Chapter 1

" W hat do you need me to do?"

I stare at the elf before me in stunned silence, surprised he's agreeing to help me so easily. Did I expect him to say no? No, I knew he would help me, just not so readily. His feline eyes narrow slightly as he waits for a response, and I shake my head to get my thoughts in gear. He's just agreed to work with his enemy, to the point that it's delaying his own escape.

Our races are at war, and have been for over a millennium, so he has no reason to trust me, yet he is. Or, at least, enough to work with me until I have the strength to break the spell in his remaining magical cuff, which is binding him here.

"For now, I need you to act like nothing has changed," I instruct, watching his face for any clue as to what he's thinking. Like all elves, he has exquisite features. His dazzling green eyes almost glow in the flickering orange light from the forge. Long, silver hair cascades past his shoulders, held back from his face by a braided and secured with a leather tie. His delicately pointed ears poke through his hair, marking him for what he is.

He continues to watch me, his face giving nothing away. I run my eyes over his broad shoulders and down his arm to his wrists, where I frown at the cuffs that encase them.

"Do you think they'll notice one of your cuffs doesn't have magic in it anymore?"

He follows my gaze and lifts his wrist with the now plain stone manacle. The stone restraints don't look like much, certainly not enough to keep an elf captive considering their supernatural strength, however, these cuffs have magical symbols carved into them, and it's those symbols that keep him here. Not only that, but they force him to create elven weaponry to be used against his own kind. When I managed to somehow remove the spell from one of the cuffs, those symbols disappeared.

"I don't think so." His accented voice rolls over me, and I have to fight the urge to move closer to him, that strange pull between us making itself known again. I know he feels it too, as his eyes jump up to mine, but I push it down and reach out to touch the cuff.

He moves as if to pull away, instinctively reacting to the thought of my touch, but stops himself when he realises what he's doing. Raising my eyes to his, I wait, my fingers hovering above his skin. For what, I'm not sure, but when he inclines his head, I reach out again. Touching the stone, I run my fingers over the unblemished surface of the now magicless cuff. It looks like it's been made out of one piece and is completely seamless. My brow furrows as I wonder how they managed to get it on before I shake my head as I think of the obvious answer—magic. Glancing over at the cuff that still contains magic, I see the symbols glowing softly.

I look up from his wrists and almost jolt back when I realise how close he is. He's wearing a strange expression, one I can't quite work out. It's almost like he's in pain. "Is it hurting you?"

There's a pause before he shakes his head and leans back slightly, putting more space between us. We're still kneeling on the cold stone floor, but I don't care, and he doesn't seem to either as we stare at each other.

"Not really," he finally murmurs. "It stings a bit. It's trying to force me to keep working, but now that the other one doesn't work, it's not as strong. I can resist it." There is a slight note of awe in his voice as he comes to terms with what's happened.

I managed to break the magical spell in his restraint that had been keeping him here for over a century. I have no magic, or at least that's what High Mage Grayson keeps telling me, and they believe my ability to sense and amplify magic is a gift from the Great Mother, our Goddess. Although, I haven't told him that I've always been able to sense when someone uses magic, it's just so much stronger since the blessing. Before then, I hadn't realised the odd feeling I would get—the tingling, creeping sensation that would crawl over my skin—was magic. I'd just put it down to intuition. Since the blessing, however, I've learned that it was more than that. The fact I had been able to break this spell, one so strong it had contained an elf for that length of time, is hard to get my head around.

Until recently, I had been a slave, punished for an unknown crime I committed when I was eight years old.

In our culture, when we reach our twentieth birthday, we have to attend what is known as the choosing ceremony where we are blessed by the Great Mother. We believe that without this blessing, our souls are lost and we, in turn, become soulless monsters. No slave has ever reached the age of twenty, until me, always dying from exhaustion, injury, or illness before they could, so I hadn't known that slaves are exempt from this blessing. Now I've learned slaves are forbidden to attend, and instead they're executed.

I was rescued from this death sentence when Grayson, a high mage, had a vision directly from the Great Mother herself. In it, he learned I am vital to the outcome of the war, so I was given a fake identity and received the blessing.

The priests who guide our religion have a lot of power and sway, and many of our laws are dictated by them. Along with teaching about the Mother, they also determine punishments for those who have committed a crime. They were not pleased I escaped my execution, reluctantly agreeing to a new arrangement, but only if I continued to work for them. Part of that arrangement involved me labouring in the bowels of the castle, cleaning a secret underground room.

