whimper.
The outside air of Wynterborne was no more friendly than inside. Bitter wind whipped and slashed, blowing up great gusts of snow. The blizzard was in full force, and few dared to brave the Howls of winter. This contributed to Sainte’s success of wrapping me in a blanket and placing me on his horse unseen. The discomfort of sharing a saddle seeped through every tense muscle in my body with each jolt and turn. A frigid sting scraped against my throat as winter threatened to inflict its bite upon me, as it had my late father. I stifled my cries, and Sainte did his best to care for a child on the cold, lonely road.
Together, a young girl and a soldier, we survived. He led us south toward the warmer nation of Gladier. Then, with greater determination, pushed through to the warm coastal nation of Tilamuik, and into the Meeds, where I found my home.
He left me with a household of seven children, making me the tenth member of their family. I don’t remember his departure, only waking to find he was no longer there.
On my eleventh birthday, I fought with Kelsie, the mother who took me in. If memory serves, it was an argument concerning whether or not I would eat the boiled squid—which, to this day, I still refuse. I stormed out of the house in tears, not only because she shouted at me, but because the rest of the children laughed at my refusal. To them, it was as normal as porridge, but to me it was as foreign as… well, squid.
The rickety shack bore no yard. It was crammed with multiple homes along a narrow, dirty alley. I sought solace beneath the decrepit branches of a stunted tree and sobbed. I cried for the familiar foods of my homeland, for the loss and abandonment that wreaked havoc on my heart. Alone. Truly alone.
“Ghehent, Elspeth.”
Even if he spoke in the native tongue of Muik, I would have still recognized that voice. I blinked away my tears and swiped at my wet cheeks as I squinted into the southern coast’s perpetually bright sky.
“Sainte?”
In answer, a shadow blocked out the sun, shielding my small stature. His broad frame loomed overhead, sword at his hip, battle ax strapped to his back. Still, I knew in my bones I had nothing to fear from this man.
“Why are you here? Alone?” He spoke in High Wynter, the language used in Wynterborne Castle, yet not a soul that shuffled through the alley paused to take note.
The passing years softened the edge of his gruff, curt voice. It wasn’t unusual for him to check in on Kelsie and I. Though now he took time to speak with me, ask after me with a gentleness I was unaccustomed to. I shrugged and stood, dusting off my torn, tattered dress that frayed at the seams. My stare focused on the dirty cobblestones beneath my feet, unable to meet his cool blue gaze as I formed my lie.
“It’s dinner time,” I said in Common Muik. “I’m not hungry.”
It felt like a betrayal to lie to him, as if I let him down by refusing to eat what the family provided while so many others went hungry.
“Some sweets then?” His voice caught on the last syllable as he still used High Wynter.
With a strange blend of shyness and joy, I smiled up at him, reveling in the fact that he hadn’t forgotten me or my birthday.
At the markets, we splurged on treats, spending far too much coin. When we settled on the soft, hot sand at the beach to dig in, the little girl and big soldier didn’t draw a second glance from the bustling crowd.
That was the first day I realized I had a crush on my savior.
It worsened every year he visited.
And so did I.
I rebelled against the household, shirking my duties, refusing to help where I was needed. My temperament grew loud and obnoxious, disrespectful and entitled. Heated disputes led to raised voices and harsh insults until I stormed off to the beach to cool down. Every passing day strengthened my awareness—I didn’t belong here. Sainte paid the family handsomely for my care, so much that they refused to abandon me regardless of how poorly I treated them, and I tested this theory often.
On my sixteenth birthday, my world came crashing down.
Over the last three years, he pinpointed me no matter my whereabouts in the city. It became a game of sorts, to have him seek me out. I ventured into the slums, where—considering the vileness of the upscale parts of Landing’s End—the worst of creation found themselves. With my hood up, hands shoved into the pockets of my torn trousers, and knives secured in my boots and tucked up against my navel, I shuffled through the riffraff, waiting for a familiar voice to surprise me in my native tongue.
