Chapter 1 

Lyria

Sunlight filters through the visual banquet of exotic blooms in the garden, dappling my skin and the ground beneath my feet with swaying shadows. The verdant beauty, however, hides a dark secret. Here, a stray breeze stirs the fronds enough to reveal a sharp-featured bust of one of the Dark Elves’ darker gods. And I do mean sharp. I’ve cut myself more times than I’d care to admit on the unforgiving architecture here.

To the Dark Elves, those that lord over us, the sharpness is desirable. If someone is too unwary to notice, they deserve to bleed. Contrast that with my home village, where the parents swaddle the corners of tables with leather to keep children and the infirm from injury. 

I turn my gaze downward, where it belongs. Downward to the garden ground. I squat down, adjusting my headscarf so it doesn’t slide into my field of vision. A grimace spreads over my face.

The dirt is too dry.

I know it the second I press my fingers into the soil. It crumbles instead of clinging, slipping through my skin like ash. Someone watered the outer rows and skipped the inner beds again. Not an accident.

“Of course,” I mutter under my breath, already reaching for the bucket. “Why wouldn’t you?”

“Talking to the plants now, Cutter?”

Fenrix’s voice cuts across the rows, lazy and sharp. I don’t look up. Looking invites trouble. Or worse, interest.

“Plants listen better than people,” My tone is flat, careful. Not biting. Never biting. Biting begets biting, and that’s not figurative or a metaphor.

A few of the other garden workers snicker in spite of my effort to be humble. I hear the scrape of boots against stone, the dull thud of a tool dropped where it shouldn’t be. They’re close enough that I can smell them—sweat, old leather, something sour that clings to the back of my throat.

Fenrix steps into my row, ignoring the others to focus his ire on me.

So what else is new?

“You missed a section,” he says, nudging one of the seedlings with the toe of his boot. Too hard. The stem bends at a wrong angle. Not broken—just enough to make it struggle. “Sloppy.”

My grip tightens around the bucket handle. The metal bites into my palm. I struggle to dismiss images of my cracking him over the dome with it.

“I didn’t miss it,” I say. “It was already—”

“Already what?” he cuts in, smiling like he’s waiting for me to finish a sentence that will get me whipped. “Go on.”

I swallow my words along with a side of pride. Bitter as bile and somehow worse.

Already sabotaged. Already dry. Already handled….

None of those are things I’m allowed to say. The Dark Elves don’t stand for backtalk, even when they’re wrong….especially when they’re wrong. 

So I dip the bucket instead, pouring carefully at the base of the plant, letting the water soak deep instead of pooling on top. The soil drinks greedily, darkening inch by inch.

Fenrix watches me like it’s entertainment.

“You’re slow today,” he says. “Better pick it up. Inspection’s coming.”

My shoulders go still for half a breath.

Inspection.

Of course it is.

I nod once, like he’s done me a kindness by telling me, and shift to the next plant. The rhythm settles in—pour, press, adjust, move. My hands know the work better than my thoughts do. They keep me steady when everything else wants to tilt.

Behind me, Fenrix lingers just long enough to kick loose dirt over another row before wandering off.

I don’t turn around.

I don’t need to.

I hear the scrape. I feel the shift in the air. By the time I reach that section, the damage will already be done.

It always is.

Prick, I think to myself, knowing better than to even mutter it out loud. 

The sun sits high but muted, filtered through a thin gray haze that never quite burns off over Orthani. The light turns everything a dull silver—stone paths, trimmed hedges, the long stretch of the reflecting pool cutting through the garden like a blade.

I move along its edge now, refilling my bucket. The water is still, cold enough to sting when my fingers dip too deep. My reflection wavers back at me—red hair tucked tight beneath my scarf, dirt smudged along my jaw, eyes that look more tired than they should.

“Don’t stop.”

The voice comes from behind me. Sharp. Dark elf.

I straighten immediately, stepping back from the pool.

“Yes, sir.”

He doesn’t even look at me as he passes, his attention fixed somewhere beyond the gardens. That’s better. Being seen is worse than being ordered.

I lower my gaze, wait until his footsteps fade, then return to work.

Count the guards.

It’s habit now. Not something I think about—just something I do.

Two at the east wall. One near the servant entrance. Another pacing the perimeter path behind the hedges.

Their routes overlap every few minutes. There’s a gap—brief, but it’s there—near the far corner where the wild growth presses too close to the stone.

I don’t need it today.

But I notice it anyway.

By the time the inspection comes, I’m already behind.

