CHAPTER 1 

Amelia

The blight has spread again.

I sit atop my mare on the edge of the ridge, staring down into the valley where thick black veins now coil through the roots of once-sacred trees. The sight turns my stomach. This land, our land, is dying, and every hour we delay, more of it turns to ash beneath the surface. I tighten my gloved grip on the reins, feeling the dull ache behind my eyes. The connection to the Wildspont is flickering, thin and cracked like brittle glass.

A breeze tugs my cloak as I press a hand to the sigil burned into my skin just below the collarbone. The mark pulses faintly, a weak imitation of what it once was: vibrant and strong, an unbroken bond to Nytheria. Now, it’s just... fading.

Another breath, sharp with the rot of the cursed valley below, and I turn my mare toward the capital.

I ride hard, kicking up clouds of dying leaves and ash. The magic in the ground no longer greets me. The land used to sing when a Purna approached. Now it groans.

By the time I reach the outer wards of Nytheria, the sigils etched into the gates flicker. They were once brilliant, runes of protection and pride. Now they shimmer dull gray, as if the city itself is barely holding on.

The guards at the post straighten when they see me. Not because they fear me. Because they know what my arrival means: more bad news. I nod at them but say nothing. I’ve run out of words to soften truth.

Inside the city, everything feels... smaller. Hollow. The white-barked trees that line the walkways droop like weeping elders. Vendors whisper instead of shout. Even the children play in silence.

When I dismount, my boots hit the stone path with a solid echo. I draw the cloak tighter around myself. The sigil on my skin burns faintly, not enough to hurt. Just enough to remind me we’re running out of time. 

A familiar voice stops me halfway to the tower. “Heir Crow.”

I turn. Councilor Myris stands at the archway, his expression more worn than usual. His robes hang off his frame like they no longer fit.

“She’s summoned you.”

Of course she has. All I do is nod before I start following him. Hopefully, this time, I will leave this place with a plan for action.

High Matron Elysia sits propped up in a throne of pillows and layered silk, but no finery can hide how much she’s changed. Her skin looks translucent in the candlelight. Her once-silver hair is dulled to a pale gray. The magic that once radiated from her like sunlight on crystal is dim and threadbare.

I kneel out of habit, even though she’s told me a thousand times not to.

“You’ve seen it?” she asks, voice like dry leaves.

I nod. “It’s worse. The entire western grove is gone.”

She closes her eyes. I can feel the ache that ripples from her like a second heartbeat in the room.

“The roots?” she asks.

“Dead. Hollowed out. The sigils didn’t hold.” I pause. “And the Wildspont didn’t respond when I called on it.”

Elysia opens her eyes again, still that deep, knowing violet. “Then we don’t have time.”

I shift. “There’s more. The spirits didn’t come. Not even the lesser ones.”

That gets a reaction. Her thin fingers curl slightly against the blanket. “They’ve abandoned us.”

“No,” I say, more sharply than intended. “They’re being blocked. Something unnatural is severing our line.”

Elysia sighs. “Then we have no choice.”

I straighten. “There has to be something else. The archives—”

“Amelia.” Her voice cuts across mine. “We need help. From outside.”

I go still. My heart starts to thrum with the rhythm of denial.

“You don’t mean—”

“I do.”

I stare at her. “The Vrakken? You’d send me into the arms of blood-drinkers?”

“They’re not monsters,” she says, though even she sounds unsure. “Our histories were tangled once. The oldest bond magic, the kind tied to the Wildspont, traces back to them as much as it does to us. Before everything fractured.”

I stand. “You want me to beg them for help? After they’ve turned their backs on us for centuries? What will others say?”

“I want you to save our people.”

My hands curl into fists. “They won’t help us. They’ll use us. They’ll take what’s left of our magic and crush it in their teeth.”

“Perhaps,” she whispers. “Or perhaps they’ll listen to you.”

I shake my head. “There has to be another way. Anything else.”

