Chapter 1

Chapter 1

T he Solare training camps smelled of heat, sweat, and violence. To Fey, it smelled like home. She leaned her head further out the open window, savoring the scent of it. The sharp tang of body odor, the metallic bite of blood, scents as familiar to her as her own body. The gossamer fabric of her mask was thin enough that it did little to filter the smell of violence, and the scents from the soldiers training below were oddly comforting.

This had been her first home, after all. Her first real home. Much of the tall circular building that surrounded the Solare training yard was abandoned now, the dormitory-style rooms empty and gathering dust and spiders. This entire wing was abandoned, but Fey's old room was still here, tucked away just a few stories above where she and her sisters now waited.

A shame to let such a great building be so empty, Fey thought. A shame a realm in peace had so little use for an army.

"They're going to see you," Lilith warned. She sat away from the window, hidden from those training below, dressed in the same uniform as Fey. The uniforms of the Queen's Blades had changed very little in the last three hundred years—designed with thickened leather patches across the chest and legs, and thin pliable suede at the joints to allow for quick, easy movement. A matching mask covered the bottom of Lilith's face, and a dark cowl kept her raven black hair hidden so that only her sharp dark eyes were visible. A whetstone sat balanced on her thigh and as she spoke, she sharpened her blade against it.

It was a habit of Lilith's, sharpening her knives whenever they were idle for too long. Not a nervous habit, not really. Fey doubted Lilith had the capacity to be nervous. Angry, yes. Horny, frequently. But nervous? Never .

Fey snorted in response, making no effort to conceal herself as she gazed down at the chaos below. The sounds of the soldiers fighting hummed like music in her ears . Her muscles craved to join them, to fight.

"Then let them see me," she answered.

The scrape of Lilith's blade against the whetstone stopped, and Lilith sighed, annoyed.

"Joy, can you convince our sister to step away from the window?"

Leaning against the dirt and grime-coated wall, her eyes closed, Joy seemed lost in thought. Dust moats swirled, circling her, catching the light and dancing intricately close to her skin as they moved through the air around her. Even without thought or intention, Joy's power came out like this, the very air around her in constant motion and bending to her will. Fey had never known an Air primary as strong as Joy—it was as though the world itself swayed to the rhythm of her breath.

"You should know by now that I can't convince our sister to do anything, and neither can you," Joy answered, not bothering to open her eyes.

To an outsider, it would be impossible to tell the three of them apart. Joy's blonde wavy hair was hidden under her cowl, her face covered. Only the shade of their skin and the color of their eyes set the three of them apart. Joy's bright blue and full of laughter. Lilith's dark and brooding. And Fey's emerald green and flecked with brown.

With their names and even their abilities hidden from most in the realm, the Queen's Blades were faceless killers. The masks served not only to protect their identities but also made them more specter than Witch. They were a nightmare brought to life, something whispered to children to make them behave .

Go to sleep, or the Queen's Blades will find you .

Be good, or the Queen's Blades will get you.

Follow the edicts of the Goddess, or the Queen's Blades will hunt you.

Will hurt you.

Will kill you.

In their masks and their black leather uniforms, their arms covered in identical sigils, they were a match set. Three perfect assassins, virtually indistinguishable from one another.

Three, when there should have been four.

Fey took another deep breath, filling her lungs with the smell of the training yard. Joy opened a single eye to watch her.

"You miss it here, don't you?" she asked. No judgment, no scorn, just simple observation and curiosity.

"Sometimes," Fey answered truthfully. There were no lies between them, not now, not ever. "When I was here, I felt…" She struggled to put the feelings into words. "I felt like I was finally home. Accepted."

Joy's mask twitched slightly, and Fey knew she was smiling. Joy had a kind smile, one she gave to the world often and without artifice.

"Didn't you like it here?" Fey asked.

"No," Joy answered, without hesitation. "I didn't, not like you. It was…" Joy made a face, wrinkling her nose. "It was empty . Barren. There's no kindness here, no pleasure. Just…" She shrugged. "Just violence and pain."

Lilith snorted. "Sister, you kill for a living. All you know is violence and pain."

"It's different," Joy insisted. "What we do serves a purpose. It's necessary for the realm. But here? The infighting, the scrabbling for top marks. It was all so… empty. Pointless."

