After breaking his fast, Griff hurried to school, his nose wrinkling at the putrid smell perfuming the air. Most likely an experiment gone wrong. It happened, and while the labs did their best to contain the results, sometimes things escaped.

As he entered the classroom, he noticed only half the students were present. He slid into a seat beside Jorge and, after a glance around, asked, “Where is everyone?”

“Dunno. But I saw a bunch of people heading for the pier on my way in,” Jorge replied.

“Are we expecting a ship or someone important?” The usual reason why people hurried to the docks, though Griff had heard of no visiting dignitary that would justify an exodus, and quite frankly, the only cargo that ever excited him involved the mighty horses that came from across the world. One day he’d own a Volaqu and fly across the beach like the wind.

“Haven’t heard of anything arriving, but my mum was muttering about bad omens this morning.” Jorge rolled his eyes. “Dad told her to stop being so superstitious.”

Their teacher, Lucin, entered. The slender man would give them their lessons on history, geography, and world politics. Boring! It would be followed by an hour of calisthenics and weapons training—Griff’s favorite part of the day—then their midday meal, after which it would be the time for the hair-pulling math, literature, and to end their day, science.

More than once, Griff complained to his father about the last because, unlike some of his peers, Griff had no interest in how things worked whether they be living or mechanical. His father usually offered him a stern look and said, “Just because you don’t like it, doesn’t mean you shouldn’t understand it.”

And so, Griff suffered.

“It would seem we’re missing a few classmates,” Lucin, stated. He might have said more, only the floor trembled slightly.

No one paid it much mind. After all, the Research Facility for the Advancement of Science and Technology often did things that resulted in explosions—which Griff thought more interesting than learning the difference between gear and pulley systems.

“Seems like our scientists are at it early today,” Lucin said with a chuckle. As their teacher opened his mouth again, a stronger vibration shook the classroom, rattling desks and chairs, even knocking a few drawings off the wall.

“Everyone, remain calm,” Lucin shouted as the students began to murmur and squirm in their seats. They might have listened if the shaking had not continued.

One of the boys near the front, his expression pale and worried, rose. “I think I’m going to go find my mother.”

No one made fun of Pietro as he exited, mostly because several others followed suit. Such a long-lasting tremor was unheard of.

Lucin blew out a loud sigh. “It would seem we won’t get much done today. Class dismissed.”

Griff whooped alongside Jorge as they raced from their class into a hall that shook and made navigating difficult for some. While they found it amusing trying to walk, staggering like young drunks, the adults they passed appeared quite worried. Could have had to do with the cracks that began appearing in the concrete walls.

“Let’s get outside,” Griff suggested as he noticed a rather large crevice that appeared in the ceiling.

“Last one there has to kiss a girl,” Jorge yelled, running off.

Griff, however, didn’t immediately follow, taking a moment to aid a young woman who stumbled and dropped a folder of papers. It took but a moment to help her gather them, long enough for Jorge to have run outside. Griff soon followed, he and other students spilling into the large courtyard abutting the school, a massive edifice that held dozens of classrooms, one for each age group of learners from toddler to young adult.

The shaking continued and screams could be heard, but more worrisome was the clang of the fire bells. Griff couldn’t help but feel perturbed, a reaction not apparently shared by his friend.

Jorge grinned from the center of the yard and taunted, “Who you gonna kiss, loser?”

Before Griff could reply, the ground heaved and cracked. A crevice split open under Jorge’s feet and his friend plummeted into the hole.

A wide-eyed Griff froze in shock, but only for a second.

“Jorge!” he yelled as he ran for the edge of the wide chasm.

The ground continued to shake, the trembling growing stronger, the violent force of it sending him to his knees. Despite the bruising, and his tummy clenching fear, Griff crawled to the edge of the hole in the pavement and peered down into a bottomless abyss. No sign of Jorge.

“Griff!” The yell had him lifting his head to see Father standing on the far side of the school’s courtyard, looking frantic.

“I’m here.” Griff stood, but it took some careful balancing to navigate the heaving ground while skirting the hole before he could reach his father.

Father grabbed him close in a hug. “Thank the gears in the mighty clock tower you’re safe.”

“What’s happening?” Griff asked.

“Something went wrong in the lab.”

“Did something explode?”

“Of sorts,” his father muttered, leading him away from the school.

“Where’s Uncle Basil?” Not his real uncle, but his father’s best friend. Basil was the lead scientist for one of the labs, something to do with experimental development, whatever that meant.

“Don’t worry about your uncle. You have to leave.”

“What?” His father’s statement made no sense.

“We’re evacuating Sitnalta.”

“But why?” Griff asked as his father, who had a firm grip on his forearm as he began walking in the direction of the pier.

“As a precaution. Something has gone awry and until we can fix the unfortunate result, we feel it best to remove as many people as we can to avoid casualties.”

Lots of big words, but Griff only understood one thing.

“You’re making me leave?” Griff huffed, trying not to pout. A boy his age shouldn’t whine.

“Only until we get the situation under control. Think of it as an adventure at sea.”

“I’d rather stay with you.” Not entirely true. Griff enjoyed sailing. The sea breeze on his face. The undulation of the boat as it tunneled through waves. The power and beauty of the ocean.

