Page 1

CHAPTER 1

Elva held her breath until the hazy green of the water engulfed her.

Until everything was soft and misty, and the world’s sharp focus dulled like the edges of sea glass.

She dived further, kicking her legs until she reached the rocky depths, willing her lungs to hold on a little longer, hold on until she could forget her name and what was about to come.

Her hair floated around her like a halo, and when her fingers finally sank to the bottom, she flipped and drove her feet into the seabed, propelling herself towards the light above, until she was reunited with the waves once again.

‘No way you found one so quickly,’ Remi called from her sunning position on the rocky shelf above the inlet.

Elva grinned and tossed a white object towards Remi.

Her girlfriend’s left hand flew out and caught it, her swift reflexes the only visible mark of her training as a Vettonian Warrior.

Remi held up the shell, its opalescent belly glinting in the sunshine.

‘I should never doubt you, should I?’

Elva swam over and braced her forearms on the rocky ledge.

‘No, you shouldn’t.

’ She flicked a handful of water onto Remi and swallowed her laugh as she dived out of sight, Remi’s curse fading to white noise under the waves.

Elva paddled to the centre of the cove, then spun onto her back and looked at the cloud-speckled sky.

People from all over the city usually came to take a cold plunge at this time, but with the envoy from Clochain arriving shortly, the inlet was empty as people prepared for the feast.

All the locals knew she’d be there anyway; they knew she’d want a moment alone before everything changed.

She didn’t know whether she should laugh or sob at their consideration.

‘Elva? Are you even listening?’ Remi called to her.

Elva didn’t bother to respond; it was obvious enough she wasn’t.

She closed her eyes and floated gently on top of the calm sea, her naked body luminescent in the afternoon light.

More than once she’d wished she had the nerve to suggest to Remi that they run away together; tell the King of Clochain the arranged marriage with his son was a scam.

Damn the war, damn the blight.

But every time she went to speak, the words got caught in her throat and she hushed the question in Remi’s eyes with a kiss.

She wouldn’t run from this responsibility.

Not when her people’s lives were on the line, not when she and Remi weren’t even twinsouls.

She could barely admit it to herself, but there was a small part of her which was relieved.

Doing this meant her penance was finally being paid.

A murmur brushed her ears, but Elva couldn’t hear the words over the lull of the ocean, so she beckoned her girlfriend over with a wave.

Remi shrugged off her jacket and pants, took a breath then dived into the freezing water, swimming quickly over to Elva, who bobbed on the waves, eyes closed.

‘Kella will be replacing me as captain,’ Elva said.

‘She’s firm, but she’s a good leader and will keep the morale of the squad high.

’

‘Elva—’

‘Once I’m wed, troops will start to pull back from the garrison at Anfa, as a sign of good faith.

’

Remi sighed, but nodded.

Repeating herself was obsolete, but Elva couldn’t shake the feeling she’d forgotten something within the plan.

Think, Elva.

Think.

She sank into the water, and when she rose, she turned and looked out of the inlet, noting the dozen fishing boats dotting the horizon.

It was a clear day, and all the people who could be spared from the preparations were on the water, trying to catch as much food as they possibly could from the dwindling supply of fish.

Every year their harvest was smaller, their livestock weaker.

She felt ill thinking about the feast, about the waste of food that could otherwise feed the city for a week.

Squandered.

On her.

She swallowed her disgust and watched the boats haul empty nets in and out of the water.

A limestone cliff loomed over their heads, curving around them in the shape of a crescent moon.

The sheer face of the wall was only broken by scraggly crops of shrubbery, and a narrow staircase that was carved into the stone wound down from the clifftop to the wide ledge, which Remi had just vacated.

The inlet was sacred to Vettona, and bathers from across the lands would make the trip every year to swim in its turquoise waters on winter solstice to honour the Seacht – the seven ruling gods.

It used to be a tradition that honoured the Old Ways of the Ellarch, but since the Ellarch fell during the Great War, worship had pivoted to the Seacht.