Except this was no ordinary room. This was a forge, and the blacksmith was an elf.

Vaeril.

The priests hoped that the elf would kill me like he had his other minders, but for some reason, he didn't.

A deep, booming sound fills the air around us, startling me back to the present as the castle seems to shake around us. Yanking my hand away from the elf, I look up at the high ceiling, my heart pounding in my chest. Before I was dragged down here, the king murdered his wife, the queen, and ordered the mass slaughter of all slaves. As a result, a fight had broken out in the main courtyard. I assume the unrest has escalated, and that's what is causing the trembling of the castle around us. No one other than the priests know I'm down here. If the ceiling collapses, I doubt they will come to find me.

Vaeril makes a noise, so I pull my weary gaze from the ceiling to look at him. He's scanning the room, his eyes taking in every little detail, searching for threats as he drops into a defensive stance, eyeing the closed door between us and the guards who block our exit.

"They are going to kill us, you said so yourself," he comments, his posture straightening as the noises quiet down and he realises that, for now, we are safe. "What's your plan?"

He's right, they're going to kill us next, just like all those slaves who were massacred. Not to mention the queen. I can still see her face in my mind, her defiant expression before the king sliced her neck like a butcher would slaughter a pig. Her corpse untied and thrown to the floor with total disregard.

"I'm not sure." I wish I sounded more confident, and I wish I had a plan, but all I have is the Mother's guidance. I am so far out of my depth that I feel like I'm drowning, but She hasn't let me down thus far, I just need to trust in her. Vaeril, however, doesn't have the same reassurance. Narrowing his eyes, he takes a step towards me, and I instinctively move back with my heart in my throat as my mortal enemy stares down at me. Seeing my fear makes him pause, his frown deepening.

"When I said I would trust you, I thought you had a plan." His voice is clipped. I'd been expecting him to shout, I can see the anger and frustration in his expression, but he's really attempting to tone it back. Why? Because he saw my fear? Why would he care? As if on cue, the strange, pulling bond between us pulses, and from the widening of his eyes, I know he felt it too.

So many questions. I wish I had answers, that I knew what to do, but I don't. So, I do the only thing I can. Taking a deep breath, I drop to my knees, close my eyes, and pray.

"Great Mother, I pray you hear me, guide me. What should I do?"

I can hear him moving around me, and the sound of the fire crackling in the forge, but I block them out, focusing on that place inside me where the Goddess seems to reside. Her presence immediately floods my body, and I feel the vastness of her love for me. It's overwhelming. That capacity for unconditional love is something I don't understand. Why now? Why has the Mother decided to show herself to me only in the last few weeks? Is it because she needs me to perform this task for her? I still don't even know exactly what I will need to do, only that I need to stay with Grayson. I shouldn't question Her, but I've learned the hard way that kindness isn't free.

I have always been here, my beloved.

Her voice echoes in my head, and images start to flash through my mind. That little push, the instinct that would tell me not to take a certain corridor, or to wait an extra couple of minutes before walking back to the slave quarters—that had all been Her protecting me. I should feel embarrassed I had doubted her, but she soothes the thought away. A feeling floods through my system, and I know what we need to do.

The Goddess's presence fades, and I open my eyes. I don't know how much time has passed, it feels like only minutes, but I'm sure it was longer since I see Vaeril over by the forge, working on a new piece of weaponry. I don't move, but he seems to know I've finished praying, his eyes flicking over to where I kneel. As he meets my gaze, he puts down whatever he was working on, his stare unwavering.

Pushing up from the floor, I brush off my skirt. It's ripped and tattered around the hem from when I was dragged around by the guards earlier, so I don't know why I try to save it—habit, I suppose, because you have to make clothing last as long as possible as a slave. I walk over to the work bench and come to a stop on the other side. I'm opposite Vaeril, the bench acting as a buffer between us.

"You pray." It's not a question, but I nod anyway. He pauses and seems to mull over something. "And did your Goddess answer?"

My eyebrow shoots up at the inquiry. "You know about the Great Mother?"

