I kept eating, kept focusing on cutting into the food, putting it into my mouth, thenchew, chew, chew, chew,swallow. Repeat.
Dahes watched me like he always did. It unnerved me the first year, but I got used to eating with his eyes on me. He didn’t shy away fromit. He openly stared at me, studied me so thoroughly, watched me like I was the biggest fascination he’d ever encountered—which felt ironic considering he was the ruler of the dead and the overseer of monsters. He claimed all the creatures on Hilithia, even ones that now dwell in Viven originated from Moriann by him at some point.
“Their information will be in your room tonight,” his voice slithered around my spine and twisted, and I knew he was done entertaining dinner.
I set my fork back down on the table as I met his stare. It was all I’d get.
“I’ve waited a long time for someone with their power to get exiled into my kingdom,” his voice wrapped around me just as I pushed my chair out. “Don’t fuck it up.”
I nodded, even though bringing the triplets to him was the last thing I wanted to do. I hated hunting people, but I couldn’t do anything about it.
His white eyes tracked me as I rose from the table and started walking down the empty row of chairs. Once I reached the large double doors, Dahes flicked his wrist and opened them on a phantom wind—I had no idea how he did it. He wasn’t a Wielder, he didn’t have a Token, yet he still had magic somehow.
If you were lucky enough to not be born a commoner, you were either a drakin or Wielder. Drakins trained to become dragon riders, and Wielders were gifted a Token by one of the two Sun Goddesses. It was one piece of magic that manifested before your Staying Age from either a desire or a necessity.
Everyone’s Token was different and unique. Occasionally, a Wielder would be strong enough and have two Tokens, but most only had one. Yet, Dahes had so many powers.
I knew it shouldn’t have surprised me. King Dahes and King Elion were the only beings to survive longer than the thousand-year Staying Age. They were immortal, claimed to be distant relatives from the two Sun Goddesses and six Moon Gods that started everything in Hilithia. So, of course, Dahes would have access to endless magic.He wasn’thuman.
I walked through the doors without acknowledging it. I never acknowledged his powers, and if he hadn’t used them, it would have taken me both my hands and all my body weight to pull the solid stone doors open.
I kept my head down as I walked the halls, staring at my bare feet padding the pale floors as I made my way back to my room.
Numbness was working up my legs, but I didn’t stop. I could feel the sentries staring at me as I passed—even though they didn’t have eyes, their circular heads swiveled as I moved.
Distant groans and roars sounded from the creatures lurking somewhere below. Mercifully, Dahes kept his beasts locked up, but I couldn’t say the same for the ghosts.
They were everywhere, filling the halls with varying shades of gray, all intangible as they glided everywhere they went. It was nearly impossible to not pass through one as I walked. I barely saw them when I lived on the streets, but his castle was flooded with them.
It was another reason I kept my head down.
When I opened my door, I allowed myself a single cycle of breathing before I worked on becoming numb again.
Breathe. One. Two. Three. Four. Exhale.
I was one of his ghosts, just more tangible than the ones floating below us.
Chapter Two
The Fates
MAGNOLIA
Hunger ripped me apart, slowly consuming me from the inside out. The moldy loaf of bread I hid in my pocket was a heavy weight, slowly burning me to ash every second I kept ignoring it.
Not here. I had to wait.
I quickly made my way up the river, trying to keep my eyes downcast, but I still saw it. Down by the second bridge, a newly exiled Vivenian had picked the berries by the bank.
The burn across her forearm was still raised with the singed ‘D’ charred into her flesh. It was the only thing that separated the exiles from Moriann-born.
The blisters and raw bubbles were screaming at me to intervene. It meant the burn was new, and she didn’t know any better. She wasn’t used to starvation, wasn’t used to the cold, wasn’t used to the dark, and she definitely wasn’t used to the unspoken rules of the bridges.
No one eats the berries.
Normally, I’d warn a newly exile that they were poisonous, that she’d likely fall into the river and die from delirium if she gave into her starvation.
But not today. I couldn’t stop.
