Chapter One

The creature crouched low on its four muscular legs, quiet and still, ready to maul her to bits, and Malina defied the urge to back down.

She stood close enough that the sunwither’s breath scorched the air between them. Its pale yellow eyes were like winter sun filtered through ice. Its body resembled both a bear and a mountain lion, but bigger. An unnatural heat radiated from it, evoking a false sense of warmth and safety, which was what made the creature so dangerous in the wild.

Lucky it was behind iron bars right now.

On the other side of the room, three men whispered amongst themselves. Their voices were low out of politeness rather than a genuine desire for discretion, but Malina still heard them.

“What’s she doing so close to that cage? Trying to defrost her heart?”

Malina didn’t flinch, didn’t break eye contact with the sunwither. The creature’s nostrils flared, tasting her scent, and she could see the calculation in that strange, bear-like face. The sunwither’s fur rippled with each breath, patches of gold and amber shifting like molten metal in the torchlight.

It lunged without warning.

The cage shuddered under the impact, iron bars ringing as claws raked against them. 

One of the men behind her cursed, but Malina remained perfectly still, her expression unchanged. Not even a flinch. The satisfaction of her composure warmed her more than the creature’s breath ever could.

Only when the sunwither settled back on its haunches, still watching her with those unsettling eyes, did she turn away from the cage. The immediate chill hit her as she stepped from the sunwither’s radiant heat. She pulled her thick fur cloak tighter around her shoulders.

“Isn’t she beautiful?” Traqen, the trapper who owned the creature, said. He wore a long grey coat and an old scarf around his neck. “I’ve been tracking this one since the Frostbringer’s Eve.”

“I am not holding a beauty contest, Traqen.”

“Right. But she’d win it for sure.” He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the end of his scarf. He nodded towards Master Beidan and the tattooed slave next to him. “Beidan’s freeborn is ugly as a fiend’s arse.”

The slave shot Traqen a dirty look. Malina expected a touch of attitude and arrogance from freeborn slaves; in so many ways, they were beneath purebred slaves. She only hoped the man, who was in fact too handsome for a fighter, was at least competent enough to do the job.

“Let’s talk about the fight, shall we?” Malina stepped in before anyone could comment and spoil the focus of this meeting. “Traqen, tell them about your creature.”

Traqen pushed his coat back and propped his hands on his hips. He tilted his head towards the cage, where the sunwither paced and gnawed at the iron bars. 

“The sunwither has three vulnerable spots. Base of the skull, just behind the ears. That’s your knockout strike. But you need to weaken her first.”

“I don’t want the creature dead,” Malina said. She was only renting the sunwither from Traqen. If the creature died in her arena, she would lose her deposit. “A knockout will end the fight.”

“I don’t want my freeborn dead either,” Beidan said. 

“Good. Then let’s all listen closely and follow the plan.”

“There,” Traqen pointed at the creature’s back. “A strike right between her shoulder blades, and another around her hips. Right on her spine. It’ll slow her reflexes, make her sluggish. But you’ve got to be precise and hit them in order.”

“Two of my workers will be positioned on the platforms above the pit,” Malina said. “They’ve done this before. They’ll distract the creature with their pikes, forcing it to turn. Goral will prod it to turn east first. Mellig will make it turn west for the second strike.”

“And the third?” Beidan asked. 

“By then, she should be sluggish enough that your freeborn won’t need a distraction,” Traqen replied. “Quick succession; Two on her spine, one at the back of her ears. Easy peasy.”

Beidan wiped his face on his coat sleeve. The launch room, which Malina’s workers often referred to as the Kennel, was sweltering, though that wasn’t the only reason Beidan sweated.

“When you said there would be a plan and assistance available, Mistress Malina, I was expecting something more sophisticated than poking and distracting the creature with sticks.”

“This isn’t the Switchblade Arena, Master Beidan,” Malina said. “We work with what we have. If your beast isn’t competent enough to seize an opening when it’s handed to him, maybe you should consider renting him off to a Veiled House instead.”