“I’d prefer to know you’re safe. I have enough to worry about without adding you to that list,” his father snapped. A rarity that underscored the severity of the situation.

Griff kept his mouth shut as he followed his father to the pier, trying to forget seeing Jorge fall, ignoring the screams of people as buildings cracked and, in some cases, collapsed. The rotten stench in the air intensified, mixed with the increasing aroma of smoke. Something burned.

Their flight to the docks didn’t prove unimpeded. Several city dwellers tried to stop Griff’s father, shouting at him.

“Are we going to die?”

“What are you doing?”

“Fix this!”

Father didn’t take his usual time answering their questions. Even more shocking, at Father’s signal, soldiers formed a bubble around them, a wedge that drove through those standing in their path.

The docks were pure chaos, the likes of which Griff had never seen. People, their arms full of belongings and children, pushed and shoved, clamoring to be allowed to board the tethered ships. Already some ships had set sail, their decks crowded with passengers. Others attempted to cast off only to have people grab the mooring ropes, screaming to be allowed on board.

The Kalypsi, Father’s personal ship, remained at the dock. Griff craned to look, and he could see a few familiar faces peering over its rail, including Kreed, who’d not been to class this morning. Unlike the other moored vessels with streams of people boarding, soldiers stood at the bottom of the Kalypsi’s gangplank, weapons in hand, preventing anyone from gaining access. A restriction that didn’t apply to Griff.

At the sight of Griff’s father, the soldiers pushed those crowding the dock, creating a hole for them to pass. A passage meant only for Griff. Father didn’t join him on the pathway to the boat.

“Please come,” Griff asked, his voice small and pitiful. A good thing none of his peers heard or he’d have been mocked.

Father shook his head. “You know I must remain and see how we can fix this unfortunate incident.”

Griff couldn’t help a tremble of his lower lip. “But—”

“No crying.” A stern admonishment by his father. “You must be strong. Everything will be fine. Here.” His father unbuckled his sheath with the sword Griff admired. “Keep this safe for me.”

“When will I see you again?”

“Soon.”

A lie, as it turned out.

Griff stood at the rail, watching his father stride back into the shaking city, then watching as the crew sailed the Kalypsi into the crowded bay, waiting for their chance to slip through the narrow inlet.

Saw as the mountain that shadowed Sitnalta appeared to explode, spewing smoke and lava, bright red gobs that landed like bombs on the buildings—and even a few boats.

A horrified Griff witnessed a large schooner, its decks teeming with people, catch fire and begin to list. The nightmare only increased as streams of molten rock started to run down the mountainside.

The volcano, long dormant, had woken.

Soon, he could see nothing as smoke, stinking and thick with ash, rolled over the city and into the bay. As it reached them, people began to cough, including Griff.

“Cover your faces! Don’t breathe it in,” screamed the first mate as he tugged his shirt over his mouth and nose.

Griff copied him, the fabric somewhat filtering the poisoned air. The world took on an eerie cast, with visibility restricted to the area around him, but the noise…

The groan of heaving stone and concrete, the wails and screams, the hum of the engine propelling them since there lacked a wind for the sails.

The Kalypsi emerged from the bay and kept going. The further they travelled, the more the smog lessened. The more Griff could see.

See his home enveloped in darkness.

His last sight of it.

His last memory.

The start of a hard, new life as a refugee with nowhere to go.

Verlora died that day, as did his father.

Chapter 1 – Avera

Present day.

Avera was dying.

Just ask her poor heaving guts and spinning head. Her entire world had become topsy-turvy. She could only lie prone and hope she passed quickly to end the misery.

As if to compound her agony, a rather large man kept appearing in her slitted-eye view, pushing into her hands tankards of water, cruelly offering bowls of broth and bread. None of which remained in her stomach for long.

The misery wouldn’t end.

And then suddenly, Avera woke and realized she could open her eyes and that her stomach had decided it would no longer clench and spew. She might just live.

Or not. As Avera recovered, she noticed she’d woken in a strange bed that gently rocked, narrow of width and covered in a coarse woolen blanket. She had no recollection of how she’d gotten there.

Despite the weakness in her limbs, Avera pushed herself into a sitting position and almost smacked her head on the bunk above.

Where am I?

Last she recalled, she’d been at the far end of the pier in Seaserpent Bay, scouting out an old chapel used by sailors. She’d run into the captain of a recently docked vessel. A captain who’d refused to give her passage but then done something to her. She recalled a foul-smelling rag being placed over her face, closing her eyes, and then the misery of puking everything she’d ever eaten—plus a few things she didn’t recall ever putting in her mouth.

A glance around revealed little, but enough. She was in a cabin, a small one with two bunks and a trunk under a porthole. She still wore her clothing and had her locket but lacked her sword.

A few things occurred to her in that moment.

She had been kidnapped.

By pirates.

Which meant she was currently sailing on a boat.

She rose to her feet, wavering as dizziness beset her. She had to wonder why the grumpy captain had abducted her.

Time to find out.

Avera took a quick peek out the window to confirm they were indeed at sea before she made her way to the door. She tugged the handle, but the door didn’t yield. She’d been locked in.