Fenrix made sure of that.

“Line up,” one of the overseers snaps, his voice cutting across the garden. “Tools down.”

I set the bucket aside, wiping my hands against my skirt before stepping into place with the others. We form a loose line along the path, heads lowered, shoulders angled just enough to look obedient without slouching.

The overseer walks slowly, inspecting the rows. His features are blunt and homely for a dark elf. No double that’s part of why he has this unglamorous job. But he’s higher up than me, of course, and shit rolls downhill. 

I track him without lifting my eyes—listening to the cadence of his steps, the pause when something catches his attention.

He stops two rows down from me.

Silence stretches.

Then—

“What is this?”

My stomach drops.

Boots scrape. A shift of bodies. I don’t move.

“This section is uneven,” he continues, voice tightening. “Who was assigned here?”

No one answers.

Of course.

I close my eyes for half a second, then step forward.

“I was, sir.”

Fenrix exhales something that might be a laugh.

The overseer turns. I feel it like a weight before I see it.

“Explain.”

The words sit heavy in my throat.

Careful.

“It was watered inconsistently,” I say. “I was correcting—”

“Excuses,” he snaps.

“I—”

“Tools.”

He holds out a hand.

I hesitate for a fraction too long.

His expression sharpens.

“Now.”

I pass him the trowel.

He turns it over once, inspecting the edge, the handle, the metal worn smooth from use.

For a moment, I think that’s it.

Then—

“This is warped.”

I blink.

“It’s—what?”

The words slip before I can stop them.

His gaze snaps to mine. Cold. Immediate.

“Are you questioning me?”

“No, sir.” I drop my eyes again, pulse hammering. “I didn’t realize—”

“Because you weren’t paying attention,” he says. “You allowed faulty tools to affect your work.”

That’s not—

My jaw tightens.

Not true.

But it doesn’t matter.

“Stand aside,” he orders.

I step back, heart pounding hard enough I can feel it in my throat.

The overseer tosses the trowel into the dirt like it’s worthless.

“Replace it,” he says to no one in particular. “And fix the section before dusk. If it isn’t corrected—”

He doesn’t finish.

He doesn’t have to.

“You’re pissing on the wrong fire, Overseer.”

The voice is quieter. Older. I feel relief wash over me, because I know that voice. Skot. The lord’s half brother and estate seneshel--and the only Elf who has ever shown a human even a smidge of consideration, let alone kindness. At least, the only one I’ve ever met.

I look up, blinking nervous sweat out of my eyes.

Skot stands just off the path, hands folded neatly in front of him. His posture is unassuming, almost deferential—but his eyes are sharp, taking in everything. His house colors are muted, as if trying to look in place, but also knowing his place.

The overseer glances at him, irritation flickering. Skot wields a lot of temporal power over the estate, mostly because the nobles can’t be bothered with such trivia. Not to mention, he plays the Game--the constant courtly skirmishing for position and influence--quite well, even if he will never rise above his humble station.

“The tools we were provided are clearly substandard,” Skot continues smoothly. “I’ll see to it they’re replaced. It would be inefficient to punish labor for a supply issue. Don’t you agree, Overseer?”

The overseer hesitates. Skot’s tone is polite, yet lined with steel. Half breed or not, he can make life difficult for the Overseer. 

“…Fine,” he says finally, waving a hand. “Fix it.”

He moves on, trying to pretend he wasn’t just thoroughly cowed and manipulated by the half breed seneschel. .

The pressure in my chest loosens just enough that I can breathe again.

Skot steps closer, just within the edge of my vision.

“Miss Cutter,” he says quietly.

“Yes?”

“Be more mindful of the tools you’re given, please,” he says without rancor. 

There’s something under the words. Not quite a warning. Not quite kindness.

I nod.

“Yes, sir.”

His gaze lingers for half a second longer, then he turns and follows the overseer down the path.

I exhale slowly.

Around me, the others shift back into motion. Fenrix brushes past my shoulder, just enough to make it clear he could have hit harder.

“Lucky,” he murmurs.

I don’t answer.

I pick up the discarded trowel instead. Using my foot and a bit of sweat, I manage to bend it into a more accommodating shape. Not as good as new, but functional. That will have to do. 

By the time I finish the section, the light has changed. The silver haze deepens toward evening, shadows stretching long across the garden paths, turning the neat rows into something sharper, more unforgiving.

“Courier’s here,” someone calls from the edge of the servant quarters.

My head snaps up.

