Chapter 1

Saela

The bramble tears at my sleeves as I duck under another branch, my breath coming in sharp puffs that disappear into the gray afternoon air. Winter's grip holds on later each year, and the skeletal trees offer little shelter from the biting wind that cuts through my patched wool layers.

"Found anything worth keeping?" Ressa's voice carries from somewhere to my left, muffled by the thick stand of pine between us.

I straighten, brushing snow from the handful of wrinkled roots I've managed to dig from the frozen ground. "Define 'worth keeping.'"

"Edible without immediate death?"

"Then yes, barely." I stuff the meager collection into my satchel and push through the underbrush toward her voice. The snow crunches under my worn boots, each step a small betrayal of our presence.

Ressa emerges from behind a cluster of birch trees, her red hair escaping from beneath her knit cap in wild curls that catch the weak sunlight. Freckles stand out stark against her wind-burned cheeks, and she's grinning despite the pathetic bundle of frozen berries clutched in her mittened hands.

"Look at this bounty." She holds up the berries with mock ceremony. "We'll feast like queens tonight."

"Queens who enjoy stomach cramps and the taste of bitter disappointment."

"The finest delicacies." She falls into step beside me as we pick our way through the trees, avoiding the deeper drifts. "Remember when we used to complain about turnip stew?"

"I still complain about turnip stew."

"Yes, but now we'd kill for turnip stew."

The familiar rhythm of our banter settles something restless in my chest. Ressa's always been able to do that—find the humor in the sharp edges of survival. When we were children, she'd make games out of rationing, competitions out of mending clothes. Now she makes jokes about near-starvation.

"Where's Nia gotten to?" I scan the treeline ahead, looking for movement that isn't wind-blown branches.

"Last I saw, she was following that deer path toward the ridge." Ressa points northeast with one mittened hand. "Said she spotted some oak trees that might still have acorns."

"In this weather?"

"Desperate times."

We trudge through the snow, our breaths forming small clouds that dissipate quickly in the cold air. The light's changing, that subtle shift from afternoon to evening that means we need to start thinking about the trek back. The settlement expects us before full dark, and the temperature drops fast once the sun disappears.

"Think she found anything?" Ressa adjusts her satchel strap and glances toward the ridge.

"Nia's got good eyes. If there's anything left out here, she'll spot it."

But even as I say it, unease prickles between my shoulder blades. The kind of tension that's kept me alive this long—the awareness that something isn't quite right. The forest is too quiet, the usual sounds of small animals and settling branches muffled by more than just snow.

We reach a small clearing where three paths diverge, and I pause, studying the tracks in the snow. Nia's footprints lead toward the ridge, just as Ressa said, but there are other marks too. Deeper impressions, wider spacing.

"Ressa."

Something in my tone makes her stop mid-sentence about the questionable nutritional value of tree bark. She follows my gaze to the ground.

"Those aren't Nia's."

"No." The tracks are too large, too heavy. My pulse quickens, that familiar spike of adrenaline that comes with recognizing danger. "We need to find her."

We follow the trail through the trees, moving carefully now, each step deliberate and quiet. The unease in my chest grows with every yard, feeding on the silence and the way the shadows seem to stretch longer than they should.

Then we hear voices.

Ressa grabs my arm, fingers digging through the wool of my sleeve. We freeze, listening to the low murmur of conversation that drifts through the trees ahead. The sound is wrong—harsh consonants and guttural sounds that make my stomach clench with recognition.

Orcs.

And I know their symbols. They are Stonvein. Ruthless. Merciless. 

I motion for Ressa to follow me as I creep toward the sound, using the thick trunks for cover. My heart hammers against my ribs, each beat loud enough that I'm certain they'll hear it. The snow muffles our footsteps, but every crack of a twig sounds like a gunshot in the stillness.

We reach the edge of a small depression in the forest floor, and what I see makes my blood turn to ice water in my veins.

Three orcs stand in a rough circle around something—someone—on the ground. The largest is massive even by orc standards, his shoulders broad enough to block out the dying light. His skin is the color of old stone, marked with ritual scars that speak of rank and violence. Beside him, a female orc that I can't really see stands with her back toward us. 

And between them, motionless on the snow-covered ground, is Nia.

She's alive—I can see her chest rising and falling in quick, panicked breaths—but something is wrong with the way she lies there. Too still, too compliant. Her eyes are open but vacant, staring at the gray sky above.

