Dahrian

Everyone in Oclen knew about the three best ways to get rid of one’s daughter.

1. Murder.

2. A vacant cottage deep in the woods, where she can make good soup.

3. Marriage.

She knew her parents didn’t really want to get rid of her, but they needed money. And needed it fast. Since her twin brothers were way too young to be obtaining brides, she was the first option.

And since the future son-in-law was known for attempting to sabotage any betrothals, she was to be locked in her house for the next few months, to prevent any form of harm from the ornery gentleman.

No more gossiping. No more early walks in the morning. And certainly no more fencing until she was married.

No more freedom.

Dahrian threw a book at her bedroom door, promptly picked up a pillow, and screamed into it.

This. Is. Bloody. Poppycock.

She laid down on her bed and stared at the ceiling. Stale golden light filtered through her barred window, gliding over her face with a warm glow. She wondered for a brief moment if this was all some impossible dream or if she was really being forced into a marriage she had no say in.

Her mind wandered on to how she couldn’t see her friend in the next few weeks and her smile faded.

She gazed forlornly at the outside world for a moment. For some strange reason, the drifting snow reminded her of that quiet morning on the road. His hand, rough and calloused but surprisingly gentle, flashed in her mind before she shoved the memory away.

She absent-mindedly picked up her trusty practice sword.

Perhaps he wouldn’t be so bad as a husband. He was quite good-looking at least. Maybe he’d still let her roam the city as she pleased. Now that would be nice. If she didn’t have to run off with a dangerous man to escape it.

But that was only a first impression.

Lord Cyrus Grenwood could be the worst, most despicable man to ever exist, and Dahrian would never know until months or even years later. Then what would she do? Escape? Murder her husband? Run away to the capital and vanish among the crowd?

None of this would be happening if her damn parents just invested their ships properly.

Just as Dahrian began to reminisce about different ways she could potentially kill her betrothed, there was a sudden knock at her door. She dropped the sword with a loud clatter.

“Lady Dahrian?” Claire asked, concern very much apparent on her voice.

“Hmmmm?” Dahrian responded in a pitch that was a little too high.

“Your parents are taking you into town today,” the maid said.

A smile blossomed on Dahrian’s face. She silently cheered.

“Do you jest?”

“Of course not, milady. Wear something nice. It’s a public trial. Some sort of criminal.”

Dahrian took in one last breath of fresh air before stepping back into the Brown’s manor. As she returned to her room, an answer to her problem formed in her mind. A real plan. Her father would never agree to let her leave, but if she could disappear before the wedding, the game would change entirely.

She had found someone crazy enough to help her flee.

And it involved the strange red-haired man she saw today in the square.

He was tall—taller than Tessa. He wore strange, mismatched clothes as though he was not ready for the cold of the northern hold. He was quite pale and shaky from blood loss, but the guards had not yet had the sense to leave him alone.

Smug. That was the word.

Alden Black was smug—and a smuggler.

This illegal occupation of his made him useful.

Dahrian figured out why there was a strange uptick in commotion over a simple public trial. He apparently was responsible for the mass export of hundreds of stolen goods. From pirates to noblemen, his work had lined the pockets of men who should have known better.

He definitely had Dahrian’s respect, at least for now.

The hearing was quite lengthy due to the vast amount of crimes, and the crowd was obviously bored. They threw a couple of rotten vegetables at him and jeered, but no one called for death or a public execution.

He was put in the stocks that evening, and she unfortunately couldn’t sneak away from the watchful eyes of her parents to have a little chat with him, but she knew the exact location where he would be kept.

Now the real question was how in Amoria she could possibly get him out.

Alden

“By Thumagraw! What the hell happened to you?”

Damn. He was sure she would’ve been asleep at this hour. Alden paused his stride through the forest, having been found by his friend. He peered through the brush, just making out the orange glow of her campfire.

She approached him, her hair glowing silver in the moonlight.