Unacceptable. She pounded with a fist and hollered, “Let me out, you scurvy pirate! How dare you kidnap me!”

It took a moment before the captain replied from the other side of the locked portal. “Now, now, little queen. I’d have thought you’d be happy. After all, you practically begged me for passage on my ship.”

“As a passenger, not a prisoner,” she yelled.

“Does the how matter?”

It did because in one scenario she wasn’t a prisoner locked in a room. Alone, she should add. “Where are Gustav and Josslyn?” Her Grand Rook and his sister, the duchess, escaped the capital with Avera and had been her loyal companions since.

“Back in Seaserpent Bay, I imagine.”

“You left them behind?” she exclaimed.

“I didn’t need the extra mouths to feed. Although I would have made an exception for your steed. Alas, I had to choose between you and the horse. Congratulations, you won.”

“Why did you take me?”

“Because I like interesting things.”

“I’m a person, not a thing,” she growled, almost losing her balance as the ship tilted. Her stomach lurched, apparently not yet fully recovered.

“Very well. You’re an interesting woman. One who might prove useful.”

“Useful for what?” Her heart stopped before she exclaimed, “You better not be ransoming me to Benoit.” Benoit being the man who’d stolen her throne by orchestrating her family’s murder and then framing Avera for the crime.

“I don’t sell people.” Was his sharp rebuke.

“You just abduct them.”

“I only did what you wanted while avoiding the unnecessary arguing. And before you ask why we would have sparred, you would have wanted to bring your friends and your horses. Demanded a cabin fit for your station and a host of other annoying things. By taking you, I’ve established you’re here by my grace. As such, you will be nice if you wish any amenities on this voyage.”

“Be nice?” she huffed. “I will eviscerate you.” And she’d take pleasure in wiping the arrogance from the pirate captain’s face.

“No thanks. I’d rather keep my guts in my body.”

The ship rolled and she teetered into the bunk. Her throat tightened as bile rose. “You are insufferable.”

“Not according to my crew.”

“You—you—” She might have said more but the nausea that took her didn’t leave her breath for speaking, just vomiting. So much vomiting.

And moaning.

And lying in the bunk as she resumed dying.

Food was brought and left along with jugs of water. Not that she had the appetite to eat. She did try to drink, only to heave it back up almost immediately. Blame the storm that wouldn’t stop swaying the vessel. She’d never known a person could be so ill.

Days passed before the seasickness eased. Hopefully for good this time.

It took her a moment before she could sit up. The dizziness closed her eyes.

Weakness infused every inch of her battered body. Her poor chest hurt. Her throat ached, the flesh of it raw. Before, when she’d been landbound, she thought sailing sounded marvelous.

Turned out it was more like torture.

She drank a glass of water and waited to see if it would stay down. When it did she followed it with a hunk of bread which had been left on a plate on the floor. A bit dry, but she washed it down with more water and felt a bit stronger.

It took a few deep breaths before she could stand. A glance through the porthole showed water as far as she could see. So still at sea, but at least the ship had stopped rocking violently.

Her first step almost dumped her back on the bunk as her weak limbs initially refused to cooperate. She gritted her jaw. She would not return to that bed, not until she got some answers.

When she reached the door, she expected it to still be locked. It opened, and in her surprise, she almost fell. She held on to the door for a moment, breathing. Bit by bit her strength returned, and the dizziness subsided.

Still, Avera remained weak, and it showed in her slow steps as she exited her cabin into a narrow hall. She headed for the daylight she could see and held in a groan at the sight of the three steps she’d have to climb.

Just three. It might as well have been a hundred. She panted heavily by the time she managed to totter onto the sunny deck. The fresh air that hit her skin and filled her lungs did much to revive. With her eyes closed, she inhaled deeply, each breath filling her with strength. When she felt less disoriented, she blinked at the bright sunlight magnified by the water all around. Not a speck of land in any direction, meaning she wouldn’t be escaping the ship anytime soon.

She took stock of her surroundings. The deck of wooden planking extended the length of the ship. Tall masts, hung with sails, jutted into the blue sky. Atop one was what she’d heard termed a bird’s nest, where apparently sailors kept watch for trouble.

A waist-high rail ran the circumference of the ship. Metal rings were embedded every few yards. She noticed more of those rings on the jutting structure in the center of the deck that held the steps going belowdecks. It rose well above her head and a squint showed a window, the glare of sun on it making it impossible to see inside. Had to be the bridge, which she’d also heard called the helm.

Sailors roamed the deck, busy with tasks, but not so busy they couldn’t give her curious glances. None spoke to her.

Avera pivoted to see if she could spot the captain, but no one of his large size and annoying nature appeared. Her gaze returned to the window. Did the captain stand behind it, watching?

Upon seeing a stocky woman slopping a bucket of dirty water over the side, Avera approached and ventured a soft, “Excuse me, can you tell me where we’re going?”

“To Saarpira.”

The isle of pirates long known for its lawlessness. The destination wasn’t exactly surprising, given who’d abducted her. “How long until we get there?”

“A week or more, at least. The storm blew us off track.” The woman wandered off with her empty bucket and Avera leaned against the railing.

