Chapter 1

Iimagine the taste of their blood on my teeth.

My throat burns with the thought of it dripping over the swells of my lips and rushing down my neck like cardinal veins. One tiny kill is all it would take, and I would be free.

She tugs on the chains secured to my throat, and I jerk from the sharp sting of the iron collar. I glare at the back of the head in front of me—a woman with a long brown braid resting against her light, improvised armor. Her leather skins don't stand a chance against kingdom steel; foolish to attempt this, even for them. I hiss at the iron shackles binding my wrists—the metal searing my skin, reacting to the chaos simmering just beneath my flesh. If only I could yank her head by that pretty braid.

"We're closing in. Stay alert. Stay alive," Cathal calls from up ahead. There are many of us, maybe a few hundred, maybe more. Not nearly enough, not even with me as leverage.

"Ya hear that, witch?" brown braid smirks over her shoulder. "Almost there."

Leaves crunch beneath my naked feet like snapping bones. I could dislocate my thumbs, slip my hands through the cuffs of the toxic metal and flee, but they'd come after me.

They always come.

I glimpse Cathal's head bobbing towards us, his silhouette dark against the backdrop of moonlit alders and the midnight sky. He stops when he reaches brown braid and spins to walk alongside us. A dark beard hugs his squared-off jaw, and his blue eyes rake over my body in disgust. I ball my fists at the sight of their leader, my nails digging in deep enough to coax blood from my palms.

"Attack with vigor. Get them on you and that one," Cathal spits with a nod in my direction.

"Understood, Your Grace." Your Grace?

"I can't cast while in iron," I interject. They know this, so why—

"Margalo will take care of that," he says, shooting her a knowing look before continuing up ahead. Cathal disappears into the horde of Legion soldiers—men and women armored in thick animal skins. Leather that will do little to protect them from swords forged from the highest quality steel.

I almost smile at the mental images of them being slaughtered like cattle. Almost, because even that is too merciful an end for these monsters. A rebellion that dwells in darkened forests and preys on those unfortunate enough to cross their camps.

I trip on a loose rock and stumble forward, my hands sinking into the mud to break my fall. Margalo shoots me a warning glare and yanks me upright with a quick tug of my chains.

"I'm gonna let ‘em wound ya first, witch. Make sure you're fired up for ‘em," she says.

Cathal's words replay in my ears, and their plan clicks in my head. I assumed they were intending on using me as a bargaining chip—exchanging me for leniency—but I realize they're even more feeble-minded than I gave them credit for. When we near Castle Scarwood, brown braid—Margalo—is going to push us into the front lines, guaranteeing physical combat between them and us and triggering my survival instinct. And for someone like me, survival means bloodshed. A sure win for Legion, the rebellion that captured me a fortnight ago.

One flick.

One little flick of my wrist and her head would explode. My palms rub against each other with eagerness, but even if the iron wasn't suffocating my ability to cast, the consequences would be many more head explosions than just brown braid Margalo's. Because one is never enough. Not for someone like me. When my kind decides to kill, there is no washing the cherry red stain from our palms, no wiping the cardinal splatter from our chins.

The turrets draw a jagged line through the darkened sky, and judging from the height of them, we are less than half the hour from castle borders. My brain racks itself for a plan. When Margalo releases me from these chains, I cannot begin casting. One body is all it would take. One person's blood in my fingernails, and it would mean the extinction of my humanity.

I could attempt to flee. If I didn't hesitate and bolted the second my chains hit the ground, maybe, just maybe, I would be fast enough to make it through the fighting before a kingdom arrow finds my spine.

Shouts from ahead snap me back to focus. Margalo plants her feet in the dirt, and I stumble to a halt behind her as Legion battle cries carry the others charging forward, the metallic clashing of swords clattering in my ears. Fire claims the ground around us, no doubt ignited from the kingdom's flaming arrows. My lungs warm with an intake of the wispy gray perfume, and the smoke stings my eyes like burning mugwort. And then we're moving again as Margalo races ahead, my body betraying me by following behind, the chains of my iron collar attached to her waist.

Margalo draws the sword from her hip. I pull furiously against my chains, but it is futile. With a rapid lunge, a kingdom soldier slaps his sword against Margalo's, and they begin to dance, me stumbling behind like a broken marionette. I focus on Margalo's movements and mirror my steps to hers—left, right, down, left again—but when she suddenly dodges a blow I don't see coming, I am too late, and my right shoulder is pierced by the needle-like tip of his blade. I don't stifle my scream and half double over, now really being rocked in all directions by Margalo's erratic movements. The rusty scent of my own blood flares my nostrils, and my lips curl into a snarl.

"Now!" I screech. My vision blurs—from the smoke, loss of blood, or my own fury, I am unsure—but I hear as she slices our attacker with a final blow, his body slumping to the ground as she withdraws her weapon from his gut. She spins on her heels to face me, ripping a cord from her neck. Attached to the end of it is a key she jams it into the lock binding my collar together, and again at my wrists. I grind my teeth when the iron falls from me, the metal leaving a nasty purple singe everywhere it tasted my skin.

Free. I am free.

"Sic ‘em, girl!" Margalo shouts to me.

Power rushes to my arms, my palms, flushing out the frozen pockets left behind from the stifling metal and heating it to a dangerous warmth. A heat I could unleash onto all of them. I could slaughter this entire Legion brigade in a blink before having to stop and lap the blood from their oozing wounds.

But I can't. I haven't come this far, endured this much to throw my humanity away. And certainly not because brown braid Margalo is ordering me to.

I don't think—there is no time to think. I throw my left hand above my head and charge towards the silhouetted line of kingdom soldiers, hollering to their armed shadows.

"Stop! Help me—I'm a prisoner! I'm their prisoner!"

Arms wrap around my chest from behind, and I howl from the pressure against my punctured shoulder. My back presses against smooth plated armor—a kingdom soldier then. My mouth goes dry as my vision tunnels in and out. A soldier charges towards us, waving his hands frantically as he yells to the one holding me, but his words are lost in the pounding of blood in my ears. Everything is black, then a sudden splash of color as my eyes fly open again, fighting to remain alert, to remain in control.

Is it happening? Am I still me? Or have I lost my own war against her, the monster that has hidden deep in my flesh since I was born?

The pain in my shoulder dulls, and the soldier vanishes from view. Shame. I wanted to try to read the words on his lips—to see if they believed my plight. Everything gently fades away—no trace the kingdom ever existed; no sign Legion ever dared to challenge them. Maybe she isn't so evil then, if she washes away the pain of reality so effortlessly. And with that comfort—the thought of not even existing flickering in the remains of my consciousness—everything goes silent, and I bury myself in her.