Chapter 1 

Jaynus

The wind on Prazh does not just blow; it bites. It has teeth made of ice and ancient spite, gnawing at the exposed skin of my cheeks until they burn with a numbness that goes bone-deep. Prazh is a continent of grey rock, black pine, and white snow—a place where color goes to die.

And yet, I am standing on the Whispering Ridge, risking execution for a ribbon the color of a summer peach.

"You’re late, little witch," Ignatius says. He leans against the side of his black cart, his breath puffing out in white clouds that smell of stale tobacco and grease.

I pull my grey wool cloak tighter around me. It is heavy, scratchy, and practical—everything my Coven values and everything I despise. "The Matriarch was watching the gates," I lie. My voice sounds small against the howling wind. "I had to wait for the shift change."

Ignatius grins, revealing teeth that are more yellow than white. He is a human, a scavenger who picks the bones of this forgotten continent, selling scraps to the desperate. I am his best customer. "Did you bring it?"

I reach into the deep pocket of my cloak and pull out the bundle. It is wrapped in oilcloth to protect it from the snow. Inside are three frost-roots—tubers that look like shriveled, screaming faces. They are rare, potent, and incredibly dangerous if prepared wrong. They are worth a small fortune in the alchemy markets of Tlouz.

Ignatius snatches the bundle from my hand. He whistles low as he peels back the cloth. "Fresh. Still bleeding sap. Very nice, Jaynus. Very nice indeed."

"The book," I say, holding out my hand. My heart drums against my ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage of bone. "And the ribbon. Like we agreed."

Ignatius takes his time. He tucks the roots into his vest, patting the pocket lovingly. Then, he reaches into the back of his cart. The wood of the wagon is stained dark, and I try not to think about what fluids caused those stains.

He pulls out a book. The cover is worn leather, cracked at the spine, the gold lettering faded to a dull bronze. The Baron’s Courtship, Volume Four.

I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. Volume Three ended on a cliffhanger—the Baroness had been kidnapped by sky-pirates, and the Baron was wounded. I have spent three weeks staring at the stone ceiling of my cell, agonizing over whether their love would survive.

"And the silk," I remind him.

He produces the ribbon. It flutters in the harsh wind, a strip of impossible, delicate peach silk. It belongs in a ballroom, in a garden, anywhere but here on this jagged mountain ridge. It is beautiful.

I reach for them, but Ignatius pulls back.

"Ah," he says, wagging a finger. "Inflation, my dear. The winter has been hard. The passes are blocked. Bringing luxury goods to a witch’s back door... it’s hazardous work."

"We had a deal," I say, my voice hardening. I try to channel some of the imperious terror that Matriarch Severina exudes effortlessly, but on me, it feels like a child wearing her mother’s shoes.

"Deals change," Ignatius says. He looks over his shoulder. "Isn't that right, Vok?"

From the shadow near the pines, a mountain moves.

Vok Hammer steps into the grey light. He is an Orc, broad as a boulder and twice as hard. The skin of his arms is a map of scars, greenish-grey and tough as boiled leather. But it is his face that freezes the protest in my throat.

Where his lower jaw should be, there is a construct of riveted steel. It gleams wetly in the mist, replacing bone and flesh with iron. I have heard the stories of the Iron-Jaw Clan—exiles who rejected their War God and turned to mutilation to prove their toughness. He does not speak; he cannot, not really. He just grinds the metal teeth together, a sound like a sword being sharpened on a wet stone. Schrrk. Schrrk.

"Vok thinks three frost-roots is light," Ignatius says smoothly. "He thinks maybe we should tell the Coven where their missing inventory is going. What would Sister Bellona do if she found out you were stealing from the medical stores to buy... smut?"

He waves the book.

Ice floods my veins, colder than the wind. If the Coven found out, I wouldn't just be scolded. I would be put to the Question. Purna magic is power, and power is hoarded. Trading magical reagents to humans is treason.

Ignatius smiles, and it is a predatory thing. He tosses the book and the ribbon at my feet. They land in the mud.

“Before you go,” he says looking round at Vok and winking. “Me and Vok, we never ploughed a witch before. And seeing as we are all knowing each other well now.” He winks at me. “Perhaps you’ll enjoy a good ploughing; must get lonely up there with all those carpet munchers, eh?” 

“‘Seriously?” I reply. 

“Come on, what you say girl, me and Vok’ll take one hole each and have you home by supper.” 

“Deal?” Vok growls from the sidelines. 

“You and I both know that isn’t going to happen.” I reply firmly. 

"Your lose girl, that’s all I’ll say on the matter."

Ignatius climbs onto his cart, whistling a jaunty tune. Vok Hammer stares at me for a long moment, his steel jaw grinding, before turning to follow. They disappear into the mist, leaving me alone on the ridge.

I sink to my knees, ignoring the wet snow soaking through my wool skirt. I snatch up the book and wipe the mud from the cover with my sleeve. The ribbon is stained on one end, the peach silk darkened by the earth of Prazh.

I clutch them to my chest. They are all I have.