She provoked a response from both Beidan and his freeborn. Beidan masked his dislike behind a polite smile so forced it made his face twitch. His freeborn, though… The slave shifted his weight to hide the shiver running down his spine. He held his posture — hands clasped, shoulders low, neck angled down — but his eyes flashed with anger and his face reddened. 

At least he had the sense to drop his gaze. Slaves were not permitted to make eye contact. A rule freeborns obviously took as a mere suggestion.

“My Shadewheel will come through,” Beidan said through his teeth. “He’s done Apex Contests before.”

“I am brimming with confidence,” Malina muttered as she eyed the slave. Shadewheel had neatly combed blond hair and a trimmed beard. The tattoo on the left side of his neck, depicting a dog-like creature, marked him as a beast. A slave for the arenas.

“Do you understand what’s expected of you, beast?” Malina asked the slave directly. “Are you prepared to do this?”

“You’re forgetting he’s a slave, Mistress Malina,” Beidan said. “He doesn’t have opinions.”

“He’s a freeborn slave, not a purebred. He’s got a head of his own. And I’d like to know if there’s enough brain inside that head.” She clicked her fingers to draw Shadewheel’s gaze. “So speak, beast. Do you think you can handle this?”

Shadewheel glanced at his owner, who pursed his lips and nodded his permission to go ahead and humour the mistress of the arena with an answer. 

“Yes, Mistress. I can defeat the sunwinter.”

“Sunwither.”

“Sunwither.”

“Do you understand the plan? Where you need to strike and when?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

Malina waited for a beat before snapping: “Is that all?”

“What else do you expect him to say, Mistress?” Beidan said. “It’s not a very complex plan.”

“Are you sure that’s all the armour you’ll wear?” Malina asked, regarding the flimsy leather breastplate the man wore. Apart from a couple of leather bracers, his arms were bare and he wore nothing else but a pair of studded trousers and long boots.

“He’ll need speed over protection,” Beidan answered for the slave. 

“He’s right,” Traqen said. “Steel won’t stop those claws and his best protection is his agility.”

“Very well,” Malina said. “The fight starts in half an hour. I’ll show you to your seat, Master Beidan.”

The Kennel was connected straight into the arena through an underground tunnel, but Malina led Beidan out by the main door. Shadewheel and Traqen stayed behind in the Kennel, going over the plan once more, and getting ready to release the slave and then the sunwither into the pit when the time came.

Stepping out from the heat of the Kennel, the winter night hit Malina at once — relentless as a spoiled child, howling and tugging at her tight bun, trying to pry loose brown hair threaded with early silver. She had used enough clips to style it firm and refined. The wind reddened her sharp cheekbones and strong nose, creating a contrast against her pale skin. She lowered her head, her scowl deepening the newly — yet inevitably — forming crow’s-feet around her eyes and mouth.

The Black Hearth loomed before them; three storeys of dark stone and weathered timber that seemed to grow from the frozen earth like some grim monument left by the twelve gods and goddesses. Narrow windows glowed with amber light, but they did little to soften the building’s harsh edges. It stood alone against the wilderness, a fortress of vice and violence with nothing but empty road stretching away in both directions.

To her left, the barn squatted in shadow, and beyond it the skeletal remains of the vegetable garden poked through the snow. A well, storage sheds, and a cluster of outbuildings completed the modest settlement.

The sunwither’s heat was nature’s cruelest joke, Malina reflected as her breath misted in the frigid air. The creature awakened in winter, its body radiating warmth that called to every living thing on the mountain; prey drawn by the promise of survival, predators lured by the scent of gathered meat. All of them stepping willingly into the sunwither’s reach.

“Vicious night,” Beidan said, making conversation as they crunched through the snow towards the main entrance of the Black Hearth. “It appears a proper blizzard is hitting the Dorspine Hills.”

Malina glanced towards the north, where the jagged peaks of the Dorspine forest cut black silhouettes against the star-scattered sky. She could see the distant clouds rolling down the hill like a wall of grey cotton, unleashing snow and wind that would soon turn the hills and the forest into death traps.

“I feel sorry for any bastard stuck on the roads tonight,” Beidan said. “May Zaon watch over them.”

