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Before

It is my tenth birthday and the first day of my exile.

My uncle deposits me at a desolate cabin in the Barren Forest. The bandaged wounds across my back burn from the cold, but I keep my expression blank.

Someone will bring supplies, my uncle tells me.

Not him. He won’t be back. I can see it in his eyes.

“May the Source have mercy on you,” he says.

I examine these shabby walls that are my new home, so different from the manor house on the southern edge of Alos.

Then my uncle, the only family I have left, leaves with only a simple goodbye.

There is little else to say.

After he is gone, I kneel in the snow, the ice stinging my skin, and I make a vow.

A vow that eleven years later will result in death.

Part One:

Ice

1

A small thump on the porch brings me back from my dream.

My eyes open and I rise, pulling back the blankets as I go to the door. That thump is new, and I feel the first glimmer of intrigue that I have felt in…I am not sure how long. Perhaps the entirety of the interminable years I’ve spent in my exile.

I open the door. My usual pack is there, filled with food and supplies to keep me alive.

I kneel down to examine it. My magic is inept. I only had three years of training before I was sent to my exile, though most of those memories are gone. All that’s left are dull remembrances of the hushed, uneasy conversations I wasn’t meant to hear. No one had been able to figure out what my gifts were, what kind of Crafter I was to become. One of the stormbringers, or the wind whisperers, or even an earth-speaker, though the idea had bored me as a child. Now my blood aches for the magic so badly, I would gratefully accept any gift.

I can still feel, somehow, that the essence of the pack is different from usual. As though the giver has changed.

I hold out my hand, willing the magic to come and tell me what I don’t know, but all I feel is a dull ache, a throb in my veins. I know from previous attempts that if I strain myself, that dull ache will turn into a splintering pain that feels as though my bones are shattering. I drop my hand.

Inside the pack is a soft sweater, rolled up. Balanced on top is a cloth-wrapped pastry, slightly warm.

How is that possible?

I unwrap the cloth. A light, flaky crust surrounds what looks like sugared peaches. Something tumbles from the sweater, clattering against the porch, and I bend down to pick it up.

A knife. It’s small, slim, with a leather handle, and a piece of parchment wrapped around the blade. I pull it off, noticing a fine scrawl.

I like to be thrown, it says.

2

The snowfall has increased recently, and my thighs burn as I clamber through the snow. I trudge over to the black, gnarled tree. Despite its dead appearance, it spirals into the sky, towering above me. I pick up the blade from the snow, the ice burning my fingertips.

I have not yet managed to sink the knife into the bark, but I’ve sliced my hands so many times, I’ve lost count. Scars and dried blood litter my palms.

I return to my starting point, feeling the balance of the blade in my hand, and I pull back my arm, preparing to throw.

Blood, seeping into stone—

I throw. The blade bounces off the tree and lands in the snow. I retrieve it.

The small, delicate snap as my sister, Zassa, crumples to the earth—

The second throw scrapes against the trunk, barely leaving a scratch, before it tumbles to the ground.

They’re gone, my uncle tells me. You did this, Luze.

Saelis stands nearby, face pinched with worry, but says nothing.

My fault.

I throw and the blade nicks my palm. I barely feel the blood trickling down my fingers as I stare at the knife: quivering where it rests, solidly embedded in the tree.

“I see you’ve made progress.”

I freeze. Sometimes the dreams bleed into my waking life, becoming little more than hallucinations, but this voice…it sounds real. It feels real, like a caress against my skin.

I turn. Slowly. There is a male standing only ten yards from me.

Behind him, the dome of silver-white magic that keeps me trapped shimmers faintly. It’s beautiful—a gilded cage. I hate it.

I study the male. He is fair, like Zassa was. His hair gleams golden in what little light the forest provides. He looks tidy. I’d nearly forgotten what that word meant. I stopped bathing regularly long ago, and only recently cut my hair, using the throwing knife to hack through the tresses.

It hangs down my back now, matted, bound in a dark braid.

He steps forward, and I watch the movement. “Do you remember me?” He sounds hesitant. “You would have known me as Clydon. Lord Haverly’s son.”

I just stare at him. Waiting.

He takes another step forward. “My father…he knew your mother. He passed away recently. My father, I mean. I suppose that means I’m Lord Haverly now.” He lets out a small laugh as though the idea is ridiculous, but his smile fades all too quickly, and his face tightens.

Something stirs in my chest. “I’m sorry.”

He blinks a little and suddenly he’s staring at me, too.

“Your eyes,” he says. “They’re…”

He trails off, not bothering to finish his sentence. It triggers a dim melody of memories—the reactions I’d gotten as a child. Why my mother had tucked me away in the manor house in the southernmost part of Hatal, away from court.

“You’ve taught yourself well,” he says, his eyes flicking over to the knife embedded in the tree. I don’t look. I can’t tear my gaze away from the first person I’ve seen in…How many years have passed now? I try to calculate it, the number of cycles, but it all blurs together. 

He seems unnerved by my silence, and I can see he’s struggling, deciding whether to leave or continue to attempt conversation. I realize I can’t bear for him to leave. Not yet.

I step towards him. “Would you…” I hesitate, reaching up to touch my mother’s necklace. “Would you like to come inside? For...for tea?”