Despite how she’d gotten aboard, it occurred to her that rather than be mad, she should be pleased. If she ended up in Saarpira, then she still had a chance of making her way to Verlora and completing the quest she’d been given.

If she could escape her captor.

As she inhaled more of reviving salty air, her gaze took in the sails, unfurled canvas that stretched taut as the wind filled them. They were emblazoned with a large emblem. One she recognized, but to be sure, she called out to a grizzled seaman coiling rope. “What symbol is that?” She pointed to the sail.

“That there is a griffon, just like our captain.”

Her heart stuttered. “Wait, are you saying the captain is called Griffon?”

“Aye, milady. Seems fitting given they’re both mighty beasts.”

The sailor must have thought Avera odd for she began laughing. Laughing and feeling better than she had in days. Perhaps not everything was lost. After all, she’d found the legendary beast that Opal, the guardian of Fraegus Spire, had indicated would be crucial for her quest. Apparently, if she wanted to save her country from Zhos—a powerful, murderous entity attempting to break free from his enchanted prison—she had to find the Griffon. It might have helped if Avera had known she was looking for a man, and not an animal.

Even more helpful if Opal would have mentioned just how annoying he’d be.

Speaking of the irritating man, he suddenly appeared, walking back from the bow, his long-legged strut and wide shoulders making her gaze linger inappropriately. Of all the men to admire… It only increased her ire.

“You!” she huffed, planting her hands on her hips.

“I see you’ve finally decided to stop lying abed,” he replied with a smirk.

“Don’t mock me,” she snapped.

“Hardly mocking. More like amazed. I’ve never seen or heard of someone puking so much before, and that says a lot, seeing as how I’ve drunk copiously with sailors of all stripes.” He passed her and headed up the steps towards the bridge.

Avera trotted after him. “What are you planning to do with me?” she asked as she shadowed the captain. The so-called Griffon chose to speak to the sailor handling the helm instead of replying.

The captain remained as handsome as ever, a tall and rather wide man with dark hair and a swarthy complexion—features the Verlorian people were known for. He moved to a map on the wall where another of his crew listened as he pointed and traced a route with his finger. The commanding display only increased his attractiveness, much to Avera’s annoyance.

She sidled close enough to see where he indicated. “Is it true you’re taking me to Saarpira?”

“Yup.”

“Despite knowing I want to go to Verlora.” The destination given to her by Opal who’d tasked Avera with retrieving the five stolen stones needed to keep Zhos in prison. An impossible quest to start with, and now this captain seemed determined to make it harder.

“I ain’t going there. Not today. Not ever.” Understandable, considering the continent was known to be impassable. It was said that those who went to investigate never returned.

But Avera didn’t have a choice. She either found a way to Verlora, or an ancient foe would escape its prison and destroy the world. Not that Griffon believed it when she told him.

“If you won’t take me, then I’ll find someone in Saarpira who will,” she tartly replied.

“Not likely, so don’t waste your time trying.”

“You can’t know that for sure,” Avera huffed.

“Pirates are about profit and there isn’t any in Verlora. Nothing but death awaits there, so yes, I can state with assurance that you won’t find anyone who will agree to take you.”

The finality in his tone deflated. So much for her previous optimism. “In that case, I demand you return me to Seaserpent Bay at once.”

“I thought you didn’t want to be arrested as a traitor?”

A reminder that her throne had been stolen from her by Benoit, her late mother’s husband. A man who’d not only plotted and had her entire family killed, but also machinated to the point where he made Avera an outcast in her own country. The past weeks had been hard. Between the assassination of her mother, the former queen, to her brief stint as monarch, to discovering an ancient evil stirring, and now the kidnapping, Avera couldn’t seem to catch a break.

“In that case, there is no other choice. You must transport me to Verlora.”

He snorted and finally cast her a glance. “Never.”

“But you must. I have to go there,” she insisted.

“How many times do you have to be told Verlora is a death sentence for all who visit?”

“When was the last time someone went?” she asked as she followed him from the bridge back to the main deck.

“A while.”

“Then perhaps things have changed.”

He whirled so abruptly she slammed into his chest. His very wide and solid chest. He didn’t try and catch her as she bounced off it and landed on her rump.

She glared up at him. “I hate you.”

He arched a brow. “I don’t care.”

“Why won’t you tell me why you’ve really abducted me?” While he’d given her a reason before she found it less than satisfactory.

“Who says I need to have a reason? But since you won’t stop nattering, as far as I’m concerned you are a commodity. The question being, who will pay the most to acquire the last of the Voxspira line? I hear the Emperor of Merisu is looking for a new consort. Marrying Daerva’s disgraced queen might appeal to him, especially since he’s been looking to expand his territory.”

“You mean conquer Daerva,” Avera huffed as she rose to her feet.

“I thought you wanted Benoit removed from the throne?”

“Not by having a foreign country invade,” she muttered. Never mind the fact she’d toyed with the idea of hiring mercenaries to help her oust the pretender.

“What happens won’t be up to you, little queen. As of now, you are my property and I will decide what happens to you. Although, keep annoying me and I might simply decide to feed you to a kraken.”

