2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

One cloak was given to my House. Darkness given form. Power for the powerless. For one who will change the fate of himself and the many. The Shadowed Cloak will be the undoing of kingdoms, but according to Calyr, it is the final piece.

~Vyran the Black, A History of Magic and Dragons

My back aches from hauling the wolf all the way home. My clothes, hands, and face are covered in its blood, and I'm still furious. I'd wanted the deer. Fresh venison for dinner sounded wonderful.

The sun blazes down on the world, but a swift breeze flows through the clearing around the house I've lived in since I was eight. The bright sunlight and cooling wind are a stark difference from the dark staleness under the oppressive forest. Long grass in the clearing rasps against my legs as I walk through thick patches. My eyes linger on the house that I live in with my aunt, uncle, and cousin.

"Such a waste," I mutter for the hundredth time in the past hour. All I'm left with is a pelt and the knowledge that the wolves around Blackgrove are hungrier than any summer I remember. There's half a rabbit left in the cellar. It's enough to make a stew, but rabbit flavored broth isn't the same as venison steaks.

It's not for lack of skill or trying that we keep running low on meat. Everyone in Blackgrove knows I'm the best hunter this side of the river, and I spend nearly all day in these woods. The villagers may clutch at their iron nails and move to the other side of the street when they see me, but no one disagrees with who the best hunter in the village is.

There simply isn't enough game anymore.

I've heard people talk about the Fae moving through our woods, and at least part of me wonders if that's what's happened to all the animals. Yet, no people have gone missing lately, so I doubt it's the Fae. Vesta taught me that they'll eat humans as readily as they'd eat a deer.

In a village the size of Blackgrove, I was lucky to have a tutor as knowledgeable as Vesta. She taught me to be the hunter I am, but she also taught me about the world beyond Blackgrove. Especially when it came to the Immortal races collectively known as the Fae.

The Fae aren't all one species. There are dozens or even hundreds of types of them. From the hobgoblins to the pixies to the High Fae, all of them are dangerous, and I'd prefer they stay in Draenyth, far away from Blackgrove.

Vesta taught me that they wield dangerous magic. Some can fly and others can light the world on fire. Some can lure me in with their songs and others are impossible to see until their claws and teeth are already in me.

Luckily, all I had to deal with today were wolves. If it had been Fae, I'd be dead.

When I get back to the townhouse, I'm surprised to I hear my cousin Hazel through an open window. She's singing as she occasionally does in the middle of the day, but why is she home right now? I had expected her to be in town with Aunt Prudence until evening.

I try to relax, knowing how my best friend will react when she sees me. My cousin Hazel is the only person in the world who cares whether I live or die. After my father disappeared, I didn't have anyone other than Vesta. Vesta made sure that my Uncle Trevor and Aunt Prudence took me in. I'd bet my bottom dollar they finally agreed because of the monthly income they receive from my father's estate more than anything else.

Hazel isn't like her parents, though. She's… she's my only friend. The only person who sees me as something more than "the Wyrdling". A Wyrdling is anyone with half Fae-blood running in their veins. I can't do any magic, so I'm obviously not a Wyrdling, but that doesn't change how the other people in Blackgrove treat me.

My aunt and uncle certainly think that Fae blood runs in my veins and haven't hid their belief that I'm "dangerous" and "strange" just like my mother. She abandoned my father and me as soon as I could survive without her. The villagers say she was Fae, but I don't believe it one bit. I wouldn't need to be afraid of running into Fae in the woods if I were one of them.

I huff just thinking about it. I'm not any more dangerous than a soldier who's trained with a spear, and I'm not any stranger than anyone who's spent their life in the forest instead of around people.

It's better this way, though. I stay in the forests, away from most of the other people in the village, and Aunt Prudence and Uncle Trevor leave me alone. They don't have to deal with their Wyrdling ward. I don't have to deal with all the villagers that think I'm so dangerous.