“There isn’t.”

She leans forward, coughing into her sleeve. When she pulls it back, I see blood. And something inside me breaks.

“Then I’ll go,” I say. “But alone.”

Elysia gives a slow nod. “And in secret. The Council will try to stop you.”

I pace around. “You’re right. They’ll try, because they’re terrified. They don’t understand what’s happening, and instead of admitting that, they cling to the past like it’s a shield.”

Elysia gives a bitter smile. “They were trained to worship their own memory. The Matrons, especially, half of them would rather see our bloodlines rot than admit the Vrakken were ever anything more than monsters.”

“They still use the old slurs,” I mutter. “Even in closed session. They say we shouldn’t sully the Wildspont by ‘mixing it with shadowblood.’”

I think of the last council meeting I attended, the one where I dared to suggest we share spellcraft knowledge with the outer enclaves. A minor proposal, one I thought would at least open discussion.

Instead, they laughed.

Matrons who’ve known me since I could walk dismissed me with brittle smiles and veiled insults. “Idealism makes poor policy,” one said, her jeweled fingers waving me off like a servant. Another muttered about how my mother has the same reckless streak. I remember gripping the edge of the table so hard my fingers went numb, biting my tongue so I wouldn’t scream.

No one stood up for me. Not even Myris.

They see me as a girl wearing her mother’s sigils, nothing more. Untried, unproven, too loud for their taste. Too proud. Too dangerous.

Even when the blight was still rumors, they brushed me aside. Said I was reading too much into natural decay. Now they can’t ignore it, but they still refuse to act.

Because to act means admitting they were wrong. And admitting that means letting go of centuries of hatred and ritual and control.

They won’t. Not until it’s too late.

“They are fools,” she says. “But powerful fools. And united in fear. That makes them dangerous.”

I stop pacing. “So why me? Why would they listen to me if they won't even consider the facts?”

“They won’t,” she says simply. “Not yet. That’s why you must go before they can vote, before the whispers spread. If they know you’re reaching out to Velcryn, they’ll try to silence you, bind your magic, maybe even exile you.”

My mouth goes dry. “They’d go that far?”

“They are already halfway there. You’ve seen the way they look at you. Young. Untried. Too close to me. They don’t trust your fire. Or your bloodline.” Elysia’s voice softens. “But you are the only one who can walk this line between old power and new. They will never see what I see in you, not until you prove them wrong.”

I pack light. The journey to Velcryn is long and dangerous, especially without the shield of diplomatic protection. But I don’t need guards. I need answers. And power.

My satchel carries dried roots, a few spellstones, a dagger with my family sigil, and a small, cracked mirror that once belonged to my mother, before she gave it to me. It’s not much, but it’s enough.

Just before dawn, I walk toward the stables. Myris isn’t at the gate, but someone else is.

Lira. The seer.

Her eyes are milky with time, her voice barely audible. “You go west,” she says. “Into the dark.”

I nod. “There’s no light left here.”

She presses something into my hand. A scroll, sealed in wax that shimmers faintly with violet.

“Read it when the moon is high,” she whispers. “And remember: Blood will bind you, or break you.”

I stare at her. “What does that mean?”

But Lira just smiles. “It always means something. Eventually.”

She vanishes into the fog before I can ask more. I tuck the scroll into my cloak and climb onto my horse. I hesitate for a breath, letting the silence settle around me. The city behind me is still asleep, its rooftops veiled in mist, its towers casting long, hunched shadows like watchful ghosts. Somewhere, a mourning bell tolls too early for the hour. I wonder who it’s for this time. A child? A guardian? Another Purna with no strength left to give?

For a moment, I wish I could turn back. Just long enough to say goodbye. But there’s no time for goodbyes anymore.

As I pass through the city gates, the sigils above groan faintly, shedding flakes of stone as I ride beneath.

The road to Velcryn yawns before me, endless and shadowed. And I do not look back.