Chapter 1

Kaia

The sweet, cloying scent of rirzed wine fills my nostrils as I carefully pour another goblet for Lord Vathren, whose glazed eyes follow the movement of my hands with predatory interest. Tonight marks the Festival of the Serpent, the most important celebration in Liiandor, when even the lowest dark elf nobles become so intoxicated they forget to watch their slaves.

"More," Lord Vathren commands, his silver-white hair cascading over shoulders draped in midnight blue silk. The ruby red liquid sloshes dangerously close to the rim of his goblet—crafted from the skull of some unfortunate creature—as his long, gray fingers brush against mine.

I lower my eyes immediately. "Yes, my lord."

In the six years I've served in his household, I've learned that eye contact is an invitation. And tonight, with the palace of King Kres Ennarmis teeming with drunken nobles celebrating their patron deity, I cannot afford to be noticed. Not when freedom whispers its temptation in my ear.

The grand ballroom of black marble glitters with neptherium-powered lights that cast eerie blue shadows across faces that appear carved from stone. Hundreds of dark elves mingle beneath vaulted ceilings adorned with scenes of conquest and subjugation—a reminder of what happens to those who defy their rule. Slaves like me move among them, silent as ghosts, refilling goblets and collecting empty platters.

Lord Vathren turns away to join a conversation with another noble, his attention momentarily diverted from the human serving him. My heart thunders in my chest as I realize: this is my moment.

I back away slowly, keeping my head bowed as I edge toward the servants' corridor. The heavy silver pitcher weighs down my arms, but I dare not set it aside—a slave without a task would be questioned immediately. Three more steps to the arched doorway. Two. One.

The corridor beyond is dimly lit and blessedly empty. I quicken my pace, bare feet silent against the cold stone floor. The rough fabric of my gray serving dress scratches against my skin as I walk, reminding me of six years of indignity.

"You there! Girl!"

My blood freezes. I don't turn around, pretending not to hear as I duck around a corner. The voice belongs to Overseer Malthis, Lord Vathren's cruelest taskmaster. I've seen him flay the skin from a boy's back for spilling wine on a noble's boots.

Heavy footsteps follow me, and I abandon all pretense of calm. I drop the silver pitcher with a deafening clang and run, no longer caring about stealth. The noise will bring others. I have moments, not minutes.

I dash down the corridor, my mind recalling every twist and turn of the palace from years spent scrubbing its floors. Left at the kitchens. Right past the guards' quarters. Straight through the narrow passage that leads to the servants' exit near the eastern wall.

Behind me, shouts echo through the corridors. The alarm is raised. My breath comes in ragged gasps as I push myself harder, ignoring the sting of my feet against the rough stone.

I burst through the scullery and startle two kitchen slaves scrubbing enormous cauldrons. Their eyes widen at my wild appearance, but neither moves to stop me or raise an alarm. The unspoken solidarity of the oppressed gives me a precious few seconds of advantage.

The east door looms ahead, guarded by a single dark elf soldier whose attention is fixed on the celebration he's missing inside. I slow my pace, hunching my shoulders as I approach, head bowed as if on an errand. Twenty paces away. Ten.

The guard turns, violet eyes narrowing as they fall on me. "Halt! Where are you—"

I don't let him finish. I seize a heavy iron ladle from a nearby hook and swing it with all my strength at his head. The impact sends vibrations up my arm as he staggers, momentarily stunned but far from incapacitated. Dark elves are not so easily felled.

"Little vermin," he snarls, reaching for the sword at his hip.

Panic surges through me as I dive past him, shoving the door open with my shoulder. The guard's fingers graze my hair as I tumble outside into the biting cold of a Liiandor winter night. The city sprawls before me, a jagged silhouette of obsidian spires and gray stone mansions against the starlit sky.

I run.

The lower city streets are narrow and winding, designed to confuse and trap invaders—or escaping slaves. The chill air burns my lungs as I navigate through shadowed alleys, keeping to the darkest corners. Behind me, whistles and shouts signal the beginning of the hunt.

Memories flash unbidden as I run—the day I was brought to Liiandor, chained in a caravan of captured humans. My mother's face, tear-streaked and desperate, as we were separated at the slave market. The first lash of the whip against my back when I spilled Lord Vathren's morning kaffo.

I push the memories away. The past cannot help me now.

The city wall looms ahead, thirty feet of impenetrable stone with guards posted at every gate. No slave has escaped Liiandor in living memory. But I have something they don't expect—knowledge. For three years, I've emptied chamber pots in the eastern guard tower, noticing the crumbling section of wall hidden behind the tanner's workshop where the stones have begun to separate just enough for a small human to squeeze through.

I dart between buildings, using the shadows as cover. The tanner's workshop appears ahead, its windows dark. The foul smell of curing hides provides perfect cover—dark elves with their sensitive noses avoid this area when possible.

The gap in the wall is just where I remembered, concealed behind a pile of discarded hides. I drop to my knees and begin pulling them aside, my fingers numb with cold and fear.

"There! By the tanner's!" A voice calls out from too close behind me. A sentry has spotted my movement.

I abandon stealth and claw desperately at the hides, exposing the narrow fissure in the base of the wall. It seems impossibly small now that freedom depends on it. I lie flat and push my head and shoulders into the gap, feeling the rough stone scrape against my skin. For a terrifying moment, I think I might be stuck, but with a desperate wriggle, I push forward.

