Prologue

  A blood-orange sun was setting over Ruinstead, flirting with the distant horizon. Fat slabs of dense golden fog lay across a miscellany of shingled rooftops, spilling into the winding cobbled streets below. As if thick honey, it flowed through the streets funnelling into a large market square, at the town’s sleepy heart. The golden vapour drowned market yard and pressed heavily against the stained-glass windows of the Waymaker’s Rest.

  At first glance the Waymakers Rest was an inn just as any other. A rich scent of smouldering peat and fruity ale hung thick in the air. Shards of gold tinted light washed over the gentle bubble of activity. Tender plucks of a lute and the soft melody of a gentle song floated in the air, the heartbeat of the inn, unnoticed, unless lacking.

  The music complemented a chorus of hushed, excited chatter that rang around the inn. Clusters of people sat about heavy oak tables, discussing matters of no great import in various degrees of volume, their hands clutched eagerly around their drinks. Rosey-cheeked merchants lined the walnut bar, grumbling about the day’s dealings, an assortment of richly dyed cloaks draped down their backs onto the smooth stone slabbed floor.

  Across from the merchants, Noria stood behind the bar, a concerned furrow in her brow. She was unusually tall for a human with sharp muscular features and an imposing presence. Her sandy complexion was framed by her dark, pearlescent hair, which shimmered in the coloured light. Thin lines of crimson, that resembled lightning in a closing twilight sky, ran as if webs through her hair. Around her neck, a pristine white apron hung, stark against her raven-black hair and ash-grey tunic.

  Her hands moved with practised ease as she idly polished a glass bottle. The bone-white ring on her right hand tapping with a rhythmic clink as her bright amber eyes flitted about the inn, with nervous tension.

  Her gaze wondered back to the large windows, still obscured by the thick sun-bleached fog, which she observed with growing unease. It lay unnatural against the glass, as if clay, moulded by unseen hands. She exhaled a steady breath, forcing her eyes away before to surveying the room once again.

  Ember, her little boy, sat at an empty corner table, head down, at the back of the room. A stack of fine papers and ink lay orderly in front his messy black hair pored over a thick book, a large quill flicking in his hand. He was completely lost in his own word, she thought, a faint smile tugging at her lips.

  But she didn’t let her thoughts linger. With a mental shake, she shifted her focus on Fern, her lifelong father figure. He sat at the round table near the hearth, where flickering flames danced beneath a bulbous copper kettle. He really did look like your cliché storyteller, she mused, the irony not lost on her as she observed a crescent of eager listeners. A freshly lit pipe hung from the corner of his mouth, protruding from a tidy greying beard and he was wrapped in an old but well-fitted robe, the deep purple of fresh plum.

  They leaned over their forgotten drinks, entranced by Fern’s sparkling blue eyes, hanging off every word. If they had paid closer attention to him, and not the story, they may have noticed the depth in his eyes—a knowing that betrayed his middle-aged persona.

  Noria unable to keep her eyes away turned her attention back to the stained-glass windows at the front of the Waymakers Rest, and this cycle continued for some time.

  Window. Ember. Fern. Window.

  She froze, mid cycle as a familiar itching sensation brushed her right forefinger. It was as delicate as a feather, a feeling she had not felt in years. This was bad. Somebody close was using a Fracture, she realised, a chill creeping down her spine. In response, her eyes blazed, resembling the core of a furnace with a fluorescent amber hue. Then half a second later she regained her composure.

  But it was too late. The pock faced merchant in front of her blanched and quickly averted his eyes, returning his conversation with a nervous murmur. Stupid, she thought cursing her lapse in control. She forced a steady breath, as she took a reassuring glance at the straight silver blade resting discreetly beneath the bar—cold, silent, waiting.

  For a fleeting moment, she considered drawing it out eager to feel the reassuring weight at her hip but thought better of it. Carrying a weapon was forbidden in Ruinstead, a law enforced with unrelenting vigilance. The two guards, leaning against the panelled wall by the door, might be merry, but they wouldn’t miss an innkeep casually walking with a scabbard swinging at her hip.

  No, I need to talk to Fern, she decided, with absolute certainty, horrified that her Fracture may be stirring, the decay creeping. Was it even possible, after all this time? Her mind raced, as she moved around the bar heading for the large central table determined to get Fern’s attention.

