The Isle of Lenepi, Scorsorai Territory: That night, Furiai Castle turned bitterly cold, the silence broken only by the moans from the bedchamber and the wind's mournful howl against the stone walls. The fortress loomed against the moonlit sky, tiered rooftops rising like a bleak, foreboding mountain. The wooden walkways and shuddering shoji screens offered a chorus of creaks, each sound fusing with the night’s uneasy stillness.

  The stagnant musk of aged wood mingled with the metallic scent of weapons stored within. Frost wove intricate patterns across the windows, a bitter reminder of the winter pressing beyond the stone walls. Inside, distant fires offered no comfort, their warmth long gone from its bones.

  Airsil stepped out of Moire’s bedchamber, her loins wet with his seed, duty pulling her steps like iron chains. After adjusting her kimono, she turned her collar down the long passageway. The garment, woven of midnight-blue silk and embroidered with slender gold threads, its flowing sleeves whispering softly against the wooden panels as she moved forward.

  The unsteady torchlight sent shadows creeping along the wooden walls. Symbols of the Dinehin—twisted webs and shadowy vortices—had been hastily carved over the older depictions of the Leda, white dragons whose eyes were now hollow voids, watching her every move. Tatami mats muffled her footsteps, yet each sound echoed through the cavernous halls, her presence a disruption amid the castle’s shuddering creaks.

  Emperor Moirsil waited for her, his form a towering figure in the hall. The Scorsorai, with their feral features and unmatched prowess in battle, stood heads taller than most men, and Moirsil was no exception. His frame, vast and powerful, bore tattoos of dragons that coiled around his eyes, cheeks, and chin—dark scales shimmering as if alive. Fresh webs prowled up his neck and over his bald head, each line marking the dark rituals that bound him to the Dinehin. His slitted, takuan-yellow eyes dissected her with every glance, deep shadows carving his angular face.

  Every inch of Moirsil’s body radiated intimidation, a living ode to the Scorsorai’s brutal culture and their unwavering devotion to the Dinehin. His mere presence sent shivers down even the bravest warriors’ spines, but not hers. Airsil steeled herself as she neared. Let him try to tyrannize me, she thought. Let the little man feel big.

  “Is it done?” His voice rumbled, a low growl reverberating through the hall like a warning.

  Airsil dipped her head, but not too low. She refused to cower before him. Her breaths swallowed, though she stifled any outward sign of weakness. “Yes, Sire.”

  “We’ve cycled through all the seasons, and yet you remain barren,” Moirsil spat, his fury pointed. “How many more times must you fail?”

  Failure. Always that word. It boiled in her, but she kept her voice steady. “Moire and I lay together nightly. What more will you have me do?”

  “I see two possibilities, and one will have you in shackles. Either your cunt is broken, or you’re a traitor.”

  Airsil’s blood surged with anger with the Ledaborn blood of their ancestors. “Maybe it’s the prince’s prick that is broken!” Her gaze locked onto his, defiance blazing in her expression.

  A rake of his clawed nails slashed across her cheek, the sting sharp. She held back the instinct to hiss in pain. “Know your fucking place, or will you bring more disgrace upon this family?” he growled.

  Her heart pounded, a mixture of fear and burning resentment rising within her. Disgrace? I’ve already brought honor by being true-blood, unlike Moire. But to him, her worth was measured only by her ability to produce an heir. She bowed again. “I will try harder, Father,” she said, her chin trembling despite her efforts to keep it still. Humility tasted bitter, but for now, she would endure.

  Moirsil’s chest swelled, his sneer deepening. “The court’s Ishi will examine you. There better be no signs of contraception,” he said before turning away, his brutish steps fading into his bedchamber.

  Airsil's fingers grazed the fresh wound on her cheek as she rose, just another scar added to the collection. This time, it hadn’t been for show—he meant it. He was growing more unpredictable, more dangerous. But that only fueled her resolve. The corridor forked. To the left sat her large chambers, a sanctuary in name only, as servants fussed about at all hours. The last thing I need at this moment.

  She slipped through the hidden doorway, a room even her father, the all-seeing bastard, knew nothing of. She pressed the latch, and the false wall groaned open like an old woman creaking out of bed. Into the narrow passageways she descended, tension sliding from her shoulders with each step. The damp air wrapped around her, cold as the dead’s breath.