Those who lived in the city of Vincentia would make the plunge more regularly; Elva frequented the cold waters almost daily.

It was how she connected with the queendom, and with herself.

It was the only thing that had kept her sane this past year; every morning she’d walk the cliff pass and descend the narrow staircase to greet the sunrise from the ocean.

Its clear waters swept away the nightmares of Neve, allowing her to move through the rest of the day as if she was normal.

As if nothing was wrong.

Many of her fellow warriors would accompany her, although the faint of heart would bail in winter or on stormy days.

Rain or shine, Elva was there.

Dunking her body into the freezing waters; talking to the locals.

She’d taught children to swim in the bay, when there used to be a gaggle of them.

Had helped drag unlucky fishermen onto the rocky ledge when they’d been thrown from their boats in bad weather.

She’d laughed and cried and loved here.

It had been the backdrop to her entire life.

She looked at the clear blue sky.

The day was perfect, the water cold and the sun warm.

She felt like the gods were teasing her, tempting her to stay, and she hated them for it.

Despite her anger, she blessed herself in the shape of the diamond and offered a prayer to the Seacht, just in case.

One could never be too careful.

‘I wish it didn’t have to end like this,’ Elva said, her words nearly inaudible over the slap of water on rock.

‘I thought we’d break up in a spectacular fashion when one of us found our twinsoul.

You’d fall in love with some gorgeous person and the squad would have to keep me from pummelling them into the dirt from jealousy.

’ Her lips lifted in a half-smile.

‘You’d tell me we always knew this was coming, that we went into this knowing it would end, and I should stop being so damn selfish.

’

‘We both knew I’d be the one to break your heart,’ Remi crooned, and Elva huffed.

Remi paddled closer, the smile fading from her face.

‘You could run. There are warrior safehouses all over the queendom.’

Elva’s throat tightened, and she turned to face her girlfriend, a million thoughts racing through her head, screaming for release.

She had absolutely no interest in being sold as the prize mare to a nation that had caused nothing but bloodshed and pain to her people.

She didn’t want to leave her family or the sisters she’d fought and bled alongside.

Didn’t want to leave her homeland when it was on the brink of disaster.

She’d gone over every possible outcome, had spent countless sleepless nights flipping all of the puzzle pieces trying to find an alternative route through this.

But there wasn’t one.

This was it.

Yet, when she tried to formulate these thoughts into a sentence, the words curdled on her tongue.

Instead, she kissed Remi gently, her soft lips tasting like brine.

They swam slowly back to the ledge and Elva relished the sensation of the ocean on her bare skin.

Her eyes danced over the inlet, drinking in every last detail, knowing this might very well be the last time she visited her favourite place with one of her favourite people.

Her mother’s palace was a mess of movement when Elva emerged onto the terrace, having left Remi at the barracks to get ready.

Terrace was a quaint word for what it really was; a huge expanse of white marble that sat atop her mother’s palace, with views of the ocean to the west and the bustling city of Vincentia to the east.

Five long tables had been set in the middle of the space, with a sixth table at the head.

Golden firelights were strung up over the landing; they were gifts from Caius, Leader of the Seacht, who had embedded Ever into the centre of the small amber stones.

Gems were always used to symbolise Caius in worship, and the magic glinted above like watching eyes.

Four giant olive trees, which had grown through the stone floor for centuries, were bedecked with her sister Myrra’s paper flower creations, and the carved bannisters were wreathed in garlands of native flowers.

It looked rather like an engagement party, which Elva supposed was exactly the ambience her mother had instructed.

The mother in question, Queen Una of Vettona, was in the middle of the mess, orchestrating the chaos like a general at war so it would be perfect for when the Clochain delegation arrived.

Elva was spared from following that train of thought when a shoulder bumped into her, spilling a basket full of paper flowers at her feet.

‘You must have been making these for weeks,’ Elva said, dropping to her knees to help her sister scoop handfuls of flowers into the basket.

‘Months, actually,’ Myrra said.

‘How long do we have until they arrive?’

Myrra pushed strands of walnut hair out of her face, which was almost identical to Elva’s own.