“May Zaon guide them to shelter.” She repeated, then turned and pushed the heavy oak doors of the Black Hearth open.

A wave of heat, noise, and the mingled scents of roasted meat and unwashed bodies greeted them. The tavern’s common room opened before them in a vast space with a high ceiling. Where most establishments kept their floors separate and discreet, the Black Hearth’s centre space rose open through every level. The fighting pit, with its sandy floor, was built into the basement. Benches and chairs on the ground floor ringed the pit, giving patrons a close view of the carnage below.

Above, the first floor wrapped around the arena’s perimeter like a horseshoe. One side of its corridor overlooked the pit, lined with private booths and tables; the other side opened to guest rooms. On ordinary fight nights Malina charged hefty fees for those rooms, but as a devoted worshipper of Zaon, god of roads and travellers, she kept her prices modest on stormy nights such as this.

The second floor mirrored the arrangement of the first floor, with its corridors overlooking the arena, and rooms on the other side. Here she set higher prices for the best tables, where patrons enjoyed clearer views and relative quiet, along with her finest food and drink.

Malina walked through the ground floor bustling with activity, Beidan following behind. Rough wooden tables crowded the front side of the common hall, patrons slowly abandoning their tables for the tiered seats around the pit. Serving girls weaved between the crowds with trays held high. The drinks bar across the room worked nonstop.

At the centre of it all stood a massive stone column that rose from the middle of the arena floor. The column broadened into an island platform, linked to the ground floor by a narrow bridge. Upon that platform burned the great hearth that gave the place its name.

The hearth had stood long before Malina bought the property. When she built the arena from the basement up, she refused to remove it and instead designed everything around it. Now flames roared in its depths, throwing dancing shadows across the faces of the patrons at the arena’s edge.

The Black Hearth was the living heart of this establishment.

Malina gestured to one of her serving girls. “Show Master Beidan to booth seven on the first floor. Make sure he has a clear view and whatever refreshments he requires.”

As Beidan followed the girl upstairs, Malina made her way to the back section of the ground floor where a long wooden counter served as the betting station. Ledgers lay open across its surface, quills and ink staining the wood. She slipped behind the counter and studied the figures, her fingers tracing the columns of coin and odds.

“Malina,” Dorrala approached with a smaller ledger clutched against her chest. With easy confidence, the young woman moved as if accustomed to the attention her dark blonde hair, bright eyes, and captivating smile attracted. “Final tallies for tonight’s fight.”

“Let me see them.”

Dorrala opened her ledger. “Hundred-and-seven Blues and sixty Greys on the sunwither, twenty-two Blues on Shadewheel. If the freeborn wins, even after paying Master Beidan his prize money, we clear fifty-five.”

Malina nodded, running quick calculations in her mind. Fifty-five Blues would cover barely a month’s expenses.

“Perhaps we should adjust the odds slightly,” she murmured, half to herself. “Encourage a few more bets on — “

“Oh!” Dorrala’s attention suddenly shifted, her ledger forgotten as her gaze fixed on something beyond Malina’s shoulder. “Is that a purebred beast? Look at those vacant eyes! And the way he holds himself… You can always tell, can’t you? There’s something about purebreds that’s just… fascinating.”

Malina sighed. Every time a purebred entered the Black Hearth, the girl became utterly transfixed, studying them like a scholar examining ancient texts. It was an odd obsession, but what stole Malina’s joy was the presence of the man who owned the purebred beast.

“Master Khorhan,” Malina said without looking up from her ledgers.

Khorhan was a stocky man with greying hair and rough hands that marked him as someone who’d worked his way to wealth rather than inherited it. Behind him, silent as a shadow, stood his purebred beast. 

Broadshard was magnificent; dark brown hair, tall and powerfully built, with the kind of dangerous beauty that made crowds lean forward in anticipation. He bowed his head, hands clasped in front of him, in a perfect posture of submission. An eerie stillness and a readiness for violence radiated out of that posture, yet his face remained utterly impassive, as if carved from stone, showing none of the spark of personality that flickered in a freeborn’s eyes.

