Page 1 of A Dagger in the Ivy (Blade Bound #1)

C Hapter

We’re too late. I know it.

The stench of sun-scorched flesh hangs heavily in the air like a cloud of suffocating dread. The late morning beams of light struggle to steal through the thick canopy of trees as we breach the border of Aragheni. I squint as we exit the forest, and the small town beyond a ravaged cornfield comes into view. My breath shudders. I can feel the sorrow of the townspeople like a chill on my skin. The urgency of our mission grips me, the pounding of my horse’s hooves on the dirt road mirroring the frantic beat of my heart.

But I already know it’s too late.

Shit. There are three this time. Three bodies in the field strung up like fucking macabre scarecrows on vertical, eight-foot, wooden stakes speared into the soil. Dark blood cakes what’s left of their skin, but the exposed bones appear licked clean. No matter how many times my eyes take in the sight, it still makes bile rise from my stomach. But I can’t let it get in the way of my mission. No one would respect a commander of the Delasurvian Royal Regiment if they puked every time they came across a corpse .

No. I have to hold it together. Like every time before this.

“Whoa, Thora.” I pull on the reins, and my horse obeys, coming to a stop and causing my braid of silken umber to beat against my back. I pat her smooth, black neck as I scan the area.

My hand, calloused from countless battles, brushes along the baldric strapped across my body. I touch the jeweled hilt of my dagger, the solid feel of it giving me the reserve I need to continue. My lieutenant and sergeants follow suit as I dismount my horse and stomp toward the carnage.

Though the malevolent energy from the beasts’ attack still vibrates around me, our swords and daggers remain sheathed. The carnoraxis —flesh-eating creatures with sunken eyes and sharp, yellowed fangs and claws—have long since abandoned the slaughter, their objective accomplished. I don’t have to investigate whether or not the victims are fae. All the victims so far have been the third-born descendants in a fae family. And each of them unwilling sacrifices in a war against the Shadow Tsar.

Mylo Yaroslav, my lieutenant, approaches, and his massive, muscular size throws a shadow over the field. His jaw is set as he shakes his head. “At least there were no children this time.”

My skin crawls with repulsion from the thought.

Two of the fallen fae hang from their posts on the left side of the dirt road that lead into town. My eyes scan the corpse on the right.

“Check those two,” I tell Mylo, my gesture weak with defeat.

“Yes, Commander.”

I hesitate for a moment, preparing myself for the horror before me. The faces of the dead reflect the terror they endured in their final moments. Mouths agape, eyes rolled back in their skulls, torn apart by the eight-foot tall, ashen-skinned, emaciated creatures. A shiver runs down my spine as I approach the victim on the right, the stark reality of their demise etched into every inch of their contorted expression.

The stench of death hits me harder, assaulting my senses with its putrid intensity, and dread coils in the pit of my stomach like a serpent ready to strike. I press my lips together, determined to steel myself against the nauseating odor that threatens to overwhelm me. With each step closer, the sight before me becomes clearer, searing itself into my mind with chilling clarity.

Bathed in the harsh sunlight hangs a figure—limp and lifeless, yet unmistakably fae. His once-pale skin now bears the pallor of death, tinged with an eerie hue that speaks of the horrors he endured in his final moments. Strands of unruly hair, now matted with blood and dirt, cling to his forehead, framing features frozen in a silent scream. His jaw hangs slack, as if in disbelief at the fate that has befallen him, while tattered remnants of clothing flutter in the morning breeze, shredded by the merciless claws of the carnoraxis.

Half his torso is missing, the flesh around the gaping hole shredded. The bite marks are unmistakable. All that remains of his left leg is a femur.

My gaze falls upon the ropes that bind him to the pole—crude bindings that dig into his flesh, leaving angry, red welts as cruel reminders of his captivity. I swallow back the acid rising in my throat, my heart aching with the weight of sorrow and anger. But as I draw nearer, a sudden gasp shatters the eerie silence, echoing like a desperate plea for salvation.

“Fuck!” My voice nearly chokes me as the fae’s pupils focus, wide with fear and pain. Without hesitation, I turn to my squad, my voice steady despite the turmoil raging within me. “Mylo, Aila! This one’s alive! Help me get him down.”

With practiced precision, I draw forth my dagger, its blade gleaming in the light like a beacon of hope amidst the darkness. With each careful slice, the bindings fall away, freeing the fae from his macabre prison. But he is still stuck on the spike, the splintery point of it wedged into his back.

Mylo and Aila Chen, my best sergeant, help me lift him enough to set him free. As he slumps into my arms, choking for breath like a drowning man grasping at life, I feel a surge of desperation coursing through me. Maybe there’s still a chance for this man.

