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It didn’t bother me. I didn’t want to see him either, forever hurt by the shift in his demeanor after my mother’s death. I was only thirteen years old. Clay had just celebrated his fifth birthday—so young I doubted he had many memories of our loving mother and the way her smile hugged your heart.

When the illness took her from us, we in essence lost our father, too.

Those first months were unbearable and dark; mother’s void could be felt everywhere. Father did nothing to buffer his own grief and anger, much less comfort us.

For Clay, I couldn’t replace our mother, but I needed him to know what it was like to be loved and cared for. I did the best I could, shielding him from father’s moods and making excuses when papa withdrew for weeks at a time—maybe that was my mistake.

Clay looked up to our father, and as he aged, he desired more and more to please him—which was what prompted me to want to get him away. I couldn’t stand the idea of my sweet little brother following in my father’s footsteps, becoming a bitter, spiteful man.

It would all be so different if my mother had survived.

My father would have remained that solid figure in the background.

My brother would have flourished, and I along with him.

If my mother would have lived, I’d likely be off on my own, happy, traveling, or, at my current age of twenty-three, maybe starting a family—not bound for the Keeper.

My throat clenched. All of those dreams had been yanked out at the root, one after the other.

The carriage’s wheels rumbled on. Field after field drifted by. Houses became sparse as the rows of crops grew more abundant.

After a time, a large grove of apple trees rushed by, marking the furthest point north I’d ever traveled from Fernton. Taken from the only city I knew—the only place I had called home.

Had my mood not been darkened by the morning’s misfortunes, I would have looked on with awe at the boundless amount of corn, cabbage, beets, and beans, their stalks stretching tall and strong into the bright summer sun.

Farming was a source of pride for us humans.

It made us indispensable to the bordering races who did not have the patience, climate, or desire to work with the soil.

But there was no farming where I was headed.

My future awaited within the walls of the Obsidian Fortress. While not all the details had been made clear, I knew that was where the Keeper resided, and as the Blood Offering, I was bound to fulfill my duty to help the Keeper maintain the Vitahex ward.

I knew that the Obsidian Fortress existed somewhere within the Shadow Wilds—a dense forest infested with Slips.

But it was the small, unknown details that unnerved me, like: How did one travel through the Shadow Wilds?

How will we keep the Slips away? And of course the bigger question—the long-standing mystery on everyone’s mind troubled me too: What exactly does it mean to be the Blood Offering?

The events of the Offering Ceremony were widely talked about, but the ultimate fate awaiting the Offering was murky. In fact, the mystery surrounding it made the topic a popular debate among inmates. There were plenty of theories, most ending in a large amount of blood and subsequent death.

Knowing the Keeper was an Ashlora, I assumed that some of what was said was true.

Ashlora, after all, weren’t like typical humans.

They were one of the three more powerful, specialized races, just like Shadorites and Dewhirls.

All three supernaturals could pass as an average human at a glance—until you looked closer.

An Ashlora’s difference was visible in the eyes. Irises the color of ash, or so I’d been told, I’d never seen one in person. We humans didn’t make a habit of hanging around other beings that could easily end us.

Yet, I am on my way to serve one, I thought. It was impossible not to feel defeated.

‘The Keeper’ was not a title given to just any Ashlora—but a position held by one who, from what I understood, was superior in their ability to wield fire and manipulate energy.

Very few humans understood how this was accomplished, but that didn’t stop us from trading and using Ashloran elixirs, potions, and objects.

Those made by the Keeper specifically sought the highest price in the city’s market.

Perhaps the greatest example of our human dependence on the Keeper’s unmatched ability was the ward which protected our kingdom—the one my blood would soon help fortify.

At one point, the carriage stopped, and the door opened. “I hope you know better than to run,” the guard warned.

I climbed out to stretch my legs and relieve my bladder.

But the break was abrupt, and once again, I was returned to the wooden cage.

Fields continued to drift past the window, but I lost interest in the view.

Instead, I crafted a few of my own morbid theories about what loomed ahead.

Wild and dark, it was a dangerous pattern of thought to follow—the fate of the Blood Offering.

I looked down to see my knuckles turning white, my hands twisted anxiously around one another. I knew a considerable amount of time had passed by the way my back ached and my body tensed against the smallest ruts the carriage knocked over.

The sun had lowered in the sky, its rays glared in on me from the west. When I peered outside, I was surprised to see what could only be—the Bright Zone. A large swath of land where all the trees and brush had been leveled in an effort to keep the Slips from invading.

Like most things dealing with the war and far away occurrences, I’d only heard tales of its existence, never thought I’d see it in person.

The evidence of the past war stretched before me. A lane a thousand paces wide, once cleared of all but small stones and dirt—nothing left that would cast a shadow for the Slips to follow—sat with an unnatural quality.

With the protective ward in place, the clearing was no longer maintained, and grasses grew long in its path. Still, the sight was unsettling.

Scanning beyond, trees shot up abruptly on the opposite border, the vegetation dense and layered. Even though the sun shone brightly, it only lit the outer fringes. Branches and leaves wove together so tight they acted as one impenetrable wall—the Shadow Wilds.

The muffled voices of the men upfront droned on as the horses slowed and we drew to a stop.

Moments later, outside my window, a figure emerged from the tree line, walking in our direction.

The guard jumped down from the carriage and approached the newcomer on foot. Shoulders relaxed, it looked as though he was expecting the man’s arrival.

Before I could make out the stranger’s face, the guard reached him and the two men turned. For several moments, they observed the distant wall of trees and exchanged remarks, their voices nothing but an indecipherable jumble.

Unable to eavesdrop, I blew out a long breath and leaned back into my seat. All I could do was wait.

The carriage door opened.

I stared at the man’s face before me, trying to place the familiar blue eyes and wide mouth. “Arden?” I murmured.