  At last, she reached her chamber and let out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding. It was dark here, quiet. This was her place. No throne. No commands. No weight of expectation pressing down. Only herself. She felt the tightness in her chest loosen. It was enough.

  The cast-iron tub stood waiting like it always did: old, worn, scarred—much like she felt most days. She ran her hand over its surface, tracing the marks of a thousand baths. In this room, her father’s demands held no sway. Here, she wielded the fan of power. The coven, the lords—this was her domain, not his. And no one would wrest it from her grasp.

  A voice as warm as the morning sun evaporated the hazy hush. “Airsil-hime, the water is ready.” The servant’s shadow stretched against the door, bent low in a deep bow.

  Airsil’s gaze sharpened as it settled on the silhouette of Miko Yinaya. Yinaya, a Shrine Maiden of rare courage, stood apart from the others; she, alone, offered more than empty obedience. Like all Scorsorai, her hair bore the white hue of the Leda—hers a muted, stormy shade in contrast to Airsil’s own stark brightness. Green eyes, dominant and clear, held a strength that set her apart from the noble-born with their recessive yellow slits. Yinaya’s eyes were watchful, steadfast, untainted by the markers of noble blood, yet marked by a calm authority that even Airsil respected. It was she who braved the sulfurous springs to draw the waters—an arduous task from which most would shrink.

  As Airsil slipped into the basin, acrid vapors curled upward and vanished into the gloom. The spring’s bitter water, feared by so many, promised her something they could never understand: freedom. Its secret property would keep her body untouched by the demands of bloodlines and birthrights. Let others clutch at lineage and heirs. She would not be tethered to such constraints. Hers was a destiny born of ambition, not motherhood.

  The bath’s heat seeped into her bones, and with it came a quiet sense of power. Miko Yinaya entered the chamber, her movements precise, calm.

  “Thank you, Yinaya,” Airsil murmured.

  Noticing the fresh streaks of blood on Airsil's cheek, Yinaya hurried forward. “My princess,” she said as she lifted a cloth to wipe away the crimson marks. “Have you and Tennō Heika disagreed again?” she asked.

  “My father suspects me,” Airsil said quietly. His suspicions closed in on her like the formal obi, a symbol of rigid duty, strangling her breath away.

  “His Highness is wise,” Yinaya replied, her tone measured. Always cautious, never saying too much. Even here, fear lingered in her words.

  “And cruel,” Airsil said. “He’s a fierce Scorsorai, with true-blood.” What little remains. His slitted eyes marked the royal bloodline, a trait bred into their family for millennia. While their people had gradually lost the features that once made them as much dragon as mortal, her bloodline—through careful breeding—preserved more of those traits, though not nearly as much as they let the commoners believe. Even so, this legacy had kept their rule unchallenged for as long as written history recorded.

  She and her father bore the eyes of the Leda, just as her mother had. But Moire—no, he was the aberration. His pupils were ordinary, his irises a bright, golden yellow, yet round. That was why they were so insistent on offspring, desperate to restore the slitted gaze in the next generation.

  All of it fell to her. It always would. I am the one with true-blood, not Moire.

  Just a year ago, their father had named her brother his successor. The announcement may as well have been a dungeon sentence. From that moment, her role was clear—she’d be in his service. A womb for his seed, and nothing more. Father has no right to name him next in line!

  Her mother had been the rightful Empress, her place at the head of the family unquestionable—until her death. That had opened the door for Moire’s mother, a concubine, to worm her way into their father’s favor. The bitterness of that reality burned in Airsil’s chest. How can father look at him and not see the insult? But none of it mattered. They’ll never strip my ambitions from me.

  Airsil lingered on the crushing legacy of their lineage, the accursed expectations that came with it. It was more than just blood; it was a mantle of cruelty, passed from father to child. Her father’s brutality wasn’t a flaw—it was their legacy. But she would take that legacy and shape it to her will. I am not just the bloodline’s vessel. I am its master. The thought gave her strength, a throne of defiance amid the oppressiveness.

