Page 1

Bria

I ’m having the dream again.

Strolling down the sun-kissed hallways made of polished limestone, I drop my hand, letting my fingertips slide down the smooth surface as I walk.

I take my time and admire the landscape through the large windows.

The gardens stretch wide, filled with muted pastels of spring while servants flock to the markets down the steep, rolling hill.

Outside of the window I see him. My father is sitting in the garden, legs stretched out beneath him as he holds his tea.

His long fingers grasp the handle of the teacup, and though it looks like an average cup, I expect it was overly priced.

A young girl runs up to him, her blue-black hair bouncing in long waves around her shoulders, her smile beaming.

She says something to him, and he laughs before she takes off, running back toward the house.

He looks up at me then, through the window and smiles, his bright white teeth gleaming.

I can see his eyes crinkle the way I love, scrunching until only a glint of deep blue can be seen beneath.

The sun sprinkles golden sparkles across the glass of the window and deepens the gold curls around his head.

Then suddenly, everything is shattering.

A loud cracking echoes in my ears, rattling all the bones in my body.

The perfect limestone and glass erupt into shards, falling like jagged snowflakes all around.

The look of horror etched on my father’s face is heart-wrenching and I see him reach for me through the waterfall of debris.

Waking with a start, I sit up quickly. Sweat soaks through my nightshirt.

The pillow beneath my head is damp, the blankets twisted around my limbs.

Nausea roils through my body, bile building at the back of my throat, but I swallow hard, forcing it back down.

Kicking away the sticky sheets, I push off from the sweat-streaked mattress, padding softly but quickly to the bathing chamber off my room.

The morning sun is just starting to peek through the windows as I pass, the curtains not fully drawn.

I shove my hands into the basin, letting the icy-cold water that’s leftover drip over my fingers, filling the bowl of my hands before tossing it onto my face.

The shock of it jolts me out of the dream state.

Gripping the sides of the small vanity, I peer into the mirror, catching my own reflection.

It’s jarring. The deep cobalt blue eyes of my father stare back at me, sending a shudder crawling down my spine.

I finger my hair, matted from the sweat of the nightmare—the same gold locks he sported, though mine are stick-straight, not a curl to be seen.

I scowl at my reflection. I look too much like him.

I shake off the feeling, unwilling to stay locked in a horrid memory for too long. They will all be awake soon and I should get going.

I look around the room. A tiny bed lies in the center of the small space, sheets tossed and tangled in disarray from yet another night of thrashing through the waves of nightmares. The dark, damp stain of sweat is still visible on my pillowcase, a nice reminder of my fitful night’s sleep.

There’s a single window that overlooks the small village, the northern camp.

I walk over and lean against the frame. It’s cool to the touch, a chill that seeps into my skin through the long sleeves of the thin nightshirt.

I scowl at the frost clustering on the long blades of grass outside, sparkling like frozen gemstones.

It may look beautiful, but I hate the cold.

This is not my home. Not where I came from or where I grew up.

No. I lived so much farther south—the town of Elwyn, along the southern coast of Azudora.

The last place I saw my father alive. The last place I held my mother and sister.

Where the winters never bore snow, just cool breezes.

Where flowers bloomed year-round and there was no chill that made your bones ache.

Where fields and meadows gently curved like lazy rivers.

But here I stare at the sharp edges of black mountains capped in glistening ice and snow.

The northern camp is nestled in the Kaanos Mountain range, as far northwest as you can get in this world.

If anything lies beyond the mountains, we are unaware.

No one ever travels that far, the routes through the mountains too treacherous.

I need to dress in thick, itchy wool or fleece and require fur-lined gear just to keep a semblance of warmth in my body here.

I wish to go back to Elwyn, to my home, no matter how impossible I know that reality is.

But why dwell on it? I’m here now, aren’t I? I narrow my eyes and lift my middle finger at the frigid landscape. Fucking snow.