“Krakens aren’t real,” was her surly reply.

“Said by someone who’s obviously never sailed the Eastern Seas.”

“Wait, you’re saying they exist? You’ve seen them?” her curious nature couldn’t help but ask. After all, in the past few weeks she’d seen many a thing she’d once thought impossible.

“Aye, and I don’t recommend it. Even the babies are deadly.”

“You survived,” she pointed out.

“Barely.” He walked away, and she didn’t think twice to follow.

“What would it take to convince you to take me to Verlora?”

“Nothing will ever make me return,” came his flat reply.

“When we spoke before, at the chapel”—before he’d kidnapped her and established himself as the bane of her quest—“you asked if the stones I’m after could have caused the problems in Verlora. Don’t you want to find out if that’s the case?”

“No.”

“What if it fixes things, though? Makes Verlora safe again,” she asked as he descended the steps and went to the last door at the end of the hall. She caught the panel of wood before he could slam it in her face. “You can’t ignore me.”

“I will when you speak nonsense,” he snapped, whirling on her. “How exactly do you think you could fix Verlora when no one else, even some incredibly gifted scientists, couldn’t?”

“Opal said—”

“I don’t know or care who Opal is or what she’s managed to convince you of. Verlora is lost and nothing can change that.”

“If you believe that then what’s the harm in dumping me there?”

“I won’t risk my crew getting close and that’s final.”

With that, he slammed the door in her face.

Avera pursed her lips.

That didn’t go well. However, he wasn’t the only one who could be persistent.

Poor Avera, the result of that short coupling. A child who’d suffered the name bastard since Calixte had been unmarried at the time of her birth. Calixte’s fourth and youngest offspring, and also the brightest of the royal children—most likely because of her sly father. Or was Avera’s keen mind the result of having been left so often to her own devices?

A young woman now, full grown, and yet Calixte barely knew Avera. Not by choice. They might live in the same palace, however, politics—among other things—made a close relationship with Avera impossible. The guilt Calixte felt over the neglect gnawed at her daily, but she had no choice. The foretelling so long ago had warned her to remain remote lest Avera’s life end before it began.

A sigh escaped her. Sometimes the weight of her tiara overwhelmed. How she would have loved to flee with Basil. He’d asked her at the beginning of their tryst, but she couldn’t leave her people. Couldn’t leave the kingdom of Daerva to the not-so-tender mercy of her oldest heir, Aldrich. She never understood where her son’s darkness came from. His father, a lord of even temperament, never had that streak of cruelty Aldrich displayed.

Thankfully, he’d never be King. The same vision that warned Calixte to ignore her youngest daughter had also touched upon the end of her reign: Upon thy passing, the crown shall be inherited by one worthier than the First Prince.

Would it be her second daughter, Zironia, the Tiara in Waiting who’d yet to bear a child? Or the Spare Tiara, Merie, who worried more about the curls of her hair than the people of their land? In truth, Avera would have been the best choice, but with so many heirs in line before her, including Aldrich’s own children, she would never sit on the throne.

Or would she?

The foretelling had also claimed that Calixte’s youngest would have a great burden to bear. That the fate of the kingdom would rest upon her slender shoulders and she would face terrible ordeals that would test her strength. Hence why Avera knew how to ride and fight, and was well-learned, taught by the best Calixte could hire. She might not be able to mother her daughter as she wanted, but she’d made damned sure Avera never lacked for anything else.

Despite the sun having yet to crest the horizon, Calixte tucked the locket away with her other treasures and prepared to start her day. As she turned from her cabinet she heard a noise, a scraping sound that raised the hairs on her nape.

She whirled, seeking the source, and gaped as someone stepped out of the secret passage to her room. A hidden entrance no one but she—and her long-gone lover—should have known about.

“Who are you? What are you doing in my chambers?” Calixte exclaimed, noting the intruder wore a hood to mask their features. Their eyes were the only features visible through the cutouts.

“I am death,” a male voice intoned.

Probably meant to frighten, however, Calixte wasn’t the type to get vapors that easily.

“Who sent you?” she asked, her fingers reaching into her pocket for the dagger she’d been carrying around of late. Blame the nightmares plaguing her these past months. Dark dreams of violence and bloodshed that she couldn’t entirely shake when she woke. It turned out her niggling sense of something not right hadn’t been paranoia.

“Someone who needs you gone to clear the path to the throne.”

“Did Aldrich hire you?” she asked. She’d seen how her son, the First Prince, chafed in the wings, waiting to sit on the throne.

“Doubtful seeing as how your first born is being killed as we speak.”

How awful she didn’t feel sorrow but only relief at knowing Aldrich wouldn’t survive her. He’d long been haranguing her about stepping down so he might start his rule. It had been done in the past, but Calixte kept refusing, knowing her son wouldn’t serve the people well.

“Who is the traitor?” she asked as the intruder moved closer, his step stealthy. She could have yelled for her guards—a pair stood outside her door—but she wanted answers.

“Doesn’t really matter, does it? You’ll be dead in a moment.”

“Exactly. So why not tell me? Or do you not know?”