“Alden, what happened?” His friend asked again, touching his face where a guard had landed a nasty punch. “Where were you?”

“It’s nothing, Perrin, I’m fine.” He gently took her hand away from his face. “I’ll just put some snow on it, and it’ll be yellow in a couple of days.”

“The bruise or the snow?”

“Ha ha, very funny.” He muttered. He didn’t have the patience to amuse her.

“What really happened, Alden? Just tell me,” Perrin said, crossing her arms. “I’ve been waiting here for hours.”

“I just,” he closed his eyes. He did not want to deal with this right now. “I just made a mistake, okay? Said the wrong thing. I’m tired. Let’s just get some rest.”

“Fine,” she mumbled, gently taking one of his clenched fists. “Let’s just sleep.”

She paused.

“I set up camp while you were gone.”

“I see.”

She gave his hand a little kiss. “I missed you.”

He smiled. “I missed you, too.”

He brushed a lock of her curly hair away from her face and kissed her gently in the moonlight.

There was a strange sound that brought Alden back from his slumber.

“Perrin…?” he mumbled, still half-asleep. He almost expected her hands to rouse him.

“What? Who is—No, I’m not—,” an unfamiliar voice stammered.

Alden sat up in the cell, and his head spun at the sudden movement. He stared intensely into the darkness, searching for the source of the voice. There wasn’t much light in his cell, just the low glow of a torch in the corridor beyond the bars.

“Who are you?” Alden asked, completely bewildered by this whole interaction. There was no way she was his lawyer.

“Are you the smuggler that they just arrested? Alden Black?” she asked, completely avoiding the question.

“Yup,” He tried to rub the sleep out of his eyes. “’Tis I, you found me. Now, who am I speaking to?”

“I need your help,” she said firmly, once again avoiding the question.

“I don’t know if you can tell,” Alden lifted up one of his chain shackles. “But I’m quite busy at the moment.”

The girl sighed, turning her head towards the entrance of the prison. Her hood shifted, and something glinted faintly in the torchlight—feathers? “Do you want to get out of here or not?”

“I'm kind of dealing with something here.”

Her palm struck the side of the bar with a loud thwang that reverberated around the cobblestone walls, making Alden jump. “If you help me, I can get you out. You just have to cooperate.”

“Fine,” he said, slightly taken aback. “I’m listening.” He turned to fully face her. The piercing wound in his side throbbed as he moved.

“I’m being married off against my will, and I need help escaping Warmhaven,” she said after a pause. There was a slight tremor in her voice, and she had to take a deep breath. “The wedding is in a few days, and my parents will lock me in until then.”

“You… You want me to smuggle you?” Alden asked incredulously.

“Yes.”

He hesitated, debating whether to indulge this at all. “To where?” he questioned.

“Omil.”

The single word echoed around the cell. Alden’s stomach seized up, already imagining the wanted posters that dotted the walls and buildings of Oclen’s capital. And Perrin. He had not forgotten her, nor the promise he had made to himself to never go back.

Hell no, he wasn’t going back.

He squinted at the cobblestone wall. “Oooooh, turns out I do have something on my schedule. Can you contact me next week?”

“I’ll pay you.” The girl said, unfazed by his facetiousness.

“Deal,” he said immediately.

She nodded, exhaling silently. “You’ll be out of here tomorrow, I swear by it,” she said, turning to leave.

“What’s your name?” Alden asked for what felt like the one-hundredth time.

She paused her stride.

“Dahrian,” she said, her back turned to him.

“Dahr-ian?” he repeated, the word odd on his tongue. It didn’t mix well with his accent. He tried to figure out the origin of the name. Maybe Glenveil?

“Dahrian,” she said again, more firmly this time.

“Huh,” Alden said. “That’s a strange name. Are you a foreigner?”

“I’ll be here tomorrow at dawn,” Dahrian said flatly, continuing down the dim corridor.