An arrow whistles past, embedding itself in the ground inches from my foot. I kick frantically, squeezing my body through the gap until I tumble out the other side, beyond the walls of Liiandor for the first time in six years.

But I cannot pause to savor the moment. Before me stretches the open expanse of snow-covered ground leading to the dense forests of Causadurn Ridge. Behind me, shouts of rage echo as the dark elves discover my escape route.

I force my aching legs to carry me forward, each step sinking into ankle-deep snow. The forest seems impossibly distant, but it represents my only hope. Dark elves are not fond of the wild places of Protheka, where things older and stranger than them still dwell.

The cold bites through my thin servant's dress, and my bare feet have gone numb. Still, I push on, even as I hear the horns that signal a hunting party being assembled. They will have equus and tracking batlaz. I have only desperation and a head start.

The trees of Causadurn Ridge gradually grow closer, their dark silhouettes promising shelter. The forest is said to be home to waira—the man-eaters of legend—but right now, I fear the known evil of the dark elves more than the rumored monsters of the wild.

I reach the treeline as the first light of dawn breaks over the eastern horizon. The forest is dense, ancient pines and tiphe trees creating a canopy so thick that little light penetrates to the forest floor. I pause for a moment, gasping for breath, and listen. In the distance, I hear the baying of batlaz and the thundering of hooves. The hunt has begun in earnest.

I plunge deeper into the forest, following a game trail that winds between moss-covered stones and fallen logs. The ground slopes upward, and I realize I'm climbing into the mountains of Causadurn Ridge itself. Good—the higher I go, the harder it will be for the equus to follow.

A bitter wind cuts through the trees, carrying with it the first flakes of snow. The weather, at least, is on my side. A blizzard will cover my tracks and force even the most determined hunters to seek shelter.

Hours pass as I push forward, my body numbed by cold and exhaustion. The snow falls faster now, driven by howling winds that seem to carry whispers of my name. My mind, foggy with fatigue, begins to play tricks on me. I see shadows moving between the trees that vanish when I turn to look directly at them.

"Just a little further," I murmur to myself, my voice a cracked whisper. "Just a little further and then you can rest."

But I know resting means death in this cold. I must find shelter or I will become another frozen corpse for the dark elves to find when the storm passes.

The snowfall thickens until I can barely see ten paces ahead. The wind drives icy needles against my face, and my limbs grow heavier with each step. Strangely, I no longer feel cold. A dangerous sign—I remember the whispered tales of other slaves who fled only to be found frozen, their faces peaceful as if they'd simply fallen asleep.

I stumble on an unseen root and fall to my knees in the snow. Getting up seems an impossible task. Perhaps I could rest, just for a moment...

No! Something fierce and primal within me refuses to surrender. I did not endure six years of servitude to die in the snow at the edge of freedom. I force myself to my feet, swaying unsteadily as I scan my surroundings.

Through the curtain of snow, I glimpse something—a darker shadow against the white. A cliff face, rising sheer from the mountainside. And in it, what seems to be an opening. A cave, perhaps, or some ancient dwelling carved into the stone.

Hope gives me a final burst of strength. I lurch forward, each step a battle against the deepening snow and my own failing body. The dark opening grows larger as I approach, revealing a weathered archway of carved stone, half-hidden by centuries of overgrowth.

The baying of the batlaz echoes behind me, closer now. The storm has not deterred the most dedicated of my pursuers. I have no choice but to seek refuge in this mysterious sanctuary, whatever dangers it might hold.

I stumble through the archway, gasping as I enter a space protected from the howling wind. My eyes, accustomed to the brightness of snow, struggle to adjust to the sudden darkness. I can make out only vague shapes—what seems to be a vast chamber with columns rising to a ceiling lost in shadow.

My foot catches on an uneven stone, and I fall to my knees once more. This time, I lack the strength to rise. Behind me, the hunting horns sound again, closer than before. Soon they will find the entrance, and I will be dragged back to Liiandor in chains—if I'm lucky enough to be taken alive. King Kres is not known for mercy to escaped slaves.

In the darkness of this ancient place, a strange feeling washes over me—a sense of being watched, of presences older than the stone itself. Perhaps it is merely delirium from cold and exhaustion, but I feel something stirring in the shadows, something awakening to my presence.

"Please," I whisper into the darkness, my voice breaking. "If anyone or anything dwells in this place... help me. I ask only for sanctuary."

My words seem to echo strangely, as if the very stones absorb and amplify them. The air grows suddenly heavy, charged with something I cannot name. The hairs on my arms rise despite the cold, and I sense a shift in the darkness surrounding me—a weight of attention focusing on my huddled form.

"I have nothing to offer in return," I continue, desperation making me heedless of whether I address empty air or something more. "But I swear by whatever gods might listen that I will repay any kindness with loyalty. Just don't let them take me back."

Something moves in the darkness ahead—a scraping sound, like stone against stone. My heart hammers in my chest as I strain to see through the gloom. A shape seems to detach itself from the shadows, massive and inhuman.

The last of my strength abandons me, and I slump forward, consciousness fleeing even as I imagine glowing amber eyes opening in the darkness, fixing upon me with ancient, predatory interest.

My final thought before blackness claims me is a strange certainty that my life has irreversibly changed—that the sanctuary I've found is far more dangerous than I could have imagined, yet somehow exactly where I'm meant to be.