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1

Ryder and Halden were probably dead.

I wasn't sure what was making me feel sicker, finally admitting that truth to myself or my aching, burning lungs. The misery of the latter was, admittedly, self-induced-this section of my morning run was always the most brutal-but today marked one year since the letters had stopped coming, and while I'd sworn not to think the worst until there was reason to, the epistolary silence was hard to argue with.

My heart gave a miserable thump.

Attempting to slip the unpleasant thoughts under the floorboards of my mind, I focused on making it to the edge of the clearing without vomiting. I pumped my legs, swung my elbows back, and felt my braid land between my shoulder blades, as rhythmic as a drumbeat. Just a few more feet-

Finally reaching the expanse of cool grass, I staggered to a halt, bracing my hands on my knees and inhaling deeply. It smelled like the Kingdom of Amber always did-of morning dew, woodfire from a nearby hearth, and the crisp, earthy notes of slowly decaying leaves.

But deep breaths weren't enough to keep my vision from blurring, and I collapsed backward onto the ground, the weight of my body crushing the leaves beneath me with a satisfying crunch. The clearing was littered with them-the last remnants of winter.

Eighteen months ago, the night before all the men in our town were conscripted to fight for our kingdom, my family had gathered on the grassy knoll just behind our home. We had watched the pink-hued sunset fade like a bruise behind our town of Abbington all together, one last time. Then, Halden and I had snuck away to this very glade and pretended he and my brother, Ryder, weren't leaving.

That they'd be back one day.

The bells chimed in the town square, distant but clear enough to jar me from the melancholy memory. I eased up to sitting, my tangled hair now littered with leaves and twigs. I was going to be late. Again.

Bleeding Stones.

Or-shit. I winced as I stood. I was trying to swear less on the nine Holy Gemstones that made up the continent's core. I didn't care so much about damning the divinity of Evendell's creation, but I hated the force of habit that came from growing up in Amber, the kingdom that worshipped the Stones most devoutly.

I jogged back through the glade, down the path behind our cottage, and toward a town just waking up. As I hurried through alleyways that could barely accommodate two people heading in opposite directions, a depressing thought filtered in. Abbington really used to have more charm.

At least it was charming in my memories. Cobblestone streets once swept clean and sprinkled with street musicians and idle merchants were now strewn with garbage and abandoned. Mismatched brick buildings covered with vines and warmed by flickering lanterns had been reduced to crumbling decay-abandoned, burned, or broken down, if not all three. It was like watching an apple core rot, slowly turning less and less vibrant over time until, one day, it was just gone.

I shivered, both at the thoughts and the weather. Hopefully, the chilly air had dried some of the dampness from my forehead; Nora did not like a sweaty apprentice. As I pushed the creaky door open, ethanol and astringent mint assaulted my nostrils. My favorite scent.

"Arwen, is that you?" Nora called, her voice echoing through the infirmary's hallway. "You're late. Mr. Doyle's gangrene is getting worse. He might lose the finger."

"Lose my what?" a male voice squawked from behind a curtain.

I shot Nora a withering look and slipped inside the makeshift room separated by cotton sheets.

Bleeding Stones.

Mr. Doyle, an elderly bald man who was all forehead and earlobes, was in his bed, cradling his damaged hand like a stolen dessert that someone aimed to take from him.

"Nora's only kidding," I said, pulling up a chair. "That's her fun and very professional sense of humor. I'll make sure all fingers remain attached, I promise."

With a skeptical huff, Mr. Doyle relinquished his hand, and I got to work carefully peeling away the layers of rotting skin.

My ability twitched at my fingertips, eager to help. I wasn't sure I needed it today; I liked the meticulous work, and gangrene was fairly routine.

But I would never forgive myself if I broke my promise to cranky Mr. Doyle.

I covered one hand with the other, as if I didn't want him to see how gruesome his injury was-I had gotten very good at finding ways to sneak my powers into patients. Mr. Doyle closed his eyes and leaned his head back, and I allowed a flicker of pure light to seep from my fingers like juice from a lemon.