As she passed by the torch, the light revealed pale skin and unmistakable feathers.

An aetherin…?

“Oh thank the Dragons!”

The sharp noise immediately stirred Alden from his sleep.

“Joanoch! Brother!”

The guards stepped forward immediately. Alden lifted his head off the floor towards the sudden noise. From his slanted perspective on the rough stone floor, he saw a maiden, perhaps in her early twenties, standing in the doorway with her hands trembling and her expression frantic.

“What the hell…?” Alden mumbled, groggily sitting up.

“What ho, Lady Dahrian?” The head guard asked, obviously taken aback by her hysterical behavior.

“General,” she gave the Warmhaven guard an awkward courtesy. “There was a mistake! This man isn’t the criminal that you are looking for. He is my brother. You must release him immediately.”

Alden looked past the guard at her black hair and wings again. He pulled his curly red ponytail in front of him and shrugged. If it worked, it worked.

“My lady,” the guard said, adjusting his helmet to lift his visor and lowering his voice. “He just confessed to his crimes yesterday. The bloke cannot be yer brother.”

“Oh, Joanoch is such an idiot.” She shot a glare at Alden. “My brother has a wild imagination; he is a young lad after all. You must release him! Can’t you see he’s injured?”

Alden gave a little cough to emphasize her point. It was easily apparent that his job was to look as pathetic as possible.

“We lost him in the forest last week. We’ve been looking for him all over—nearly planned his funeral, actually. The Brown family is so relieved that you have found him.” She clasped her hands together as if she was truly distressed.

“Lady Dahrian, I’m not sure about this…” The guard said hesitantly, stealing glances at Alden. “He matches our description perfectly. We’ve been searching for the bastard for months.”

“You really think I couldn’t recognize my own blood?” she asked haughtily.

The man sighed. “If you say so, milady.”

The guard opened his cell with the turn of a key, and Dahrian ran forward, helping him sit up. “I’m so glad you’re safe, brother,” she said, and then mouthed, “Play along.” Closer now, she looked utterly sincere, though the last words had done nothing to relieve Alden’s suspicion.

Who is this girl and how did she end up as an Oclen noble?

“Oh sister,” Alden wheezed. “You found me…”

She threw her arms around his neck, and Alden internally squirmed. This was by far the worst escape coup he had ever participated in. He gave her a stiff, uncertain pat on the back.

“Mother always said you would be arrested someday,” she said, finally letting go of him.

Alden forced a laugh.

“Sir Joanoch, we deeply apologize for your wrongful arrest,” the guard said, picking up the wanted poster to look at the drawing once more. A look of puzzlement crossed his face, but he shrugged and handed the paper back.

Alden gingerly moved his wrists around. They were bloodied, but nothing a little time couldn’t fix, unlike the angry wound in his side.

The guard lifted him up to his feet and gave him a rough smack on the back, as if to apologize for his harsh attitude, unknowingly sending Alden reeling. Dahrian took his hand and led him out of the cell.

Dahrian rushed forward. “How bad is it?” she asked.

“I’m pretty buggered,” he said between his teeth, willing himself to remain upright. She reached forward for his jacket but paused. “Yeah, you can look.” He said, too tired to care.

He tried not to flinch at the icy fingers that lifted up the layers of his undershirt and jacket. “Are you an apothecary, or something?” he asked, attempting to distract himself.

“It looks deep, and there’s an infection…” she mused.

“So you’re telling me I’m buggered.”

She shrugged. “I’m not an apothecary.”

“Bloody hell,” Alden said, laughing.

She let go of his shirt. “Come, let me take you to a spot where you can hide. I’ll be able to treat you there. And we can discuss the plan,” She dropped her voice to a whisper.

“Yeah, sure,” he whispered back.

They took a road behind the main trail that led to the square. Alden managed to keep up, but there were a couple of times when he lost his footing and Dahrian had to haul him back to his feet.