I don't know why they get nervous around me, but they do. Everyone does. Even people I've dealt with more times than I can count, like the furrier who's bought more skins and pelts from me than anyone else in town. Hazel is the only person, other than Vesta, who's never nervous around me.

Except when I come home covered in blood.

She's why I normally try to wash in the river after a hunt. I don't know what I'd do if Hazel had a reason to look at me with disgust in her eyes. Today, I'd thought she'd still be in town, so I could clean up in the house instead of at the river.

There's nothing to do about it now. The best I can do is leave the wolf pelt outside to deal with later.

That's why, when I walk into the townhouse, I know something's different. Hazel is staring out a window toward town as she hums that song. Looking at the room, nothing seems out of place. The beige curtains are pulled open like every day, the windows open to let in the breeze. The carved wooden chairs and tables made of exotic dark woods that Aunt Prudence bought from a traveling merchant a few years ago are still there.

A light breeze blows past Hazel, catching pieces of her light brown hair in its movement as she smiles. Her smile isn't ever wide. It's never loud or obvious. It's safe and soft, never enough to draw attention to her even when we're all alone. No, you can't tell if she's happy or sad based on that smile. It's only in her eyes that you can see her emotions.

Hazel's rich brown eyes hide her depth and happiness. Her pale cheeks seem to always have just the slightest touch of rosiness to them. The portrait of a blushing young woman, she was made for being in high society. To wear beautiful dresses like the one she's wearing now.

A violet muslin dress with puffy shoulders that's tied around the middle. It's a happy dress, one that Aunt Prudence bought her for her birthday last year. Between the dress and the gleam in her eye, I should have known that something special had happened today.

I miss it. I'm too worried she's going to scold me for looking like I've come home from a slaughter. That's why it surprises me so much when she rushes to me. "Maeve!" She says my name in a way that makes me question whether she's terrified or excited. I don't have time to say anything before she clarifies. "Thomas Milligan asked Father for my hand!"

It's her dream. I've known I'll probably never marry, but Hazel's always wanted a big wedding. She wants to wear a beautiful dress and be the center of attention. Her greatest aspiration is to be happily married with a handful of children. I'm glad that her fantasy has become a reality, but why did it have to be Thomas Milligan?

It's not surprising with his father owning the general goods store and Uncle Trevor being the richest person in town. It's a good match, and if I knew nothing about Thomas, I'd congratulate her and be just as excited as she is. But I know things about him.

"Hazel…" I know I'm not giving her a look she wants to see. "Thomas isn't the kind of man you should marry. You can do so much better than him."

Immediately, her excitement evaporates. This is her lifelong dream, and I know I'm ruining it, but she can't marry him. "Why can't you just be happy for me, Maeve?" It breaks my heart to hear her say it like that. It's all she's ever wanted, and I'm telling her she should turn it down.

Her soft smile is gone, and in its place is anger. I can't remember the last time she was angry at me. I should just be quiet. I should smile and wish her the best of luck, but I can't see her miserable even if she's angry about it. "He's not a good match. Not that long ago, he spent his nights with Alayne Fairfax, and…"

"And what, Maeve? What gossip are you going to bring me? Something you heard from that furrier's boy? Or from the baker? You should hear what she says about you ." My fingers twitch at my side, wishing I could wring them across my spear as I try to maintain my calmness. It's been a bad day already, and now this.

Instead of explaining how I know, I say, "Thomas left her with bruises, Hazel. He's not a good man. He's not the kind of man you deserve."

My cousin's eyes open wide for a moment, but then she shakes her head. "Just town gossip. There's no reason I should listen to it."

I take her hand in mine. Soft, clean, pampered hands compared to my rough and blood-covered ones. We were raised together, but we were raised nothing alike. Hazel Arden could end up in a court wearing puffy gowns and dancing with nobles. I, on the other hand, won't ever leave the forests around Blackgrove, and the idea of being stuck in a court makes me sick to my stomach.