Pushing off the splintering wooden frame, I stretch and straighten my spine.

Grabbing the clothes I left out, I slide on a thicker pair of leggings and pull a long-sleeved cotton shirt over my head.

I own one pair of older, thin shoes I use for running.

I may hate the cold, but running keeps my mind at ease—keeps me sane—and keeps the fire inside dimmed.

It’s early enough that no one is awake yet and I’m able to slip through the old building and out the front door before taking off.

My body knows where to go. I turn around the side of the inn and up the closest route into the mountains.

I start to slow, letting my lungs adjust to the biting air outside.

It burns and tightens my chest, but I kept pushing, letting my legs carry me up the winding path.

The pounding of my feet, the heaviness of my breathing, and the rapid swish of my arms all fall into place to bring me back into my body.

The nightmares are getting worse, and I think about them as I run.

More of my father and now my sister keeps appearing.

The ones of my father have been there for years, but seeing her?

That was new. I’d honestly forgotten the last time I saw her was outside with him until that dream brought it all back.

I shove out the memory and keep going until I hit the small plateau that marks my turnaround—a short trek up and back that usually takes a half hour to complete. It’s enough to keep my body nimble and my endurance up. Both things I will need in the near future.

When I make it back, the fire in my room is running on fumes but the water buckets I left next to it the night before are warm enough.

I fill the clawfoot tub and slide in, letting the lukewarm water do its best to soothe my aching muscles and wash the cold out of my bones.

Just another thing to miss: having servants fill a steaming bath for you whenever you want.

I would kill for a hot, scalding tub of water.

Striding to the dresser, I open the top drawer and frown.

Only a handful of items look back at me.

Not many choices these days. Long gone are the mornings where I could peruse armoires of resplendent dresses made of the finest silks, assisted by my maid Elia to adjust the bodice and ensure the layers of skirts cascaded gracefully.

Instead, I drag out a long tunic once an evergreen color—now faded to worn sage—and fleece-lined leggings, thicker than the ones I use for running.

Do I even own anything that isn’t a worn earth tone or black? Unlikely.

Leather chest armor lies on top of the dresser with deep scratches and gouges along the surface, the age of it apparent in the loose buckles and fraying straps.

I lift it, pulling it over my head as I have each day for the last five years.

Well, four and a half. The first six months here I spent sulking like a child about my fate and drinking myself into oblivion.

I tighten the straps and snag the bandolier next, strapping that on as well and pushing the hilts of the daggers to make sure they are locked in tight.

Tugging on thick, heavy woolen socks and lacing up my leather boots, I wonder how much longer this will last. How much longer will we remain rebels, the resistance movement against the Crown?

Fully dressed, I realize I might as well get on with it. Everyone will be rising by now. I snatch my old leather gloves and fur-lined cloak off the bedside table and stalk out of the room, closing the door swiftly behind me.

This section of housing had been a cozy little inn before the rebels took over the town.

Now, I live in a small room on the second floor, up a steep set of creaky and tired stairs.

The rest of the higher-ranking members of the rebel faction dwell in the rooms along the hall.

Mine is set back from the stairs, tucked in the darkest corner of the inn.

Passing the other rooms as I saunter down the hallway, I listen to the faint noises of others readying for the day.

Drawers open and close, water splashes, and boots scuff across the oak floors.

The familiar sounds are soothing, and I take them in as I weave the long gold and bronze strands of my hair together in a braid across my shoulder.

The dampness seeps into my tunic. I should have dried it more before leaving.

I’ll be grateful if it doesn’t freeze when I step outside.

My face scrunches at the thought of that icy fucking air and I hope the thick fur of my cloak will at least keep me a bit warm on my way to the library.

As I make my way down the stairs, the old wood cracks beneath me with each step. Then a voice, rich and soothing, hits me before my boots land on the floor to the main room.

“I was hoping to see you this morning, Bria,” the voice croons.