1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

When words combine with intent, the most basic magic can be done. It is magic that transcends race, bloodline, religion, and training because that is how this world was created. A word and a thought.

~Vyran the Black, A History of Magic and Dragons

The wind knows it carries the scent of death, but the deer doesn't. Standing in the clearing fifteen yards in front of me, it quietly chews the grass. Sunlight streams through the forest, illuminating this tiny piece of green in an otherwise dark world.

Seconds pass by as I watch it. Sweat runs down my brow and falls to the forest floor, splashing on dry leaves which have fallen from the bushes I kneel behind. This is what I was born to do. The yew wood shaft of my spear is well worn, and my fingers grip it as naturally as I'd hold a spoon or a bucket.

The world is silent other than the quiet crunching of the deer chewing in the clearing, yet I know something is wrong.

My feet scream at me to move, to silently run those fifteen yards with spear in hand, as I have so many times in the past. The chill that runs down my spine tells me to wait. Something has me on edge, and I'm not entirely sure what it is. The stag's ears perk up, and he stops chewing, his massive horns rising into the air as he goes on high alert.

It's not me he hears, though. His ears turn, focusing on the bushes directly across the clearing from me.

The forest around the village of Blackgrove, my home, is thick and musty. Dark green moss covers more trees than not, and dead leaves and branches litter the forest floor, making it difficult to move unheard. The deer's ears are better than mine, and I don't doubt that there's something looking into the clearing from the other side.

It's noon in the middle of summer, and there shouldn't be any predators out right now. They should be waiting until evening to escape the heat of the day that's drawn beads of sweat on my skin. The world isn't what it should be anymore. Everyone and everything is a little off.

I grip the spear tighter, my thumb pressed over the glyph burned in black along the yew shaft, and I know my instincts were right. There was a reason I didn't want to rush the deer.

The crack of a broken branch spooks the deer, and he bolts away from the sound, directly toward me. I catch two flashes of gray out of the corner of my eye as the stag comes within arm's reach of me. Instinct drives the spear forward. Training and years of experience guide the tip of the spear toward the deer's chest, not thought. No, it's certainly not thought, because all I can think of are the gray wolves bounding toward me.

Two wolves want this deer more than I do. The male and female, both of whom are leaner than they should be at this time of the year catch sight of me after my spear is firmly embedded in the deer's chest.

"Taldor's eye." I mutter the god of bad luck's name as the deer falls to the ground only a few feet away, pulling my spear out of my hand as it skids to a stop. Dead with eyes wide open, the strike couldn't have been cleaner, but my instincts have put me in a terrible position. Having to deal with a pair of wolves at midday can only be attributed to bad luck. Having to scramble for my spear is even worse, and I can't help but think that the god of misfortune has his eye on me. I recover the weapon while the wolves begin to growl. They're hungry. All the animals are these days.

They know I'm human, and I could be dangerous. Hungry animals tend to take risks, though. I look into their eyes as I yank the spear out of the stag's chest and hold it in front of me. Those eyes are desperate, and there's no doubt that they're more than hungry. They're starving. I give another look at the deer. It's beautiful, and those horns would fetch a good price in town, but I don't need the money or the meat. I could fight the wolves, but what would be the point?

"You win," I say, slowly backing away. I crouch, trying to make myself look small as I take step after step away from them. Wolves are smarter than most animals in the forest and work together. The best thing I can do is look less interesting than the dead prey that's lying on the forest floor.

Vesta, my tutor, taught me the rules for dealing with wolves by the time that I could read. If I look away, they'll be on me in an instant. If I maintain eye contact, they'll hesitate. They'll think about whether they really want to hunt me or if they'd rather take the easy prey.

But they're starving, and there are two of them. The growls get louder as they try to convince me to run, to give them my back.

"No," I growl back, trying to sound just as ferocious as they are, and consider climbing a tree. No, as soon as I look away from them, they'll be on me. The best chance I have to escape the fight they both seem to want is to just keep slowly backing away. Make them choose whether to follow me or to stay with the easy meal.

They obviously don't like that idea as they split up, moving to treat me just like they'd treat a moose or elk or any other dangerous prey. One wolf holds the prey's attention, and the other harries its back. Damn them. They're going to make me fight.