  As she approached Fern’s blue eyes met hers over the worn, dented tankard in his hand. His expression transformed from excitement to worry. His eyes suddenly flaring a brilliant sapphire. She tapped her ring, a silent request extended towards him. He will understand, she thought, just as Fern’s tanned hand instinctively went to his neck, then slid down to the band hidden beneath his robe, its coil snaking around his right forearm.

  “Fool!” Fern hissed under his breath, his frustration barely contained.

  The tickle on her finger sharpened. It no longer felt like a gentle feather but a strand of thin sharp wire scoring her skin. From the shock in Fern’s face, she realised he felt the same, biting sensation.

  “Your sword, Noria!” Fern barked, his voice sharp with urgency, as he sprang to his feet, sending a chair crashing against the nearby wall. “Now!”

  She pivoted just as the rhythmic strumming of the lute cut off, mid-note. She went rigid, every muscle locked in place. The inn fell silent, drained of life in an instant. The colour in the room seemed to bleed away. The sun-soaked fog had vanished, and the large windows were as black as a starless sky, reflecting the flickering oil lamps with an eerie monotone glow.

  Noria’s attention snapped from the window to the front door, her eyes fixed as it swung open. A warm, dark fog oozed into the room and curled around her feet.

  Through the door stepped two tall, gaunt, skeletal figures garbed in sleek black leather armour. The Fractured symbol was etched in silver on their upper arms, while the gold crest of Tyrant King’s private guard gleamed upon their chests. They were giddy, akin to rabid dogs anticipating a kill and two haunting voices began in unison, their eerie greeting filling the room like a cold wind. “It’s strange, isn’t it? they echoed. “How quickly the noise fades when you realise there’s nowhere to go. And you realise you’re going to die.”

  Morthal, the Sundered. Noria recognised them instantly, a bit of despair forming in her gut as she reflected on his fearsome reputation. The Tyrant King’s right hand, he had the benefit of two bodies which were unnervingly identical in every detail and linked to one sadistic evil mind. Bright red hair, resembling flickering flames, cascaded down to their shoulders. Dark jet-black eyes hollow and soulless glowered from sullen sockets, and a cruel wicked smile, unnaturally wide, stretched from ear to ear on their pasty pale faces.

  It was a smile of pure hatred and bloodlust, Noria noted, a shudder running down her spine as the fiery-haired twins cackled, like two hungry hyenas, turning to face the two guards by the door.

  It was only now, in pure shock, that the guards seemed to notice the crest, then they looked down at Morthal’s swords and realisation dawned on their faces. They dropped their drinks in a hurried clatter and reached fumbling for their swords which leant against the wall.

  “No! Don’t,” Noria screamed, but it was too late. They didn’t stand a chance. In one fluid motion, the twins drew their dark, metallic blades and as a single entity, and with deadly precision they pressed the cold dark steel against the guards’ throats.

  “Ssshh…ssshh…sush,” they hissed as if a pair of vipers, hands at their lips in an identical shushing gesture. Without any hint of consideration, they drove their blades into the soft skin with a quick sharp thrust, both turning their heads with cold heartless smiles to lock eyes with Noria.

  The inn went deathly silent. The only sound a choking gurgle as the guards dropped to the floor with sickening thuds of finality. Noria was unable to hold their gaze and glanced sideways at Fern, studying his expression. His eyes glowed like burning sulphur, the only betraying sign of anger. The Sundered, scanned the room, with evil calculating eyes, searching for any sign of resistance—any hint of an opportunity to strike again.

  Noria stiffened. She would not give them an excuse to kill everyone—not with her little boy so close, she reminded herself, with a quiet resolve. She would sacrifice anything to keep Ember’s identity hidden.

  Movement at the door drew her attention again, breaking her reflection. A large man stood at the threshold, his bulking figure pictured perfectly within the oak frame. He was taller than the twins and dressed plainly. A dark emerald cloak was draped over his broad, square shoulders, the hem brushing the floor, and the same silver emblem was pinned to the cloth at his chest.

  I don’t recognise him, Noria realised, watching as the strange man stepped into the room, his boots leaving prints of fresh blood. Tendrils of fog swept around him, coiling up his legs and collecting around his hands, obscuring them in a glowing haze. His aura expelled darkness and misery. It oozed from him, and Noria felt utter helplessness wash over her as it smothered the souls of everyone in the room. By the fire, a man began to weep.

