Page 47 of The Shard and the Serpent (Shard Daughters #1)

Alodon

Warrick

CUT.

The mountain path ends at a sheer drop—and there it is. The edge of Alodon.

The city’s ice wall swallows the horizon, stretched between two jagged peaks. Beneath its surface, pale light pulses in slow, rhythmic lines. Lightning cracks overhead, thin and white, flashing sideways across the blizzard.

Fucking snow. It’s everywhere. Melting against the back of my neck and streaking beneath my fur coat. It clings to every step and seeps through the eye holes of my Heir mask. I puff on Volt, the pounding in my head worsening, while I fidget with the pinch of my leathers.

I swore I wouldn’t smoke this shit, but Vandem claimed it’d keep me from freezing my balls off and, unfortunately, the bastard was right.

Despite the headache and weird fucking brain fog it keeps giving me, the drug offers some kind of synthetic power, boosting adrenaline and heat.

Sporadic pricks of the drug crackle over the tip of my tongue when I release a drag, blue smoke billowing out with the fog of my breath.

Still, I swear my nipples are frozen. Why the fuck does anyone live out here?

At the base, the ground sinks where a village waits. A scatter of sagging huts and rotted beams, swallowed half by snow and shadow. Wind punches through the ruins hard enough to shake what’s left of the rooftops. Lantern cords stretch between leaning poles, their green glow flickering.

I press my fingers to my temple, trying to focus past the incessant, miserable throbbing in my skull. I try another drag from my pipe, but my supply is out.

With a frustrated grunt, I toss the pipe to the snow. “Pick up the pace,” I call over my shoulder.

Behind me, three Serpents drag my shipment, masked and hooded, hunched against the blizzard. The sled rattles across the path, its tarp snapping in the wind. Bodies shift underneath, stiff and stacked. Eleven premiums frozen solid and marked for trade.

Bosses keep pulling support from Synlon. The Storm cut ties after we supposedly sent assassins to The Womb. The Kraken followed based purely on fucking cowardice, although Torren Trask still isn’t happy I bashed his son’s skull in, but Ruel was due for a good beating.

Now I’m freezing my ass off in Vile territory because some masked fucks keep slaughtering our nests.

Multiple hits in the past six months. It’s like they know exactly where to cut, making Russell more paranoid—a feat I didn’t think was possible.

Someone high up in Serpent ranks is feeding the insurgents the locations of our nests.

I’m thrilled. Fuck, if I met the bastard in charge of the hits, I’d probably suck him off.

I’m just not a fan of the extra work he’s putting on my shoulders.

Shipments have tripled in an attempt to win back The Kraken and The Storm.

Without Satori’s help shielding Estal Palace, I’m having a harder time saving more than I’m selling.

I had Dacre get maps made up of the Underground, trying to give Skin methods for escape, but where are they supposed to go?

The entire realm is fucked.

My headache flares. I grit my teeth and step into the village.

Rooftops jut from the snow like bones. Wind carves narrow paths between the structures, forcing us to duck under collapsed beams. The buildings that remain upright lean hard, warped by time and cold.

Dark silhouettes wait ahead, and tension lines my shoulders.

Vile cronies stand in the center, wrapped in layered black leather and hardened plates.

Their masks are smooth and featureless, stretched tight over their faces with no openings, only red sensors blinking where eyes should be.

Steam leaks from vents along their neck plates in steady, controlled bursts, keeping them from the cold.

Smart, creepy fuckers.

Each one grips a long-handled executioner’s axe, blade broad and sharpened to a mirrored edge. They stand stoic among the snow, but as we approach, they step aside in practiced unison, revealing the nest beyond.

It’s carved into a glacier, a narrow ramp sloping into The Vile’s Underground. Lanterns hang from spiked chains above the descent, casting a steady green glow.

I follow it down into the ice.

Breath fogging hard against the inside of my mask, the sled creaks behind me, metal scraping. Two Vile cronies step from the dark, and I stiffen. One grips the edge of the tarp. The other scans the sled’s tag and nods toward the wall.

“I trust this sacrifice to reinforce The Vile’s alliance with The Serpent,” I demand.

Masked heads turn my way.

“I’m under strict instructions not to return to Synlon without a deal,” I push. I take a step further into the nest and axes raise in warning.

Assholes.

“Deimos,” I growl, scanning the shadowed, ice caverns. “I know you’re here.”

Nothing.