“Really? Joanoch?” he asked. “Typically, I have a much cooler fake name for prison escapes.”

She laughed. “Joanoch was the name of a rabbit I once had.”

“You nick-named me after a rabbit?” he questioned, a laugh threatening to drop him. “A dragon–damned rabbit? Wow. I am insulted.”

“I’m dropping you back in that prison if all you do is complain.”

Cyrus

Cyrus was going to be a husband.

A bloody husband.

He sat in his plush chair by the window, one arm tucked under his chin, looking out at the outside world. Every fiber of his being longed to escape. Cyrus thought, for a very brief moment, that perhaps he could just throw himself out the window and be done with it.

“Fie,” he mumbled to himself.

This was going to be a long couple of weeks. He was even missing the Taking Day. He never missed the Taking Day. He was so curious as to which bloke was going to be the lucky (or rather unlucky) person chosen for the dragon’s feast that he could hardly concentrate.

He stood up, pacing the room to organize his thoughts. He couldn’t defenestrate himself—He wasn’t that hopeless yet. Maybe if he tied his bedsheets together...? No. He buried that idea before it could grow.

He knew he hadn’t always felt this way about her. The thought almost unsettled him. It was uncomfortable enough to stir something older, a memory that he hadn’t dwelled on in years.

Warmhaven’s gates had been open that day—A ragged carriage jostled straight to the heart of the hold, where Earl Grenwood, his father, waited in the main hall or the “map room,” whichever sounded less regal to the visitors.

The diplomats argued with his father, their voices held the edge of something sharp and foreign, something Cyrus had not heard before.

Earl Grenwood didn’t react immediately. “And what prevents you from returning her to Zephyrus? Surely there are others willing to ‘take responsibility.’”

“We do not claim this half-breed,” the other guard cut in, almost growling. This was the first time Cyrus had ever seen an aetherin. They were pale—almost like the paper of a book—save for the feathers and the unmistakable hostility in their eyes.

Their winged ears flared, their teeth bared in a way that didn’t look quite human. It frightened Cyrus enough that he ended up having nightmares about their pale snarls for months.

For a people blessed by Zephyr thousands of years ago, they certainly didn’t look blessed.

One dumped a pouch onto the table. Gold pieces spilled across the wood, clattering loudly in the tense silence.

“This is all the Vehlarkyn House can give for now. Do you accept our offer?”

His father glanced down at the gold, stroking his beard thoughtfully. “What happens if we don’t?” he asked after some time.

The aetherin’s expression didn’t change. “Then we would have to have her executed. She committed no sin, but we cannot have her among our people. We already have too much blood on our hands.”

The second diplomat finally pushed a small girl forward. Her head was low and shoulders hunched as if she was trying to make herself smaller. She shared their pale skin and winged ears, but looked far too young to have survived the world.

“Or, you can call it what it is. A product of betrayal between our kinds—something that should not exist. You can get rid of her yourself if you wish,” the first aetherin continued, sounding bored by the whole matter.

“And this Amahra you speak of. She is…?” Earl Grenwood said trailing off, almost not even wanting to finish the question.

“Yes,” The first diplomat said. “We disposed of her this morning.”

Now that Cyrus could see what all the yelling was about, his attention fixed on the small aetherin. She was covered in dirt; a splatter of blood stippled her face and clothes. Her eyes were impossibly wide, staring at the floor as if she wished she were invisible.

She couldn’t have been more than six years old. Cyrus remembered, even being around nine or ten years old, being absolutely puzzled as to why anyone would want to kill someone as small as that.

His father looked at this little girl and lowered himself to her height. “What is your name, child?” he asked calmly. Her gaze briefly lifted from his shoes to his face, meeting his eyes before darting away again.

“Dahrian Vehlark—,” one of the aetherin began, but stopped himself. “Dahrian,” he corrected, clearing his throat. “She is no longer one of us.”