“I don’t need to know who hired me. The guild entered into a contract, and I am here to complete its terms.”

The phrasing made him an assassin, indicating someone had gone through great trouble and expense.

“You do realize I can pay you more than they’re offering,” Calixte bargained.

“I took a vow to not be bribed.”

“Ironic words coming from a man who sees no problem with murder.”

The assassin shrugged. “Have to draw the line somewhere.”

“Which of my daughters are they planning to put in charge if I and my son are to die?”

“None. Your line ends today.” The assassin lunged with his blade and Calixte had little time to react. The dagger emerged from her pocket and barely blocked the blow aimed for her heart.

“Guards, to me!” she yelled as she recoiled to give herself space.

“Yell all you like. By the time they break down the door, you’ll be dead,” the hooded man taunted.

Thump. Thump.

The pounding at the portal had her cursing the fact she kept it locked at night. She’d thought herself safe once within, the secret passages unknown to anyone else, her kingdom at peace her entire reign. How could she have missed the bubbling discontent?

“You’ll die for this,” Calixte spat as she narrowly avoided a slash.

“Only if they catch me, which hasn’t happened yet. The guild sent their best for this job.” He darted forward and she dodged to the side, only she made a mistake in watching the hand gripping the sword. She missed the dagger the assassin pulled with his other hand. It slid into her gut with ease, and she gasped.

“You’ve killed me.” Disbelief marked her words. Of all the ways she expected to die, murder wasn’t one of them.

“It’s not personal,” he remarked, pulling the weapon from her flesh and wiping it on his trousers.

She slumped to the floor, more in shock than pain, her fingers clasped over her midsection as if that would stem the flow of blood.

He crouched in front of her. “You don’t have to suffer. Hold up your head and I’ll finish you quickly.”

“How kind of you to offer,” was her dry reply.

“I’m not a monster.”

“Could have fooled me,” she murmured, ducking her head.

“Just doing my job. Speaking of which, your soldiers are about to enter, meaning I have to leave. Are you sure you don’t want a swift death?”

She lifted her chin, baring her throat. “Yes, but first, might I see the face of the man killing me.”

He hesitated only a moment before tugging off the hood, not that she cared about his appearance. In that moment of inattention, the dagger she still held plunged. Unlike him, she didn’t miss.

The jugular she severed spurted, and he recoiled, his mouth opening and shutting without a sound, his eyes wide with disbelief. The assassin died before her guards burst into the room.

While they ran to fetch a doctor and applied pressure to her wound, Calixte already knew she wouldn’t live to see another dawn. Only the foretelling and the hope it offered kept her barking orders.

“Bring me my daughter!” Calixte kept repeating as they put her to bed and pretended they could fix her.

“They’re dead, Your Majesty,” the flustered Duke Petturi stated. “The Heir, the Tiara in Waiting, the Spare, even the baby.”

Calixte stared at the fat man who’d been her advisor for the past decade. “Where is Avera?”

“Who?”

“My youngest daughter,” she snarled.

“Oh, her.” His lips pulled down in disapproval.

“Yes, her!” she snapped. “Bring her at once.”

“Why?” The man dared to argue despite knowing she had little time.

“Gustav!” She bellowed for her Grand Rook, a man who’d been by her side for decades. A loyal soldier who would obey his queen.

Her grizzled rook arrived, wearing a grim expression framed by short silver hair. “Your Majesty.” He dropped to a knee by her bedside. “My failure to protect is inexcusable. I await your punishment.”

“This isn’t your fault,” she muttered. More like hers for refusing to live like a prisoner in a kingdom known for its peace. She gestured him close and whispered, “You must find Avera. Protect her, Gustav. She is all that matters now.”

“Yes, my queen.” He thumped his chest and left abruptly.

She closed her eyes and prayed. Prayed for her youngest. Prayed for her people. And most of all, prayed those responsible would die horrifically for what they’d wrought this day.

Chapter 2

As dawn began to lighten the sky just outside the marketplace, Avera Voxspira slid from her steed’s back.

Luna nudged Avera, leading her to murmur, “I know you smell some apples. Don’t worry. I’ll get you a few juicy ones before we head back to the castle.” Right after she finished browsing the newly arrives wares.

A shipment had just arrived from the port at Horizon’s End and she really hoped to find a relic from Verlora amidst the new wares. The country, situated a week’s sail from Daerva’s east coast, had fabricated the most wondrous of objects before their continent went dark. The Verlorians used to excel in a craft they called mechanical science, and though the constructs they’d made were rare these days, Avera always kept an eye out for new ones to add to her collection, which now spanned several shelves in a storage room turned workshop. She quite enjoyed opening up the contraptions to study the cogs within, marveling at the intricate work, doing her best to understand how they worked. The tinkering kept her entertained seeing as how she didn’t have much else to do with her time.

Despite being almost thirty, and a princess, Avera didn’t have any assigned duties. Only direct heirs had expectations and tasks. Rather than languish with boredom, Avera spent most of her days playing with Verlorian devices, riding her steed, exploring the marketplace, or reading. Not exactly the most exciting life, but she had little choice. A princess wasn’t allowed to strike out on her own. A princess, even a forgotten and neglected one, was expected to live in the castle with the other royals. To present herself when necessary for special functions. To behave as befitted her role. At least, unlike her older siblings, she’d not been forced to marry to cement an alliance.

