Page 1

BELLORUM REALM

S o thirsty. So, so, so thirsty. With the tiny shard of stone, I trace floral designs in the dirt floor where I lie in a prison cell, daydreaming of being free to walk through open fields of tall, verdant grasses and wildflowers that ripple in the breeze like waves upon Cerulia’s shores.

My eyes slip shut, as I hum quietly and trace flowers I may never see again, visualizing each minute detail because it means my mind is focused on flowers and not on this cell, hunger, thirst, or the painful wounds on my back.

The humming helps, too.

“Stop it, girl. I’m trying to sleep.”

My eyes peek open at Lorne, sitting on his stool on the other side of my cell’s bars.

His large, weathered form is pierced through with odd bits of metal and decorated in ink, leaning against the filthy stone wall, thick arms folded across his chest, brows knit tightly together, though his eyes are shut.

The fae male always sleeps with a scowl on his face.

I’m the very last in a long row of stone and dirt rooms. The only view I have is through the floor-to-ceiling wrought-iron bars, through which I can view Lorne and the hallway.

Blessedly, I have no cellmate. When I first arrived here, they’d lumped me in with a large group of people.

I hadn’t fared well. Lorne took pity and moved me here.

He’s the closest thing I have to a friend. Even if he does beat the shit out of me on occasion, he’s also the only one who protects me.

My humming turns to singing as a small smile tilts my lips and I watch the scowl on Lorne’s face deepen before he finally opens his eyes to slits and pins me with a glare.

“Don’t you have enough scars as it is?”

A grin blossoms on my face. “Perhaps not.”

Lorne gives me a withering look, shaking his head. He’s quiet for a moment, studying me in a way that makes my gut clench with tension. Like he’s peeling back the curtain of apathy that I’ve succumbed to in order to survive, and is looking beyond at all that lies dormant and restless behind it.

“Don’t let the world darken you, Winnow. You’re a light in a fucking chasm, and there isn’t a thing in this world that can dim you unless you choose to let it.”

Shocked by his words, my breath catches. A moment later, tears sting my eyes as a sudden swell of emotion is ready to burst from me at the first kind words I’ve heard in years.

At the teensiest breadcrumb of affection fed to my malnourished soul. My tail coils around my thigh so tightly it hurts. Even the muscles in my back—the ones that have now atrophied since they severed my wings after a futile escape attempt—tighten under the force of my emotion.

I will not cry, I will not cry, I will not ? —

I’m crying.

Silent tears slip down my face as I hold his gaze. The look he gives me is one of pure pity. “You won’t be here forever, miss.”

Bitterness plumes my sadness like poison in water.

“Why? Do you think I’ll die here?”

Lorne heaves a sigh. “No. I don’t. I think the Nameless King will soon reap the karma he has sewn; he will lose the war, and you’ll be set free.”

I don’t dare hope. The disappointment is too great a burden to bear.

“Finally realize you’re fighting on the wrong side of the war, did you?”

I regret the words as soon as they leave my mouth. War is such a muddled and filthy thing—a tool wielded by the powerful that destroys all who serve them as they destroy the very ones with whom they should be allies.

Lorne’s wife and child were raped and killed by my father’s local militia that serves him under the larger umbrella of King Erelith.

Between that and the poverty they’d been living in, it was all too easy a choice when Lorne was given the opportunity to dedicate his life to serving the Nameless King’s war, eliminating all those in power under the promise of liberating those beneath him.

He hasn’t kept that promise. He is a pirate after all.

I’ve even heard rumors that he’s actually a sea god, but… who knows.

Pirate or not, both sides are wrong. My Uncle Erelith, who was King before being usurped, isn’t known for his compassion or justice. He’s just another king exploiting his power like every other king before him.

Even so, if he somehow manages to turn the tide of this war, I’ll very selfishly be grateful for it.

The look Lorne gives me is ripe with disappointment at my snide remark, and somehow that’s far worse than the lashings he gives me when ordered. Some futile impulse has me tugging at the palladium collar around my neck—the one that suppresses my magic.

“Lorne, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have?—

Lorne’s words are little more than a murmur as he closes his eyes and tips his head back against the wall.

“Shouldn’t have joined anyone’s war. Should have gone to seek my peace on an island in a distant realm, far away from meddling gods and kings who care for nothing but their wealth and power.”

I stare at the side of Lorne’s face waiting, hoping he’ll set his bright grey eyes on me.

He doesn’t.