"Hazel, I know he hurt her." The first day that Hazel had said she was interested in him, I'd begun following him, watching to see what kind of man he was. I'd seen things that my sweet cousin shouldn't have to hear about.

I can see the pain in her eyes. She'd thought her wildest dreams were coming true, and I'm shattering them. I don't want to hurt her.

She shakes her head softly. "No one else says that," she whispers. "Why should I believe you instead of Father? Father says he has a fantastic reputation."

Because Uncle Trevor is a terrible man and shouldn't have any right to judge another person's quality. "Because I know , Hazel. You've always trusted me before, haven't you?"

She looks up at me with tears in her eyes. "Maeve, why can't you just be normal one day? Why couldn't you come home and congratulate me? That's what everyone else has done! Why can't you tell me he's a good man and he'll make a good husband like them? For once, why can't you just not be so strange? I do trust you, and that makes it so much worse."

That's when she seems to notice that I'm covered in blood. She jerks her hands away, and I see my mother's ring slip off, but it's forgotten almost immediately. I know what's coming next. The look of disgust on her face. The absolute revulsion in her eyes. I've seen it too many times to not know it instantly.

"Maybe Mother and Father are right," she whispers, the violet dress with its puffy sleeves swaying in the breeze. She looks at me, those dark brown eyes taking my visage in. The gore that covers the linen tunic and pants that I'm wearing makes me look wild. The smell of death that surrounds me would have anyone confusing me with something feral. She really takes me in, and I know what she sees. She doesn't see the cousin of the most eligible girl in Blackgrove. No, she sees the same person that everyone else does.

"Maybe everyone else is right about you, Maeve. They all say I should stay away from you. They say your mother was one of them , and you have Fae blood in your veins. Who else would be comfortable walking around like you are?"

I've spent my life hearing the whispers about me, and not even once have I given into the anger that boils up inside me each time. I've reminded myself that they don't matter. Even Aunt Prudence and Uncle Trevor's comments haven't ever gotten under my skin. They're little comments from little people. Vesta taught me to control those emotions, to never let them get to me.

But Hazel… Other than Vesta, Hazel is the only person in the world that's ever mattered to me after my father disappeared.

"You don't mean that," I whisper, and I can feel the growl rolling in my voice. The wildness that I hide from the people in town starts to take hold of me. The pure, animalistic anger that I've done everything I could to hide away.

"I do, Maeve. Why can't you just be normal for once? Not," she seems to hesitate for a moment and then says the one thing that I never believed she would say. "Not like a Wyrdling."

Wyrdling. A half-blood. Forgotten by the Fae. Pushed out by mortals. Destined to live alone forever. The word that villagers whisper when I walk by. The word I've hated more than anything my entire life.

Anger that was bubbling up inside me boils over, and I reach out for my cousin's hand. I've never been this furious. I can't remember ever wanting to break things this badly.

For the first time, I let go of the control I hold over my emotions. Hazel tries to pull her hand away, but she's slow. Far, far slower than me. My fingers close around her frail wrist, and when she tries to pry them off, I ignore her.

The anger inside me feels alive, and I can feel it screaming to get out. I killed a wolf with no hesitation. Right now, as I look into my cousin's eyes, that anger wants to do so much more than kill. It doesn't want to end a threat. It wants my cousin to hurt.

There's fear in her eyes. Deep down, I know that it's that she's seeing me like everyone else does. The look in her eye is one I've seen too many times.

Wyrdling. She said the word. It's like a physical pain rips through me as I stare into her fear-stricken eyes, and she screams. Her hands claw at my fingers, but we both know she can't match my strength.

"Stop, Maeve! It hurts!" Her voice should pull me away from the ache that throbs in my breast. It should make me remember that I spent my childhood protecting her in the forests. I started hunting because I could make a little extra money to buy things in town for the two of us. She's the only person I've had in my life that cared about me. Her voice in pain should shake me out of the grip that my anger has on me.

