Page 1 of Heart of the Raven Prince

Ash falls from the sky like snow, drifting lazily over the charred remains of my home. It gathers in piles, dusting the ground and the bodies that lie where they fell. Silent screams are etched into the lines of their faces, their eyes wide and unseeing. It lands on my lashes, smudging my cheeks, as I stare at the smoldering embers of what would have been the front door. The wooden beams glow a dim red in the shadowy dark of the night, outlined like the gates of hell. The imagery is only fitting, considering the hell my life has become.

Creak.

My eyes dart to the bowing doorframe. A resounding groan rumbles from the wood, followed by a loud crack as the support beam snaps in two, crashing to the ground. Charred debris rains down, puffing a burst of embers into the sky. A single traitorous tear spills from my eye, running a rivulet down my soot-covered face. I can imagine it leaving behind the only clean streak on me. A cleanliness that I resent.

After tonight, I never wish to be clean again. I want my soul to be forever marred by the complete destruction of my life. I want to carry it with me so that I never forget. The soot and blood of this night will be war paint that I will gladly coat myself in.

I twist uselessly against the rough rope that binds my hands behind my back. Feeling has long since left my fingers. The freezing temperatures and tight ropes made quick work of numbing me entirely. I should be shivering in the harsh winter air, but I don’t care about the cold and the biting ache of it. Hours of being forced to watch everything and everyone I have ever known burn to cinders has left me empty.

The once-grand entrance is now a charred graveyard. I look over the rubble, up to where the stairs would have led to the great hall. Memories of running through the space as I was chased by one of my many maids drift through my mind like the softly falling ash. My gaze travels up to where the staircase once climbed toward my room. I wonder briefly where my guards are now—the ones who stood watch outside of my door day and night.

Dead, most likely. Everyone is dead.

I swallow against the dryness in my throat, desperate for a drink of water. But I push that base need down. Petty mortal requirements have no place in this hellscape. Something the guards clad in the black armor of his army are only too happy to remind anyone foolish enough to ask. A woman sobs quietly next to me, huddled together with us in our group of bound and bloodied prisoners. Someone—a better person than me—speaks low, comforting words, attempting to soothe her. I grit my teeth as I push their soft condolences out of my mind. I cannot stand to hear anything soothing, anything kind. This night has ripped all kindness out of me. There is no room for sympathy in my heart. There is only room for vengeance.

Crack.

The sound of splintering wood comes from the once grand stables. Blood from the poor beasts swirls in the ashy snow, tinging it a murky red. I wonder, briefly, if any of that crimson blood belongs to my sable mare, Winry. I had been begging for a horse since the moment I learned to talk, and eventually my father relented. An expert rider himself, his only rule was he would be the one to teach me. The day after he gifted me my first horse, he had me up before dawn and riding most of the day, refusing to listen when I begged to stop.

I was a fairly spoiled child and grew bored with the activity nearly instantly. Riding was hard work and left me stiff and sore after hours in the saddle. Then he began including camping, hunting, and tracking in my training. I whined endlessly that I did not wish to sleep on the cold hard ground. I wanted my warm bed. I wanted comfort. I told him I might love riding, but it was far too tiring. It was heaps more work than I anticipated, and I wanted nothing more than to go back to lounging on my fainting couch by the window and reading. He did not relent.

Anything worth loving is worth fighting for, Fawn.

I resented the hell out of him for it at first, muttering a series of the worst swears my young mind knew every morning he forced me up before the sun. I refused to enjoy this—to ever find comfort in the arduous work. He may force me to train, but he certainly can’t force me to love it. At least, that’s what I told myself as I rolled my eyes and dragged my feet. I don’t know when it happened, but somewhere along the way, things changed. My reluctance was replaced by a growing desire to learn.

The connection between myself and my steed started to border on friendship, and I found myself missing my bed less and less. I craved the rhythm of the lessons, the tranquil dawns, the strain in my muscles, and the smell of the forest. Eventually, I was the one waking him to train for the day. That’s when he placed a bow in my hand and told me it was time to learn to fight.

