Chapter 1 

Isolde

The cold from the stone floor has crept past my threadbare tunic, seeping into my bones until it feels like a permanent part of me. I kneel with the others, a line of shivering, terrified humans waiting for the verdict that is always death. Around us, the Vrakken cavern stretches into an immensity of shadow and flickering torchlight.

Stalactites of black ice glitter high above, their points like daggers aimed at our hearts. The air is ripe with the scent of damp stone, burning fat from the torches, and the sharp, metallic tang of fear that bleeds from our own skin. My fingers are stained with ink from a life I will never return to, a life of letters and learning that feels like a ghost’s memory.

Now, all that matters is the bite of the cold and the oppressive silence of the predators who watch us. They are statues of ghostly white skin and long, dark hair, their crimson eyes glowing like embers in the gloom. Some of the nobles gathered on the dais have wings, great leathery appendages folded against their backs, marking them as revered and powerful.

They murmur to each other, their voices like the rasp of stone on stone, and I know they are deciding the manner of our end. The Blood Feast is their most sacred rite, a tradition of slaughter to mark the Winter Solstice. We are the solstice offerings.

My gaze drifts to the young girl, Mira, huddled a few feet away. She trembles, her face pale, and my own fear sharpens into a useless, aching need to protect her. She is why I am here.

I had pushed her behind the chapel altar when the Vrakken came, a foolish, impulsive act of defiance that earned me a place in this cavern. I close my eyes, bracing for the order to be given, for the first scream that will signal the beginning of the end. But the silence stretches, growing heavier, tighter.

It is broken not by a command to kill, but by the measured tread of two figures approaching. The Vrakken ruler, the Warlord Drazien, steps into the light. He is a terrifying monolith of a male, broad-shouldered and clad in armor inlaid with the bones of his enemies.

Beside him, a human woman walks with impossible composure. Solenne. Her raven-dark hair and steady gray eyes are a contrast to the predatory Vrakken around her.

She is a legend whispered among the captives—the human who survived the last solstice, the one Drazien claimed as his queen. She is the Bride of the Longest Night. They stop before us, a king and queen of darkness and defiance, and the fate of us all hangs in the balance of their shared gaze.

The air grows so still I can hear the frantic, hopeless beat of my own heart.

Solenne steps forward, her voice clear and carrying in the vast, silent hall.

"The Longest Night is over," she declares.

A tremor of disbelief runs through the line of captives.

"There will be no more slaughter."

Gasps and furious hisses answer her from the assembled Vrakken nobles. She ignores them.

"The Blood Feast is abolished."

Drazien stands beside her, his hand resting on his sword, his crimson eyes daring any to challenge the proclamation. His devotion to her is a palpable force, the catalyst that has shattered millennia of tradition. Then, Solenne's eyes find mine.

I flinch, expecting to be singled out for punishment, for my small act of defiance in the village.

"You," she says, her voice softer now but no less commanding.

"The scribes noted your hands. You can read and write."

It is not an accusation. It is a statement of fact. I can only nod, my throat too tight to form words.

She had been the timid one, they whispered, but now she is a queen who sees everything, a partner in this new, terrifying rule.

"You will not be chattel. You will have a purpose. You will serve as a scribe, to document the new rites of the Vigil Feast."

I stare at her, my mind reeling. A reprieve. Not just life, but a purpose, a role within these blood-soaked halls.

The relief is so sudden and overwhelming it almost brings me to my knees. But as I look from Solenne's steady face to the seething nobles, I realize I have not been saved. I have been chosen—marked as a symbol of the very change they despise.

The hall erupts. Not in cheers, but in a wave of raw, venomous fury from the Vrakken court. A tall, gaunt noble with silver hair and eyes like burning coals steps forward.

"Blasphemy!" his voice cracks like a whip.

"You would let the goddess starve? You would shame us with this… mercy?"

Others join his cry, their voices overlapping in a cacophony of outrage. They speak of Akeldama, their goddess of blood and reflections, demanding a return to the old ways. They call Solenne a human poison, Drazien a corrupted fool.

They see this act not as progress, but as sacrilege that will bring ruin and famine upon them all. Solenne stands her ground, but I can see the flicker of strain in her composure. She is strong, but she is one human heart against an ancient tide of bloodlust.

Drazien's expression is thunderous, his icy authority holding the worst of the dissent at bay, but the sheer volume of their hatred is a physical force, pressing in from all sides. I feel the eyes of the nobles fall on me, the chosen scribe, the living proof of their traditions being dismantled. Their contempt is a physical blow, promising a death far slower and more painful than a quick blade at the feast.

The hope that had flared within me moments ago gutters and dies, replaced by the cold certainty that I have merely exchanged one execution for another. I am a pen in Solenne's hand, and these nobles would rather see me broken than allow me to write a single word of their new history.

Before the seething rage of the nobles can coalesce into open violence, a new presence makes itself known. A towering Vrakken, scarred and immense, steps down from the dais. His black hair is cropped short, a disgrace for any but a warrior, and his crimson eyes glow with a cold, disciplined light.

This is Aric, Drazien’s newly appointed enforcer, a being who believes in reform but not in softness. He moves with a deliberate, lethal grace, his heavy armor emitting only the faintest whisper of sound. He does not shout or draw his sword fully.

He simply walks to the center of the floor, his gaze sweeping over the most vocal of the dissenters. He stops, his hand lingering on the pommel of his massive blade, and that is all it takes. The sheer, uncompromising threat of his presence is a blanket of ice thrown over the fire of their rage.

The shouts die in their throats, replaced by simmering, hateful glares. He is the steel shielding Drazien's mercy, the brutal fist that enforces this fragile new peace. The verdict is silence.

Aric gives a curt nod, and a guard pulls me roughly to my feet. I stumble, my legs numb and weak. I am led away from the remaining captives, my path taking me past the dais where the glowering nobles now stand like statues of hate.

I can feel their eyes on my back, a promise of vengeance. I have been saved from the feast, but I have been thrown directly into the heart of a war.