  Noria suspected this was one of his gifts—suppression, the ability to crush the will of his opponents. Fighting the urge to curl up in the corner like a wounded animal and cry, she threw her will against the mysterious man keeping the suppression at bay slightly.

  The man raised his hand lazily, seeming to neither notice nor care about her resistance. The Sundered stopped their cackling, immediately falling silent with the appearance of scolded children, their bloodthirsty scanning the room.

  The tall man in the emerald cloak looked directly at Noria his cool blue eyes fixed on her with a calm, knowing smile. He was almost charming, she mused, as he proceeded to speak in a gentle, raspy voice, smooth yet unsettling. “Good evening, Lady Noria,” he said, a knowing smile touching his lips, “or should I call you Elira?”

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  Not bothering to wait for a response, he turned his attention over her left shoulder. “Good evening, Master Fernan.” The man’s calm expression faltered slightly, a hint of agitation creasing his brow. “You’ve been very troublesome to find. Very troublesome indeed!”

  “Very troublesome.” The Sundered hissed, both mouths moving in harmony, echoing the end of the greeting.

  If the mysterious man was agitated by the comment, he didn’t show it.

  “Evening, Noxan,” Distaste evident in Fern’s unsettled voice as he spoke. “this is…” he paused briefly as if to emphasize the insult. “…problematic company you’re keeping”

  One of Morthal’s mouths spat on the floor in response to Fern’s comment, their pale faces twisting as they took a step forward, their hands moving to the hilt of their swords.

  Fern knows him, Noria realised, bouncing the name about in her mind, unsure, as the man called Noxan raised his hand in the same casual manner as before. The twins froze, a storm of hatred boiling up behind their dark, demonic eyes. Noxan’s attention fell back onto Noria, ignoring Fern’s response. The calm, knowing smile was back, his face once again an emotionless mask, and she felt renewed spiritual pressure on her will.

  She needed to get everyone out, she realised, panic settling in. Especially her little boy…

  Noxan spoke interrupting her thoughts, “You must be his new…” he paused for half a heartbeat, seeming to consider his next word. “…puppet!” he said, spitting the word out. “You should be honoured, Fracturling!” He continued as he gave a mocking half-bow in Fern’s direction, blue eyes dancing with barely controlled fury. Pulses of passionate anger swept through the inn, thick and heavy, seeping into her spirit, stoking the fire in her chest.

  Is he baiting us? Noria wondered, resisting the urge to lunge for her sword and drive it through Noxan’s patronising smile.

  “Did you think your little projects in the caves would go unnoticed” Noxen questioned. “Did you think our Lord is blind and deaf?

  “Your Lord” Fern scoffed. But Noxan continued unperturbed.

  “Did you think his reach wouldn’t stretch to this… putrid town?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Noria retorted, risking a glance at Fern. She was considering what say next when Morthal’s impatience finally boiled over, like a vat of hot oil.

  “Lets us kill these lying insects and be done. These scrum! Slaughter them! These insolent… they dare…”

  “Enough!” Noxan commanded turning on the screeching twins, cutting of their foul spiel with a tone of absolution. Followed by a surge of fury so overwhelming Noria struggled to remain on her feet, her mind fogging over. “We will conduct ourselves with the dignity our station demands. Do you not agree, Fracturling?” Noxen continued, his voice like ice.

  The Sundered looked down to the floor, and for the first time, their faces tightened into tight-lipped, fearful respect and for the first time she realised Morthal truly feared Noxan.

  What was he capable of? Noria thought, worried, shuddering slightly at the thought. She wouldn’t stand a chance.

  Once Noxan had firmly asserted control over The Sundered, he swept his gaze over the entire inn, as though truly seeing it for the first time. He analysed the cowering occupants with a cold, assessing gaze, then calmly addressed the room. “I don’t think we need an audience…”

  “Run… run… run, little mice. We won’t bite…not yet!” The Sundered interrupted, hissing in unison, testing Noxan’s authority and poking at his patience like children pushing at their boundaries.

  If he heard them, he didn’t acknowledge it and Noxan continued speaking over them, projecting his voice with increased authority, “…I think you should close early tonight, Lady Noria. Don’t you agree?”