As Avera strolled the market, Luna trailed alongside her, used to the early jaunts. After all, they’d been companions for years now. The Volaqu-bred horse, a breed known for their intelligence and temperament, imported from Pequilh, was a surprise gift from her mother, the queen. Ironically, despite the lavish present, Avera felt closer to Luna than her own family. Then again, Luna actually liked her. More than once Avera had wished she could escape the castle where she’d been raised. She’d even asked her mother on more than one occasion about relocating and been firmly refused. A princess, even one far removed from the throne, apparently required constant protection. An explanation that never satisfied since no one had ever attacked the royal family.

For example, at this very moment, she was in alone in the marketplace, not a guard in sight. As she wandered, her gaze locked on a familiar shape on one of the vendor tables. She quickly headed for the item, bending her head to examine and confirm she’d found a Verlorian artifact. It appeared as a simple box of carved wood but when the lid flipped open, a figurine sprang upright and twirled as music played. A fascinating feat that some would call magic, but she could hear the whirring of gears making it a machine.

Before Avera could ask the vendor how much he wanted for it, a strident voice yelled down the main boulevard, “The queen’s been murdered!”

At the impossible statement, her heart stuttered to a stop and she dropped the box back on the table. Surely, she’d misunderstood. Avera turned to see Lord Gendry, his florid face even redder than usual as he hustled into the market square. People stopped and eyed him as he struggled for breath.

The merchant selling meat pies was the one to shout, “What’s that, again, milord?”

Lord Gendry composed himself enough to huff, “There are assassins in the palace. They’ve murdered the queen and the First Prince, as well as his consort and their child. The Tiara in Waiting and Spare Tiara are also said to be dead.”

Dead?

Avera blinked. That simply wasn’t possible. Her family, the royal family, had guards and security that were supposed to prevent incursion at the palace. It should have been impossible for anyone to get close enough to strike one member of the family, let alone all of them. Not to mention, Daerva didn’t have assassins. They were a peaceful country that rarely dealt with crime, let alone murder.

“Who’s responsible for hiring them?” asked a different merchant as he stood in front of his stall full of brightly colored scarves.

Lord Gendry shrugged and mopped his sweaty brow. “I don’t know. Once I heard about the massacre, I left.”

Someone in the listening crowd muttered, “Coward.”

They weren’t entirely wrong. Who ran when strife struck? A man who was more farmer than soldier. The Gendry family was the largest producer of crops in Daerva and rarely visited the capital. Rumor had it the lord preferred the company of his sheep to people. The gossip mill also said other much more disturbing things about Lord Gendry and his love of animals.

“If the queen and all the heirs are dead, who will rule us?” the pie seller lamented, wringing his hands.

“What of the youngest? The bastard? Was she killed too?” a woman wearing an apron asked.

“Didn’t she die of the pox?” someone ruminated.

“I hear she’s hideous which is why the queen keeps her hidden,” another commented.

Kind of hurtful. Avera didn’t consider herself ugly, and the queen didn’t so much hide her as just not involve her in matters of state.

“Oh, I forgot about the girl. What’s her name? Valerie?” the pie seller mused.

“No, you idiot, it’s Valera,” the aproned matron retorted.

Both wrong, something Avera had gotten used to given she was the unneeded fourth child the queen had born. At twenty-nine summers, she was younger by a decade than her sister with fifteen years between her and Aldrich, the First Prince. While her three siblings shared one father, Avera came about while the queen was between consorts. No one knew who’d fathered her. Not even Avera. The queen never said, and Avera had given up asking as her mother always muttered, “Nobody important.”

There was much speculation, however, because with her coloring—dark brown hair, lightly tanned skin, and brilliant mauve eyes—she resembled no one in the capital. The populace tended to have blonde and auburn hair with skin tones ranging from pale white to pink, or red-cheeked, if exposed to the sun.

While her appearance shouldn’t have mattered, nor the method of her conception, Avera never felt like she belonged to her family. She lacked any kind of bond or relationship with her siblings, though not for lack of trying when younger. She’d been rebuffed at every turn because they hated her. Aldrich especially enjoyed torturing her until Gustav put a stop to it. Being outcast by her brother and sisters might have been bearable if her mother would have granted Avera some attention. However, the busy queen never paid her youngest daughter much mind, which made her refusal to let Avera live elsewhere all the more maddening.

While it would sound horrible if spoken aloud, Avera felt no grief at the passing of her siblings. Shock, yes, though a shock that had more to do with possibly being the only heir left and she’d never been interested in ruling. Please let Lord Gendry be wrong.

As Avera debated returning to the castle, a cadre of soldiers came galloping into the marketplace, their tunics of blue and gold layered over their metallic armor identifying them as palace guards. And they’d come for one reason only.

Sir Gustav, the Grand Rook in charge of the Queen’s security—and the only positive influence in Avera’s life—held his stallion in place as he pointed at Avera. “There’s the First Princess. Protect her.”