The tattoo on his neck matched Shadewheel’s in design — the same dog-like creature — but where the freeborn’s marking was contained within a simple circle, the purebred’s was framed by elaborate, curving lines. 

“I hear you have entertainment tonight,” Khorhan said, his gaze sweeping dismissively around the tavern. “Though I use the term loosely, given the venue.”

“How thoughtful of you to grace us with your presence,” Malina replied, her tone perfectly polite and utterly venomous. “I’m sure your own establishment keeps you terribly busy serving watered ale to farmers.”

“At least my patrons don’t risk their lives sitting on rotting floorboards above a death pit.”

“No, they just risk dying of boredom.” Malina finally looked up, her eyes flicking to Broadshard. “I see you’ve brought your pet. Still training him to sit and stay, are we?”

While they sparred with words, Dorrala had slipped out from behind the betting counter. She approached Broadshard with the carelessness of someone utterly fascinated by what she was seeing. The purebred remained perfectly still as she leaned in close, studying his face intently. She waved her fingers in front of his eyes. Nothing. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment.

Emboldened, Dorrala leaned closer still, her low-cut bodice leaving little to the imagination as she reached out and gently poked the purebred’s cheek. Broadshard stared dead ahead, eyes glazed as if there was no trace of thought behind them.

“Tell your little deviant to keep her hands off my property,” Khorhan snapped. “He’s worth more than this entire establishment.”

“Dorrala, step back,” Malina said calmly, though her eyes never left Khorhan’s face. “We wouldn’t want to damage Master Khorhan’s precious plaything.”

“Plaything.” Khorhan chuckled darkly. “He’s a better investment than a roadside hovel rotting away. 

“At least my hovel earns me money.”

“For now.” His smile turned predatory. “Funny thing about location, though. Proximity to proper competition — say, a more respectable arena — tends to affect business.”

Malina’s grip tightened on her quill. She knew exactly what he was implying. “The Frosthall Arena has been dying a slow death for years, Khorhan. Even you can’t resurrect a corpse.”

“Can’t I?” He leaned against the counter, close enough that she could smell his breath. “Amazing what the right amount of Blues can accomplish. New ownership, proper permits, quality fights… why, I imagine folk might actually travel there instead of settling for these silly staged fights in your little roadside pit.”

“The repairs of that place will cost you a fortune. That arena’s foundation is decayed, its tunnels are flooded, stairwells have collapsed and the place is in shambles. Everyone knows it.”

“Everyone also knows that location is everything. Close enough to Belvost to draw the real money. Might even attract some travellers from Thurngate.” He straightened, his point made. “Some investments are worth the risk. One Blue on the sunwither.”

Malina accepted the blue coin and made the notation in her ledger. She didn’t like the self-satisfied curl of his lip, like he knew something she didn’t. 

“Booth twelve is available on the second floor,” she said. “The highest seat I have to offer. If you happen to trip and fall, at least I’ll have the longest laugh watching your face splatter across my floors.”

“I will have the longest laugh, Malina, when your old, stone heart dies alone in your cold bed.” With that, he gestured sharply to Broadshard and headed for the stairs.

Once they were out of earshot, Dorrala returned to the betting counter, her eyes still tracking Broadshard’s retreating figure.

“Did you see that?” she whispered, her voice filled with wonder. “His eye almost twitched when I poked him! I’m telling you, they’re not entirely vacant— “

“Shut it, Dorrala,” Malina snapped. “Enough with your obsession with purebreds. They’re just mindless animals raised to die in arenas.”

Dorrala’s eyes widened, her cheeks flushing red as tears began to well up. The sight of the girl’s hurt expression only irritated Malina further. Around the betting counter, the other workers fell silent, suddenly finding their ledgers and coin pouches fascinating.

“Betting closes now,” Malina announced, slamming her ledger shut. She raised a red flag above the counter, the signal that echoed through the tavern as other workers began calling out the same message to the patrons.

She poured herself a measure of wine and downed it in one burning gulp before making her way to the bridge that led to the Black Hearth platform. 