“Then she’ll stay with us,” his father said plainly. The two aetherins seemed to relax, wings settling against the sides of their heads.

“Then we have a deal.”

“Good. Now be gone. Tell your precious council that your kind is not allowed on Oclen soil.”

Lord Grenwood stood rigid for a moment, watching the two diplomats leave. The doors shut behind them with an echo, leaving a silence that felt too large for the room. His father glanced toward the staircase and whispered, “Cyrus.”

Cyrus froze. How did he know…? He backed away from the balcony, startled, and then rushed down the nearby stairs. He peered around the corner, praying that he was not in trouble.

“Cyrus, come here.” His father’s voice sounded almost defeated.

He reluctantly stepped forward towards his father, still bracing for punishment.

“I need you to help get this poor lass cleaned up. Just—” His father sighed, his gaze looking at something in the distance. He rubbed a hand over his face. “Bring her to Mara. Don’t worry about the details. Just do as I say.”

Cyrus opened his mouth and then closed it, wanting to argue with the order. Why couldn’t one of his brothers do it? He looked back at the girl—Dahrian, he remembered. What a ridiculous name for a child that looked like she had been dragged through a war.

“Hello,” he said quietly. She looked up at him with large blue eyes and began to cry.

As the youngest of the Grenwood boys, Cyrus has never dealt with a younger crying child, much less a girl. Unsure, he just gave her a smile.

“C’mon,” he said. “I’ll take you to Mara—She’s ancient but she’s a good one.”

“Okay,” she replied in a voice that was too broken to be coming from a six-year-old.

He led her down the long hallways and down the stairs to the servants’ corridors. A small wooden door faced them, lit by two torches perched on either side. Dahrian squeezed his hand as if she were afraid the darkness might swallow her whole.

“Do you not like the dark?” he asked, stopping.

She shook her head. “There isn’t much darkness in Zephyrus. It’s always day there,” she said. Cyrus tried to imagine what it was like to never see the stars.

“Just your hair?” he suggested, glancing at the stray black strands that stuck to her face. He offered her a small grin.

Her eyes dropped to her feet.

“I’m sorry. Did I offend you?”

“No. It’s ok. I know it’s hideous,” she said miserably.

“Well, I don’t think so. I think it’s pretty bloody cool.”

Cyrus scoffed at the memory. It was strange how different things looked through the eyes of a child.

What a fool he had been. Back then, he hadn't known what she truly was.

The manor faded, taking the frightened little girl with it. He was no longer a child tasked with looking after Dahrian. He was a man being forced to marry her.

“Aetherins…”he said out loud.

It’s their fault that the humans have to pay debts to the Dragons.

And his future wife was probably a spy for Thumagraw himself.

He thought back to the girl he ran into on the forest’s road. Oh, how he wished she were to be his bride. But he never got the charming maiden’s name. He glanced out of the window toward the snowy grounds below and let out a breath.

He heard a small noise from the floor below him. He crouched to the floor and knocked on the wood.

“Crispin!” He called, his nose nearly touching the floorboards. “Crispin! Are you there?” He was fairly certain it was his older brother downstairs.

Crispin still lived at the manor due to his blatant degeneracy. He almost wasn’t even allowed on the streets of the hold due to his knack for fiendishness and had actually helped six different men evade the watch before the guards finally stopped asking questions.

A loud thud answered him—likely his older brother hitting the ceiling in response. Cyrus pictured him standing on his bed below, lanky frame stretched upward, fist thumping irritably against the floorboards.

“What the hell do you want, Cyrus?” Crispin’s voice came muffled through the wood.

“I need to get out of here,” Cyrus whispered, trying not to let the edge of desperation seep through his voice.

“No kidding,” his brother remarked. “Honestly, I think you need to drop another honey badger into a courtroom. Might as well commit to the lifestyle—and then, hey! You’ll end up with a fancy title and a spouse who can’t stand you.”

“A lazy imbecile?”