  “Have you spoken with the coven, Airsil-hime?” Yinaya’s voice, soft but urgent.

  Airsil nodded, faint amusement tugging her lips. “Mother Nyx’s rituals have revealed the Genieavesin’s chosen. It’s a Saggarin.”

  “A tiny Swamp Elf? Could there be a less worthy choice?”

  “There could not. That is why in the grand affairs of our court, a mere Swamp Elf is beneath notice.”

  “I grow uneasy with the rising tension within these walls.” Yinaya’s tone carried caution, as if speaking the truth aloud might summon danger. “Do you not think the time draws near to fully know our gods’ will?”

  Airsil’s jaw tightened. I am their will, and they will affirm this. “I am devout, but the Dinehin favor only the strongest—the ones who survive.” Strength wasn’t granted; it was seized and wielded.

  “Indeed, my princess. That is why the Dinehin have granted their full grace solely to the royal family. You are true-blood. I have faith you will be chosen as their warrior.”

  “Who else could it be, Yinaya?” It will be me. Father’s too old, and Moire is a fucking mutt. I am left with one choice. Summon the gods behind their back. “I refuse to allow my father or Moire to take what’s rightfully mine.”

  “Our Chief Priest studied the prophecies. They’re clear. It will be a princess chosen, not a prince or an Emperor. The priests are afraid to share this interpretation with His Tennō Heika.”

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  “They’re wise to stay silent. My father would rip their tongues from their mouths.” Just like he’d rip everything from me if he sensed my will. “We cannot wait any longer.”

  Yinaya’s features softened, a rare glimmer of compassion breaking through her measured facade. “The gods’ favor strength and resolve. Your ascension is assured.”

  “This castle may have to burn to the ground.”

  “Then I shall help set the fire, my princess.”

  The bath ended and the last wisps of sulfur steam curled into the penumbra. Airsil rose, water cascading off her pale skin in rivulets. Miko Yinaya stood ready, her expression solemn, holding out a towel.

  “Prepare for the summoning,” Airsil commanded. Hesitancy was not an option.

  Yinaya bowed deeply, her loyalty unquestioning, and left to make the necessary arrangements.

  Outside the City of Mani: Snow crunched softly beneath Rolisha’s feet, the only sound disturbing the afternoon’s stillness. The world lay draped in shades of gray and white, the bite in the air whispering of winter’s approach. Winter comes early this year. How many will fall ill before the first frost truly bites? Rolisha moved with purpose, her prune-black wool cloak, adorned with the gold symbols of the Genieavesin, billowing gently in the breeze.

  Her temple stood in the distance, a beacon of warmth amidst the encroaching gloom. Each step brought her closer to her daily devotions. Today, they will need me in the lower quarters. I must bring healing to those suffering from the cough. With the grace of the Genieavesin, she hoped to bring them some relief.

  As she passed an ancient oak tree, gnarled and twisted with age, a shadow detached itself from the trunk.

  “Good day to you, Blesser,” the distorted words growled out with a malevolence that clung like fog from a tomb. A figure emerged, his sinister cloak drinking in what little light touched him. Who is this? No one dares approach so suddenly— “I am Lord Mor, and I find myself in need of your assistance.”

  Her hand flew to the gold symbol at her throat. Something about this man felt wrong, an unease she couldn’t pinpoint. He’s dangerous. I can feel it. But I cannot turn him away. She whispered a protection prayer before saying, “How may I be of service, my lord?” Her voice stayed steady, despite the writhing anxiety inside her.

  Lord Mor’s hood tilted like a beast stalking prey. “I seek information about a Saggarin sorcerer,” he said. “I’ve heard there are some in Mani. Do you know of them?”

  A sharp pang struck Rolisha’s chest. Elter. He must mean Elter. “There are but two Saggarins in Mani, my lord,” she replied carefully. “My beloved, Elter, and myself.”

  “Ah, how fortunate,” Lord Mor purred, his smile audible in his voice. Why does he want to know about Elter? The question gnawed at her, but no time remained to dwell on it.

  “And tell me, does your Elter—”

  A scream cut through the air, followed by another. Rolisha whirled toward Mani, her staring wide as she saw smoke rising above the city walls. No, not again. Not Mani. “Gods be good,” she breathed.

