Page 1 of The Spark that Ignites (Shattered Soul #1)

T he note clutched in Emmery’s sweaty palm was either a miracle sent by Pellius himself or a veiled invitation to a shallow grave. Given the gods had never answered her before, it was likely the latter but damn it—she was beyond desperate.

At the encroaching cadence of trailing footsteps, Emmery skirted the lantern lights and darted into the shadows though her forest-green cloak hardly blended in.

It had been a one-time splurge, a luxury she ordinarily denied herself, but the colour had snagged her eye, and she had emptied her pockets for it without hesitation.

Now, she never went without it. Tucking her braid away, she yanked the hood lower over her face, hoping it would be enough.

After her little incident that day in the market, gods knew she needed to stay hidden.

But no number of measured breaths could calm her racing pulse as the tavern came into view, a sea of patrons spilling past the door. Emmery hissed a curse. If there was anything she despised more than humans themselves, it was crowds.

A chilled breeze carrying the ungodly scent of seaweed and salt brushed her cheeks.

For a small oceanside town, the pub was packed—especially this late.

The town, too close to the kingdom capital for her to bother with its name, had been the fastest route to her previous destination, so she had taken the risk.

The closer to the capital, the more guards.

That was before the note had sidetracked her, of course.

Pinching the bridge of her nose, she considered her options. She could be a coward, ignore the note, and scurry back to the inn—to the illusion of safety. But for how long?

Death’s outstretched hand beckoned her with every insignificant beat of her immortal heart, relishing the idea that tonight she might finally be hauled before the king and sentenced to the execution she deserved.

As if she had chosen this.

As if she’d asked for this cursed existence.

No. She refused to die tonight.

Emmery’s eyes skimmed the unsigned note again though she had long since memorized the three stunted lines scrawled in a hurried scribble:

Rough break in Bagsdead. Meet me at the Black Mare at midnight. I can get you across the gate.

It was maddening how a single scrap of parchment could incite both hope and knee-buckling fear—especially given the way she had found it; tacked to her door with a knife.

But her heart ached for the salvation she’d endlessly dreamed of beyond the gate—that golden, shiny thing with rainbows arcing over top.

If only she had been able to find it herself.

How long had she stared at those three sentences as if they were hooked into her very soul? If it were true and this person, whoever they were, could get her to safety, everything would change. Yet, if it was a trap, this night might be her last.

Trading the note for her pocket watch, she flicked it open with trembling fingers.

If she was going to survive this, she needed to pull herself together.

A stiff drink would help. Or maybe five.

She tucked the watch beneath her dress collar, only to realize she’d been too consumed by her thoughts to check the time.

Pushing open the tavern’s rusted hinge, wooden door, Emmery was struck by the reek of stale beer and sweat, followed by the piercing wail of fiddles and off-key singing. The entrance was too damn packed, and her breath hitched.

The men inside wore dark trousers, boots, and thick flannel shirts, a cloudy cluster of greys and blues.

Several still sported their fishing smocks.

An auburn-haired man offered her a smile, a gesture most would perceive as kind.

But all she saw were teeth and claws and the grin of a jackal.

The woman on his arm tugged him away, her ankle-length dress swishing angrily.

Emmery wrinkled her nose at the hideous orange pattern reminiscent of a tablecloth.

How was she supposed to spot her contact in this chaos?

The people were too close. The walls pressed in, the room shrank, and she couldn’t pull air into her lungs.

Emmery elbowed her way through the crowd, her chest a clenched fist as she searched for a seat to safely survey the tavern.

A rickety, wooden stool in a shadowy corner of the bar counter called to her.

Climbing onto it, Emmery adjusted her hood and braced her dangling feet against the stool’s closest rung.

The barkeeper, a grizzled man with a bushy moustache streaked in grey, twitched his lips as he polished a glass with what she hoped wasn’t the same rag he used on the sticky counter.

“Something strong,” Emmery said, placing a coin down.

Raising a brow, the barkeeper’s hazel eyes drifted to the silver and back to her face.

Right. Manners. “Please,” she added, a little briskly.

But he ignored her order, leaning in instead. “It’s rather late for a lady such as yourself to be here alone.” He studied the ruby ring hugging her third finger. “Are you meeting someone? Your husband?”