Fey could understand that, at least. The training grounds were full of raw power and emotion. Anger, pain, frustration. It was a brutal place. For Joy, who found pleasure and happiness in everything around her, who reached for the good in the world like a plant reaching for the sun, it would have been a dark place indeed.

By the time Fey had enlisted in the army, Joy was already a Blade, and their paths had never crossed during her time at Solare. None of their paths had crossed before they had become Blades. Before they became sisters.

"What about you? What did you think of your time here?" Fey asked Lilith.

Lilith paused to assess her knife's edge, twisting the blade in her hand to catch the light. Then, satisfied, she slipped it back into the sheath on her thigh and pulled its twin from the identical sheath on her other leg to begin the process all over again.

"What does it matter? Liked it, hated it, it's in the past." The blade purred against the whetstone while she worked. "I am a Queen's Blade. Who I was before? That person is dead and gone. This is what I am now, and that's all that matters."

Joy rolled her eyes in Lilith's direction and pushed herself from the wall. Her shoulder bumped against Fey's as she joined her at the window.

"Can you see him down there?" she asked eagerly.

Fey sighed. "Not yet."

There were whispers among the Queen's Guard that Dameon would be inspecting the soldiers in Solare today. While it was part of his duties as the Queen's right hand and something he deigned to do every few months, this visit would be different. On this visit, he would be looking for a new Witch to join their ranks.

A new sister to be inducted into the Queen's Blades.

Joy's eyes danced across the training yard, bouncing between groups, and stopped. "There." She pointed, extending her hand out the window.

The training yard was divided into groups. Soldiers of different skills and different elements, clustered together under the watchful eyes of the Queen's generals. Though the vast majority of those below were Witches, there were groups of men scattered among them. They may lack power over any of the elements, but force was force, and the Queen rarely turned away a willing soldier, regardless of sex.

But Joy was pointing to a small group, a handful of Witches training in hand-to-hand combat. They were paired together, slowly practicing their motions, as a familiar figure moved among them, assessing.

Even at this distance, his features barely visible, Fey recognized Dameon, their handler. He had once been one of the Queen's most highly ranked generals, though he spent little time here in the training yard with the soldiers these days. No, his job was more specialized. For the last ten years, Dameon had been the face of the Queen's Guard, her right-hand general—and their trainer. When he spoke, he spoke with the voice of the Crown itself, and he was the one who pointed the Queen's Blades in the direction her justice was required.

He was the one who sent them to kill.

Fey liked Dameon as much as she liked any man. She respected him, at least, despite the rumors of how he had advanced so quickly through the ranks. Since his promotion to the Queen's personal guard years ago, it had been whispered behind his back that he bore an uncanny resemblance to the young Princess Amalia, the Queen's heir, and good money said he was the girl's father. There were a great number among the aristocrats who believed Queen Edelin had him promoted to the role to keep him close to her bedchamber. But he was a good general, a good soldier, and a great trainer. He kept the four of them in impeccable shape, kept them bloodthirsty and ready.

No, Fey corrected herself, swallowing the pain the thought conjured. Not four, not anymore .

If Dameon were here, that meant they wouldn't be three for long. They would be complete once again.

Fey watched the group of Witches he instructed closely. One of them could be their next sister.

Moving from some unheard command, the Witches stopped their training, separating from their pairs to form a circle. Fey watched as Dameon motioned for two of the Witches to enter the ring. Immediately, they both took up fighting stances, circling one another, looking for an opening.

"Can you see any of them? How do they look?" Lilith asked, glancing up from her sharpening.

They were too far away to make out much of the fight, but Fey knew the moves like it was a dance she'd performed a hundred times. The fight was quick and messy. Unimpressive, to say the least. Fey only snorted, and behind her, Lilith laughed darkly.

The winner declared, two more moved forward to begin their fight. Fey and Joy watched them together, leaning against the windowsill, not needing to speak.

It was the fourth fight that finally caught their interest. It was fast, even faster than the first, and when a dark-skinned Witch with auburn hair was pinned to the ground it should have signified the end of the match. But she refused to yield. She fought and bucked against her partner, who looked briefly at Dameon for help. That was all the opening the Witch needed to strike. She freed a hand, gathering a fistful of sandy earth and throwing it in her opponent's face. The victor reared back, hands going to her eyes, and the auburn-haired Witch grabbed her by the neck and slammed their heads together.