  An overwhelming urge to obey washed over her, dread stirring within as her will faltered, leaving her unable to act but obey. Yes… I think that’s a good idea,” she mouthed quietly, subserviently as her mind fogged over.

  “You heard her! The Inn is closing!” Fern roared, clapping his hands. “Out! Out! Out!” The sudden shift from Noxan’s tranquil tone snapped her partially out of her stupor.

  But Noria stood frozen, her limbs refusing to work, as the rush of frantic customers surged past her, fleeing into the dark market yard, her mind spun in a maze of short, fragmented thoughts, each more jumbled than the last. Don’t... don’t let them know about Ember. Morthal will kill him... make her watch. She couldn’t... sword, the blade—too far. No... no blood. Not yet. Not until he’s safe…

  She heard Fern shout again. “Boy! Have you got wool in your ears?” as he turned his boots stomping across the floor towards Ember.

  Fern seemed less fazed by Noxan’s oppressive presence, she realised, was Noxan focusing on her? Why?

  Morthal hissed, startled by Fern’s sudden movement, and without hesitation, drew their swords with a cool metallic swish. The noise sending a ripple of panic through the remaining customers, who rushed towards the door, bolting like startled deer.

  Fern closed the gap between himself and Ember in a heartbeat and Noria stole a glance to see him grab Ember roughly by the back of his tunic. She felt a pang of guilt. It had to be done this way, she had to ignore him. Would he ever forgive her? She thought, fighting the urge to hug him to grab him and run.

  “Get out of here, you nosy lout! Don’t you have any sense?” Fern’s tirade continued as he hauled the boy towards the front of the inn. “You haven’t even bought a drink you cheap, tight-fisted rat…”

  A sharp, intimately familiar sensation prickled at Noria’s ring finger as they passed her. She had felt a thousand times before. Fern was using one of his Fractures. The ability to lock time, she hoped, meeting his blue eyes for a fleeting moment—a calm, lazy wink that lingered just a second too long, so slight it could have been mistaken for a twitch. The wink was all she needed. A surge of relief swept through her, offering a brief respite from Noxan’s suppressive touch. He had done it! He would have spoken to Ember. He would have told him…

  “Stop!” Noxan’s voice radiated about the Waymaker’s Rest, its sheer force vibrating with absolute authority.

  Noria saw Fern freeze by the door, his body tense in mid-action, just as he was about to hurl Ember out into the black swirling darkness. Morthal’s closest body flicked his sword quickly, as fast as a whip, thrusting it across Fern’s chest and impaling the blade into the opposite door frame, with a dull thud, blocking their exit. The other body stepped behind them, pressing his blade between Fern’s shoulder blades. “Ah, ah, ahhh, I think not. Our, Master!” The last word hissing from his lips, dripping with mock severity, “… isn’t finished with you yet… it seems”

  “Fernan, I’m disappointed. We were as brothers, you and I. Did you truly believe I wouldn’t notice the essence of your Fracture?” Noxan questioned with a smooth and controlled tone. “What did you tell the boy?” His eyes gleamed with amusement, savouring the question before continuing. “Has Master Fernan possibly got himself another little Fracturling? Very young… tut tut… I’m disappointed”

  “I asked him to run to the town guard” Fern retorted, without turning around, defeat evident in his tone and displayed with sagging shoulders.

  “Lies! Any one of those ungifted nobodies could have done that. The guards are most likely already on their way,” Noxan countered, clicking his fingers towards Morthal, “bring the boy, he will answer me”

  “No!” Noria wailed, “he’s only a child,” a sense of maternal dread and guilt welling up inside her gut. She berated herself, how did she let this happen, how was she so stupid! She cast her gaze to the bar again, but Fern had reacted almost instantly, throwing his body hard sideways into the closest Sundered who was barring the door with his sword. The bony hand slipped off his pommel, and without an anchor, the red-haired twin crumpled backwards onto the floor.

  “Run!” Fern screamed at the boy, simultaneously throwing Ember beneath the stuck sword sending him toppling out into the swirling fog. Using the arching ting momentum, he swung a bare-handed fist at Morthal’s other body narrowly missing his face.

