Page 6 of Sworn to the Shadow Throne

A few men hovered on the periphery, shifting their weight and clearing their throats as they cast uneasy glances everywhere but directly at the confrontation. After a moment, he shifted the child into the dead woman’s arms.

I let go of him before my magic could cause any more trouble today.

The small gestures wouldn’t change anything—the dead would stay dead—but someone had to remember that they’d belonged to each other. Someone needed to remember that these people had been more than opportunities for personal gain.

When the last body burned, Elbort approached, clutching his left hand. He’d scorched his fingers while trying to pry a pair of boots off a burning body.

My smile, like the insincere “Sorry” I offered, lacked any real warmth or feeling. “Too low on magic after what happened earlier.”

Some of the color drained from Elbort’s face before his cheeks flashed red with anger.

My smile only grew. Try me, it begged. I have enough guilt about things I didn’t want to do in the first place. Teaching you a lesson would bring me a special kind of joy.

He backed down immediately. I’d never attacked anyone in the village, but sometimes fixing injuries required creating new ones. The tales of what I’d done were evidence enough of my power.

The rest of the men barely looked at me as I climbed onto the wagon, clutching the fine woolen cloak and the pair of boots I’d stripped from a pregnant woman my age. I told myself I took the boots for one of the children. Then my foot shifted on the slick leaves, and cold mud seeped into the hole in my own sole. The lie was a useless shield the woman’s sightless eyes saw straight through.

I hadn’t cried then, but now the tears I’d held back for hours spilled over.

So much hope, cut short.

While the men traded jests over their prizes, I said nothing. I sat there clutching my stolen cloak, blood still sticky beneath my nails, my stomach churning with guilt as their laughter bounced across a dead village. Their arms were even more burdened with riches than mine, and their hands just as stained with blood, but I was the only one who seemed to falter after what we’d done.

I’d carry these memories to my grave.

We turned our backs on the ruin left behind by politics that had nothing to do with this once sleepy village and headed home. As the wagon creaked down the road, golden leaves stained with ash and dark splatters crunched beneath its wheels. I kept my eyes on the tree line, ears straining for hoofbeats, for shouting, for the next raid—anything to drown out the guilt that still clung to me.

I hadn’t recovered by the time we crossed the wards that surrounded Selmont. The magic protecting our little village trembled as my own made contact with the veil.

Not good. The veil only shivered like that when its power was low. The wards would hold for tonight; they had to. But I’d have to shore them up tomorrow so our people could escape any raiding party’s attention.

The problem was, I was no true ward-weaver. Not like my mother. My magic could weave delicate lines through veins and muscles, but it was a true effort to pour myself into cold, unyielding stone like she had. Shoring up the veil that kept Selmont hidden would drain me in ways healing never did.

I didn’t dare say it aloud—not around these men—but something…something told me that no matter how much of my power I poured into it, it might not be enough, because the raids were getting worse.

I drew my shawl tighter as a gust of wind sliced across the wagon, stinging with a chill and the promise of rain. I pretended normality as I returned home that evening, saying as little as possible to the men as I departed. But a sense of foreboding remained, a heavy weight in my stomach that refused to ebb.

That night, I pulled the sheets over myself, and Muffin wrapped his long, furry body around my arm, his little paws hugging me in his sleep. As I shut my eyes, that same distant pull brushed the core of my magic again, even softer this time. It felt as though it were searching for something, searching for me.

Lying there, alone in my bed, I added another comfortable lie to my list. I told myself that the strange feeling didn’t mean anything, that it couldn’t possibly be the gods warning me of an approaching storm, or something deeper nudging me to pay attention.

I’d always possessed a remarkable talent for self-deception, but it wouldn’t take long for me to be proven wrong.

Chapter 3

Owain

I’d given my word, so today I would ride north to court a woman I hadn’t met in more than a decade, for a peace I wasn’t certain would hold. There was nothing left to do but prepare.

After the soaking rains earlier in the week, the clear skies were an icy blue. The morning’s chill had already crawled into my armor and taken up residence, a familiar enemy that no amount of padding could keep out. I could cheat—burn magic to chase the ache from my fingers—but my men couldn’t. My comfort was irrelevant; my honor was not. A commander who selfishly avoided hardship had no right to lead, so I huffed my breath into my gloves and endured it with them.

Behind us, the castle’s beige stone caught the early light, almost blinding in its beauty. The crowning building of Tir Larethia showed no pockmarks from stones hurled out of siege weapons. It had never known siege, and men like mine were the reason why. We stood freezing in its shadow so it could stay that way.

The castle courtyard hummed with a different kind of urgency than I was used to—men preparing to prevent bloodshed rather than cause it.

I walked among them, testing leather and steel, noting the smallest flaws. Decaying straps. A weak rivet that could cost a life in the wrong moment. All of it would be fixed before we rode. These men bled and died for our kingdom—for me. The least I could do was look them in the eyes before I asked them to do it again.

Men who moments before had been laughing with their fellows straightened when I approached. Their hunger for my approval was another chain, but one I wore with pride. Armored soldiers buckled saddles and bridles onto impatient horses, who stamped their hooves in anticipation of action. Women pulled their men into embraces, some weeping, others giving stern warnings as they said goodbye.