Orders

The horror of that first letter was nothing compared to all the letters that followed. Every time the messenger arrived with a new letter for her and a sneer, she grew more queasy and restless. She couldn’t eat or sleep. She had tried to brew more potions, but she couldn't focus.

Her father planned to have her claimed at the Unveiling by the heir of Brokenfang, not married. Not courted or even asked. Claimed and traded like chattel. No, worse than chattel. At least, a cow could hope to escape its owner’s pasture, and there was no lie in it. Claiming was a vicious mockery of a soul bond that only ended in death.

Per the letters, it was a custom of Brokenfang to ensure long-standing and prosperous matches and wives who could serve and carry Brokenfang’s noble legacy.

Multiple sons were expected, obedience was required, and her feelings and desires were irrelevant.

She was not surprised.

She knew from a young age that her father and his contemporaries only saw women as tools for legacy and alliance.

The problem was that Kaelra had been declared barren as stone years ago. It had been one of the greatest moments of her life. She had no interest in children. The world was far too cruel. She had thought that being unable to ensure legacy made her useless; thus, she truly was free of his machinations. She gleefully awaited the day he would forget that she was alive. After he stepped down, maybe after he died, she and her brother could reconnect and make up for lost time.

But she was wrong. The fact that her father had sent a pair of guards to pick her up made it clear that he had found a use for her, whether he knew about her infertility or not.

Anxiety churned her stomach, imagining his reaction. When his deal fell through, she would be blamed, and his fury would be all-consuming. She wasn’t confident she would survive, yet the time to escape had passed before she had even had a chance.

No matter how strong the heir of Brokenfang was, he wasn’t strong enough to claim a witch. No shifter was. Claiming was a barbaric shifter practice that required the absolute domination and subjugation of a magical soul. No witch had ever or would ever be dominated by a shifter, as even the weakest witch had a stronger magical soul than the strongest shifter.

Stygias help the man if her magical soul was offended by the attempt and decided to lash out. Even as weak as she was, he would die, and then where would she be?

Dead soon after, or at least close to it, she was sure.

Kaelra sucked her lip between her teeth and looked out the window, watching the wilds of the open forest whizz by as the escort rover started on the road toward Moongrave’s capital. The city of Elithor was not quite a fortress, but it was a massive, sprawling city in the center of the island, carved out of the tallest mountain and surrounded by wild forests. As they climbed the slope, she looked north to the Great Bharin Bridge that connected Moongrave Island to the northern continent. She could just barely make out the stone walls and spires of the fortress at the end of the bridge.

She took a deep breath, trying to focus on the positives. Her father may lash out, but it was only pain. Pain was only ever temporary. So long as she was alive, she would be fine. He would discard her again, likely not even attempt to drag her back to Hollowfang. And that was fine. She wouldn’t return to the frontier as there wouldn’t be a camp by the end of the day.

As soon as Kael had announced that an official commander would be installed before the Calling, Rhovan had started organizing the dismantling of the camp. Kaelra had packed up all the potion ingredients in her magical storage along with her share of provisions and said goodbye to whomever she could manage before the escort grew angry about the delay. By the time the new commander arrived, there would only be a handful of people and what little was left of the clan-provided supplies.

Eryx had been fuming when he realized what was happening, but he had been powerless to stop them. The memory made her smile.

The car slowed to a stop at the edge of the capital city. She hopped out with the escort and followed them through the town. People were everywhere, chatting, squealing, and laughing. The scent of roasting meat and baking sweets filled the air. Big, gleaming banners billowed over the city: one for each crown of the Empire beneath the combined sigil of the Moongrave Empire. The cardinal sign of the elements and stylized orbs of the dragon forms of each crown prince of Moongrave surrounded the roaring silver dragon in the center of the banner.

She breathed in the clean air in awe. It was as if the Wretched Choir had never reached here. The escort checked in with the imperial guards and led her through the gates. The guards eyed her strangely as she passed. She ducked her head and avoided making eye contact.

As they passed through the main foyer, a musky, almost metallic, and sweet scent hit her nose. Like honeyed Wren wine burned in fire and blood. She lifted her head, looking around, searching for the source. She was not a shifter, but because she had shifter blood, her senses were better than the average witch. She could smell magic in a way that regular shifters couldn’t. The scent was familiar and teeming with magic, but it had faded. Whoever the owner was had long since gone.

Something inside her deflated in melancholy as she shuffled after the escort upstairs to the third floor and down the corridor towards a set of doors. One of them knocked.

The door cracked open. A few moments later, the two escorts stepped aside, and a man came out with eyes just like hers and the same dark, short curls, though his were far more styled. His eyes were cold, darkening his features. He was much paler than she was, slightly darker than tan, where she was a rich brown. He looked well. His cheeks were full and healthy, his shoulder broad though he wasn’t very heavily muscled.

Something at the back of her mind curdled with suspicion and stamped down the greeting she thought to give. The words all died at the sight of the uncanny and completely foreign man standing in front of her.

He looked her up and down and sneered at her as if he’d rather grind her under his heel than speak to her. The way his face twisted and crumpled in on itself stole the warmth from her blood. His anger sparked in the air. She flinched. Her whole body tensed, and the urge to run and hide nearly knocked her breathless.

He looked so much like their father, she wanted to puke.

“What the fuck are you doing showing up here looking like that?”