I do not go straight back to Snowfall Glen. The thought of the Coven makes my stomach turn.

I know what awaits me there. The Hall of Whispers, with its walls of black obsidian that seem to drink the light. The Matriarch, sitting on her throne of bone, looking through me as if I am made of glass. And worse, Valeria.

Valeria, with her fire magic and her cruel laugh. She would smell the human stink on me. She would ask where I’ve been, and when I stammered, she would smile that terrible smile, the one split by her harelip, and burn the truth out of the air.

You are weak, Jaynus, she tells me every day. You want soft things. Soft things rot.

I walk along the cliff edge instead, heading north. The path here is treacherous, a goat track crumbling into the ocean hundreds of feet below. It is dangerous, but it is quiet.

I pause to pin the peach ribbon into my hair. I have no mirror, but I imagine how it looks against my raven-black locks. In the stories, the heroine always has a token, something that marks her as special, something that catches the hero's eye.

I look out at the sea. The water around Prazh is not blue. It is a deep, bruising purple, churned into white foam where it strikes the jagged rocks.

My grandmother used to tell me stories about these cliffs. Not the Purna histories of war and stone, but the older stories. Don't look too long at the foam, Jaynus, she would say. The water is hungry here. It has hands.

I peer over the edge. The mist clings to the water's surface. For a second, I think I see something pale moving in the trough of a wave—a flash of white, like a belly or a limb. It is gone in a heartbeat.

"Just foam," I whisper to myself. "Just stories."

But I step back from the edge. The magic in my blood hums a low warning. The ocean feels... watchful.

I keep walking, clutching The Baron’s Courtship under my cloak like a shield. I am looking for a place to sit and read, somewhere out of the wind, somewhere the Coven’s prying eyes cannot see.

That is when I see the smoke.

It is a thin, grey tendril rising from a cove I thought was inaccessible. The rocks there are razor-sharp, a graveyard for ships that wander too close to the coast.

My first thought is: Survivor.

My heart leaps. A shipwreck? A dashing captain washed ashore, battered by the storm, in need of a healer? It is exactly like Chapter One of The Duke’s Exile.

I should report it. The Matriarch demands we report all intruders so they can be... processed. Usually, that means Bellona goes down there and crushes their skulls with her mind, or Morta collects them for her experiments.

I don't report it.

I smooth my hair, checking that the ribbon is secure. I pinch my cheeks to bring some color into them. I check my internal reservoir of magic—it feels chaotic, a swirling storm of pink and violet light in my chest. I am not a warrior like Bellona, but I can make things... pleasant. I can cast illusions. I can hide.

I begin the descent.

The path down is steep. I have to use small bursts of Force magic to keep my footing, pressing the air against my back to steady me.

As I get lower, the smell of salt and ozone grows stronger. But underneath it, there is another smell.

Cooking.

Not the charred, desperate burning of a survivor trying to stay warm. This smells like roasted fish, seasoned with... is that lemon? And thyme?

I round the final bend of rock and freeze.

The cove is small, sheltered from the wind by high walls of basalt. There is a fire crackling merrily in the white sand. A drift-wood rack has been built, and upon it, three large fish are roasting perfectly.

And sitting by the fire is a monster.

He is massive. Even sitting down, he is larger than Vok Hammer. His skin is the color of dark mahogany, covered in a fine layer of fur. His legs are bovine, ending in heavy hooves that are dug into the sand. His chest is a wall of muscle, scarred and broad. And his head...

It is the head of a bull, crowned with two sweeping horns that curve forward like scythes.

A Minotaur.

I have read about them in the bestiaries Morta keeps chained in the library. Minotaurs, the books say. Engines of destruction. Gladiators who worship blood. They eat the flesh of their enemies.

I press myself against the rock, terrified. I should run. I should fly back up the cliff and scream for Bellona. This creature could snap me in half with one hand.

But then, the monster moves.

He reaches out with a hand—a hand that is surprisingly human, save for the size and the thick, black nails—and turns the fish on the spit. He does it with a delicacy that makes no sense.

And then, he hums.

It is a low, rumbling sound, vibrating in his massive chest. It isn't a war chant. It isn't a growl. It is a melody. A sad, sweet, longing melody that drifts up the rocks and catches in my throat.

He sprinkles something from a small pouch onto the fish. He leans back, looking at the ocean, and sighs—a sound of utter contentment.

He isn't hunting. He isn't raging. He is waiting.

I stare at him. The juxtaposition of his terrifying form and his gentle actions hit me like a hard physical blow. He is the beast. But he is... civilized. He is lonely.

I look at my reflection in a patch of ice on the rock wall. My black hair is wild, the peach ribbon vivid against the darkness. My eyes are wide and brown. I am small. I am soft.

I look back at the Minotaur.

He needs me, the voice resounding in my head whispers. It sounds like the narrator from my books. He is the cursed prince, and he is waiting for the beauty to break the spell.

I forget about Ignatius. I forget about the Coven. I forget about the hungry shapes in the water.

I take a deep breath, push off the rock, and step into the light.