I wipe my hands quickly, ignoring the way the dirt smears deeper into my skin, and move toward the back entrance. Not too fast. Never too fast. Fast movements draw attention.

The courier waits just inside the doorway—a human, older, wrapped in a worn cloak that smells faintly of road dust and rain.

He doesn’t look at me directly.

“Coin?” he asks.

I nod, slipping the small pouch from beneath my sleeve. It’s lighter than it should be.

It’s always lighter than it should be.

He takes it, weighing it in his hand.

“Message?” I ask, keeping my voice low.

He hesitates.

My stomach tightens.

“What?” I press.

He exhales slowly.

“Quotas increased,” he says. “Twofold.”

The words hit like a physical thing.

“No,” I say before I can stop myself.

He shrugs. “Orders from Orthani.”

Of course they are.

“How are they supposed to—”

“They’re not,” he cuts in quietly. “That’s the point.”

My grip tightens around the edge of my sleeve.

“Your family’s holding,” he adds after a moment. “For now.”

For now.

“Next run is in two weeks,” he says. “If they last that long.”

I nod, even though my chest feels too tight to move.

“Thank you.”

He inclines his head slightly, then turns and disappears back through the servant corridor.

I stand there for a moment longer, staring at nothing.

Then I force myself to move.

There’s still work to finish. There’s always work to finish. I see him just before night fully settles.

At the far end of the garden, near the main path leading back to the manor.

I shouldn’t be looking.

But I do.

A servant is on their knees in front of him, head bowed so low their forehead nearly touches the stone.

Verr stands over them.

My breath catches and my throat goes dry. I long ago got used to the Dark Elves and their ethereal, unworldly beauty. But there’s something compelling about Verr. His silken shirt has a plunging v neckline that shows off his chiseled ebon chest and a smidge of hard abdominal knots. Tightly fitted trousers reveal every line of muscle in his powerful thighs. 

He’s not technically a warrior caste, and yet he has the grace, the beauty, and the impending sense of violence of a panther. Eyes inscrutable and terrifying sear the world with their beauty and the threat of a painful, sudden death.

His tone is measured, his stance normal, and yet it all belies the raging storm inside. He’s not calm.

He’s…contained.

“What did you do?” his voice carries, low and sharp.

The servant trembles.

“I—I didn’t mean—”

“That wasn’t the question.”

The words cut clean.

The servant’s shoulders shake.

“I dropped the tray, my lord. It was an accident, I swear—”

Silence.

Heavy.

Then Verr moves.

Fast.

Too fast.

One second he’s standing still—the next his hand is at the servant’s throat, dragging them upward just enough that their feet scrape against the stone. 

A sharp, choking sound tears from their mouth.

This is normal. Expected. I brace myself for the bloody end sure to follow.

His grip tightens.

The servant claws at his wrist, eyes wide, desperate.

“You could die for much less,” Verr says quietly.

There’s no heat in it. No shouting. Just fact.

The air feels thinner.

My fingers curl into my palms.

Do something. Come on, Lyria, Do something—

Verr’s gaze shifts slightly.

The servant makes a broken, gasping sound. Verr tilts his head to the side.

And then—He lets go.

Just like that.

The servant collapses to the ground, coughing, scrambling backward as fast as they can manage.

“Clean it,” Verr says. The words are almost bored.

The servant nods frantically, already moving. Verr turns away before they’re even fully upright. like it meant nothing.

Like it was nothing.

I stand frozen where I am, heart pounding too hard, too fast.

He didn’t kill them.

That’s what they do.

That’s what they always do.

But he didn’t.

Was it mercy? A momentary lapse of cruelty? Or just sheer boredom with the idea of managing the help?

Whatever the reason, he didn’t kill the servant.

That’s dangerous…For Verginyon, youngest son of Lord Maltos.

I force myself to look away from Verr before he notices my interest. Interest can be more deadly than incompetence in this household. But the memory of him lingers. Clean, dexterous hands, fingernails manicured impeccably to a sheen.

There’s still dirt under my nails. Still work waiting in the rows behind me. We couldn't be more different, Verr and I.

And yet…why do I feel worried for his sake? He’s certainly never shown me kindness. Or anything at all. I think he sometimes has trouble telling us humans apart, especially when we all wear the same garb while working in the garden.

If only things were different…

I banish those thoughts.

I press my hands into the soil again, grounding myself in something real, something simple. The dirt doesn’t care about power. The plants don’t choose who lives and who dies.

They just grow. Or they don’t.

I wish my life were that simple.

Just like I wish Verr would hurry up and leave before he makes my lot even worse.