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Prologue

Carin had always hated executions.

She hated the brutality, the needless cruelty. She hated the nearly feral thirst for violence radiating from the crowds that would inevitably gather. The smell of blood and urine, the harsh clamor of steel mixed with shouts and screams and pleas for mercy. Since the Schism, there had been many executions. Some would say too many. Others, too few.

As she stared at the motionless body lying in a pool of blood and filth in the middle of the old barn, she sincerely hoped that tonight would be different. She had always hated executions, more so now that she was to be the executioner.

Bloodshot eyes blinked open, the yellow irises nearly lost beneath the patchwork of bruises and swollen flesh. The man groaned, his cracked lips parting. Even though Carin couldn’t decipher the broken, garbled stream of words that fell out of him, she knew his meaning: water. Just a fewdrops, enough to wet his tongue, to wash away the taste of blood and bile. It would be a mercy.

Carin glanced at the trough shoved into the corner but remained seated, perched on the edge of an empty stall door. “Vaughn,” she warned, pulling her cloak tighter as another drip of rain leaked through the roof and trickled down her neck, soaking the few wisps of honey-colored hair that had escaped her braid. It was always raining on this damned island. “I have orders to discipline you if you don’t stay quiet. Our master is almost done reviewing your testimony about the incident in Vale. It won’t be long now.”

Vaughn groaned again, his burly shoulders trembling. He had been tied here for three days now, denied food and water as he was routinely beaten and healed and beaten again. That was the consequence of failure. And while Carin didn’t know the exact details of what had happened with this man, she knew why he was here. The time mage and Vaughn’s inability to detain her was all anyone in the outpost was talking about.

Another moan. Another feeble whimper. But then, Vaughn quieted, his head slumping to the ground.

Thank the Shards, Carin thought. She didn’t want to have to beat him again. If he survived his interrogation, he likely wouldn’t forget the things she had already been made to do.

The barn door creaked open, and the low hiss and patter of the storm raging just outside the thin, rotting walls intensified. Lightning streaked the sky, and for half a heartbeat, night turned into day.

Carin scrambled off her perch, then dropped to one knee. “S-sire,” she stammered, wincing atthe slight squeak in her voice. No matter how many times she met their master face-to-face, no matter how many hours she stood in his presence, she would never get used to that fog of dead air that seemed to follow him. It was like a miasma, sickly and suffocating and inescapable.

The door slammed shut, the sound almost lost in the peal of thunder that boomed overhead, and a hooded figure, little more than a shadow in the flickering light of the storm, stood at the far side of the barn.

Unmoving. Silent. But watching.

Just like he had been watching that night in the tavern. The night her life had changed.

Heavy footsteps echoed, and Carin’s lungs began to burn. She couldn’t stop her body from trembling as she ducked lower to the ground, pressing her cheek against the trampled hay and excrement that littered the floor.

A gentle hand caressed her hair, and she flinched, her whole body shaking. “Lady Fenmar.” The voice was soft, too young for the predator that lurked beneath that heavy, black-furred cloak. “Rise, child.”

Carin scrambled to her feet, ducking her head and failing to completely suppress the shudder that ran through her when the figure continued to observe her. Though his height was decidedly average, his build slight, that aura of emptiness was searching. She could feel its tendrils brushing across her skin, coiling around her body like a snake preparing to devour its prey.

The aether in her blood shivered when she felt him withdraw.

The hood obscured his eyes. When he smiled, his full lips parting, it was merely a flash of too-white teeth in the shadows. “Has he given you any trouble?” the man asked, his voice crisp and cultured, almost amiable. As though he were inquiring about the weather or commenting on the rain.

Carin glanced at the man still bound and gagged on the floor. His yellow eyes were round and frightened, and he watched, taking in every breath, every movement. “No, Sire,” she said. “He’s been quiet.”

The man chuckled. “Lady Fenmar,Carin.” She hated the hand that landed on her shoulder. “How long have we known each other now? How long have we been here, on Tempris, working together for the betterment of our people?”

Too long, Carin thought, catching a glimpse of her sleeve. When she had first come to Tempris, her tunic had been new—bright carnation pink to match the color of her eyes. The pigment was nearly gone now, washed away by months of sun and rain and sweat.

“Sorry,” she whispered, swallowing hard. “Aneirin.” The name felt like ash on her tongue.

Aneirin gave a satisfied nod before stepping across the room and crouching in front of the man. “Well, Vaughn.” He grabbed a fistful of dark hair, pulling the shadow mage’s eyes to his. “Shall we get started?”

Aneirin made a gesture, and Carin rushed forward, placing an old, rickety chair behind him before skittering a safe distance away.

Aneirin swept his cloak to the side, revealing a formal frock coat made of deep blue satin and trousers to match. His face remained hooded as he lowered himself into the chair with effortlessgrace. “You may show your respects,” he said, and pushed a boot forward.

Vaughn struggled, flopping awkwardly as he tried to inch his way forward with both his arms and legs bound tightly behind him. When he was able, he placed his lips upon the polished leather of the man’s boot. “Sire,” he whimpered pitifully. “Have mercy, Sire. Master. I did not know that the girl—”

“And I still do not believe you.” Aneirin gestured idly, barely more than a flick of his finger. “Carin? If you would be so kind.”

Carin approached the shadow mage, doing her best to ignore his increasingly desperate petitions for mercy as she pulled a small dagger from the sheath at her waist. Its wooden hilt felt warm against her chill skin, and her expression remained stoic as she dragged her palm across the blade. So much of shadow magic was tied up in bloodletting—all shadow mages eventually learned to ignore the pain.

Blood welled around the cut, and she channeled her aether, slowing her body’s natural healing as she crouched in front of the man. Grabbing his hair, for he had yet to cooperate with anyone that had approached him, she thrust her palm into his mouth, using her magic to bolster her strength when he began to struggle. Eventually, she felt something catch, like a gentle tapping on the inside of her thoughts. He’d swallowed. Not much, barely a drop. But it was enough.