Myrra was thirty-one, two years her senior – although they looked like they could be twins.

Yet while they might share their sun-kissed brown hair and sea-green eyes, they were polar opposites.

Where Myrra was thoughtful and calculating, Elva was impulsive and reckless – prone to blurting out the first thing in her head.

‘They’ve just passed through the western gates.

You can see the procession from here,’ Myrra said, pointing over the balcony edge to the city, which was swarming with firelight and noise.

Elva’s stomach dropped.

She crept to the edge of the balcony and looked down at the city, ignoring the terracotta roofs dripping in vines, the streets that were full of people enjoying the celebrations – until her eyes found the Clochain party.

Foot soldiers dressed in black marched at the head of the procession.

They carried massive black and gold flags, and seven ornate carriages followed, drawn by staggering horses.

At this distance she couldn’t make out their features, but a prickle of apprehension slid down the back of her neck as she gazed at the procession, and the small seed of Ever – magic – that she pretended not to have, writhed.

She took a breath and steadied her nerves, tunnelling deep into her mind until she could visualise the Ever, a tiny, pink, almond-shaped light which sat just above her heart and did absolutely nothing except mark her as a fugitive against the Seacht, and told it to calm the fuck down.

Yet something had sparked its interest, and she scanned the procession once again, wondering if a demigod was in their midst.

She couldn’t tell if someone could access Ever by looking at them, that was impossible, but she could feel the vibrations in the air change when someone nearby was actively wielding magic.

And somewhere, deep in the crowd, was someone doing just that.

Before the Great War, being Ever Blessed was, as the name suggested, a blessing.

The first beings of the world – the gods, the towering danann who rivalled the height of giants, and the witches – were born from its magical waters.

The gods’ powers originated from the well of Ever in Reathas, the witches’ from the well of Ever in Telorne and the danann’s from the well of Ever in Breon.

Ever Blessed humans were the long-forgotten offspring of the world’s original inhabitants, their power often materialising in latent genealogies.

Hundreds of years ago, having won the battle to control the Ever from the witches and danann, the gods had decreed anyone found accessing the magic illegitimately was either to be enslaved or slaughtered.

For years they policed this lightly, but ever since the blight had started ravaging the lands a decade ago, there had been an increase in Ever Blessed deaths to squash their blasphemous use of magic.

Which made Elva’s tiny seed of Ever a death sentence should the Seacht ever find out about it.

And not even a worthwhile death.

Her Ever was a beacon which flashed when someone else was using magic, nothing more.

She didn’t have the ability to actively wield Ever, she couldn’t draw from the source, she couldn’t even tell who was wielding – only that someone in the vicinity was, and she had no interest in turning them over to the Seacht, lest she sign her own Ending.

‘Elva!’ Una’s voice rang out over the balcony, and all of the attendants standing between mother and daughters scampered out of the way.

Elva slowly turned from watching the procession.

She’d spent years schooling her features whenever she felt someone using Ever – it was the only method of self-preservation she had.

‘Why aren’t you dressed yet?

’ Una asked.

Elva looked down at her outfit.

She was wearing loose pants and a tunic, her wet hair dripped down her back and salt crusted her bare feet.

‘Get out of here. If you’re not ready in thirty minutes we’ll start without you.

’

‘That’s what I was hoping,’ Elva muttered to Myrra, who tried and failed to hide her chuckle.

‘Whatever it is you’re saying, assume I’m not impressed,’ Una called to them, and the frenetic movement of the attendants doubled in speed.

Myrra stood, scooping the last of the flowers into the basket.

‘Elva?’

Elva turned and faced her sister, trying to forget about her spark of Ever, about the approaching Clochains.

She plastered a bland smile on her face.

‘Let’s go get you ready,’ Myrra’s voice was gentle as she angled Elva away from the preparations and led her down the balcony stairs and through their mother’s home, passing under the front gate to enter the warriors’ barracks down the street, chattering the entire way to distract her.

‘Remember, tonight isn’t technically your wedding.

