The history books are written by the people who stay safe inside golden walls, but the truth is buried out here in the dirt with the corpses.The wind howling through the rocky ravine carried a bitter chill, scattering pale gray flakes that looked like snow but smelled like old ash. We sat inside a hollowed-out cavern, the entrance obscured by a thick curtain of dried brambles. Kassia stood near the small camp fire, her worn leather cloak coated in dust as she stirred a pot of thin, bubbling broth. The flickering orange flames highlighted the deep, silver scar running from her jaw down to her collarbone.I leaned my back against the rough stone wall, nursing my bruised knuckles. Vivienne sat on a wooden crate across from me, her fingers resting lightly on the hilt of her hidden dagger, her sharp eyes fixed on our host.Your people call themselves the Ash-Walkers, I said, the silence stretching thin between us until I couldn't take it anymore. But nobody in the capital ha

A crown stolen through fear fits perfectly on the head of a tyrant.We sat in the dim light of the hidden forest camp, the damp air pressing against the canvas of our tent. Kassia dropped a fresh pile of pine branches onto the small fire, her scarred face twisting as the damp wood hissed and popped. Across from me, Vivienne was staring intently at a small scrying crystal she had smuggled from the capital, her fingers tracing the edge of the smooth glass.The crystal suddenly flared with a harsh, purple light, casting long shadows against the canvas walls."It is starting," Vivienne whispered, her voice tightening as she leaned closer to the desk. "The broad range magical broadcast from the palace is overriding the local security nodes. He is going to make it official."I leaned forward, my hands gripping my knees as the image inside the glass began to settle. High Mage Vane stood on the grand balcony of the palace, surrounded by rows of elite guards in heavy iron armor. He did not wea

The human body was never meant to hold that much stolen magic, but Julian had always been desperate enough to try.I smelled him before I saw him. The air in the narrow stone corridor of the treasury vault suddenly turned sour, thick with the scent of burnt copper and scorched hair. It was the same foul smell that had lingered in the northern craters, only this time, it was concentrated, sharp, and moving toward me at an impossible speed.Get back, I yelled, shoving the nearest rebel fighter behind me.A flash of blinding purple light shattered the darkness. The stone wall to my left exploded into a cloud of hot dust, and a heavy iron boot slammed directly into my chest. The impact sounded like a hammer hitting an anvil. I flew backward, my ribs groaning as I crashed against the solid gold vault doors.I dropped to my knees, coughing violently, my fingers clawing at the stone floor. When I looked up through the settling dust, my breath caught in my throat.Julian stood in the center o

The dead do not speak, but the dying simply cannot shut up.My ears rang with a sharp pitch that blocked out the sound of the collapsing stone walls. I pushed a heavy slab of marble off my chest, gasping for air. The treasury corridor was entirely gone, replaced by a smoking crater of black rock. Vivienne was already on her feet a few yards away, leaning against a shattered pillar and holding her ribs.Are you intact? I called out, my voice raspy.I am breathing, Vivienne replied, wiping blood from her cheek. Where is he?Right here, a weak voice chuckled from the rubble.I pulled my sword from the debris and limped toward the sound. Julian was slumped against a melted gold vault door. The purple light in his veins was completely gone, leaving his skin ash gray. Both of his legs were crushed beneath a massive stone beam. He coughed, spitting black blood onto his shattered chest plate.You look terrible, peasant, Julian whispered.You just blew up half the royal treasury, I said, keepi

If we follow your textbook plan, Captain, we will all be corpses rotting in the dirt before the winter snow even hits the valley. Kassia slammed her dagger straight into the center of the wooden map table, the steel blade quivering inches away from Captain Garrick’s scarred thumb. She did not blink. Her green eyes were wide, flashing with the wild, unpredictable energy of the northern border clans, and her braided hair was caked with dry mud from the morning scouts. Garrick did not flinch, his heavy arms remaining crossed tightly over his dented silver chest plate. He looked down at the knife, then up at the fierce girl standing across from him in the dimly lit war tent. The air inside smelled of wet canvas, horse sweat, and the bitter charcoal from the braziers keeping the damp cold at bay. You speak like a child who has never seen a real army march, Kassia, Garrick said, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly rumble that usually made his recruits tremble. A siege is about ord