  The sudden surge of activity distracted Noxan momentary, loosening the suppressive grip he had on her. Ember was free! She could fight! she screamed internally, the knot of anxiety unwinding in her gut. Siezing the opportunity, she lunged for the bar, rolled over, and landed with a heavy thud on the stone floor behind. A little dazed, she gripped the dark leather pommel of the silver sword and pushed herself to her feet, surveying the room alert and braced for an attack.

  It all ended before it even started.

  Fern was on his knees. His body frozen, a skeletal form loomed above him with a triumphant grin spread across his face. A dark blade pushed against Fern’s throat, while The Sundered’s twin stood in the doorway, leering out into the obscured market yard. He was heckling after her boy now lost in the swirling fog, clearly deciding it wasn’t worth the effort to pursue.

  She felt sick.

  Ember was totally helpless out there, alone in the dark, she realised, anger pouring into her fuelling her confidence as she walked around the bar. Noria gripped her sword tightly in her hand, and she channelled energy into the blade, as it glowed a bright molten amber, matching the intensity of her eyes.

  “Let me Master,” Morthal’s free body hissed, turning away from the door and stepping forward, eagerly embracing any opportunity to fight.

  Noria stared him down, bolstered by the adrenaline pumping through her veins, and knowing that her son was out of harm’s way, for now, she raised her sword into an attacking poise, ready for a fight.

  “No,” Noxan stated calmly, “Lady Noria will submit to me”

  “But your blade…” Morthal hesitantly protested.

  “… will not be needed.” Noxan finished, cutting him off.

  Morthal jerked a chin upward in a sharp irritated gesture, stepping back, unwilling to press further.

  Noria turned to face Noxan, as his shoulders sagged slightly, and she could notice a hint of regret in his from as though preparing to do something unpleasant. “Such a shame” he muttered to himself, his face remaining impassive as he took a step forward. He stood directly in front of her, unconcerned by the sword inches from his chest.

  A renewed aura of explosive hopelessness and despair pushed heavier than ever. He was focused entirely on her now-she feel it. The white ring on her finger blazed with the heat of a hot poker, as she struggled to resist. Frozen under its crippling force, like and apple caught in a twisting press.

  “You’re mine!” Noxan whispered, a sinister smile curving across his lips for the first time.

  She felt her will crack then crumple—as if glass—shattering into a million pieces. It took all her concentration and willpower to retain some form of consciousness, and she heard the sword clatter to the floor before she realised her hand had opened. Noxan glanced down at the floor beside her with a small nod of approval. His expression quickly returning to its usual impassivity.

  A cold, paralysing fear gripped her, knowing she couldn’t resist, she was lost completely to Noxan’s will, and she was sure death was about to follow.

  “Now can we get back to matter at hand” Noxan said, more to himself than to her. His cool blue eyes locked onto hers.

  “Noria of Westfold, you are guilty of theft” His eyes flicked down to her hand, resting on her ring for the briefest moment before returning to meet hers once again. “All Fractures are the property of our Lord, the King, and as such your punishment is death.”

  She heard Fern cry out before she saw the blade—impossibly quick. The barest flash of silver from beneath the emerald cloak. It struck her square in the chest. Oddly painless, she fell to her knees, keeping body upright with sheer determination. Her vision blurred into a hazy, mottled darkness.

  Noxen casually followed her down, dropping to one knee and looking her in the eye as he took her pale, shaky hand. The ring gleamed—a rich cream in the lamplight and with a fluid motion, he pulled the silver blade from her chest. Warm blood flowed out, running down the inside of her grey tunic. The blade flashed again and this time the pain was immense, it shook her to her core with a sense of finality.

  Slumping back onto her heels, she heaved and spluttered for breath, watching in horror as he pulled four severed fingers from her hand. He discarded the spare fingers, letting them drop one by one to the floor by her knees.

  Noxan slid the ring from the remaining finger, holding it up to examined it. Satisfied, as if he had found a penny on the street, he tucked it into his cloak and dropped the last finger. He stood once more, removing a brilliant white cloth from his pocket and wiped the blood from his hands, turning away without word.

  “Burn it down and bring the spare,” he commanded, striding out the door and out into the swirling, angry darkness.

  The last thing she heard was The Sundered’s delighted maniacal laughter and Fern’s muffled roars before she crumpled to the ground, and it all faded into peaceful darkness.