The large orc speaks in a low tone I can't hear, gesturing at Nia with movements that are both ceremonial and threatening. The female responds, her voice carrying notes of dark anticipation that make my skin crawl.

The third orc, smaller than the others but no less dangerous, produces something from a leather pouch at his belt. Even from this distance, I can see it glinting in the fading light—a blade with an edge that seems to drink in the shadows.

"What are they doing?" Ressa's whisper is barely audible, her breath warm against my ear.

I don't answer because I don't know, and not knowing terrifies me more than any explanation I might imagine. The orcs begin to move around Nia in a pattern that suggests ritual, purpose. The blade catches what little light remains, and I realize with growing horror that whatever they're planning, it won't end with Nia walking away.

The large orc raises the blade, speaking words that sound like breaking glass and grinding stone. The female circles closer to Nia, her hands moving in complex gestures that seem to pull at the very air around them. I still can't see her face. 

That's when Nia screams.

The sound cuts through the forest, raw and desperate and utterly human. It breaks whatever spell of stillness had held her, and she struggles against invisible bonds that keep her pinned to the ground.

Ressa flinches beside me, and I grab her hand to keep her from moving. Every instinct screams at me to run, to grab her and flee back toward the settlement, but my feet might as well be rooted to the frozen earth.

The orc with the blade brings it down.

Nia's scream cuts off with a wet, final sound that will haunt me for the rest of my life, however long that might be. Blood spreads across the snow in a dark stain that looks black in the twilight.

Bile burns the back of my throat. Ressa makes a small, broken sound beside me, her hand squeezing mine with desperate strength.

The orcs continue their ritual over Nia's still form, their voices rising in what sounds almost like celebration. The female orc's hands move faster now, pulling at something invisible above the body. The air itself seems to shimmer and bend around her fingers.

Magic. They're trying to work magic.

Everyone knows the orcs lost their magic when they came to our world, that whatever power they'd once wielded had been stripped away. But here they are, standing over Nia's cooling corpse, attempting to call it back.

"We have to go." My whisper is urgent, desperate. "Now."

But as I start to back away from our hiding place, my boot comes down on a fallen branch hidden beneath the snow. The crack echoes through the forest like a gunshot.

The orcs' heads snap toward our position with predatory precision.

"Run."

The word tears from my throat as I surge to my feet, dragging Ressa with me. The forest explodes into motion behind us as the orcs give chase, their heavy footfalls thundering against the frozen ground.

We sprint through the trees, branches whipping at our faces and snow flying up around our boots. I can hear them gaining on us, their harsh breathing and guttural shouts growing closer with each passing second.

"Split up!" I shout to Ressa over the sound of pursuit. "Meet at the old watchtower!"

She veers left without argument, her red hair disappearing into the deeper shadows between the pines. I cut right, toward the steeper terrain that might give me an advantage. My lungs burn in the cold air, each breath a knife in my chest.

Behind me, I hear the orcs arguing, their pursuit dividing as they debate which of us to follow. Heavy footsteps continue on my trail, at least one of them choosing my path through the trees.

I leap over a fallen log and stumble on the landing, my worn boots struggling for purchase on the icy ground. The orc behind me is gaining—I can hear his breathing now, can smell the metallic scent of blood on his clothes.

A low branch catches my shoulder and spins me sideways. I use the momentum to dart between two massive pine trunks, their bark rough against my palms as I push myself forward. The space is too narrow for the orc's bulk, and I hear him crash into the trees with a curse in his harsh language.

It buys me precious seconds. I run harder, following a deer path that winds down toward the valley floor. My satchel bounces against my hip, the pathetic collection of roots and berries a cruel reminder of how normal this day had started.

The sounds of pursuit grow fainter as I put distance between myself and the orc. Either I'm faster than he anticipated, or he's given up the chase in favor of easier prey. The thought of Ressa running through the forest with one of those monsters on her trail makes my stomach clench, but I force myself to keep moving.

She's fast, I tell myself. She knows these woods. She'll make it to the watchtower.

The lie tastes bitter on my tongue.

I run forward, not ready to stop. I need as much distance between me and the orcs as I can get. 

But spending so much time looking back means I’m not paying enough attention. I don’t see the glow up ahead. I don’t hear the drums until it’s too late. 

And I don’t realize there I’m at a clearing until I’m already bursting through the trees with too much speed. 

I stumble into the light, and I realize how much I've fucked up.