Chapter 1

Raziel

The wind is a liar.

Up here, on the spine of the Causadurn Ridge, it speaks of pine and the coming chill of an Oshta evening, a clean scent that promises nothing but wilderness. A falsehood. Down in the valley, nestled in a fold of green so deep it is nearly invisible, the air is thick with the scent of woodsmoke, baking bread, and the cloying sweetness of humanity. It is the odor of a life I have not known for five hundred years, and one I am about to extinguish.

My wings, vast and black as a starless night, are folded tight against my back, a cloak of shadow and membrane that does little to ward off the cold. It does not matter. The chill in my veins is far older than any mountain wind. From my perch on the granite outcropping, the village is a collection of toys. Thatched roofs, a meandering stream, figures moving between the small, sturdy homes. They have hidden themselves well, these descendants of the purna. They have forgotten what they are, buried their power under generations of quiet living, but the blood does not forget. It sings. And I have heard its song across continents.

My gaze finds her. It always finds her. Tawana.

Even from this distance, there is an unassuming quality to her, a softness in the way she moves. She is gathering herbs near the edge of the woods, her dark curls a chaotic halo around her head. She is nothing remarkable. Average height, a gentle curve to her form, dressed in the simple wool and linen of her people. And yet, the magic in her thrums like a plucked harp string, a faint, silvery resonance in the aether that only one such as I can perceive. She is the one. The key. The culmination of a quest that began before the cities of men were more than mud and wattle.

A faint shimmer distorts the air around her as another woman approaches, a basket in her hands. A lie. The shimmer is how her dormant power translates the falsehoods of others. The woman with the basket is complaining about a task she claimed to have finished, and the purna blood in Tawana’s veins shows her the truth of it. She does not even know what she is seeing. To her, it is likely just a strange trick of the light, a "knack" for sensing when things feel "wrong." To me, it is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. It is the power to see through illusion itself. The very power I need to bypass the divine wards guarding the Heart.

A heavy tread on the rock behind me pulls me from my observation. I do not turn. I do not need to. The scent of hot blood, wet hide, and begrudging honor is unmistakable.

“The final payment.” My voice is quiet, yet it cuts through the wind’s howl. I place a small, heavy pouch on the rock beside me. The clink of ipia coins is a vulgar sound in this wild place.

Houma, the Minotaur captain, steps into my periphery. He is a mountain of muscle and fur, his massive horned head blotting out the setting sun. His presence is an offense to the senses, but his kind are brutally effective and, more importantly, they despise the Vrakken Matriarchs as much as I do. A useful prejudice.

He picks up the pouch, its weight a mere trifle in his massive hand. “The terms are the same,” he rumbles, his voice like grinding stones. “No survivors. We make it look like the work of feral beasts.”

“I have only one new term.” I turn my head slowly, meeting his gaze. My eyes are voids, and I know they are unsettling to those who still possess a soul. “The woman with the dark curls. The one by the woods. You won’t touch her. You will drive her toward the northern path. When she is alone and terrified, you will corner her. And then you will wait for me.”

Houma’s nostrils flare. Minotaurs and their tedious honor. He does not like the duplicity. He prefers a straightforward slaughter. “Our contract was for the entire community.”

“And you shall have it.” I let my head tilt, a slow, predatory gesture that makes his hand twitch toward the massive axe on his back. “I am merely adjusting the choreography of the final act. She is to perceive me as her savior. That requires a threat from which to be saved. You and your warriors will provide that threat. You will play your part, Houma, and you will play it convincingly.”

He gives a curt nod, the gold ring in his nose glinting. He does not have to like the plan to follow it. He has been paid. That is the only honor that truly matters to a mercenary. He turns and lumbers back to his warriors, their hulking shapes concealed in the shadows of the rocks below. Amateurs. If Selene and her coven of assassins were here, they would have been ghosts, utterly undetectable until the moment their blades met flesh. But the Matriarchs do not know I am here. Not yet.

Alone once more, I allow my thoughts to drift to my true patron. Akeldama. The Deceiver. The god of trickery and gateways, whose chaotic whims have guided my long existence. He does not demand worship, only interesting outcomes. For centuries, I have been his most devoted student, his most ambitious agent. My quest for the Heart isn’t merely for power, but a sacrament to him. He, who appreciates a grand, centuries-spanning gambit. He, who understands that true power is not taken by brute force, but by the most elegant and cruel of deceptions.

To prove yourself worthy of a conqueror’s title, you must conquer, his whispers had echoed in my mind years ago, a reflection in a basin of blood. Not with an army, but with a single, perfect lie.

This is that lie.

I will descend into that valley not as Raziel, the outcast born of a Wildspont, the true immortal feared by the Matriarchs who cling to their diluted bloodlines. I will not be the Vrakken who has spent a lifetime accumulating the power they fear. No. I will be a savior. A protector. A charming, tragic hero who appears from the sky to rescue a special, hunted woman. I will offer her safety. I will offer her purpose. I will offer her a shoulder to weep on as the bodies of her friends and family grow cold. And she will give me everything I need in return. Her trust is the lock. Her power is the key.

I have rehearsed every word, every gesture. The gentle touch to her arm. The somber, protective tone. The way my wings will shield her from the sight of the carnage, creating a cocoon of false security. It is a performance, nothing more. Emotion is a weakness, a liability the Matriarchs have succumbed to, and one I shed long ago. This girl, Tawana, is a means to an end. Her heart will be broken, yes, but my ambition will be sated. A fair trade.

Below, the sun dips behind the jagged peaks. Long shadows bleed across the valley, swallowing the light. The first torch is lit in the village square, a tiny spark of defiance against the encroaching dark. It is time.

I rise to my full height, my pale skin seeming to absorb the last of the twilight. The air grows still, the wind holding its breath. I lift my hand, a single, elegant gesture.

The signal.

A deep, guttural horn blast echoes from the rocks below, a sound of pure savagery that rips the peaceful evening apart. It is followed by the roar of charging Minotaurs and the first terrified screams from the valley. The performance has begun.