The hearth’s flames caressed her face as she positioned herself at the platform’s edge, the entire arena spread below her. She took her fur cloak off and left it on the mantle, knowing exactly how warm this place would become soon.

“Tonight, we have an Apex Contest,” she said, her voice carrying easily across the forced quiet. “Beast against animal. That’s what they call this creature. An animal. But who are we to claim it isn’t a direct descendant of the fiends themselves? Likely hibernated through the entire Fire Wars while the Twelve Riders forgot to banish it to Darkhome with the rest of its kin!”

Cheers and dark laughter rippled through the crowd. The patrons pressed closer to the arena’s edge, their excitement building.

From her vantage point, Malina could see her two workers, Goral and Mellig, had taken their positions on the opposite edges of the arena. Heavy ropes secured them to their platforms and their long piles held ready beside them.

“Let the freeborn enter,” she called out, “so he might warm the arena for our sunwither!”

More laughter echoed through the space as Malina nodded to Corben, who stood beside the mechanism that controlled the portcullis on the tunnel entrance. The iron bars rose with a grinding screech of metal on stone.

Shadewheel emerged from the tunnel’s darkness with confident strides. He carried a long spear. Perfectly suited for the precise strikes their plan required, with reach enough to keep him clear of the sunwither’s claws. The weapon’s steel head gleamed in the torchlight as he began his circuit of the arena. Corben immediately lowered the portcullis behind him with a resounding clang.

Shadewheel moved smoothly, acknowledging the crowd with raised fist salutes as he circled the column that held Malina’s platform up, which provided a semblance of an obstacle and cover.

From deep in the tunnel, behind the iron bars of the portcullis, a new sound emerged; the heavy padding of massive paws against dirt, accompanied by low, rumbling growls that seemed to make the very walls vibrate. The entire tavern felt already warmer. The sunwither had been released into the tunnel. 

Malina watched Shadewheel complete his tour and take position at the centre of the arena, spear held ready. His stance was assuringly confident and focused. 

Good. 

She checked her workers once more. Goral gripped his pike, rope secure; Mellig was in position, watching for her signal. Both men knew their roles.

The sunwither’s roars now shook dust from the rafters above. The crowd’s excitement reached fever pitch.

Malina nodded to Corben.

The portcullis rose.

The sunwither burst from the tunnel, moving faster than its heat. It lunged straight at Shadewheel, claws extended and jaws gaping wide. Malina held her breath. The entire crowd seemed to inhale as one, the tavern falling into absolute silence save for the creature’s snarls.

But Shadewheel was faster than he looked. He sidestepped at the last possible moment, his spear flashing as he struck at the creature’s flank. Not a killing blow, but enough to draw first blood and announce his speed. The sunwither skidded around with shocking agility, its golden fur rippling as muscles bunched for another attack. Sand sprayed from beneath its massive paws, yellow eyes locked on its prey.

The freeborn moved like water, flowing around the creature’s charges, his spear darting in for quick strikes before dancing away from retaliating claws. Each near miss drew gasps from the crowd, each successful hit brought roars of approval. This was what they’d paid to see; skill matched against nature’s raw fury.

A cold draught across Malina’s cheek made her glance up. The tavern’s main doors had opened, though she couldn’t see through the crowd whether someone had left or entered. Probably fled, she thought dismissively. Some people couldn’t stomach the intensity of a real fight.

Below, Shadewheel was executing their plan perfectly. He lured the sunwither towards Goral’s platform with a series of feints and retreats. Right on cue, Goral’s pike jabbed down at the creature’s shoulder. The sunwither turned, distracted by this new threat from above, and Shadewheel struck, his spear point landing between the creature’s shoulder blades. The sunwither turned and snapped its jaws at Shadewheel, but the freeborn leapt away with ease.

Shouts erupted from near the entrance. Malina’s gaze flicked upward to see a small crowd gathered by the doors. She spotted her head of security, Rowjast, amongst them. Two more of her security were pushing through the crowd to join him. Her stomach tightened. Someone hadn’t left — someone had entered. And whatever was happening required her entire security team.