  “I must go,” Rolisha said, turning back to Lord Mor. “The city—I must warn the church—”

  But Lord Mor was gone. In his place stood a wall of darkness, blacker than the heaviest night. What sorcery is this? She stumbled backward, her mouth opening to cry out, but the darkness surged forward, engulfing her.

  She fought to breathe, her lungs burning as she battled against it, her hands grasping at nothing. The void stung her throat with each gasping breath. Her heart pounded in her ears, a frantic rhythm, drowning out all else. This isn’t real. It can’t be real! The darkness closed in, drowning her senses, squeezing her chest and wrapping over her limbs like an inky cloak, until...

  Her eyelids shot open as she jolted upright, hands grasping at her throat, desperate to pull in air. Her lungs burned as she gasped. She blinked, trying to clear her vision. Iron bars stretched before her. A cage? How?

  She sat in a cage, a crude construct of wood and metal that groaned and rocked with each lumbering step of the trolls pulling it. Four of the beasts, their gray-green skin slick with sweat, hauled the cart through a path that was more mud than trail. The towering trees formed a fortress on either side, their gnarled branches intertwining overhead, sealing the world to the narrow track below.

  Her thoughts spiraled through the depths of her memory, hunting for answers in the darkness that had tried to consume her. That blackness—cold, malevolent, like the deepest abyss—had failed in its deadly aims. Why am I still alive? The question tipped her mind between fear and wonder. Then, like dawn breaking over a barren land, an answer stirred against her skin. The emblem. The golden emblem at her neck, warm with a steady glow, still carried the touch of sacred grace.

  Rolisha tested her bonds, wincing as the rough rope cut into her wrists and ankles. A burning panic flushed her cheeks, but she shoved it down. I am a devotee of the Genieavesin. Divine hands will shield me. As the cart rattled deeper into the dense heart of the forest, her eyes fell closed as she began to pray. Her voice barely a whisper, the words a desperate plea for the strength to endure whatever lay ahead. Please, let Elter be safe.

  The continent of Islunnia: Gusts howled across the barren tundra of Islunnia, carrying with it the whispers of the dead. Kaiya trudged through snow that reached her knees, each step a battle against nature itself. Her furs, thick as they were, did little to ward off the bone-deep chill that had become her constant companion since fleeing her village three nights past.

  “Three nights.” Bitterness laced her words. “Three nights since I was to be wed to Torvik.” Torvik the Cruel, her sister called him. The thought of his meaty hands on her skin made her stomach churn like larvae squirming inside.

  Never. I’d rather face the unforgiving wastes of the scorching south than submit to a lifetime of bruises and broken bones.

  A violent gale nearly swept Kaiya off her feet, sending her tumbling onto a gnarled, lifeless tree, its barren limbs a haunting echo of her own emotional numbness. Her hands, raw and chapped, left smears of blood on the bark. She stared at the crimson stain; the blood oath she’d sworn to her little sister burned fresh in her mind. I’m not dying here. I can’t. I must reach the shores. Only there will I find a ship to spirit me away.

  “I’m so sorry, Lira.” Her apology dissolved into the merciless chill. “I won’t be coming back for you. I’ll never return here. I swear by Nimue!”

  The distant cry of seabirds carried on the wind, a promise of the coast and freedom beyond. The coast. It has to be close now. Just a little farther. Kaiya forced herself onward, ignoring the screaming protests of her muscles and the gnawing emptiness in her belly. She’d traded her last scraps of dried seal meat to a sympathetic kitchen boy for directions to the coast. He better not have lied. I didn’t survive all this just to be lost. If his words proved false, she’d be just another corpse for the tundra to claim.

  A low, guttural growl froze her in her tracks.

  Kaiya’s heart, already racing from exertion, threatened to burst from her chest. She knew that sound. The village elders spoke of it in hushed, fearful tones around the hearth fires. Dire bear.

  She turned slowly, praying to gods she wasn’t sure she believed in anymore. There it stood, a mountain of muscle and fur, its eyes gleaming with predatory intelligence. It towered over her—easily twice the size of any bear—its claws longer than her forearm.