Instead, the heavy, iron gate behind the blockade of cronies cranks upward, my sled of Skin pushed beneath its jagged teeth and snatched from the dark by gloved hands on the other side.

Greedy assholes.

I rip my Heir mask off. “I’m not leaving without your word.”

A shadow shifts out of my peripheral, and I pivot to where a tall figure leans between pillars of ice.

“There’s no need to shout, Ivor,” a dark, deep voice echoes toward me. “I’m right fucking here.”

Deimos Graves .

The Vile Heir is wrapped in black fabric bracing him like liquid armor.

The material clings to the cut of his frame, outlining every sharp, lethal muscle.

Of all the Heirs, he’s always been the most reserved.

I can probably count on one hand the things I know about Deimos, the first being he’s a scary motherfucker.

His face is sealed behind Alodon’s version of an Heir mask—a polished gas mask, two curved horns rising from its crown.

Small chains hang down from their limbs in a veil of silver, bones looped in wire and clasped throughout.

They clink softly with the tilt of his head, his long, gloved fingers lifting to the ice pillar beside him and tracing an unrecognizable symbol.

I step toward him. “Do I have your word?” Then lower. “I know you don’t trust Russell, but we both know he doesn’t have a lot of time left.”

Steam hisses from the ribbed tubes of his mask’s mouthpiece. “Your dead is appreciated, but they’re the same trade you’ve always offered. Leave me something of greater value, and you have The Vile’s backing against Ezma and Torren.”

Deimos moves from the shadows, his chains clinking softly. Then he lifts his hands to a thin, matte black zipper wrapping his neck and pulls it undone. Every crony in the vicinity suddenly turns away, kneeling, and bowing their heads as to not look at their Heir directly.

My brow cocks. “You’ve got them well-trained,” I mutter.

Steam slips from the seal of his mask and the plastered neck of his garment as he slowly pulls it off.

Beneath, his face gleams, stretched pale over sharp angles.

A skull inks him from throat to temple, jet-black teeth tattooed over his mouth and hollow sockets painted around dark eyes.

The ink follows every line of bone, several flexing when he scrapes a hand through his damp, black, shoulder-length hair.

Red eyes stare me down. Yes. Fucking red . Pitch black pupils ringed in stark crimson, the artificial, glowing red eyes around the cave a way to honor The Vile lineage.

The Heirs and I asked him when we were kids what kind of fuckery makes a boy’s eyes red. His exact words were, I’m not a boy.

I don’t think any of us ever asked him another question.

“Still not much of a talker, are you?” I ask, my Serpents shifting at my back. “Tell me what you want Deimos, and it better be fair.”

“Your masked insurgents,” he says, surprising me. “Are they your doing?”

I take a small step closer. “What do you know about that?”

“I know they’ve effectively torn apart all Serpent alliances,” he states and clasps his hands in front of him. “I know that Alodon is next.”

“If I had any clue who they were,” I say, choosing my next words carefully, “I would maybe consider telling you if I knew my father didn’t have your alliance, but I did.”

His red gaze levels with mine. The smallest grin hooks the corner of his lips. “You never had to worry about where I stand.”

I lean back. “No?”

But he stares past me, his gloved fingers tightening around his mask. “Everyone working today is from our prisons. Rapists. Murderers,” he rasps, his throat working as he lifts his mask back into place. “Take care of them and you can consider my alliance with Synlon withdrawn.”

I scowl. “What are you talking about?”

Then an arrow shoots past my fucking head.

Deimos stumbles with a grunt, its sharp steel embedding in his stomach. I swear a dark laugh creeps out from behind his mask. “I underestimated you, Warrick. I won’t do that again.”

I whip around, drawing my blade as Vile cronies lurch up from their knelt positions.

Three women stand where my cronies had, their heavy coats in a pile on the floor, and their plain Serpent masks thrown off to reveal a second mask beneath, glittering black across their eyes. The one at their center holds the bow, a second arrow lined up.

Her lips pull into a tight smile, green eyes flaring as they lock with mine.

Fuck . I falter, my gut wrenching with familiarity. Adrenaline rushes into my veins, my skull pounding. I drop to a knee with a harsh breath, my Serpent blade clattering to the ground before a warm palm cups my face. My heart falters as the pretty archer drags her lips over my ear.

“I missed you,” she whispers, and a shiver crackles down my spine, a deep groan creaking out from behind my gnashed teeth. “Remember. Us.”

My mind— pain . The pounding in my skull breaks into a high-pitched scream.