Fey barked a surprised laugh, and next to her, Joy squealed in delight. The victor went down hard, and even from up here, three floors above the training grounds, they could hear her scream with indignation and pain.

Dameon was shouting, but the Witch refused to stop. She tackled the victor, fighting like a crazed animal as the girl shouted for help.

Lilith appeared next to them in the window to watch, her dark eyes sparkling.

"That's the one," she said, as below them Dameon fought to restrain the auburn-haired Witch. Fought and nearly failed.

"Oh yes," agreed Fey. "She's the one, alright."

"So," Joy clapped her hands together excitedly. "Who wants to go meet our new sister?"

Fey went, of course.

Somehow, these problems always landed on her shoulders.

She waited outside the grand arched entrance to Solare, leaning her back against the cool stone building. The afternoon sun hung heavy in the sky above her, and the small lip of shade she sheltered in was quickly fading.

A bell tolled from the palace, announcing the midday hour, and the sounds of fighting and training within the arena faded as soldiers dispersed for lunch, flowing from Solare, and out into the afternoon sun.

Fey was quickly spotted, and soon a crowd gathered around her, with soldiers openly staring as they left the training yards. Though only her eyes were visible through the mask, her blood-red hair pulled back and covered by her cowl, there was no mistaking what she was. No mistaking the sigils that covered her arms and the dark tattoo of the Queen's Blade that marked the inside of her left forearm.

She was the best of them, the highest rank of soldier under the Crown.

She was a monster.

Fey suspected for many of them, this was their first time seeing one of the Queen's Blades in the flesh. Was it any wonder they stopped and stared? If they were lucky, this would be the only time they ever saw her. If they were unlucky, she would be the last thing they ever saw.

Most of the Witches bowed their heads reverently as they passed, but a few—mostly the men—paused long enough to bow more formally, bending long and low at the waist. She ignored them, not bothering to spare any of them a passing glance. She simply waited, silent and cold as the stone against her back.

Her sisters had gone back to the palace—Lilith to prepare for her assignation, and Joy to get in a bout of training. That just left her alone, waiting for Dameon.

Fey forced down the frustration rising in her chest. There was an emptiness inside her, a piece that was missing. And Dameon—Dameon was dragging his feet. He was failing in his duty, failing to keep them whole.

It had always been this way, ever since the beginning. The Queen's Blades were a group of four Witches—powerful, cunning, and deadly. There had always been four, and for three hundred years when a Blade fell, another was picked to take her place.

But now?

It had been just over a month since Alice's death—since the four of them were reduced to three.

Alice had been the oldest but was still only thirty-five when she was murdered. The Queen's Blades don't live long happy lives. They don't get a happily ever after and don't get their names recorded in the history books. They don't even get proper funerals.

No one had known that better than Alice. She had seen other sisters rise and fall, seen too much blood and death in her brief life.

Hell, Fey thought, they all had.

Alice had been careful, always so careful. Guarded, but never with her sisters. She was their pillar of strength, their leader, and their friend.

And now she was gone. Her absence was a constant physical pain in Fey's chest.

Dameon spotted her immediately the moment he left the training yard. He was handsome, middle-aged but still well within his prime, with brown hair that had only the barest hint of silver peppering his temples. Handsome even with the scar that split his face, running down his face in a diagonal slash—the remnants of a fight with a Bear Shifter from his time as a foot soldier, Fey had heard.

"What's her name?" Fey asked immediately, ignoring the surrounding crowd and pushing away from the wall to approach him.

Dameon sighed. "Good to see you too, Fey," he said, his voice quiet enough that none of the spectators could overhear.

It didn't matter that she was in full uniform, didn't matter that she looked nearly identical to her sisters. Dameon knew each of them, knew their stance, knew their postures.

"Her name, Dameon."

"Why yes, Fey, it is a lovely day out, so nice of you to notice. How am I, you ask? Fucking terrific, thanks for asking. Just in the middle of doing my Goddess-damned job." He paused, watching her, and the scar across his face twitched as he clenched his teeth together tightly. "You're not supposed to be here, Fey. You and your sisters aren't involved in this."

"You're picking my next sister. How can we not be involved?"