First Princess? The words turned her blood cold. Gustav always called her by name not by title, and she’d never imagined that she’d be called first anything.

This can’t be happening.

An urge to flee struck Avera, and she eyed possible escape routes.

None existed as the people in the marketplace packed in tightly around her, drawn by the morbid news, although they did part to allow passage to the knights with the Grand Rook at their head.

Sir Gustav eyed her through the holes slotted in his helmet. “First Princess, there’s been an incident.”

Why so formal? Then again, they had an audience.

“Is it true my family is dead?” Avera asked.

“The queen yet lives, however, the assassins were thorough. Everyone else is dead.”

“All of them? Even baby Kona?” A sweet, chubby-cheeked girl who was always smiling.

“It was a massacre,” Sir Gustav rumbled in a low tone. “And very well planned. You’d have been dead too, had you told anyone where you went. The assassins tried your room only to find you gone.”

Because Avera had slipped away just before dawn, dressed in simple clothes because she preferred anonymity.

“You knew where to find me,” Avera pointed out.

The grizzled soldier’s lips twisted beneath the nose guard of his helmet. “Because you are predictable. A new shipment for the market always draws you in search of something interesting.”

A curiosity that saved her life.

“Am I in danger?” Avera asked as the soldiers spread out to form a circle around her and Luna.

“The assassins are still at large.” An answer of sorts. “Quickly now. Mount up and let’s return to the castle.”

Despite her annoying skirts, Avera required no help into her saddle and soon they trotted away from the marketplace, Avera boxed in on all sides by soldiers. She did her best to ignore the stares and whispers of the townsfolk they passed. Not easy since she heard someone exclaim, “That’s the First Princess? Does she not know how to dress?”

More like Avera preferred simple and comfortable garments to the intricate ruffles and layers the other ladies of court tortured themselves with.

The Grand Rook sat stiffly in his saddle as he kept pace with Luna’s quick step. He said nothing and so Avera murmured, “You said my mother lives?”

“For the moment,” Gustav stated. “The wound she took to the belly is a bad one. She only survived because she cut the assassin’s throat before he could stab her again.”

“Mother killed her attacker?” It shouldn’t have surprised. The woman had ice in her veins, but since when did she carry a weapon? Avera had never seen her mother armed and wasn’t even aware she could fight. It has always been odd to Avera that she’d received lessons in combat, but her sisters hadn’t. She could even say without lying that she’d become quite proficient with a blade, probably because she’d spent a lot of time practicing, given she had little else to do.

“Your mother has always been adept with a dagger. Once she killed her assassin, she sounded the alarm, but it was too late. The rest of the royal family had already been slain.”

“What happened to the soldiers guarding them?” The heirs had their own personal cadre of protectors and never went anywhere without them.

“Their guards were slaughtered. The assassins hit just before dawn as everyone slept.”

“I must have just missed them,” Avera mused aloud. She’d risen well before the sun and hit the kitchen for a fresh baked roll with jam as well as some carrots for Luna before heading to the market to be there when it opened.

“The killers were well coordinated. They came in unseen by any, killed everyone, and fled as quickly as they arrived. If it weren’t for your mother taking one down, we’d have never known who was responsible.”

“Who?” Avera asked, expecting him to blame the marauders to the west. The Okkilamian had a thing for attacking their ships, although they’d never been brazen enough to cause trouble in Daerva.

To her surprise, Gustav said, “Judging by the appearance of the one your mother killed, Verlorian.”

“How? They’re all dead.” Verlora and its people had essentially ceased to exist after a catastrophic event. Ships stopped sailing between their lands because those who went to investigate never returned.

“Not all of them perished. A few that weren’t in the country at the time of its demise did survive and, from what I’ve heard, turned to pirating and apparently now murder,” was Gustav’s grim reply. The grizzled soldier had long been in the crown’s service. In his sixties—as old as her mother—and yet still fit and sharp. He could be demanding and quite stern when he gave Avera lessons in swordplay, but at the same time, he’d always been kind to her. She knew when he praised her that she’d earned it. In many respects, he was like a father to her, not that he was ever so bold as to show her actual affection. But the fact he didn’t ignore her helped.

“How did a group of Verlorians manage to get past our port authority without notice?” Avera asked.

“That is a question we’re all asking.”

“Do you think the port inspector was bribed to look the other way?”

“Most likely. The question being, which port?” Gustav mused.

Daerva, a continent that sat high above sea level with dominating cliffs all around, had only two bays where ships could anchor. Horizon’s End was only a day’s ride from the capital city of Velunda, and Seaserpent Bay took a week or more of travel overland. If the killers came through that far port, they could have chosen to save time by crossing the Lake of Tears, but that would have required the assassins hiring—or stealing—a vessel capable of handling the lake’s poisoned waters. Only the most daring ever attempted to cross.

“You said only one of them was killed. So where did the rest of the assassins go?” Avera mused aloud.

“We don’t know,” Gustav growled. “It’s why the queen sent me to find you. Currently, we have knights and pawns searching the castle top to bottom.”

Apparently, they should have been searching the city because as she and her soldierly escort cantered into the last street—one lined with three-story houses inhabited by the richest and most favored noble ladies and lords—they were attacked!