“No. A bachelor.”

Cyrus rolled his eyes, pressing his forehead briefly against the floorboards. “Can you just call for a servant or something? I think I have a plan.”

“And why would I do something like that?”

“Because we’re family?” he tried.

“Not good enough.”

“I’ll pay you.”

“With father’s money?” Crispin sneered.

Cyrus gritted his teeth. “Then what do you want?” he snapped.

A long beat of silence followed. Below, something shifted—Crispin, likely adjusting on his bed, dragging out the moment on purpose.

“I want a map.”

Cyrus groaned inwardly, looking at the walls covered in his own work. Hours of scrawling, ink-stained hands, torn parchment, and failed drafts pinned beside finished ones.

Of course he did.

“Fine,” he said at last. “Could you call for a servant now?”

“Map first.”

Cyrus exhaled sharply. “Damn you.”

He stood up, grumbling a bit and walked over to his desk. He yanked the drawer way too hard and pulled it out entirely, scrolls and sheets of paper spilling out onto the floor.

“Damn it!” He hissed, dropping the drawer with a thud. The rest of the papers fluttered on the floor, further adding to the chaos. He picked up the drawer and slammed back into place.

Now empty, he slumped into his chair and laid his head on the desk.

Tessa

“Why the hell is she wantin’ to go to Omil so bad?” Geoffrey asked, leaning forward on the anvil. Tessa waved the hot iron near him, and he backed off. She guessed he didn’t want to be branded today.

Sweat slipped from Tessa’s brow and struck the dull orange iron as she worked it across the anvil, sleeves rolled to her elbows. It hissed on contact, vanishing in an instant. She hated working on weekends, and the scrawny boy who lounged nearby didn’t seem to understand that Tess was not in a talking mood.

The Taking Day was today, so she really had to get these last orders in for the greedy Dragon on the top of the mountain. There probably wasn’t anything that she hated more than the Taking Day, hence her terrible mood.

Thumagraw… that fat bastard.

“Well, sometimes… you’re going to have to bear with me because I know your small mind can’t comprehend this, but girls don’t really want to get married,” Tessa said, continuing her work. “Besides, it’s a great city, and it is the main hold, so it is pretty easy to get lost in.”

“Glad I’m not a noble,” he muttered. “Don’t think I could handle all them silly well-dressed dinners and meetings with merchants.” He dropped onto a nearby tool bench. “Just imagine gettin’ all yer wealth by investments in ships. What a bunch of lazy arses.”

“I think you need to get your arse off my table,” Tessa said flatly.

He jumped down. “Alright, miss bossy.” He crossed over to the anvil again as she put the start of an axe into the roaring forge. He watched her for a moment, then frowned. “I thought you were off today, ya’ know, because of the Taking?”

Her blow on the iron missed. The horrible sound of hammer on anvil reverberated around the forge with an unbearably loud bang! Her hand vibrated uncomfortably from the strike.

“If it weren’t for those damn Dragons…” she muttered.

Geoffrey let out a sharp breath, brown eyes wide. “‘Ya know we’re not supposed to talk about it. Are ya’ trying to bring Thumagraw to us?”

“Yes,” she said, matter-of-factly, her voice now brimming with annoyance. “To hell with him, anyway. I hope someone pulls the sword and kills that bastard.” Her grip tightened around the hammer’s handle, almost as if she was ready to take him on herself.

“You’re bold for a blacksmith,” he said after a moment.

Tessa scoffed. “It’s better than being meek like a mouse.”

Geoffrey hesitated, suddenly less sure of himself. “Oh, I—uh. Of course!” He chuckled uncomfortably for a moment.

“Don’t you have something better to—” Tessa whipped around to snap at Geoffrey, but was quickly caught off guard by the sight of a servant carrying some sort of creature. It looked almost like a huge cat with black and white fur, but it barked and snarled like a dog. The poor serf fought to keep hold of it as it thrashed in his grip.