But it doesn't.

Instead, it only gets worse. I want her to hurt. I want her to feel the pain that I've shouldered for all these years as people did anything they could to stay away from me. "Maybe your parents were right," I hiss. "Maybe I am dangerous." I tighten my grip on her wrist, and something shifts inside of me. The anger spikes, and then it's gone. She lets out a scream that's wrong .

Immediately, I let go of Hazel's wrist. Right where my fingers were, there are thin black lines, like smoke. They crawl up her arm, wrapping it in a spiderweb of hazy tendrils like a tattoo that's just a little fuzzy.

I look on in horror as her other hand claws at the smokey lines hard enough to draw blood. But the drops of blood aren't red. They're a midnight black like ink running down her wrist and falling to the floor of the kitchen.

She tries to scream again, but it comes out as a hiss. The lines keep climbing up her arm, slowly but surely. Hazel's eyes are filled with pure terror, no different from if she were watching a wolf bite her and was powerless to stop it.

For the first time in a very long time, I feel panic rush through me. What can I do? This is… not something I'm familiar with. I can't say the word even in my head. It would mean that everything that people have said is true. Magic.

That's when I know what to do. There's almost no chance it'll work, but almost no chance is better than nothing.

One of Hazel and my first lessons with Vesta was about the power of names. And the example she used was the Shade.

I fall to my knees, trying my best to ignore Hazel and the panic that's doing its best to fill me up. If Vesta was right, then if I pray hard enough, there's a chance that the Shade will hear me, and he's said to be able to fix almost anything. For a price.

Everyone has heard of the Shade. But Vesta taught us just how to call to him. She always said that if you could visualize someone well enough, and you put enough force into their name, you could draw them to you. She told us that the Shade was used to listening to those calls.

I close my eyes and envision the image I've always had of the Shade. A black-cloaked man whose head is bowed just slightly. He's quiet and barely moves. If he'd been anyone else, he'd probably fade into the background, except that he exudes shadow magic. Dark waves of inky shadows swirl around him like black water in a pool that only he's in.

"Please Shade, hear my plea," I say. "Save my cousin, Shade. I beg you." I focus on the image in my head, imagining the being whose name is both a curse and a cry of desperation. Everything in me does its best to will him into being, even though the likelihood that he'd help a simple human girl is impossibly low.

I look at my cousin, see those terrible lines crawling across her skin. Lines that I put there. Hazel's body contorts, her nails digging into her skin as she gasps for breath, and I don't know what to do. I've seen so many animals die from terrible wounds, and the only thing I could ever do was end their misery just a little faster. There's no doubt in my mind that my cousin is going to die, and there's nothing I can do for her. My hand goes to the belt knife at my waist, but I can't actually pull the knife from its sheath. Even though I see the fear and pain in her eyes, I can't slide the metal across her throat like I'd do for something I'd hunted. I can't kill my cousin even if it there's no saving her.

And then there's a subtle shifting in the air, like opening a window to a stuffy room. A sudden change in the pressure, and I know that he's here. Just like I'd known that there had been predators across the clearing today. In a single movement, I stand and whirl around to face the being that's both a legend and a nightmare. Everyone knows the rules of dealing with him.

He will grant you a favor if you call him, and in return, you will be in his debt forever until he calls it in. And there is no way to escape the debt. The only thing he promises not to require of his debtors is their lives.

And he's the only one who can help Hazel.

I've heard the stories my entire life, but I never realized how much they focused on his cloak. No one speaks of how my eyes are drawn to those shadows under his hood. They don't talk about how I feel compelled to reach out for that hood, to pull it down and look at that face that's forever shrouded in darkness.

The cloak is a simple thing, flat black linen like so many priests', but where theirs end above their shoes, the Shade's doesn't end. It simply flows into the shadows of the floor, almost becoming invisible. Even if I look specifically at it, I struggle to grasp an image of the shape of its hem.