"Because that's not how this works, and you know it." His voice held a sharp bite. "I pick the candidates for the Queen's Blades. I hand deliver them to the three of you for their trials when I'm ready. That's my job, not yours."

Fey snorted a laugh. "Don't pull rank with me, Dameon. You won't like how it ends. "

It wasn't an idle threat, and he knew it. While Dameon was their handler and their trainer, he was no Blade. He wasn't even a Witch. And no one, save for the Queen herself, outranked the Blades. A spark of anger flashed in Dameon's eyes, but he smothered it quickly enough Fey could almost convince herself she'd imagined it. He sighed, running a hand through his hair.

"You still shouldn't be here. Do you know what sort of rumors it sparks when a Blade is seen in the open like this? Do you know how frightened some of those soldiers are?"

Fey chuckled. She glanced at the few groups still standing around the Solare entrance, gaping at her. "Frightened? They seemed more awestruck than frightened."

"You and your sisters are to keep to the palace when you're not on assignation. You know this. Fuck the Goddess, Fey, what were you thinking?"

"It's not my job to care about frightening your soldiers," Fey snapped back. "The Crown doesn't employ me to consider people's feelings ."

Dameon laughed. "You're starting to sound like Lilith, you know that?"

"What's her name?" Fey repeated.

For a moment, she wondered if he'd play dumb. If he'd pretend not to know who she meant. But Dameon, bossy and pigheaded though he may be, wasn't stupid.

"Willow. Her name is Willow," he answered with a resigned grunt. "Come on, walk with me. You need to get back to the palace. You're expected at the Queen's side tonight."

They walked together across the palace yard. The remaining soldiers parted around them, giving them ample space.

"What's her element?"

"Fire and Earth," Dameon answered. "I've had my eye on her for a while now, for that alone. There's less than a handful of soldiers who command two elements left." He scratched at the stubble on his jaw. "She reminds me of you, you know."

Beneath the mask, Fey's lips curled in a smile. Fire and Earth would give her the exact opposite elemental powers as Fey. "Why?" she asked .

"Stubborn. Fierce. Never taps out, even when she should. You saw it, I assume? Her sparring partner had her dead to rights in the first few seconds, but she just wouldn't give up."

"I saw," Fey answered.

"And your sisters?"

Her smile grew. "They saw too."

"It's not always a good thing, Fey. She doesn't know when to quit, doesn't know when she's lost."

"She didn't lose," Fey said, and Dameon cocked his head toward her, frowning. "She didn't lose," Fey repeated.

"Her opponent had her on the ground in under a minute. That's a loss."

"In Solare, maybe. But for a Blade?" Fey shook her head. "You don't lose until you're dead, Dameon. There's no fighting dirty, there are no rules to break, no decorum. She wouldn't give up, even when she was beaten. That's not a loss to me, that's a win. That's what we need. That's what the realm needs."

When Dameon said nothing, she continued. "You should bring her to us for her trials. She's the one, Dameon. No one else we saw today even came close."

When he didn't answer, her patience snapped. She stopped, forcing him to stop alongside her. "It's been a month, Dameon. We're tired of waiting for you to make your move. A month. We're not…" She searched for the words, searched for a way to convey the emptiness left inside them. "We're not whole with only three."

Dameon clenched his jaw but nodded.

"Fine. Consider it done," he conceded. "I'll bring her to you within the week for her trial. But if she fails, Fey…"

"She won't," Fey answered.

She couldn't.

"Go on—" Dameon nodded toward the path leading toward the palace entrance. The white marble doors stood open, flanked by a pair of the Queen's guards. "You're needed at the party tonight."

"You're not coming?"

Dameon smirked. "Blessed be the Goddess, no. I have other business to attend to tonight." He motioned toward Lunairea, the massive crescent-shaped building on the palace's other side that housed the generals' quarters. "I have a meeting with the generals."

He motioned her toward the palace and turned to leave, but Fey stood rooted to the ground, studying him. She chewed the inside of her cheek, a question pounding against her chest.

"Do you ever miss her?" she asked, finally, and before the words had fully left her mouth, she saw Dameon stiffen, his shoulders tense. Alice's name hung between them, unspoken.

He kept his back to her. His voice was dark when he answered. "Miss who, Your Grace?"

His answer was a warning.

We don't speak of the dead.

Fey took the hint. She left him without another word and went to find her remaining sisters.