In the arena, Shadewheel was leading the sunwither towards Mellig’s platform now, but Mellig’s attention was fixed on the disturbance above rather than the fight below. Shouts and the sounds of scuffle were muffled by the crowd’s ecstatic cheers. Rowjast, who was the first to reach the newcomer, was suddenly sent flying backwards. 

What was going on there?

When she looked down, she saw Shadewheel dodging the creature’s swipes. He managed to land his second blow at its lower back, right where Traqen had indicated. But from her vantage point, Malina thought the strike looked off target, too far to the left.

“Mellig!” she shouted.

Mellig finally tore his attention from the commotion at the entrance. His pike jabbed down just as the sunwither turned, and Shadewheel moved in for the knockout blow; the strike behind the ears that should end the fight.

But the sunwither wasn’t sluggish at all, like Traqen said it would be. The creature moved with the same lethal speed it had shown from the start. As Shadewheel lunged forward for his finishing blow, the sunwither pivoted with shocking quickness.

Its jaws clamped around Shadewheel’s extended arm with a wet crunch of breaking bone.

The crowd went wild.

Shadewheel’s agonised scream cut through every other sound as the sunwither shook him like a rag doll, blood spraying across the sand in crimson arcs. The creature released him only to pounce again, its claws raking across his chest and opening wounds that leaked more red than seemed possible from one man’s body. 

Malina scrunched her face in disgust as the sunwither began to feed, its muzzle disappearing into Shadewheel’s torn abdomen while the freeborn’s legs still twitched weakly.

Above, the crowd near the entrance was parting like a wave, but her two remaining security guards stood at the crowd’s edge making no move to intervene. A figure walked towards the arena where the sunwither feasted on the remnants of Malina’s carefully laid plans and profit.

Fury boiled in Malina’s chest. She crossed the bridge with quick strides, pushing through the crowd towards the disturbance. Most patrons remained transfixed by the gruesome scene below, but those near the entrance had formed a loose circle.

At the centre stood a man. Dark hair hung lank and matted around a face that might have been handsome if not for the exhaustion carved into every line. His clothes were little more than rags; an old coat torn and stained, caked with mud and snow that was now melting in the tavern’s heat, leaving dark puddles at his feet. Steam rose faintly from his soaked garments, and she could see he was shivering beneath the fabric.

Her security guards stood nearby, pale and shaken. Rowjast was back with them now, sporting a split lip and the wide-eyed look of someone who’d just learned they were outmatched.

Malina positioned herself directly in the stranger’s path, just several steps from the arena’s edge.

“Stop,” she commanded with authority.

The stranger stopped as if he’d walked into a wall. His legs gave out beneath him, and he dropped to his knees with a heavy thud and a groan. His hands were an alarming shade of mottled red and white where they pressed against the floor, and his breathing came in short, visible puffs despite the stifling warmth. Sweat mixed with the melting snow on the stranger’s face, creating grimy lines down his cheeks. 

A hastily wrapped bandage covered his left eye, the crude binding stained with old blood and mud. His right eye was a startling clear blue, but it wasn’t focused on her. Instead, he stared past her towards the arena with an intensity that was almost feverish, like a man dying of thirst who’d finally found water. 

Malina was about to signal her security to drag him out the back when something made her pause. There, on the left side of his neck, partially hidden by the torn collar of his coat, was a tattoo. The intricate design of a dog-like beast caught within an elaborate circle of curving lines and symbols — the unmistakable mark of a purebred beast.

Her stomach lurched. A purebred. A man bred for arenas. That explained why her security hesitated, and why the crowd had parted so quickly. 

She glanced around, searching the faces in the crowd. “Where is his owner?” she called out.

No response. The crowd shifted, looking around, as if someone would surely have the answer, but no-one came forward.

“I said, where is this beast’s owner?” she demanded, louder this time.

Murmurs rippled through the gathered patrons. Behind her, the sunwither’s feeding continued with wet, tearing sounds, but most attention had shifted to this new event now. 

She spotted Dorrala in the crowd, eyebrows raised in fascination. On the second floor, Khorhan had moved to the railing and was making his way towards the stairs.