What I wouldn’t give to have my bow in my hands now.

I flick my icy gaze to the guard standing directly in front of me, his hand on the hilt of his broadsword as he looks bored of all things. Bored. Like the death of my homeland means nothing to him. A growl threatens to rise in my throat, but the noise doesn’t penetrate the careful cage of numbness I have crafted around myself. The cage door that shut around me when I saw the split throats of my mother and father moments before the chaos of the night truly began.

Unable to stop myself, no matter how much my mind screams at me to not look, my eyes drift to the two charred corpses hanging over the iron gates of the once glorious estate. Squeezing my eyes shut, I try to force the image of their burnt and broken bodies strung up like slaughtered animals out of my mind. Even in death, my parents are not granted a semblance of mercy. At least I had not been there to watch them burn.

Commotion pulls my attention to another guard moving gruffly towards us. He’s dragging a rope tied to a lone survivor stumbling behind him. Giving the rope a furious yank, the guard sends the survivor crashing to the ground. He skids to a halt in the snow and the muck before looking up and locking eyes with me. I suck in a breath, recognizing him instantly.

Falen, my brother.

I glance over him, noting every bruise and injury, but I am far more concerned about what he’s wearing. Relief punches through me when I see he’s dressed in a simple nightshirt and trousers—nothing to indicate he might be of royal blood. I had been up late training, dressed in worn leather pants and loose tunic, something easy to move in. We’ll freeze with no fleece or coat to speak of, but at least we can pass for the servants that live on our estate.

Lived, I correct myself with a quiet, grim understanding. His army made sure of that, murdering every soul residing here. All except for the fifteen of us huddled in the snow. Sixteen, now that Falen is shoved into our small throng.

His sandy brown hair sticks to his face, a darker patch of matted blood resting above his temple. Relief and rage swirl inside of me in a confusing dance at the sight of my brother. Relief that he is here, that his throat is not cut, and his body is not hanging burnt and ruined on the wall. I’m also filled with a growing need to seek revenge for whatever he faced this night, what he was forced to endure.

Falen shifts, getting his knees beneath him before he stills next to me. We do not look at each other, but I feel him move until his far-too-cold hand brushes against mine. My heart squeezes, tears threaten but—

No.

I will not feel sorrow, not now. I feed that useless emotion into the flame of my rage, keeping that fire alive inside of me, even as I remain cold.

“Fawn,” he whispers, not quietly enough. The guard turns and plants a swift blow to the side of Falen’s head. I grit my teeth so hard I think they might crack. Anything to ignore the reality that I am so utterly fucking useless. All that training with my father had meant nothing when it truly counted, I had been unable to stop a single death. Even now with Falen mere inches from me, I can do nothing as the guard lands another blow to his gut.

I glare at the guard, silently vowing that if I ever get the chance, I will kill him. The thought sits muted in my mind. That barbed feeling of uselessness settles its claws firmly in me. I feel it like the phantom weight of the crown I was born to wear. How pathetic I have been in my short time as the ruler of this land, the kingdom that was passed to me the moment my parents took their final breath. I almost laugh at the cruel reality of being the queen of a captured nation.

None of the prisoners speak, even the quietly sobbing woman has dried her tears. An unnatural hush settles over the ruined site, dread creeping in like fog. The guards go rigid, tension rising in the courtyard. I shift, glancing at Falen. I wonder if he can feel it too. It’s a sharp, tangible tinge to the air. It crawls over my skin, slinking down my spine, and I take in a deep, shuddering breath at the first trace of it.

It is the unmistakable touch of magic.

The guards are ramrod straight, and unease sinks into my back like talons. I know why the guards are suddenly alert; all of them scattering to the winds except the one charged with watching us. There is a faint sheen of sweat on his face even in this cold night. He looks like he’s about to shit himself. The absolute silence is cut only by the distinct sound of heavy boots crunching across the snow-laden cobblestone. With each thudding step that feeling of intense, itchy magic grows.