We lay him gently on the ground, and the fae’s labored breaths rasp through clenched teeth, each exhale a testament to the agony he endures. From the look of his injuries, I suspect he only has use of one lung. I kneel beside him, my heart heavy with sorrow as I survey the extent of his wounds. Fae heal fast, but not fast enough to cheat death. A battle in my mind ensues. I want to save him, but he has suffered fatal blows that no amount of healing magic could mend. Blood seeps slowly from his torso, staining the earth beneath him crimson.

“Hang on.” My voice is a gentle plea as I brush a trembling hand against his clammy brow.

His lips move, forming words barely more than a whisper. “He left me to die.” He struggles to breathe, his voice rough like spikes dragged across rocks. “My own brother.”

Mylo hands me a cloth torn from somewhere. Impulse drives me to wrap a wound, but I don’t even know where to begin. Aila attempts to straighten his remaining leg.

“How many attacked?” I tighten the cloth around his torso, and it immediately darkens with blood.

“F-Five. Maybe si—” His eyes widen, and a gurgle replaces his words. He coughs, blood spewing from his mouth.

With a frantic breath, I reach for the latent magic within me, summoning forth a glimmer of healing energy in a desperate bid to save him. “Hold on.” I weave the threads of magic around him, willing life back into his fading form.

But the light fades from his eyes, like a dying ember snuffed out by the merciless wind. He opens his mouth wider, as if about to suck in a breath, but there is no inhale. His body convulses and then stills, leaving only the heavy silence of death in its wake.

My heart cinches, and I bow my head in silent reverence. I’m only a half-blooded fae, and beyond the basic magic all fae possess, my true powers have not manifested. Though I don’t think even a full-blooded fae could have saved him. I release the man, setting him gently on the ground. His body should be burned, given a proper fae ceremony. But that is for his family to decide. The very family that strung him up as a sacrifice to spare their town .

“The other two?” Even standing, I must lift my chin to look up at Mylo.

He presses his lips into a straight line and drags a hand through brunet hair so short, it’s practically stubble. “Dead.”

I glance at the town in the distance. These are people I have vowed to protect, and yet we couldn’t get here on time. Though we are not to blame for Aragheni’s riders not reaching the beacons in time to alert us, the burden of guilt crushes me nonetheless.

“Let’s check the town.” My voice cuts through the grim silence. “Question the families. Make sure there weren’t any other victims.”

“Yes, Commander.” Aila nods, the expression on her slim face not quite masking her dispiritedness. Onyx brows lower over her narrowed eyes, and by the subtle way her jaw hardens, I can tell she’s grinding her teeth.

Mylo shouts the orders to the other sergeants, Isaac and Giorgi, who mount their horses and charge toward the center of town.

Once they’re out of earshot, he turns to me. “Celeste, are you all right?”

“Yes.” I know he can see it’s a lie, but I force myself to put up a front. I need to remain strong long enough to face the townspeople. “Let’s see what we can find out.”

The sound of Thora’s hooves clomping along the humble road into the heart of Aragheni helps me tune out the anger in my head. How did it come to this? How could someone sacrifice their own kin? What kind of fear would drive a man to do such a thing?

Thora comes to a stop, and I dismount, my boots sinking into the soft earth beneath me. The town sprawls out before us, a quaint collection of cottages and cobblestone streets, nestled amidst the rolling hills of Delasurvia. The town appears untouched by the attack. Despite the lingering somberness fogging the town, there is a quiet sense of resilience that permeates the atmosphere. With the night far behind them, the people have survived. Their sacrifice paid off.

But at what cost?

I can’t help but wonder if they regret their decisions or are proud to have beaten the odds.

As I make my way through the winding streets, the echoes of my footsteps mingle with the distant hum of activity. I can’t help but feel a pang of unease. The townspeople move about their daily tasks, their expressions drawn and weary, the weight of recent events evident in the lines etched upon their faces. Some cast wary glances in my direction as I pass, their eyes clouded with suspicion and mistrust. It’s clear that not everyone is pleased to see me, their resentment simmering just beneath the surface. But I refuse to let their hostility deter me.

Despite the suffocating tension, I press on, determined to uncover the truth behind the recent attack, the logic behind their decisions. Even though I know what the retorts will be. I’ve heard it all before, but I can’t shake this feeling inside me that I might be able to get my message through. That I can make the people see how wrong, how selfish it is to surrender their family, their friends, in order to save themselves. With each step, I steel myself against the whispers of doubt and uncertainty that threaten to undermine my resolve. I may be an outsider in the townspeople’s eyes, but I am also a soldier of Delasurvia, sworn to protect its people at all costs.

