Page 3 of Vow of the Undead (The Bloodrune Saga #1)

N ine of us women lined up for the first challenge of the autumnal twilight. While children played in the streets, and villagers made bets on the race’s outcome, I steadied my breathing. Nerves rippled through me, buzzing with impatience for the running to begin.

I anxiously waited for the start of each new season when we’d gather as a village to celebrate the changes with footraces, wrestling, swimming, and stone lifting.

I wasn’t particularly skilled at any of them, but that worked in my favor because this—running—was my opportunity to push my body to the edge of breakdown.

And that’s what I craved most.

The competition, the bets, the thrill of running in front of others, all of it was enough for me to push and push and push until I finally got what I wanted; a vision from the Gods.

I shook the tingling from my arms as Ragna patted my back.

She was the favored winner because of her wiry muscle and that she shaved one side of her head to keep it from blowing in her face and distracting her.

Trades exchanged hands, coin and furs, with Ragna’s name on their lips. It only encouraged me to run harder.

“Alva is cheering for you, Silver,” Ragna said with a laugh.

She pointed to her daughter who jumped up and down at the row of villagers, all eager for the challenges to kick off.

Her blond braids shone bright among the fading green and ragged browns, the muted colors of autumn made darker by an overcast sky.

Alva’s little hands fluttered in erratic claps and my heart matched its pace. If I wasn’t careful, I’d cross the frail line from nervous excitement to unbidden panic.

I blew out a slow breath and gave Alva a little wave.

“No, she’s hoping you win,” I said to reassure Ragna. But she was not offended by her daughter’s choice.

She shook her head and winked. “She doesn’t have to hope for that.”

I managed a smile until Alva suddenly stopped waving and chewed on the sleeve of her dress. Her father pulled her closer to him, silent concern tugging at his frown. Even Ragna’s good nature vanished.

Their gazes panned across the village to where the race would end.

I snapped my head to the end of the foot path. Masked men and women marched down our racetrack, not an unusual occurrence except that these were extra members of the Grimward, more than we normally had patrolling our village.

Thirteen executioners had arrived, along with members of the king’s guard mounted on horses behind them.

Their footsteps and the clop of hooves grew louder and heavier as they marched toward the competitors.

Years had passed since they’d ripped women from their houses, testing to see if they claimed themselves as witches.

The Grimward was too busy patrolling for violence, and experience told me that even now, with the king’s guard in tow, they were likely only patrolling for any fools who’d gotten into a fight and drawn blood.

But my frayed nerves said otherwise.

They’re hunting witches.

They’re hunting you.

And you deserve it.

Blood rushed in deafening waves through my ears. My heart hammered painfully with the storm of dread building inside me.

Someone called out for us to get into position, daring to break the tense silence as we all afforded the Grimward respect laced in bitterness.

Since their visits grew more frequent, we tried to lay low, focus on the activity, and continue our celebration. How they even scented the lost blood, I didn’t know. They eyed us as they scanned the crowd in search of whoever had broken the law.

I bit my tongue and kept my eyes on the ground.

I had to believe they didn’t know what I was so that I didn’t collapse from nerves and give myself away.

Collapsing was reserved for during or after the race only, when my unconsciousness would be considered nothing more than the strain of the sport, not a moment to commune with the Gods.

Each woman dropped to one knee as if bowing before royalty, our heads low.

An executioner’s boot stepped into my line of sight. The Grimward were a necessary evil and we’d been visited by the king’s guard, even courtiers and council members before, but something about today felt different—or rather, familiar. Familiar to a single horrific memory from my childhood.

A shiver snaked between each bone along my spine. If I thought about the first time I saw their masks, and the swing of their axes, darkness would cloud my sight until I collapsed in the crystal-wet leaves.

If only the damn race would start .

I needed to forget.

I glanced at my father in hopes he’d call for it to begin. He was eyeing the executioners, clearly annoyed that he had no control over them and that their search interrupted our celebration.

