Chapter 1

Lenny

Five years. Five years of running, hiding, never staying anywhere long enough to call it home. Five years of watching over my shoulder and jumping at shadows that might be nothing more than my own fractured nerves.

The northern market of New Solas buzzes with afternoon commerce, merchants hawking their wares beneath colorful canopies that flutter in the mountain breeze. The golden spires of the xaphan city gleam in the distance, close enough to promise safety from demon pursuit, far enough to avoid too much scrutiny from celestial authorities.

"Mama, look at the pretty stones!" Ava's voice cuts through the crowd chatter, bright and curious as always. She tugs on my hand, pointing toward a jewelry vendor's stall where polished gems catch the light.

"Quietly, little bird." I squeeze her fingers gently, pulling my hood lower over my face. "Remember what we talked about."

She nods solemnly, but her violet eyes still dance with excitement. At four years old, Ava sees wonder everywhere we go. Markets like this fascinate her—the colors, the sounds, the endless parade of different faces. She doesn't understand why we can never linger, why we always move on just when she starts to feel comfortable somewhere.

Sometimes I envy her innocence.

We weave through the crowd, keeping close to the merchant stalls that line the market's edge. I've learned to read the flow of people, to spot the gaps where we can move without drawing attention. My daughter's small hand stays locked in mine, her trust absolute even when she doesn't understand our constant vigilance.

The coin purse hidden beneath my cloak holds barely enough for tonight's lodging and tomorrow's travel. We need supplies—bread, dried meat, clean water for the road ahead. But every purchase requires interaction, conversation, the risk of someone remembering our faces.

"Fresh brimbark! Sweet zynthra just in from the southern farms!" A farmer's wife calls out her wares, her weathered hands gesturing toward baskets of vegetables. The prices painted on wooden signs seem reasonable enough.

I approach her stall carefully, Ava pressed close to my side. The woman smiles warmly at my daughter, but I keep my face shadowed beneath my hood.

"Two loaves of bread and some dried dreelk," I murmur, reaching for my coin purse.

The transaction should be simple. Anonymous. Forgettable.

But as I count out the copper lummi, my sleeve slides back slightly, revealing the pale scars that circle my wrists. The vendor's eyes catch on them, her expression shifting from friendly commerce to something harder.

"Where did you say you were traveling from?" she asks, no longer smiling.

"I didn't." I place the coins on her counter, reaching for the wrapped food.

Her hand shoots out, fingers closing around my forearm with surprising strength. "Those marks look fresh. You running from something, girl?"

My body goes rigid. The familiar panic claws up my throat—trapped, caught, nowhere to run. The scars she's examining burn as if they're fresh wounds again, and I'm back in that basement chamber, chained and helpless.

"Let go." The words come out sharper than I intend.

"Now listen here—"

I twist my arm free with violent force, muscle memory from years of captivity overriding rational thought. The vendor stumbles backward, knocking over a basket of zynthra that scatter across the ground.

"Crazy bitch," she snarls, loud enough that nearby shoppers turn to stare.

The attention I've worked so hard to avoid crashes down on us like a wave. Faces turn our direction, curious and concerned. My heart hammers against my ribs as I grab the bread and meat, shoving them into my bag.

"Come on, Ava. We're leaving."

But when I turn, reaching for her small hand, I grasp empty air.

The space beside me yawns vacant. No violet eyes, no dark curls, no tiny fingers that should be tangled with mine.

"Ava?" My voice cracks as I spin in a circle, scanning the immediate area. She was right here. Right beside me just moments ago.

The crowd seems to thicken around me, bodies pressing closer, blocking my view. Panic explodes in my chest, white-hot and consuming. She can't have gone far—she's only four, her legs too short to outpace adults.

"Ava!" I call louder, not caring who hears me now. The vendor behind me mutters something about disturbed women, but I ignore her completely.

I push through the crowd, shouldering past shoppers who curse and glare. My daughter wouldn't wander off willingly. She knows better. She knows the rules.

Unless someone took her.

The thought sends ice through my veins. Demon bounty hunters, slavers, or worse—any number of threats I've spent five years trying to outrun. They could have been watching us, waiting for exactly this kind of moment.

"What sense do you have, human?" a xaphan sneers as he snatches me from the path that leads between the stalls. "Are you trying to draw attention to yourself?" His eyes scan my frame. "Looking to earn coin?"

Panic doesn't even allow me to feel disgust. Not as I fight against the xaphan holding me. 

And then I see them.

In the small clearing around the fountain's base, Ava stands perfectly still, her tiny hands clasped behind her back in the formal posture I taught her for meeting strangers. Before her crouches a man whose presence seems to command the space around him despite his relaxed position.

He's massive—broad shoulders and powerful frame that speak of warrior training even in repose. Silver-white hair falls to his shoulders, catching the afternoon light like spun moonbeams. But it's his wings that mark him unmistakably as xaphan nobility.

Pale blue wings arch from his shoulders, darker accents near the tips suggesting high military rank or bloodline status. They're partially folded but still impressive in their span, each feather perfectly groomed and gleaming with an almost ethereal sheen.

When he tilts his head to listen to something Ava is saying, I catch a glimpse of his profile. Strong jaw, classical features that belong on ancient statues, skin with that faint golden undertone that marks the celestial-born. He's beautiful in the way xaphan always are—perfect and untouchable and dangerous.

My daughter chatters at him with her characteristic fearlessness, gesturing with animated hands while he nods seriously as if her words carry great weight. There's something gentle in his posture, the way he's made himself smaller to meet her at eye level, that should reassure me.

Instead, my blood turns to ice water.