Page 1 of Bound in Violet Ink

Hope is a fickle thing, like brittle bones before they snap .

All of mine have shattered into dust.

Perhaps it’s time to be reborn.

I’ll never forget the first time I sent him a letter; the sky had wept for the hundredth time that year, a sign of the change .

Rain used to nourish the plants so the sun could warm the air and dry the drenched soil.

Now it rains with a cold chill, the bitter air delivering frigid bites, the ground so wet that horses struggle to pull carriages.

The skies always reflect this change when a darker tide looms in the air, like nature knows society is about to give.

Blood will be shed. A war, possibly.

It’s why my mind is restless with theories, eager to escape from this place.

The man who wants to call himself my father is dead set on marrying me off like I’m prized livestock that’s getting too old to be of value.

There’s still just enough time for political capital to be gained in forcing my hand.

He’s clinging to his broken hope, too.

Crops are thinning. Nefarious creatures creep within the shadows of the woods. My sallow hand is what he’s trying to offer, but I’m determined to yank it back…

Kane was a way out of all of this.

A deep inhale imbues my lungs with the scent of wet stone from rain that batters my windows. The wind always blows harder up in this tower, but it’s a violence I’ve grown used to. Comforted by it, even. It not only rained the night I penned my initial contact to Kane, but it stormed.

An ominous promise from the fates.

Every rule had been broken by writing to Kane, every aspect of my future completely risked.

For him .

For some brittle hope I know better than to try and hold.

As I stare at the blank parchment on my desk, my reality spins like a weaver caught in a chaotic design.

Why would I write to a man locked away in the Carrows?

And not just a man , but the darkness that consumes the light—a High Lord of the Unseelie.

A large behemoth that even the fiercest men in my father’s ranks rarely speak ill of.

Those cowards still refuse to whisper the name Kane, as if his shadow will somehow hear them.

My eyes move to the quill adjacent the parchment, then to the other letter, which is creamier in color. Rougher.

With his words scrawled on there.

Writing to him is like a curse. The second I slipped the initial letter to a confidant, I sealed my fate as another person who spirals around the words of Kane. So many follow this man who challenges the Seelie Highlords, the opulent rulers of our lands.

The same people who placed me in this tower.

I gently pick up what he sent me. In the previous letter that incited our discourse, I merely thanked him for what he had done a year and a half ago, detailing my recollections of coming across Kane in a tavern as he was traveling.

How he scarred my father’s right-hand man so badly, Lawrence now wears a partial mask, all because I’d been struck and left with a broken, bloodied nose.

Kane had made one instance of eye contact with me, right as I looked up when I heard the commotion, still trying to collect my dazed mind.

Something had flashed in his silvery eyes, and then…

And then, he refused to acknowledge me. That’s when the prison cells of the Carrows consumed Kane.

Why did he do it? It’s not like I can’t heal my own bones, not with the powers I was born with.

It’s why they often hit me so badly. Kane even laid down his sword and let them take him, all the while it was painfully obvious he refused to meet my gaze again as my own nearly burned holes in him—looking back on it, I agree that he went with my father’s men too easily.

So many whispers claim that he went to the Carrows on purpose .

That he knew of my father’s location and intentionally crossed paths with us.

Perhaps my being struck was the excuse Kane was looking for to attack; he can hide his motives behind something that appears noble.

Making eye contact with me was useless for his cause, like saving a mouse from a cat that he had no interest in.

He’s planning something.

And like any bored woman confined to a tower, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about him since.

Having Kane settled in a stagnant prison, one near my forced housing, is like having him captured inside a globe. I can safely debate my actions, hesitate as many times as I wish, and even not think about him if I so choose.

The latter hardly ever occurs, if I’m to be honest with myself.

The man is a subject of my absolute fascination.

A prisoner to his image, just as I am to this castle.

Writing to him was an itch to scratch, like perhaps if I did it I could finally stop ruminating about him.

I honestly didn’t intend to hear back from Kane.

My hand twitches, eager to pen him another, like being near a flame but feeling no heat.

How close can I get before the fire truly singes me?

The Unseelie are not known as forgiving or easy to negotiate with, and he’s one of the few I’ve ever come in close contact with.

So why would I, the adopted daughter of a Seelie High Lord, write to our enemy?

I gently pick up the letter he had sent me.

Victoria,

I know who you are and which tower they keep you in.

You risk much by sending your letter to me.

More than you know… I have to admit.

Do not engage with me further.

Closing any distance after this would seal fate.

No name.

No Kane .

But I have to believe it’s from him. It smells like him; I hold it to my nose once more, the scent already fading.

It’s the damn scent that broke me in the first place when he was only a few feet from me all those months ago. His musk stained my lungs like carving permanent ink into my skin. It’s not uncommon for my kind to remember a scent more than the rest. We are not like humans.

But this obsession feels different.

I had never been so persuaded by the way a man smelled…

Not a man. A high predator. Someone who scares the very soldiers who guard me. One that has been just as vicious as my own adoptive father, if not worse.

Definitely worse.

If Kane appeared at the bottom of my guarded stairwell, I would half believe the men watching my every move would flee, preferring to risk my father’s wrath over that Unseelie High Lord.