His face breaks into a smile, and it’s like seeing the sun emerge. I stare at it, feeling hungry for something I cannot name.

“Yes,” he says. “I would like that very much.”

3

Clydon begins to visit every three moon cycles, though only for a few days. He sleeps on a makeshift bed I create for him, his only chance to rest before his return travel. Occasionally, he’s late by a moon cycle or two, and I find myself pacing the cabin, unable to breathe or think or feel anything until he returns.

Now, sit at the small table in the cabin, each drinking a mug of woodsbark tea, one of the only gifts of the Barren Forest. The tea is nutrient-rich, smoky in flavor, and will keep even the sickliest person alive.

“It was your uncle,” Clydon says. “He had been sending lone servants to deliver the supplies. They could hardly withstand the journey with only Lower magic. One nearly died and it felt dishonorable to allow that to continue. I volunteered.”

This does not surprise me. My uncle was born only minutes before my mother, losing the Crown only by his inherent maleness. Even when I was younger, I could see how our matriarchy as Crafters frustrated him. A privileged creature made to feel lesser will always turn to those he considers inferior to find his power; it does not surprise me that my uncle would instruct Lower Crafters to sacrifice themselves for what he considered a tedious job.

“Luze,” Clydon says, and I look up from my mug, “your nineteenth birthday…it’s soon.”

I care nothing for my birthdays, even my nineteenth, which marks the day that time will begin to stand still for me, the aging process to be so slow as to be indiscernible.

He has not touched me. He has not touched me, and I do not know why.

It exhausts me, but I bathe every week now. I haul water from the creek that runs behind the cabin, filling the small tub that I drag in front of the fire. I scrub everywhere, all of the places I’d forgotten were mine. My toes and the insides of my thighs and the soft spot at the base of the skull.

Still, he does not touch me.

All I want is a hand on mine, or perhaps, if I were very lucky: arms wrapped around my body. Anything to be touched.

“Luze?” Clydon says. His hand twitches slightly, as though he is going to reach out, but he doesn’t. “Are you…well?”

It is a stupid question, and he knows it. His face flushes.

We sit for another moment, and all I can think is Touch me.

But he doesn’t and we drink our tea.

*          *          *

Clydon carries a sword. It doesn’t surprise me. All male High Crafters go through rigorous training. Aside from the Wards, they are our only defense against the Galdrion and the Strin, should either manage to invade. The idea of the enemy Althearan army and the shadow-creatures bordering our land both fill me with fear. Even alone out here, as I am, I fear for my kingdom. It’s what I was born to do.

I ask him about his sword one day, and I see the surprise on his face. Female Crafters rule, lead, and hold the most powerful magic, but we do not fight.

He lets me hold the sword, and I think I glimpse a look of amusement on his face. I look like a child. I am weak, frail. Clydon’s visits are the only things holding my bones together.

The sword is heavy, made of a dark blue metal that gleams even in the dim light of the Barren Forest.

“Belon metal,” he tells me. “Infused with earth-magic. It’s poisonous to the Strin.”

It looks awkward in my hand, but I wonder what it would be like to wield such a weapon. To feel powerful.

“Can you teach me?” I ask him.

Teach me. I’m reminded of Zassa’s impatience. To learn. To grow, and to change.

Someday, I’d told her. Except there was not always a someday ahead.

Clydon looks nervous. “Teach you to—fight?”

What I am asking him is risky. If anyone found out…

There is a pause, and I know he will refuse.

“Yes,” he says.

4

“Eyes up.”

I jerk my chin up. I never knew this side of Clydon existed. Until we started training, that is.

He whacks me with the flat side of his sword, and I grit my teeth at the reverberating pain that echoes through my ribcage.

“You’re weak,” he says. “Why haven’t you been eating?”

Because you weren’t here last month, I think. He had been late, yet again. I had paced the magical boundary for days, my shoulder brushing against the immovable white light until I had finally collapsed in the snow, dragging myself back to the cabin.

I say none of this, lifting my sword in response. It’s a Zashet. It’s slightly shorter than a traditional blade but razor-sharp, with a clipped edge on the tip. It’s made with Belon metal, a cold, gleaming blue.

Clydon lunges without warning and I lift my sword. The metal clangs and the scent of salt fills the air.

I am weak, though—Clydon is right—and I twist away, narrowly avoiding the cut of his blade.

“Wait,” I gasp, as he lifts his sword again. “I need a moment to—”

He slices anyway and I barely make it in time. My sword meets his before I duck, rolling out of the way. I lay on my back, breathing heavily.

“There are no moments in battle,” Clydon says. He circles me, flips the blade in his hand, clearly at-ease, and I marvel at it. “Your enemies will not allow you time to catch your breath or build your strength, Luze.”

I let out something halfway between a laugh and a gasp. “What enemies, Clydon?” I sit up, shaking the snow from my hair. “I’m alone. There’s no one out here but me.”

He kneels down, his face inches from mine. I feel a shiver run through me that has nothing to do with the cold.

“I’m here,” he says. He reaches out, fingertips cradling my jaw.

I go very, very still.

“Thank you,” I say.

His fingers tighten on my jaw. “For what?”

For touching me. I swallow. “For being here.”

And then he kisses me.

Wondering what comes next? Aren’t we all. Keep your email inbox wide open—I’ll be back soon!