The decaying flesh warmed and blushed pink once more, healing before my eyes.

I was a good healer. I had a steady hand, was calm under pressure, and never got squeamish at the sight of someone's insides. But I could also heal in ways that couldn't be taught. My power was a pulsing, erratic light that poured out of my hands and seeped into others, spreading through their veins and vessels. I could fuse a broken bone, give color back to a flu-ravaged face, or stitch a gash closed with no needle.

But it wasn't common witchcraft. I had no witches or warlocks in my family heritage, and even if I had, when I used my powers, there was no uttered spell followed by a flurry of wind and static. Instead, my gift seeped from my body, draining my energy and mind each time. Witches could do endless magic with the right grimoires and tutelage. My abilities would fizzle out if worked too hard, leaving me depleted. Sometimes it could even take days for the power to come back fully.

The first time I exhausted myself on a particularly brutal burn victim, I thought my gift was actually gone for good, leaving me with an inexplicable mix of relief and horror. When it finally returned, I told myself I was grateful. Grateful that when I was growing up and was covered in welts or had limbs cracked at odd angles, I could heal myself before my mother or siblings could notice what my stepfather had done. Grateful that I could help those around me who were suffering. And grateful that I could make a decent amount of coin doing it when times were as tough as they were now.

"All right, Mr. Doyle, good as new."

The older man shot me a toothless grin. "Thank you," he said, before leaning in conspiratorially. "I didn't think you'd be able to save it."

"The lack of faith hurts," I joked.

He moved gingerly out of the room, and I followed him into the hall. Once he was through the front doors, Nora shook her head at me.

"What?"

"Too chipper," she said, but her mouth lifted in a smile.

"It's a relief to have a patient who isn't on death's door." I cringed. Mr. Doyle was actually quite old.

Nora just snorted and refocused on the gauze in her hands. I slunk back over to the cots and busied myself sanitizing some surgical tools. I should have been thrilled with how few patients we had today, but the quiet was making my stomach twist.

Healing took my mind off of my brother and Halden. Helped to quell the misery that churned in my gut at their absence. Like running, there was a meditative quality to healing people that calmed my chattering brain.

Silence did the opposite.

I'd never expected to be thrilled about a case of gangrene, but it seemed like anything that wasn't certain death was a win these days. Most of our patients were soldiers-bloody, bruised, and broken from battle-or neighbors I'd known my entire life, shriveling away from parasites found in the meager food scraps they could get their hands on. That, at least, was a better fate than starvation. Parasites could be healed in the infirmary. Endless hunger, not so much.

And through all this pain and suffering, loved ones lost, homes destroyed-it was still a mystery why the Onyx Kingdom had started a war with us in the first place. Our King Gareth was not one for the historical tomes, and Amber land was not known for anything but its harvest. Meanwhile, kingdoms like Garnet were rich with coin and jewels. The Pearl Mountains had their ancient scrolls and the continent's most sought-after scholars. Even the Opal Territories, with their distilleries and untouched land, or the Peridot Provinces, with their glittering coves filled with hidden treasure, would all have been better places to begin the gradual crawl toward power over all of Evendell. But so far, every other kingdom had been left unscathed, and lone Amber was trying to keep it that way.

Still, no other kingdom fought beside us.

Meanwhile, Onyx was dripping in riches, jewels, and gold. They had the most land, the most stunning cities-or so I had heard-and the biggest army. Even that wasn't enough for them. Onyx's king, Kane Ravenwood, was both imperialistic and insatiable. Worst of all, he was senselessly cruel. Our generals were often found strung up by their limbs, sometimes flayed or crucified. He took and took and took until our meager kingdom had little left to fight with, and then inflicted pain for the sport of it. Cutting us off at the knees, then the elbows, then the ears just for fun.

The only option was to keep looking on the bright side. Even if it was a dim, blurry kind of bright side that you had to bribe and coax to come out. That, Nora had claimed, was why she kept me around. "You have a knack for this, you're optimistic to a fault, and your tits entice the local boys to donate blood."