When Kane struck Lawrence, everyone fled away from my father, rather than defend him in a possible attack.

My father had shouted in triumph that there was a reason to now imprison Kane in the Carrows.

To which most of the soldiers were hesitant to obey orders.

But again, he didn’t fight.

And I now hold a letter from him in my hand.

Surely, my fascination is simply born out of boredom.

He is the leader of a court that’s taking over—a society that grows like weeds under the moonlight, so when one wakes up the following day, the tendrils have already stretched further.

No one can recall when the influence had struck so deeply, or how Kane took over with such ease.

The only thing we know is that any battle he’s in, he’s always alive.

Always covered and dripping with the blood of others .

He wears his scars like earned badges of honor.

I place the letter down on the wooden table.

What’s wrong with me? Every time my mind wanders with thoughts of him, recalling the strong angles of his scarred face, I’m always faced with some kind of internal praise.

I’m like the sheep that continues to compliment the wolves, even down to their blood-stained canines.

I’m utterly hopeless.

Or, perhaps, bored. Unsatisfied. Lost.

Sliding into my slightly wobbling seat, I eye the blank parchment next to Kane’s letter. An old window is my only source of light through the gloomy storm, and some of the candles are dwindling. Replenishing my supplies always seems to be an afterthought to these people.

What would responding hurt?

Surely, Kane was lying. Or manipulating.

It’s what he does.

I can’t even fathom the idea that writing a letter would bind us in some kind of fate.

And why would he care?

He’s trying to get to me, to use me to get to my father. Maybe he defended me on purpose, too. To ensnare the bored woman kept in a high tower while enacting his other plans.

I grab the quill and dip it into a pool of violet ink, sliding the metal tip against the glass well to clean the drips. I have few things I enjoy in this life, and using this ink is one of them.

Violet is my most preferred color.

Seeing as I loathe the man I must call my father, I don’t really care if this fucks up any of his plans for my life. If anything, I might be counting on it.

Once I begin to write, I can’t stop:

Kane,

As much as common sense begs me to heed your words, I am afraid I cannot… at least, not with this letter. I have never, in my life, had someone strike my father’s closest men for his ill treatment of me. Until you.

I don’t even understand why writing to you would seal any kind of fate.

But you’re right, nonetheless.

This is probably pointless. No doubt your actions are convoluted, so there’s not much to say.

I don’t know why I am responding right now. It’s an itch I can’t scratch.

I suppose there’s no reason to write this. My ramblings indicate as much.

I pull away.

Images of him standing above me after striking my assailant infest my mind.

It had been a night when my father took me on a bizarre journey, one that we never made it to our destination.

Lawrence had been put in charge of me that night, as if I were some young maiden who couldn’t read signs or think for herself.

Another fiber snaps from the rope that makes me who I am.

Being minded like an adolescent. Women my age have had multiple children by now.

I nearly drip purple onto the parchment from holding my hand in one place for too long, the little drop hitting the wood to form a bright, beautiful bubble of color.

I know why I rambled—I wanted to admit to Kane that he haunts me.

But under no circumstances does he need to know that.

Anyway, perhaps I am merely pulled to you because of the novelty. That would make sense. There’s not much for us to discuss, either. So this will probably be the last.

Victoria

The words are completely pointless. Empty.

Not even scratching the surface of what this man does to me.

Of how I dream about him, much to my own frustration.

How I have always heard terrible tides of the Unseelie and their darker magics.

There’s a reason why the Seelie have all but banned them from all of our lands.

No, I know why I penned him.

I want out of here.

If I cannot live within the light, I may as well embrace the darkness.

Forge a new identity where I can have the friendships, love, heartache—all of it—that I crave.

Silas, my adoptive father, never permits me to touch him, even if he fondly hugs his other children.

I genuinely do not remember the last embrace I had.

Standing, I pace my room.

The room forced upon me.

It’s a collage of gray stone, broken up by furniture that’s painted the color of the sky, the fabrics a mixture of creams and fuchsias.

Regardless of what is best, I seal up the letter and place it within a book. Writing to Kane is tasting a part of freedom I can’t describe.

The Carrows are allowed a rather lofty library. It’s a prison colony island that the regents of our world will visit to acquire men or women to serve in their ranks. It’s akin to visiting a pen full of rabid, wild beasts who are gifted freedom in exchange for their servitude.

Books still ship there, many desiring to have well-educated members within their ranks.

Noble knights can only get so much done in a world that’s overrun with corruption and death.

A ruthless mercenary is sometimes the only salvation, and an educated one is even better.

At least, sometimes. If they break that oath to serve, a bounty will be placed on their heads.

One that’s usually too lucrative to remain free for long.

If they fail, then the duskborn will hunt them down. They’re the only ones of their kind that exist among the Seelie.

Kane is now among those people.

The candle chandelier above me shakes when thunder booms across the sky. I lie down on my bed, feeling a change happening. Perhaps I won’t be here for long. I’ve lived here for over thirty summers.

Too long.

Something about Kane is haunting me, and I don’t know what to do.