Chapter 1

Chapter

One

SAGE

13 Years Later

Earth

I wake with a scream stuck in my throat, the nightmare still clinging to my thoughts.

"Sage, are you all right?" My mother's voice floats across our small cottage into my room.

I manage a laugh. "Just the world ending in my sleep again. Nothing to worry about."

She's all too familiar with the nightmares that haunt me—earth splitting, fires raging, and now the latest joy… my bedroom cracking in half as I tumble into nothingness. It's enough to make me dread sleep.

Feeling cursed is the only way to make sense of it.

Grudgingly, I remember the errand waiting for me this morning, so I peel myself from beneath the threadbare blanket and get to my feet. The warm summer air wraps around me too quickly.

Stumbling out of the tiny bedroom across the creaky floorboards, I make my way to the bathroom. A splash of cold water chases away the dream from my mind. Quickly dressed in my burgundy cotton dress and scuffed ankle boots, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I comb back my silver hair.

A faint violet hue shimmers amidst the silver, and I gasp. "What in the world?" Leaning in closer, I examine the new color, a chill sweeping through me. No one else in the village has hair like this. And despite attempts with my friend, Alina, to dye the silver using beetroot juice and charcoal, it's only become more pronounced—now turning violet. Another reason to set me apart from others in the village.

Heart racing too fast, I pull my hair into a ponytail, hiding the color as much as possible, hoping no one sees it.

In Nightingale Village, differences are dangerous.

Ever since my mother fell pregnant with me out of wedlock and was abandoned by a man she barely speaks of—only mentioning he wasn't from this village—she's been treated as an outcast. Yet, she raised me alone, which is more than some in the village are capable of.

Setting the comb on the counter, I step out of the bathroom. Floors that creak, walls lined with worn wallpaper, and furniture that shows patches of repair—all signs of a lived-in cottage with personality.

I wander into the kitchen, where the sweet smell of cinnamon porridge fills the air, making my mouth water. Mom stands by the stove in her faded gray dress and cardigan, stirring the pot with gentle precision.

"Morning, lovely. Have some breakfast before you start your day." Her voice is warm.

I lean over the pot, watching the thick mixture bubble, anticipating the moment Mom will add a dollop of raspberry jam.

But I'll have to wait.

"Keep mine warm. I just have to go collect some buckets as my last ones broke," I say. Truth is, I'm behind on my berry-picking quota, so I need those buckets urgently. My sales go to buy smoked meat, which I trade for Mom's medicine.

She glances over her shoulder at me, arching an eyebrow in silent question.

The improvement in her health since starting them has been undeniable. I'll break every damn rule if it means she heals.

She's been struggling with a lung illness for nearly a year, the local medic unhelpful and insisting that her condition is incurable. They won't even prescribe anything to alleviate her symptoms, forcing me to take matters into my own hands. Which is why I've resorted to illegally buying medicine from a Village Protector.

She's suddenly coughing harshly, leaning heavily against the counter to support herself.

"Come sit down for a bit," I urge, guiding her gently to the couch. She settles with a weary sigh. "Have you taken your medicine this morning?"

"There's not much left. I'll take it when I feel worse." She coughs again, her hand pressing against her chest.

My gut clenches and I rush back to the kitchen, turn off the stove, then grab a glass of water. I mix in the last of the herbal medicine—a precious amount—and bring it to her.

"Drink this, please."

She stares at me, her face set in a stubborn expression. Rarely does she ask where the medicine comes from, and I suspect she knows it's not through legitimate ways. Perhaps that's why she's always hesitant to take it, especially when it's running low.

Reluctantly, she takes the glass and drinks it quickly, then lies back, eyes closing as she settles to rest.

"Just relax until I return," I tell her softly, then step outside in the sunlight.

Passing several wooden cottages, I walk past two girls chatting, and I'm reminded of how much I miss my friend, Alina.

Just over five weeks ago, she was selected in our Day of the Choosing as an Offering to the monsters for an annual event. Thing is, names are randomly selected, usually between four to six sacrifices chosen each time, though this year they selected ten, which is unheard of.

For the past two years, since I turned eight-and-ten years old, I've dreaded the Summer Solstice, terrified I'll be chosen, but so far, fate has been on my side.

No one wants to be picked.

Well, except Alina. She was desperate to have her name called out and went as far as to cause as much trouble in the village as possible. Every strike against you gains you an extra entry into the Chalice, and I'm convinced she had gained a couple hundred, ensuring her selection. She'd face anyone who got in her way and collected the medicine for my mom in case she was caught. She defied orders, and I admired her for her bravery.

Then, on her departing day, she told me that she was doing it in the hope of escaping and finding her sister in the Elite City. Mind you, it's a place I'd never heard of before she told me. I pray she's safe, knowing that I'll never see her again.

Once you're selected as an Offering and leave the village, you don't come back.

I shudder at the thought and trudge along a dirt path, which is dotted with water puddles from last night's rain.

A sudden, harsh bump strikes my back, a shoulder slamming into me, sending me stumbling forward. I cry out, falling onto my hands and knees, crashing into the muddy earth. The sting in my knees hits instantly, making me wince.

"Get out of the way," snaps one of the farmers as he brushes past, disappearing around the bend and behind the storage sheds up ahead.

"Asshole!" I yell after him, frustration boiling over as pain shoots through my knees. Struggling to rise, I feel the cold mud clinging to me.

Laughter erupts from my left, and I glance over to see three girls taking amusement in my fall. Heat rushes to my cheeks, and a fire ignites in my chest. I push myself to my feet, wiping my hands on the grass.

"Why bother cleaning up? You'll just end up back in the mud where you belong," one of them mocks.

I straighten up, brushing the dirt from my clothes as best I can. "Thanks for the concern," I grumble sarcastically, meeting their gazes with a defiant glare until they move on.

Breathing heavily, I feel a newfound strength building within me, one I thank Alina for. She would've laughed this off, maybe even taken a bow.

I let the squelch of my boots in the mud provide a small sense of satisfaction. I'm not letting them get to me. Some days are rough, fighting what feels like a losing battle against the village, but as my mom says, If you can't find a good path, make one.

Reaching the storage sheds on the outskirts of the farming land, the air is filled with chirping birds and the earthy musk ready for toil. The main shed looms large, housing the village's harvests. I head toward the smaller, quainter shed where supplies are kept. Inside, I find two wooden pails with handles that seem to have survived more seasons than some of the villagers. I note them in the ledger—the good old system where you pay at month's end and hope the numbers aren't fudged to make you pay more.

As I turn to leave, a cluster of elderberries catches my eye. They hug the side of the shed, perfect for our morning porridge. Rare finds, these berries, so I quickly start picking them, dropping them into one of the buckets.

"I hear a new Viscount's been appointed."

Raising my head, I overhear two Village Protectors talking near the shed. The mention of the Viscount has my attention. Weeks after the Day of the Choosing, the previous Viscount and Barons were removed, and we haven't seen or heard from them since. Nobody knows why, but everyone's talking about it, nervous about what's going on.

These newly appointed Village Protectors have recently arrived in Nightingale, watching everyone, too.

I half listen while picking berries until the words dangerous and not local pierce through their chatter. My hands pause, berries forgotten. "And he's from the Elite City, no less," one of them adds.

I freeze. Wait, that's where Alina mentioned she wanted to go.

"They're saying he's coming to stir things up because the higher-ups aren't thrilled with how this village has been managed," he continues.

Suddenly, I'm up on my feet, buckets in hand, a coil of unease tightening in my gut. Most in the village see my mom and me as burdens.

What if the new Viscount rids the village of us? The thought of being made to vanish sends a shiver down my spine.