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, allowing my body to feel the world around me just like Vesta forced me to do every day before and after our lessons. My thumb presses against the glyph on the spear, and I feel more grounded. The forest seems quieter, as though everything is watching. I stare into the golden eyes of the wolf in front of me.

She's beautiful with a pristine gray coat. She's in peak physical condition: thin, but there's no sign of old age or adolescence. My eyes follow her, but I haven't forgotten her hunting partner. Her ears lay flat as she growls, her hackles rising, and I growl back, but she doesn't falter any more than I do. Then the sound of paws against fallen leaves betrays the one behind me. I may not be looking at him, but I know the sound of a wolf preparing to leap.

I spin as the male attacks, and my spear is already moving. The wolves never really had a chance against me. The fire-hardened tip of the spear finds the male's throat, and I've already turned back to the female before she realizes what's happened to her companion. A stab through the throat is far less likely to catch a spear and rip it out of my hands than one to the chest. There are fewer bones to catch and hold the tip.

My spear comes up in front of me, blood dripping down the shaft. The female's eyes move to that deadly tip, her growl getting deeper, and I can feel her fear. Wolves aren't used to becoming prey. Yes, they may be injured while hunting, but never like this. Never so easily, so cleanly.

Spurting blood from a gaping hole in its neck, the male tries to stand but fails. The female's hackles are still raised, but she's uncertain, and her eyes move between me and the male. This time, when I growl at the female that's still standing unwounded, she falters, taking a few steps back. She knows that most humans don't move like this.

I take the time to look down at the wolf that I stabbed, and I curse. "Why couldn't you two have just let me walk away?"

The female takes another few steps back, and I press her hesitation, jumping toward her. She immediately runs back to the deer, hoping that I won't give real chase. I look down at the wounded male again and sigh.

Blood is pooling around him. He tries to whimper, but it comes out in a gurgle. There's nothing to be done for him, though. You can't patch up a wound like that. There is fear in his gold eyes. There's no pain at this point. Just confusion and fear. It doesn't understand what's happening. I run my hand over the wolf's head, my fingers moving through the thick gray fur, and I wish that there was anything to do for it.

A deer is food. Its hide would become clothes, its horns would become handles to knives, and its bones would become broth. A wolf? The most I can do with it is take the hide and leave the rest to the scavengers.

A waste in a world that's starving. Sad in a world that doesn't have enough laughter. The dying wolf looks up at me as I run my hand over its head. My bloody fingers do their best to bring comfort to it.

"It's okay," I whisper. "Don't fight it. Just let go and find better woods to run in." I move my fingers over his ear, not really knowing if it's bringing him comfort or terrifying him. I can't just walk away.

The wolf shakes for a moment, his muscles tensing one last time, and this time, his chest doesn't rise again. I give the still-living wolf one glance as she stands over the deer, still crouched and ready to fight if need be.

"Keep it," I say. I take a deep breath and let it out softly. "I hope it was worth it."

The wolf growls, but she knows that nothing good will come of trying to fight with me. I take another deep breath and scoop up the wolf, throwing it over my shoulder. He's lighter than I'd thought he'd be. They really are starving.

I give a nod to the female and walk backward away from her until the trees separate us. It's only then that I notice the two pups crawling out of the brush behind the she-wolf. Starving with pups barely big enough to leave the den. Now there's one less provider.

Damn this forsaken world. If you listen to the old men's stories in the tavern, you'd think that wolves never attacked humans when they were young men. If this same situation had happened, the wolves wouldn't have even tried to take the deer, much less attack me for food.

The world has changed. In the last thirty years, the world has shifted. Monsters walk the woods and make the wolves look cuddly. There are fewer and fewer animals born each year, and so many of them are wrong . Deformed. Scales instead of fur or fur instead of scales. Three or five legs instead of four. Or they're born with bones that won't support them.

Something happened in the last thirty years, and the world didn't just shift. It's begun to die. There's nothing to be done about it. How could anyone fix something like that? It's a problem that kings and mages… and Fae have to deal with.

Maybe someone should pray to the Shade for that. Or maybe even he can't fix something of that magnitude.

There's only one thing that's for sure. The world is dying, and the only thing I can do is try not to die alongside it.