As I draw closer to the heart of the town, the sight of the townspeople going about their daily routines confuses me, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world to let go of the deaths of their neighbors, their kin. Though I can’t understand it, I’ve seen it in the other villages that were attacked. After over a year of suffering carnoraxis ambushes, the people’s sensitivity has wavered. They have expected this to happen, and in their minds, they’ve already come to peace with the aftermath.

A shop stands nestled between two weathered buildings, its facade adorned with a faded, wooden sign bearing the name “Elsbeth’s Emporium” in elegant script. Tattered curtains frame the windows, their once-vibrant hues now muted by time and neglect. A small awning extends over the entrance, offering shelter from the elements to those who seek refuge within. I find its modest appearance somewhat calming.

The shopkeeper’s weathered face comes into clearer view, lined with the evidence of a life well-lived yet marked by recent turmoil. She stands at the front of the shop, pushing her broom methodically across the worn, wooden floor, the rhythmic sound of her sweeping echoing through the otherwise-quiet street. Dust and debris fly out through the shop’s open door.

Her gaze meets mine as I draw nearer, her eyes sharp and guarded, a flicker of wariness dancing within their depths. Her throat muscles shift as she swallows. I half-expect her to run inside at the sight of me. To slam the shop door and lock it. She knows from my uniform who I am. Or at least who I represent. My presence in her town is no doubt a harsh reminder of the desolate state of our land.

Aragheni was by far not one of the first towns to be attacked. The creatures have been spotted every full moon for the past thirteen months, but their targets seem random. After the first few attacks, the pieces of the puzzle began to come together, and we realized all of the victims were third-born fae. At least, those were whom the carnoraxis sought out. Anyone foolish enough to get in their way were also lost to the creatures’ ravenous hunger.

Four months after the first attack, a message was delivered to the Garrison, the Royal Regiment’s home base located directly outside my brother’s castle, from the Shadow Tsar, ruler of Dulcamar. Our suspicions were verified. He demanded the death of all third-born fae, but he did not give a reason. He claimed that he would spare anyone who cooperated. Those who did not would fall victim to the carnoraxis.

This caused discord among towns’ citizens. Third-born fae everywhere were being shunned. But I was relieved to learn that not all villages reacted the same way. There was still heart among some of the people, and those more caring would do anything to protect their citizens. Beacons usually used during the Age of War were repurposed to alert the Royal Regiment of approaching attacks. Riders who patrol their villages would race to alert the beacon masters or ride to an outpost to alert the regiment. But the carnoraxis were sneaky and sinister, taking out the riders, and often stealthy enough that the beacon masters were too late in alerting us.

Like this night .

I frown at the thought of townspeople in a panic because the regiment was nowhere near when the beacons were lit. Those moments of helplessness, the drowning in anticipation, are the most frightening. This panic drives them to commit the unfathomable sacrifices of binding the targeted fae to posts on the outskirts of their town, as if they were a gift to the creatures. As if to say, Here, take them and leave the rest of us in peace.

The tension in the air is palpable as I address the shopkeeper, my tone firm yet tinged with empathy for the hardships she undoubtedly faces. “Good day.”

The shopkeeper pauses in her sweeping, her brow furrowing. She drops into a partial curtsey. “Your Highness.”

I flinch at the title. “Please address me as ‘Commander Westergaard.’”

She straightens. “But your father was king. That makes you a princess.”

“Not anymore.” Though my father was king, he passed four years ago, and my older brother—my only sibling—succeeded him. I push the thought of Bennett being on his deathbed to the back of my mind. Though I’m technically the next in line, I do not feel the calling of a royal life. I have too much soldier in me to sit idle in some castle. So, despite my brother’s objections, I relinquished my role and trained under my uncle’s military command. “Your king is Bennett Westergaard, lest you forget. My efforts are with the Royal Regiment, and I am speaking to you as its commander.”

Her nose wrinkles as if I’ve said something vulgar.

I square my shoulders. “I seek the persons responsible for binding the fae outside the town.”

She swallows, her eyes darting toward the town’s border before hastily returning to meet my gaze. “They’re dead, then? The fae?”

I struggle to keep sorrow from hanging my head. What did she expect? That the carnoraxis would turn away and spare them? “Yes. All three. Tell me who was heartless enough to forsake their fellow citizens.”

She toys with her lip, a shadow falling over her face as she deliberates what to disclose. “They wouldn’t let any of us have our say. They said they were doing what was best for our town.”

“Tell me who they are.”

“You’ll find the men you’re looking for two streets down at the butcher’s.” She doesn’t wait for me to respond and simply turns to continue her sweeping.

The butchers. How fucking appropriate.