Mother just wants to throw an elaborate party to convince the Clochains how well Vettona is doing.

It’s all for show: look at the prosperity you’re marrying into, blah, blah,’ Myrra said.

‘You know she won’t be able to go to the ceremonies or the official wedding.

She can’t leave for months on end with the state things are in, so she’s just trying to.

.

.

’ she said, as if realising she didn’t have an answer.

‘Make memories?’ Elva supplied, watching her sister’s face break with relief.

It was rare for Myrra to lose her words; she was usually able to talk rings around anyone, steering conversations with such deftness it often made Elva’s head spin.

‘If the rumours are true, Prince Fynton is an honourable man who takes after his mother more than his father. If there is anyone who could make him fight for a brighter future, it’s you.

’

Elva refrained from rolling her eyes and reminded herself that Myrra was just trying to make her feel better, but she couldn’t help the flare of frustration her sister’s words elicited.

She despised it was her marriage that would stop Clochain from invading, rather than outright defeat in war.

‘Come on,’ Myrra said, pulling her forwards.

‘We’re going to make you look so gorgeous Prince Fynton will claim you’re his twinsoul by the end of the evening.

’

Elva scoffed, following her sister into the room, but stopped dead halfway across the threshold.

‘What the hell is that?’ she asked.

Myrra grinned.

‘Your dress.’

‘Stop fidgeting,’ Myrra scolded, adjusting the locks of hair around Elva’s face.

They’d dried her hair with hot towels, and then Elva had sat in silence as her sister braided a coronet on top of her head.

She should really wear something more elegant than this utilitarian hairstyle, but it was the style she wore into battle, what she felt confident in, and so she’d asked her sister to braid it for her one final time.

‘The dress is itchy,’ she lied, knowing full well Myrra had already tried it on.

‘Fidgeting will ruin the illusion.’

‘What illusion?’

‘That you’re a proper lady.

’

‘No proper lady would wear this dress,’ Elva shot back, trying and failing to wipe the smirk off her sister’s face.

What she meant to say was no proper Clochain lady would wear this dress.

The kingdom she was marrying into was far more conservative than Vettona, and she often wondered how much trouble she would inadvertently walk into.

Her mother’s advisor had already impressed the importance of propriety: no naked swimming in Clochain, no female soldiers in Clochain.

It all seemed very uptight, and all of it would require adjustment.

As a custom, Vettonian Warriors never wed.

Elva and Myrra had never even met their father, assuming they even had the same father.

The fact that Clochain was securing one of the Vettonian princesses – and the Captain of the Warriors at that – far outweighed any hesitation they had about her propriety.

She tugged at the bodice of the dress and Myrra slapped her hand away.

‘You are the heart and godsdamn soul of this queendom, Elva. Not to mention you’re my sister and as your elder what I say goes.

You are better than Prince Fynton and the whole of Clochain combined.

Stop fidgeting.

’

‘Yessir,’ she said with a mock salute.

Myrra whacked her over the head.

‘Cheek won’t do you any good, Elva.

’

‘How do you know? I’ve got two really nice ones you can’t even see.

’

Myrra groaned, and amusement sparked inside Elva’s aching chest.

Buoyed by her sister’s reaction she continued, ‘Maybe my cheeks will be exactly what this peace treaty needs.’

‘The cheeks that sailed a thousand ships.’

‘Now you’re just talking tongue in cheek.

’

‘Actually, I think you’ll find that’s what you’ll be wanting Fynton to do.

’

She met Myrra’s gaze and burst out laughing, the joke so unexpected from her sister it made it all the funnier.

Myrra’s eyes gleamed with mirth, and her laughter spurred Elva’s own, until they were hunched over one another, eyes wet, sides aching.

When she finally managed to stop wheezing, she wiped the tears from her cheeks, trying and failing not to start laughing all over again.

Only when their breathing was back to normal did Myrra spin her to the mirror.

Elva finally looked at herself, shock overriding the waves of giggles that threatened.