“What the hell…” she mumbled, now leaning past a very confused Geoffrey to get a better view of the scene. He turned his head to see what she was staring at but the servant had already slipped around a corner. Tessa found herself wondering if Thumagraw was craving a honey badger for the Taking.

“What were you looking at?” Geoffrey asked.

“I saw your mother running around with the baker’s son,” Tessa said flatly.

“That’s not funny,” he said seriously.

“I wasn’t trying to be,” she snapped back.

A bugle sounded throughout the hold. The crier was announcing the start of the Taking Day. Tessa felt the blood rush to her face. She immediately stopped what she was doing. Everyone was required to. She looked over at Geoffrey. He nodded.

“I guess it’s time to go.”

“I guess it is,” she grumbled.

They left the smithy together. Tessa untied her apron, slung it over a hook by the door, and donned her cloak and scarf before following Geoffrey toward the Square. She maneuvered left to pick up the wagon of sacrifices. Her family would lose five-thousand scales this year—not as much as last year but still a tremendous loss. Tessa thought about how many more shovels she would have to make to compensate. They walked in silence.

An ugly combination of rage, dread, and sadness swirled around in her stomach. She fought back the tears she knew were coming.

That was ten years ago. She shook her head. She survived going to nine. She can survive the tenth.

And she most certainly wasn’t going to cry in front of Geoffrey.

They reached the large crowd gathered around the town’s Square. Geoffrey found a space in the back. Tessa didn’t stop. She dropped the wagon next to the large carriage. She resisted the urge to spit on her hardarned goods. She found a place nestled between two strangers, trying to disappear in the crowd.

She noticed a small boy standing near a couple, tugging at his father’s jacket.

She swallowed, her throat completely dry. She moved closer towards the front of the crowd. A fountain stood in the very center of the Square. Past it, a large wooden stage had been built at the foot of the town hall steps.

She had stood in this exact place once before. Nine years old. Her mother’s hand wrapped tightly around hers. could remember standing in this exact spot—nine years old, holding her mother’s hand. Her little brother stood to her left, his shaggy brown hair falling into his eyes. He hugged a burlap rabbit to his chest, its long ears dangling against his coat.

The stuffed rabbit was ironic, really. The tiny child holding it was named Wolf, yet he was the opposite of his namesake. He was small for his age, almost half the size of his older sister. Quiet. Gentle.

He’d been four. Forever would be four.

Tessa squeezed her eyes shut, willing the memory away. She knew her father was nearby somewhere. She didn't need to look to know what he was doing. Quietly crying. Just as he did every Taking Day. He had lost two people that day.

She forced herself to focus on the dragon priests that crossed the stage. Their purple robes flowed in the frigid breeze as they took their places above the crowd. They held their heads high over the crowds that clustered around the wooden platform.

They stared icily over the crowd. Tessa was burning in her skin.

“Warmhaven, I greet thee,” one of the dragonpriests proclaimed. “This day is a splendid day in the year of our reigning Lord, Thumagraw The Bane. The year is 4424 After Dragons, a long, long time since our victory in the Fallen War.”

Several people in the crowd scoffed.

“We are gathered here this morn to celebrate.”

Tessa’s hands formed fists, her nails squeezing so hard into her palms that she was sure she had left red lines.

Celebrate.

The word danced around her head like a maddened song. Mocking her. Mocking her family. Mocking everyone in Warmhaven. The Taking was anything but a damn celebration.

“Why are those people dressed funny?” Wolf had whispered in her ear ten years ago. Their mother had gently shushed him and pointed toward the stage.

“Let’s just watch, okay?”

Tessa closed her eyes, violently urging the memory away. She had to stay strong. She shifted her gaze back to the dragonpriests. One of them had unrolled a scroll and was reciting the long list of the townspeople's supposed offenses. Tessa knew every word was rubbish. This whole thing was just a damn performance.