  “Nice bear,” she mumbled, reaching for the small bone knife at her hip. The weapon, little more than a glorified tooth, seemed laughably inadequate. “Good bear. You don’t want to eat me. I’m all skin and bones, see?”

  The soil under her boots trembled as the dire bear responded with another growl. It lumbered forward, surprisingly quick for its colossal bulk. Kaiya backpedaled, her eyes darting frantically for anything she could use as a weapon. Her hand closed around a fallen branch, broad as her thigh and nearly as long as she was tall.

  This is how I die, she thought, hefting the makeshift club. Not in my marriage bed, but torn apart on the ice. Strangely, the thought almost forced a smile. At least I’ll die fighting. On my terms.

  The bear charged. Kaiya swung wildly. The impact reverberated up her arms as the branch connected with the beast’s skull. For a brief moment, hope ignited in her mind—

  Then the bear’s paw lashed out, and Kaiya’s world exploded in agony. Her ribs cracked, and she tasted copper on her tongue as she was sent sprawling across the ice. The cold bit into her exposed skin where the bear’s claws had torn through her furs.

  Gasping for breath, Kaiya struggled upright. The dire bear circled her, almost lazily, as if savoring the hunt. In its eyes, she saw not mindless hunger, but something worse: cruel intelligence, an awareness that made the beast all the more terrifying.

  “Come on then,” she snarled, spitting blood onto the pristine snow. “Finish it!”

  The bear roared and lunged. Kaiya ducked under its enormous paw; claws sliced through the air, inches from her face. She jabbed upward with her bone knife. A sick satisfaction twisted within her as the blade sank into the beast’s flesh.

  Her victory was short-lived. The bear’s other paw caught her squarely in the chest, lifting her off her feet and slamming her against an ice-covered boulder. The collision drove what little air remained from her lungs. She slid to the ground, vision becoming distorted, the taste of blood thick in her mouth.

  Images of home flashed through her head as darkness began to creep in at the corners of her vision. To the comforting warmth of the hearth, to her little sister’s laugh, to her mother’s arms. With desperate intakes of air, she gripped the fur lining of her coat, her knuckles white from the strain of trying to cling on. Pain seared through her wounds, her pounding heart echoing the ferocity of the bear’s assault. Her strength ebbed away, her vision blurring as cherished memories glittered like dying embers. With one final, shuddering breath, she whispered a silent farewell to the world she had known, her body going still as consciousness waned.

  The dire bear towered over her still form, its hot breath misting in the frigid air. It lowered its massive head, jaws opening wide—

  A horn blast splintered the silence of the tundra.

  “Kill the beast!” a voice commanded.

  The bear’s head snapped up, its eyes narrowing as it scanned the horizon. Another blast, closer this time, followed by the baying of hounds. The dire bear gave one last look at its fallen prey, then turned and lumbered off into the swirling snow.

  Moments later, or perhaps hours—time held little meaning in the realm between life and death—rough hands lifted her from the frosty ground. Through cracked eyelids, fur-clad figures with gleaming spears came into view.

  “This one’s still breathing,” a gruff voice said. “What do you think, m’lord? Finish her off or take her back to the keep?”

  A pause, then another voice, cultured and cold: “Bring her. She survived a dire bear attack. That kind of spirit could be... useful.”

  No, they can’t take me back, Kaiya thought. Panic flared in her chest. If they discover who I am, they’ll send me home. Back to Torvik. A scream to tell them to leave her pressed against her larynx, but pain radiating through her body held it prisoner.

  The figures proceeded to carry her, but a deep, frightening rumble brought them to a halt. A snarling roar shattered the peace—a second bear. The sound drifted into the fog enveloping Kaiya’s mind.

  “By the gods, there’s another one!” someone shouted, panic threading through their voice.

  The second bear crashed into the group, its roar mingling with the screams of the men. A brutal struggle filled the air—the clash of metal against the beast’s might, the wet gnashing at flesh, and the desperate cries of her would-be rescuers. One by one, their voices were choked, replaced by the howling of the dire bear.

  As nothing but the wind swirled around her, Kaiya’s vision darkened. In the silence, the bear's hungry breath poured over her as it hovered. She slipped into unconsciousness, not knowing whether this beast would finish what the other had started.