He snorts, a slight glint of humour lighting his eyes, but it's gone after a second and I think I've imagined it. "I've been trapped here for over a hundred years, and those guards are not exactly quiet." He inclines his head towards the closed door, where even I can hear the murmurings of male voices without the benefit of his supernatural hearing. Shock floods my system. Over a hundred years. I'd known this already, but it always surprises me. My eyes run over him as I try to judge his age. He doesn't appear any older than mid-thirties at the latest, but his looks make it difficult to judge. "Besides, we know of your Goddess, she's in our teachings," he continues, interrupting my musings and surprising me once again. Filing that information away for a later date, I make a note to ask about how he knows of my Goddess.

He picks up the item he'd been working on and twists it in his hands, holding it up to the light as he assesses it with a critical eye. This whole situation is surreal. Here we are, having a chat, and he's working on weapons for our captors as if we aren't plotting our escape with our impending deaths hanging over us. However, I can see the tension in his shoulders and around his eyes. He's as stressed as I am.

"You learn a lot if you pay attention," he murmurs, and I nod in agreement. I learned that firsthand. People don't seem to see slaves, so their tongues are looser and they say things they wouldn't around other people. Part of how I managed to survive twelve years of enslavement was by listening to the ridiculous situations these people seemed to get themselves into.

"Are you going to tell me what she said?" he queries, after the silence between us stretches, an edge in his tone as he narrows his eyes. "You are asking a lot from me."

He's right, and I wish I had a better answer for him.

"Yes, I am." Taking a deep breath, I look up at him, meeting his gaze. "All I know is that we are exactly where we're supposed to be."

He barks out a laugh, but there's no humour behind it. His face twists in anger as he lowers the weapon and braces his hands against the workbench, his knuckles turning white as he grips the surface. With the furnace behind him, the red glow makes him look even more supernatural than usual as he leans towards me. It's then that I remember who I'm talking to—an elf. The murderer of my kind.

"You believe that's enough for me to put all my trust in you?" he spits, and I instinctively take a step back before something inside me hardens. No, I won't back away from anyone ever again. The old me, 625, would cower away, but I am not her anymore. I am Clarissa, beloved of the Great Mother, and I'm stronger than they let me believe.

"It's going to have to be," I retort with a strength I didn't know I had. "I'm not strong enough to break the spell on the other cuff yet," I tell him honestly. I'm still not sure how I did it in the first place, but a deep exhaustion is creeping up on me. I know that if I tried to break the spell now, I would suffer for it and pay a price I'm not willing to pay. "I'm not sure when I'll be back," I say, remembering the carnage in the courtyard above us. I don't know when the priests will bring me back here, but I'm sure they will, they enjoy my suffering too much to stop. "But I will be back, and when I am, I will have a plan to get us out of here." My voice is absolute, sure, and I wish I was as certain about this as I sound.

He's watching me intently, and after a few painfully quiet seconds, he nods in agreement. I release the breath I hadn't even realised I'd been holding. He picks up his weapon once again, holding it up as he examines it, his brow pulled into a frown that is starting to become familiar.

"What kind of weapon is that?"

He looks at me with a blank expression, as if deciding whether or not to answer. "It's a zecharthe." The word is completely unknown to me, and as I try to speak it, the foreign word sticks on my tongue.

"Zech… Zereeef…"

I stop when I see the smallest upturn of his lip and realise he's laughing at me. Snorting, I focus on the weapon as my cheeks tinge pink with my embarrassment. It's silver in colour, the blade coming up and arching into a curve, the honed edge glistening in the light, and I just know it's wickedly sharp. There are engravings on the flat of the blade, and I can't help but admire how beautiful it is.

"Why do you make it so beautiful? Why add the carvings if it's for your enemy?"

"The carvings have magic in them, the only magic these allow me." He raises his wrist, indicating his cuffs. "I am forced to produce weapons to the best of my ability, I have no choice. It is how I was taught."

This is the first mention of his own magic, and it makes me curious about his elven power works. Again, I've heard the stories, but I've never seen it or had anyone to ask about it before. I open my mouth to voice my questions, but I back out at the last second, choosing a safer topic instead. "Why a curved blade?"

"If you are proficient in this type of blade, it is deadly. Look." He raises the weapon and, slowly, angles it towards me. I see how he would do it, the blade would easily slice through my throat.

A huge, booming noise has us freezing again, but it's much closer this time. The guards' shouts travel through the closed doors and fear rises up inside me. Has the fighting reached us? The sounds get closer and I spin to face the entrance where the commotion is coming from.