Emmery lifted a brow right back, fished another coin from her pouch, and stacked it atop the first with more gusto than necessary. “On second thought, make it a double.”

Her fingers brushed the embroidered elk on the indigo pouch. It had been too easy to tug free from a distracted nobleman’s belt without his notice. A life she could fall into if the guilt weren’t eating her alive. But after dropping her coin in Bagsdead, what choice did she have?

Emmery scanned the pub, searching for whoever had left her the note. The walls covered in tacky oak panelling, were adorned with precariously hung hunting trophies. She glowered at a snarling wild cat. What was it with humans and unnecessary killing?

Maybe they’d mount her head on the wall next.

She watched with both disgust and fascination as a couple practically shoved their tongues down each other's throats. Her gaze lingered, likely too long not to be creepy, before tearing her attention away, her cheeks flaming.

But besides the dancing men sloshing ale onto the floor, there wasn’t anyone of note.

Except him.

At the back of the tavern sat a hooded man in a dark cloak.

Between his pale complexion, copious weapons, and predatory stillness, he resembled a wraith amongst the lively tavern.

Propped on his knee, his booted foot subtly bobbed to the music, but his firmly crossed arms screamed back away .

The frayed stitching on his faded leather armour revealed years of wear.

Was he a mercenary? No ale sat on his table, so he clearly wasn’t there to drink.

Their eyes met and he gave her a miniscule nod toward the empty seat. An invitation to join him?

The barkeeper dragged her attention away as he slid a chipped glass with two fingers of brown liquid to her. “It’s a bit of a rowdy crowd tonight, I’m afraid. Big birthday celebration.”

His false concern brought a sneer to her lips.

Besides humans’ astounding inability to understand anything other than themselves, they were vicious, despicable creatures.

The last person who had genuinely cared for her was Fionn and, well, that was nearly a century ago.

Either way, she could handle herself. Although her heart-shaped face and innocent eyes gave her a youthful look, she was likely double this man’s age.

Emmery exchanged the sneer for a smirk. “I’ll manage.”

The first sip of her drink washed away the stale spirits lingering on her tongue from earlier that day. The second fractionally smoothed her frayed nerves. She downed the rest, relishing in the familiar buzz before promptly ordering another.

Attempting subtlety as she glanced over her shoulder at the wraith-man, she decided to go chat with him and perhaps drop a subtle hint. But how would she broach it? She took a long drag of her drink, and her thoughts muddled. Screw it, she would make it up as she went along.

Her plan was thwarted as a hulking man claimed the seat beside her and signalled for a drink. His attention slid to her.

And locked.

Every muscle in her body went rigid. Time crawled to a stop. And despite her attempt to ignore him, his stare didn’t waver.

Emmery snuck a peek at his tidy, unblemished hands—far too clean to work on the fishing docks—and his neatly pressed uniform. The dismal grey fabric and unmistakable black bear stamped on the breast pocket made her blood ice over.

No . He couldn’t be. Because what business would one of King Silas’s guards have in a shabby tavern at midnight? And the way he was staring—

Shit . What if this was a set-up? What if he left that note to lure her here?

Emmery fought with every scrap of self-restraint not to adjust her collar as the guard studied her like he could see the demon lurking beneath her flesh. But that was impossible unless he saw her scars, or her magic flared—or worse, if he’d been there that day in Bagsdead.

“Busy spot here tonight,” the man said, the heavy bass of his voice severing the music. “Are you well this evening?”

Her shoulders tensed at the innocent small talk. “Fine,” she murmured, before adding, “thank you.” Clasping the glass in both hands to hide her quaking fingers, she lifted it to her lips.

To not raise suspicion, she’d finish her drink and make a hasty exit. But as the man smiled hungrily and a slow, oily feeling seeped into her gut, Emmery downed it in one gulp.

The guard lazily slapped two coins onto the counter and slid his stool into her path. “Another round for myself and the lady.”

The moment the barkeeper replaced his silvers with two drinks, the guard thrust it toward her. As the liquor lapped the sides of the glass, she debated what the real cost of that drink would be. Eyeing the liquid as if it were poison, Emmery didn’t dare touch it.

“I need to be going,” she muttered, but he backed her into her seat. Perhaps the shadowy corner wasn’t the wisest idea.