I gritted my teeth, focusing on the feel of bone grinding against bone to divert my mind from the invisible claws enclosing my throat and lungs. The race hadn’t even started and I was already breathless.

I squeezed my eyes shut to try to block out the echoes of that day triggered by the sight of their masked faces, but pieces of the memory I’d buried popped up anyway.

The darkness of the hatch under my bed. The screams. The lies that left my tongue bitter ever since.

Like my mother had taught me to do, I shifted my focus from the past to the present. I tasted bitterness on my tongue. I smelled the rot of early autumn leaves. I felt the damp earth bend beneath my knee. The world narrowed, my pulse slowing just enough to keep me upright.

My heavy braid tumbled over my shoulder, the amber-brown ends mingling with the leaves covering the ground. I fought every urge to abandon this race and run from here, but if I left now, I’d only call attention to myself. I’d only draw the interest of the executioners looking for criminals.

I couldn’t help that I was born one.

Two of the executioners marched behind the row of women, circling us like birds of prey zeroing in on their kill.

But it was the glare of my father’s wife that caught my attention, her irritation for my very existence as a witch obvious with her twisted frown.

At twenty-six, I no longer gave in to her pressure.

It once molded me, like heat in a forge while my father was the fire, burning me with every slap on the cheek, a bitter occurrence that grew more frequent the longer my mother had been gone.

Ten years banished to the wasteland meant her life would end soon.

Nobody had ever survived longer than a decade there.

My heart tripped. I had to get a glimpse of how to free her. The Gods’ help was my only hope.

This damn race needed to start now. The pressure of competition had worked every other time, but I only glimpsed pieces of the sagas, up until my most recent vision.

A vision of an ancient runestone with the image of a witch carved into it.

Was it stored with the others in the king’s castle?

Another vision might tell me that, too. Thankfully the Grimward had no clue that when I fainted from physical exertion, I was also seeing magic painted on the inside of my eyelids—painted by the hands of the Gods.

To them, I was just a weak competitor, a stupid girl in this for the fun of competition.

The executioners finally cut left, and I prayed for the race to begin, when another pair of boots stopped before me. This rough black leather didn’t match the blood-stained brown of the Grimward and guards’ boots.

I dragged my eyes up, but the man had already turned and followed in the executioners’ wake.

His dark hair was knotted at the back of his head, a style that I’d only heard described in stories.

A heavy sword was slung across his back instead of the executioners’ typical axes hanging at their sides.

Nobody was allowed to carry weapons anymore, except executioners and the king’s guard, and… the king .

It couldn't be King Drakkar.

This man looked like a warrior from the old and forbidden sagas that spoke of Odin and Freya and recounted historical battles fought in their names. Plus, the king had never traveled here before.

He strode toward the Vyl’s chair where my father sat to survey the race and autumnal celebrations .

Despite this distraction, my father’s voice finally—finally—rang out in the call that started the race. “For glory!”

We bolted forward.

My feet pounded the slick path coated in wet leaves. I forced one leg in front of the other, ignoring the pain thumping between my ribs just like a warrior would. Cold air filled my lungs as I sprinted out ahead of the other competitors.

My heels struck the path one after the other. Fire enveloped my lungs as my failing heart hammered too fast. I’d started in front of the other racers, only to quickly fall back. Two, then three women passed me, their eyes set on the rotted ash tree.

Ragna easily breezed past me while I heaved painful breaths.

I had to push harder, faster. If I failed to collapse, the Gods would not be able to reach me. While the barrier between Asgard and Midgard was thin and their influence accessed us through the tree of Yggdrasil, a connection was only possible for witches who put in the effort.

I forced my feet forward, but it was too late.

Ragna pumped her fists in victory as she stopped at the ash tree. The short sprint and the thrill of competition had ended before I could hurl my body past its breaking point. I hadn’t pushed hard enough.