The purebred remained on his knees, still staring at the arena with that strange, craving expression. His lips moved slightly, as if he were whispering to himself.

“Where is your owner?” Malina asked him directly.

He muttered something too quiet to hear, despite the tavern’s curious silence. She caught only a few words: “…die in.”

“Speak louder.”

The purebred blinked, as if somewhat becoming aware of his surroundings. His gaze didn’t quite reach Malina’s face, but his focus sharpened. When he spoke again, his voice was hoarse but louder.

“Dead.”

Malina felt her composure crack, her voice coming out in an uncharacteristic stutter. “Are you— are you saying… You’re not owned?”

Gasps and whispers erupted around them. Dorrala’s jaw dropped. On the stairs, Khorhan had stopped mid-step, his eyes alight with sudden interest. Malina knew what he was thinking because the exact same thought had emerged in her mind. Except she was closer to the purebred, and she could act before Khorhan had the chance.

“You are now the property of Malina Questhen,” she declared quickly, her voice loud and strong. “You will respond to the name… Waythorn. Acknowledge.”

Waythorn? Of all the names that could have spilled from her lips, why that one? She hadn’t thought of those accursed bushes in nearly a decade. She clenched her jaw and held her breath as the purebred blinked and, for the first time, looked up directly at her.

The purebred looked directly at her. 

Slaves were forbidden from making eye contact. It was considered an act of defiance, and they were punished severely for it. And purebreds never defied like that. But this one… His face was covered in dried blood and filth, a feral glimmer in that single blue eye. Being the target of that stare made Malina’s blood run cold. 

She knew the law: any unowned slave could be claimed, though such cases were almost unheard of. Slaves didn’t simply wander unattended — certainly not purebreds, with how expensive they were — but if one was found without an owner, anyone could take possession. They never resisted.

And yet, an uneasy thought took hold. What if this purebred did refuse?

Ice crawled up her spine, and she barely stopped herself from taking a step back. This wasn’t like facing the sunwither through iron bars. This was a purebred beast standing mere feet away, glaring at her with madness in his eye. Nothing stood between them. Her security guards had already proven useless against him. Even weakened as he clearly was — near frozen, exhausted, possibly dying on her floor — he was still a purebred. 

A man raised to kill, a twisted hatred etched on his face, like he was half a thought away from tearing her to pieces.

She forced herself to lift her chin, summoning every ounce of confidence she possessed. Her voice came out steady despite the pounding of her heart.

“Acknowledge.”

The purebred held her gaze for another heartbeat. Then he blinked, his eye losing some of its intensity. Confusion flickered across his features as if he’d just awakened from a dream and couldn’t quite remember how he’d arrived here.

Slowly, willfully, he pushed his gaze down at her feet.

“I am now the property of Malina Questhen,” he said, his voice weak but clear. “I will respond to the name Waythorn. I acknowledge.”

Relief flooded through Malina so suddenly her knees nearly buckled. Sweat that had nothing to do with the sunwither’s heat ran down her back. The tavern’s warmth felt suffocating now.

She looked down at the man — at Waythorn — and saw the telltale signs of violence and death on his hands; blood crusted under his fingernails, his knuckles split. With his head lowered, his remaining eye was now hidden beneath the messy dark hair that fell across his forehead. 

Malina straightened her shoulders and looked around at the faces staring back at her. Some curious, some calculating, all wondering what she planned to do next.

Waythorn swayed where he knelt, his single eye losing focus. Then, without warning, he pitched forward and collapsed face-first at her feet.

Whatever had brought this man through the blizzard to her door, Malina had just claimed responsibility for it all.

---

If Chapter One pulled you in, the rest of the story is waiting.

I’m releasing new chapters every week on my Patreon — along with author notes, behind-the-scenes worldbuilding, and exclusive art from both The Black Hearth and the Twilight of Blood series. Patrons read ahead, see the process as it unfolds, and get closer to the characters long before the book is finished. If you want to stay inside this story instead of waiting for the release, you can join me there and keep reading.