Thank you, Nora. You're a peach.

I peered up at her, putting away a basket filled with bandages and ointments.

She wasn't the warmest associate, but Nora was one of my mother's closest friends, and despite her prickly exterior, she'd been thoughtful enough to give me this job so I could take care of our family once Ryder left. She even helped with my sister, Leigh, when Mother was too sick to take her to classes.

My smile at Nora's kindness faded as I thought of my mother-she had been too frail to even open her eyes this morning. The irony that I worked as a healer and my mother was slowly dying from an ailment none of us could identify was not lost on me.

Even worse-and maybe more ironic-my abilities had never worked on her. Not even if all she had was a paper cut. Yet another sign that my powers were not that of a common witch, but something far stranger.

My mother had been sick since I was old enough to talk, but it had worsened these past few years. The only things that helped were the little remedies Nora and I put together-concoctions made of the white canna lilies and rhodanthe flowers native to Amber, blended with Ravensara oil and sandalwood. But the relief was temporary, and her pain grew worse each day.

I physically shook my head to rattle the unpleasantness away.

I couldn't focus on that now. The only thing that mattered was taking care of her and my sister as best I could, now that Ryder was gone.

And might never be coming back.


”No, you didn’t hear me right! I didn’t say he was cute, I said he was astute. Like, smart or worldly,” Leigh said, throwing a log on the dwindling hearth fire. I bit back a laugh and pulled three small bowls from the cupboard.

"Mhm, right. I just think you have a little crush, that's all."

Leigh rolled her pale blue eyes as she turned around our tiny kitchen gathering cutlery and mugs. Our house was small and rickety, but I loved it with my whole heart. It smelled like Ryder's tobacco, the vanilla we used for baking, and fragrant white lilies. Leigh's sketches hung on almost every wall. Every time I walked in our front door, a smile tugged at my lips. Perched on a little hill overlooking most of Abbington and with three well-insulated, cozy rooms, it was one of the nicer houses in our village. My stepfather, Powell, had built it for my mother and me before my siblings were born. The kitchen was my favorite place to sit, the wooden table put together by Powell and Ryder one summer back when we were all young and Mother was healthier.

It was uncanny, the warm memories tied to the bones of our home in such contrast to those that swam in my head, in my stomach, when I thought of Powell's stern face and clenched jaw. The scars on my back from his belt.

I shuddered.

Leigh squeezed in beside me, jarring me from cobwebbed memories and handing over a bundle of roots and herbs for Mother's medication.

"Here. We don't have any rosemary left."

I peered down at her blonde head and a warmth bloomed in me-she was always radiant, even with the misery of wartime that surrounded us. Joyful, funny, bold.

"What?" she asked, narrowing her eyes at me.

"Nothing," I said, biting back a smile. She was just starting to see herself as a grown-up and no longer tolerated being treated like a kid. Loving stares of adoration from her older sister were clearly not allowed. She liked it even less when I tried to protect her.

I swallowed hard, throwing the herbs into the bubbling pot over our hearth.

Recently, rumors had been swirling in the taverns, schools, and markets. The men were all gone now-Ryder and Halden had likely given their lives-and we were still losing to the wicked kingdom in the north.

The women would have to be next.

It wasn't that we couldn't do what the men could. I had heard the Onyx Kingdom's army was filled with strong, ruthless women who fought alongside the men. I just couldn't do it. Couldn't take someone's life for my kingdom, couldn't fight for my own. The thought of leaving Abbington at all raised the hair on the back of my neck.

It was Leigh I worried about. She was too fearless.

Her youth made her think she was invincible, and her hunger for attention made her loud, risky, and brave to the point of recklessness. The thought of her golden curls bouncing onto the front lines made my stomach twist.

If that wasn't bad enough, both of us being carted off to fight against Onyx meant Mother would be left alone. Too old and frail to fight, she might avoid the draft but wouldn't be able to take care of herself. With all three of her children gone, she wouldn't last a week.