The doors suddenly fly open as if a great gust of wind has forced them apart. Out of the gloom of the darker entryway, Grayson storms towards us with three other people dressed in the same clothing as him. It's as if everything is moving in slow motion. I watch as he punches Vaeril and knocks the curved blade out of the elf's hand. I see his cloak billowing behind him as his face twists in anger. Grayson's arm flies out ashis face twists, shouting something in a language I don't recognise, as the feeling of magic makes the air thick around us.

All of a sudden, time seems to speed up, and I hear a choking noise behind me. Spinning, I see Vaeril frozen in place with a look of hatred on his face as he snarls at the magicians, and it's then I realise what's happened. Grayson seems like he's trying to control his anger as the three other magicians come to stand with him, their expressions ranging from concern to fury. They aren't just any magicians. Their dark blue uniforms and golden lined cloaks mark them for who they are—high magicians. Grayson brought the high magicians to rescue me.

Mother above . Is this what She told me to wait for? It sure makes things more complicated.

Vaeril makes another choking noise, and I know I have to stop this before it gets out of hand. Grayson thought the elf was trying to hurt me, but he wasn't, and I need to explain that.

"Stop," I demand as I rush forward, Grayson's arms immediately wrapping around me as I reach him. I can hear Vaeril gasp for air as he leans against the workbench. The feeling of comfort and home fills me as I inhale Grayson's scent. I hadn't realised how much I missed him. He's only been away a couple of days, but it suddenly hits me as I'm wrapped in his arms. I've never felt this before... missing someone… or being missed by someone.

"Clarissa, you're okay," he whispers, as he presses his face into my hair, seeming to calm with each deep breath he takes. A part of me feels complete here in his arms, and that scares me, but right now, I don't care. "I won't let him hurt you."

A hissing noise fills my ears, like that of a cat being cornered, and I pull away from Grayson's embrace to see the other three high magicians facing off against Vaeril, their hands raised and glowing with magic. The feel of that magic is so strong it's hard to breathe, but the cold dread lining my stomach makes me move.

"Stop," I shout, but my voice comes out in a croak. When I turn back to Grayson, he's frowning down at me. His hand is still resting on my shoulder, like he can't bear to break contact, and as I look up at him, I place my hand against his chest, my fingers forming into a fist and gripping his clothes. "Please, stop them. He wasn't trying to hurt me." I'm not quite sure why I sound so breathless and desperate. I don't care for the elf, but that little part inside me, that pull we feel between us, is screaming that if I let him die, I will never be the same again.

"He's the enemy, Clarissa, he never should have been here in the first place." There is a slight growl in his voice, and I can hear his hate for Vaeril. His eyes seem to sharpen, and for a moment I think he's going to go into euisa, the killing trance, but he shakes his head, his eyes running over my face. "He was always going to die. Seeing him with that blade raised against you…" His body seems to shudder as I pull away from him.

"No." I refuse to let them kill him, and right now, I'm standing between him and the elf. I hope Grayson will come to understand, but the blind hatred in his expression as he lifts his gaze to the elf tells me all I need to know at the moment.

Turning, I see the other high magicians have formed a semi-circle facing Vaeril, and although they don't seem to be doing anything, I can feel their magic in the air. The air continues to thicken as they gather a huge amount of magic, enough to kill.

"No!" I shout again, and before I know what I'm doing, I'm running over to stand in front of Vaeril as I throw both my hands up to deflect the magical blow.

Suddenly, everything looks different as I seem to have an out of body experience. Grayson is running towards me, his eyes wide and horrified as he realises what is about to happen. Two of the magicians make sharp gestures with their hands and stagger back, as if trying to recall their magic. The magician in the middle, the one who was gathering the magic, I realise, swears and attempts to stop his spell mid-action, but it's too late. A bright blue ball of light flashes before my eyes as it shoots towards me. Vaeril curses in elvish and wraps his arms around me as if to pull me away, but the magic is travelling too fast.

My body convulses and falls to the ground as the magic hits me. It doesn't hurt, but it overwhelms my senses, igniting every nerve ending as it works its way through my frame. I hear someone cry out, and someone else calls my name, while others shout prayers to the Mother, but I can't make sense of what's happening or who said what. I get the impression that this level of magic should kill me, yet I don't feel like I'm dying, I feel… powerful. Just as that thought hits me, the energy seems to drain out of my body.