"You are in need of a favor?" he asks. His voice feels old and haunting, like he's seen far more of the world than I ever will, and yet he's here. It snaps me out of my shock when I look down at Hazel. Her hand is at her throat, the black lines climbing up her neck.

She gasps for breath, but none comes to her, and I say, "Help my cousin. She… I did something, and now she's like this. Please. I'll give you anything or do anything you ask."

The cloaked figure walks by me, and the scent of cedar and salt assails my senses. He says nothing as he kneels down and runs his long, black-tinted nails over Hazel's face, never actually touching her skin with his fingers. That's when I realize his hands look normal other than the black tinted nails. Not like a monster.

Underneath that cloak hides a person. Or, more likely, one of the Fae.

Somehow, that thought is more frightening than a legend being in my house. Everyone knows how dangerous the Fae are. The miller's baby was stolen by them when she was barely a year old. Everyone's known someone who's been stolen away by them.

Yet, I know no human could help my cousin. Only a Fae could. That salt and cedar scent fills the room as he turns to me. "I cannot heal this. I can keep it from killing her… for now, but I cannot cure it completely."

"Do it," I say, knowing the cost is that I will owe the most dangerous being in Nyth anything he asks. "Don't let her die."

He nods to me, and the scent of cedar and salt gets even stronger as his nails trace the lines on Hazel's skin. And those lines stop moving. For the first time since she screamed, Hazel looks like she can breathe again. Her chest rises and falls slowly as the Shade and I both watch her.

She's going to live. But those lines aren't going away, and the cuts on her arm are still dripping inky-black blood onto the wooden floor.

The Shade runs his hand over her cuts, and they knit together and then disappear. But the lines remain. He stands up and faces me, and even without seeing his face, I know he's somber. "Your cousin will slowly get worse and will eventually die within the year. I only know of one being alive that can save her. Calyr the Gold. The only dragon still in this world."

A knot in my stomach tightens as I look at Hazel laying on the floor. No one's seen Calyr in centuries. "Your wrist," the Shade says.

Without looking away from Hazel, I lift my arm, presenting my wrist to him. My cousin is going to die because of me. Because I'm a Wyrdling. That's the only explanation. My mother was Fae, just like everyone said.

I look up at the Shade, staring into the shadows of his hood. "How could I accidentally do this?" I ask.

He takes my wrist softly, and instead of answering my question, he says, "This will hurt." He presses a black-tinted nail against my wrist, and for a moment, the world seems to take pause as he looks at me, his nail pressed against my skin. Then a searing pain flashes against my wrist for the briefest of moments.

He lets go of me, and I look at the mark that's left. A single tally mark in my skin, like a tattoo. Like the lines on Hazel's skin. Like a shadow, it moves ever so slightly as I stare at it. Never fully there.

It isn't a tattoo made of ink or a brand made of flame. It is a mark made of magic. The physical manifestation of an unbreakable vow that I will do as he says when he demands it.

Or I will die.

When I look up at the Shade, he says, "You are not the first to hurt someone accidentally. There is a reason that Wyrdlings hide from humans."

"Thank you," I whisper as I accept that every truth of my life is shattered.

The Shade, a being that knows so much more than I do, just confirmed my greatest fear. My cousin, the only person I care about in the world, is going to die within a year. My world is over.

I look down at Hazel as she stirs, and just like before, it's like someone's opened a window. When I try to find the Shade, he's gone.

The only proof that he was ever here is on my wrist, and I run my thumb over the little black mark. I don't know what I'm supposed to do, but there's no doubt that the life I expected to live is no longer possible.

Then I see my mother's ring laying on the floor beside Hazel. The only thing I have of hers. A simple silver ring shaped into a flower with a small black sphere in the center of the petals. Without a second thought, I bend down and pick it up, slipping it onto my finger instinctually.

And for the first time in years, I can't help but think about my mother. If I'm a Wyrdling, she was Fae. What kind of Fae? And why did she come here?