Once I finished the race, running my palm over the rough tree bark, I doubled forward, the heel of my hands on my thighs. While I heaved, the other women chatted easily. My breathless lungs wouldn’t even let me congratulate Ragna.

Just then, she laid her hand on my back and I sucked in a choking breath, giving her a smile that she didn't return. Ragna’s resilient beauty remained despite the worry twisting her face.

“Silver.” My heart thumped when her voice came out in a whisper.

“Have you found yourself in a bloody fight lately? Or have they found out about you?” She moved to stand in front of me, her muscular body blocking my sight of the village.

If she’d been a witch from ancient times, her gift of strength would have been used to fight off Jotnar, the giants who pillaged human villages—creatures everyone now said never existed—though she could only summon it with the rising of the dawn sun.

My back was to the ash tree as I blinked up at her. “I—no. Why?”

Despite the heat of the exercise, my blood ran cold as her fingers gripped my shoulder.

“They’re staring at you,” Ragna said. “The king hasn’t stopped looking at you since he arrived.”

I dared to look past her and immediately my gaze met the man with the warrior’s hair. His pale blue eyes stared at me, unblinking. He towered over my father with the muscle and widespread stance of a fighter. His thick beard accentuated the cut of his jaw.

Everything about him, down to the arrogance slightly curling at the edge of his mouth and the delicious fierceness in his icy eyes, was what I imagined a warrior before battle to look like.

My lips parted and I sucked in a sharp breath.

When he noticed my reaction, his mouth cut into a crooked grin. It did nothing to soften the intensity of his all-consuming eyes.

My heart slowed enough for me to notice the brief skips with every other beat. How is it that a man who refuted the existence of Gods and witches and our history could embody the heroes from the sagas I loved?

And his eyes were on me .

Heat bloomed in my chest, thawing the cold fear that had rendered me frozen only moments ago. His gaze roved over me, dropping to where I heaved in another breath, and then trailed back up to my eyes .

My father was speaking to him, but the king didn’t seem to listen. He merely folded his thick arms over his chest and tipped his head ever so slightly. Though I hadn’t won a message from the Gods, I’d received the king’s message.

He’d come here for me.

This man I’d never met was fixated on me, and because he was nothing like I expected, I couldn’t look away.

“Does he recognize you?” Ragna’s voice broke through my thoughts.

Shit. Did he know what I was? My eyes darted from her to the people behind her. Two members of the Grimward marched toward me. Only their stark brown eyes were visible from beneath carved masks, one a boar with jagged tusks, the other curved with the lithe lines of a lynx.

“Which of you is Silver?” the boar asked as he made his way down the path we’d used for the short sprint. Their stares matched that of a predator stalking its prey.

And perhaps the king’s stare had been the same, I was only too foolish to notice.

“I have to run,” I whispered.

“Go into the forest,” she breathed back, just low enough that they couldn’t catch her words as they marched closer. “If they catch you, they’ll exile you. And if for some reason they decide they must kill you, they’ll only do it where there are witnesses.”

She was right. The more alone I was, the safer I was.

They were instructed to send a message, and if nobody was around to see my head severed from my body, it was a waste—nearly as grave as a villager wasting a drop of blood when our very lives, every bit of our energy, was wrapped up in a system that supported one another.

Farmers, trappers, gatherers, Vyls, weavers, even royals all played a role in keeping Vylheim from becoming the wasteland our ancient home had turned into.

Each life had value to the system. Value not worth sacrificing without witnesses .

The message was more important than the execution, so that others didn’t get any ideas.

My gaze shifted back to the king. He lifted his brows as if to challenge me.

Run.

I spun on my heels and ducked past the rotted ash. I ran into the heavy shade of trees where even the bright moon at the beginning of autumn could not break through the tangle of branches above.

I ran—another chance to push my body to the breaking point, to survive, and perhaps even to glimpse a vision.