I've never felt so tired before. My limbs feel like I have rocks strapped to them, the weight making it difficult to move. Unconsciousness threatens to overtake me, and for a second, I crave the dark void it offers, but voices pull at my senses, and I know I need to wake up.

"Let go of her, elf," Grayson snarls, and from the tightness in his voice, I realise he's close to snapping. I can hear someone talking softly to him, trying to stop him from going into euisa. It's not something that can be taught, but the magicians, our protectors, use it often when they fight for us in the war against the elves.

"You think I would hurt her? A girl?" Vaeril spits, his hand lightly flexing on my shoulder. I should be disgusted at that, being touched by my enemy, but I'm not. "You just tried to kill your own kind," he growls, sounding more animal than man. There's a pause followed by the sound of shifting feet.

"We were trying to kill you," a cultured, older voice replies. "The girl is Goddess blessed, we wouldn't dream of hurting her." He sounds earnest, and although I don't know him, I get the impression he's someone I can trust, and he seems truly sorry that I was hit by the magic.

"Well you did." The elf slides his hand down my arm, removing the cuff from my left wrist and exposing the marks there—the slave mark, the mirror of the one on the bottom of my spine, the three black Xs, and my Goddess mark just above—for everyone to see. I'm not sure what he's looking for, but the silence grows heavy in the room.

Finally, someone breaks it. "How is she still alive?" I don't recognise the voice, but they sound suspicious. Vaeril hisses as somebody takes a step closer. Sighing, I shift my body and finally open my eyes, but even that small movement makes me groan as fatigue pulls at me once again.

"That's what I would like to know." My voice is croaky, like I've been screaming, although I know I haven't. Directly above me is Vaeril, his feline eyes narrowing as if daring me to move, but I can't keep lying on the floor, not while people are flinging magic around. Letting out a deep breath, I push myself into a sitting position, my aching limbs making me wince. Assured that I'm okay, Vaeril stands and takes a few steps back, his eyes flitting up to the magicians.

"Don't hurt him," I blurt out, as Grayson and one of the other magicians step forward, offering me their hands to help me stand. With their aid, I get to my feet and put my back to the elf, facing the mages. "There has been too much death today." I meet Grayson's gaze. "Please. No more."

His eyes soften and he glances over at the other magicians. I follow his gaze and study the men before me for the first time. They wear the same uniform as Grayson, and they hold themselves in a way that gives the impression of great power. The one on my left is the eldest of the four, his sandy hair and neatly trimmed beard speckled with grey. He has a kind face, but that doesn't make him any less intimidating.

I knew Grayson was the youngest high mage to have ever been chosen, but one of the magicians, who's standing back and watching me with a confused expression, can't be that much older than him. I would guess he's in his mid to late thirties. His hair is slightly darker than the others, a dirty blond bordering on brown, and he has hazel eyes that track every move I make. I realise, as I meet his gaze, that he's the one whose magic hit me.

I don't pay much attention to the last magician, I'm too busy watching the confused mage with hazel eyes and making sure I position myself between them and Vaeril. I won't let them attack him again. The older gentleman sighs and looks at his fellow mages.

"The girl is right, there has been too much death today." At his agreement, I feel my body starting to relax as I sag in relief. He's the well-spoken man I heard when I was hit. Glancing back at Grayson, I see his contemplative expression before he sighs and gestures for me to walk towards the exit.

"But—" Before I can finish my protest, a voice interrupts me.

"Clarissa." It's the first time Vaeril has ever called me by my name, and I can't stop the shiver that runs down my spine. I look over my shoulder, but his expression doesn't give anything away, yet I know what he's asking.

Are we still escaping? Will you come back for me?

I know our only chance of making it through this alive is to escape, but now that Grayson is back, this could change things…

Meeting his gaze, I nod my head once, the movement so minute that most wouldn't see it, but with his superior eyesight, I know he does. Turning in a movement too fast for the eye to see, he stalks back over to the forge, picks up his hammer, and returns to his work. A hand lands on my shoulder and I flinch away before realising it's Grayson. Thankfully, he doesn't seem to notice, his attention still on Vaeril.

"I'll explain everything when we get back to my rooms. I just want to get out of this damned place," Grayson mutters, running a hand through his hair.

With one last glance at Vaeril, I turn and slowly follow the magicians out of the underground chamber.