“...Using Thumagraw’s holy name in vain, complaining about Thumagraw’s wondrous and just reign, using the Dragons’ names incorrectly…”

Tessa suspected she, along with half the hold, committed every one of those so-called crimes. How could a stupid, fat Dragon possibly read the thoughts of not only a single hold, but everyone in an entire country?

The crowd shifted uneasily around her.

Another dragon priest stepped forward.

“Do they call on names?” Wolf whispered, tugging at Mother’s sleeve.

“Citizens of Warmhaven!” the robed man boomed. “On this delightful year, our Lord has requested three sacrifices.”

“Tessa?” Wolf had tugged on her sleeve, looking up at her with wide golden eyes.

“What?” she whispered, glancing at Mother and Father to make sure they didn’t catch their secret interaction.

“I’m hungry,” he said, twisting the burlap rabbit between his grubby hands.

The dragonpriest’s voice dragged Tessa back to the present as reality and memory blurred together. “Orinth Grimhollow from Veldwyn.”

Tessa paused, trying to place the name. Oh. The poor bastard. He was just a horse thief, not even a murderer.

The skinny man was escorted to the stage by two guards, their faces hidden beneath shadowed helmets. Even they looked weary. The thief kept his head bowed, shivering in the cold.

The dragonpriests always chose the sacrifices. Everyone knew this. They always picked from the list of prisoners that rotted in the jail.

Except once.

Wolf had stepped on her foot, stretching as high as he could to see over the crowd.

“Wolf!” Tessa hissed.

He'd looked up at her with an apologetic grin.

That was the last time she’d seen him smile.

“Silas Hearth from Euril.”

A second man joined the first on the stage. He was much burlier than the first. He must’ve been some sort of captured mercenary. Or perhaps he had beaten his wife. Who knows? It hardly mattered now.

Then the dragonpriest drew a breath.

“Wolf Greymourne from Warmhaven.”

The crowd froze around little Tessa and her family. The world slowed to a crawl. The only thing Tessa could hear for a moment was the distinct, frantic pounding of her heartbeat in her ears.

Her mother's strangled cry shattered the silence. Her father instinctively grabbed Wolf, shielding him as two guards pushed through the crowd.

“No!”

Tessa moved before she had time to think. The nine-year-old stepped in front of them. This was her moment. She would save him. She planted her feet as firmly as she could and stared up at the approaching guard, forcing herself to look braver than she felt.

The man barely acknowledged her. He shoved her to aside as if she were nothing.

She slammed into the frozen ground. Pain exploded across her face. She clamped a hand over her mouth, biting back the tears that threatened to spill. When she pulled it away, her fingers were red.

A child was never chosen for the Taking.

A child hasn’t been chosen since.

Years later, a single tear fell from Tessa’s face. “Ald—” The dragonpriest paused. “Wait. No. I have made a mistake. Rowan Kieran from Warmhaven.”

The correction shattered the memory’s hold on her. She blinked. She was standing in the square again.

The dragonpriest rolled up the scroll as the final man was escorted to the stage. The three were lined up and anointed with incense and oils. They glared at the priest’s bony fingers, silent. Defiant.

Wolf had flinched when the oil touched his forehead. He coughed when the fragrant smoke curled around him.

“My bunny,” he choked. “I dropped it—”

The dragonpriest cut him off with a sharp glare.

The crowd that had shouted angrily ten years ago now stood silent as they watched the three men leave the stage and enter a carriage—the last trip they would ever take.

Tessa often wondered about her little brother’s final moments. She hated that she wondered. She hated that some part of her kept imagining it. Did he cry? Scream? Call for Mother and Father?

Knowing Wolf, he probably asked for his stupid rabbit.

That stupid, damn old bunny that now sat on Tessa’s shelf above her bed. Its black button eyes stared at her every night, as if accusing her of something she could never fix.

His name was Wolf, but that day, he became the rabbit in Thumagraw’s jaws.