The dress was inky, covered in gems that matched the colour of the material, except in places where varying shades of turquoise gemstones sparkled, like waves of phosphorescence had washed over the fabric.

It hung from two thin straps over her shoulders, and the neckline plunged nearly to her navel, showing the bounce of her breasts and the firm ripple of her muscular frame, the shimmer of scars that flecked her arms.

Even she could admit it looked incredible.

She turned, admiring the glimmer that dripped down her back, hugging all the curves of her body before ending at mid-calf in a traditional Vettonian silhouette.

It was unlike any engagement dress she’d seen.

Wisps of hair framed her face and black gems dangled from her earlobes.

The tattoo all Vettonian Warriors received upon the completion of their training was visible on her forearm: a round shield with a delicate constellation of the Bridge of Endings in the centre.

It was a statement.

Yes, she might be marrying a Clochain prince, but he was also marrying a Vettonian Warrior.

‘You look amazing,’ Remi said, breaking the silence in the room.

Elva turned to see her girlfriend standing in the open doorway.

Remi’s hair was in a sleek, low bun that accentuated her cheekbones and dark eyebrows.

Her dress had a high neckline and hugged her body until it stopped mid-calf, honey in colour where Elva’s was inky, accentuating the deep ochre tones of her skin.

Elva’s breath caught at the sight of her, and she repressed the urge to shake free of Myrra’s preening and run towards her.

She swallowed and looked at her sister, whose sapphire dress was cut in a similar shape to Remi’s – modest variations of Elva’s own gown.

She couldn’t help but feel this was it, the beginning of the Ending.

She met her sister’s gaze and Myrra smiled sadly.

‘Every Vettonian here tonight understands the sacrifice you’re making, Elva.

We don’t take it lightly.

’

‘I know.’

‘You will always be Vettonian, no matter how long you live in Clochain. You will always have a home here. If you get there and it’s untenable, fake your death in a fire and we’ll know to expect you home.

’

‘And risk a war that would destroy us?’ Elva asked sceptically, but her next words died in her throat when she saw the ferocity on Remi’s and Myrra’s faces.

‘Yes.’

Elva turned to face her family, eyes glassy.

She blinked, forcing the overwhelming swell of emotions down.

She wouldn’t be able to go through with this if she let the panic sink its claws in, so she took another breath and schooled her features into a mask of calm.

‘If it turns out Clochain is a paradise and Fynton’s nice, stay and enjoy his company – buy us enough time to regroup and strategise.

But if you don’t see a way forwards there, if your life is in danger, then I ask you to leave.

Please.

’ Myrra’s voice cracked on the last word, and she gripped Elva’s hand.

‘That’s an order,’ Kella said.

The new captain stepped through the door, her head freshly shorn for the occasion.

She was followed by ten other figures: the Vettonian Warriors.

‘From one captain to another, if the risk outweighs the boon, retreat,’ Kella said.

Elva looked at her squad, her sisters, and took in their bright eyes, her heart filling with pride and fear and love and heartbreak.

They were a mixed bunch, some related by blood while others were family born of sweat and tears and sleepless nights, fighting side by side.

They spread out into a circle around her, linking hands, Remi on one side, Myrra on the other.

‘Neve would be so proud of you if she were here,’ Myrra said.

It was as if someone had punched her in the guts.

Neve, her best friend, had died a year ago in battle.

The pit in her stomach hardened into something impenetrable as Myrra squeezed her hand, oblivious to the riot of emotions crashing through her.

But if the last year had taught her anything, it was how to suppress this swell of anxiety and forge on as if nothing were amiss.

Elva met Kella’s eyes, and the new captain nodded.

Then Elva slowly spoke the words that had always centred her before battle, one final time: ‘Guided by Ever, grounded by valour. If one calls, we all follow. Until the Ending takes us.’

In unison the Vettonian Warriors chanted the prayer, their promise to their homeland and to one another.

‘Now, let’s go show this so-called prince exactly what he’s marrying into.

’ Myrra’s wicked delight didn’t go unnoticed, and as one the warriors straightened their backs, preparing for a battle none of them had faced before.