Eventually, my eyes slip shut, and I find a brief reprieve from reality in my sleep…

Where I dream of wildflowers and tall, rippling grasses, where animals—and I—roam free.

My mornings are spent doing menial but physically exhausting chores, while my afternoons and evenings are filled with healing mortal wounds—wounds belonging to the people who serve the Nameless King.

The people who took everything from me. My parents, my freedom, my livelihood, my home, my inheritance, my virginity.

Everything I thought that made me, me, was stripped away two excruciatingly long years ago, and has reduced me to… prisoner and healer.

Despite the fact that I’m tending to the wounds of my enemies, it is the sole source of fulfillment I find in this place.

Outside of pestering Lorne, that is.

Although half the blood in my veins is daemonic—courtesy of my mother, I was born a goddess of healing and fertility.

The height of my magic will bring someone back from the precipice of death—no further—and make them fertile enough to bear quintuplets.

I can even encourage plants to grow and bear fruit.

But that is where my magical prowess ends.

I couldn’t hurt a person even if I wanted to.

Even though there have been many times I wished I could since arriving here, and thanks to the palladium collar around my neck, I’m forced to heal in human ways.

The young orc male lying on a cot in front of me, whose flesh I’m currently sewing—only mildly numbed with herbs—watches me with curious eyes. “How did you end up here?”

My gaze briefly lifts to his. “Same as every other prisoner. I was taken.”

His eyes dart from side to side before lowering his voice to a whisper. “I heard you’re King Erelith’s niece.”

My hands continue to work as my gaze remains fixed on his knife wound, but I remain silent.

The volume of his voice drops to a whisper. “I saw him.”

My heart stutters, and the needle in my hand falters, making him wince. “… My Uncle?”

In my peripheral vision, I see him nod.

“Where?”

“At the Northern Paltor Border.”

My eyes finally lift to his, searching for any sign of deception as my heart hammers. “But that’s only a few hours away.”

I don’t miss the fear in the orc male’s eyes. That alone is all it takes for hope, for the first time in nearly two years, to blossom in my chest.

“You’ll be free soon,” he whispers, but I can hear the sadness in his voice at what lies on the other side of such a fate.

His death.

I don’t know whether or not my uncle will actually arrive—for all I know, even if he does arrive, he might be killed before he gets the chance to free me. Even a god such as he can be killed.

Not to mention, him coming to rescue me is a gamble all its own.

My daemon traits have always been considered a blemish to everyone but my mother.

Though, unlike my father and his court, my Uncle Erelith, despite his many faults, has always been kind to me and never treated me or my mother as anything less than peers.

Still, I wouldn’t be entirely surprised if he just… had more important tasks at hand.

If life has taught me anything in my short years, it is not to hinge your hope or happiness on people or external circumstances. Both are prone to change, which leaves your emotional well-being as stable as the constantly waning and waxing moons.

My words are barely audible. “I’ll stitch you up as best I can. You can leave before he arrives. If he arrives. Go somewhere safe. ”

He shakes his head. “I have friends here. Friends who are closer to me than my own blood. I will not abandon them.”

My throat works around a thick knot of emotion. For all intents and purposes, I shouldn’t care, but staring in the face of an actual living, breathing person… One so loyal he’s willing to sacrifice his life to protect his comrades and likely, they, him–I can’t help but care.

Powerless to do anything, I feel as if I am drowning in heartbreak, futility, helplessness, and rage with no outlet.

My words are barely a trembling breath as tears carve watery paths over my dirt-stained cheeks, and my fingers press firmly into the length of the needle with which I finish sewing his wound.

“ If my uncle arrives, I will ask him to spare you and those with you.”

The expression on his face tells me he doesn’t quite know what to make of me. Whether or not to have hope and believe me, and even if he does, will my uncle even listen?

Even I cannot say, but I will certainly try.

“What is your name?”

He hesitates for a moment. “Killian Driftfyord.”

I nod, wiping away my tears with the back of my hand. Even before this, I never wanted anything to do with political machinations.

However, despite the fact that my father was good to me and my mother, I inevitably recognized the undeniable disparity in our province. Rich and poor. Far too many poor that became far too easy prey for the Nameless King to inspire them to arms and raise an army that rivalled my Uncle’s.

I swear to Akash and all that is holy if ever I come into power of any kind, I will do all that I can to prevent war. To prevent unrest. I will care for my people like I would my own children. My prosperity will be their prosperity, and then surely, there will be peace.