Curse of Shadows and Thorns: A Dark Fantasy Romance (The Broken Kingdoms Book 1)
Curse of Shadows and Thorns: Chapter 1

I’d die if I stayed much longer.

My father warned me if he caught me sneaking into the game hall again, my name would be blotted out from the royal house, and I’d be tossed into the quarries to rot alongside the king’s captured fae.

My uncle was the king, and if I shamed our family, I had no doubt he’d be the first to bind me in chains.

But I couldn’t leave. Not yet. This was my time to pretend I was someone else, someone with a life beyond the controls and demands of the royal house.

I startled when a heavy body thudded onto the greasy floorboards. A few grunts preceded the roar of curses to the gods, as if his drunkeness had been their fault. A grin curled over my mouth, one I promptly hid behind my cards. No sense in drawing attention to myself when I was the only one in the game hall breaking the law.

Korman, the nightwatchman, had knocked out his front tooth when he landed onto the floor of the bawdy game hall. Spiced red spilled from the ewer over Korman’s woolen gambeson, pasting his hand of cards to his chest like badges of honor. He dabbed his mouth, bemused. At the sight of blood on his dirty fingertips, he cursed more than once, then followed it with an eruption of laughter.

I scooted over as Halvar, a stable hand from the estate, leaned over to clasp Korman’s hand.

“Up you go,” Halvar said, and clapped the shaky nightwatchman on the back.

Korman fumbled back into his seat at the table. An eel fisherman slammed a new horn of spiced red in front of the man, then barked a laugh as Korman drained it so quickly the drops dribbled down his russet beard onto the table.

“Had enough?” Halvar asked.

“Carry on,” Korman said, words slurred, lips pink with blood.

The game went on as though nothing had delayed it to begin with.

Halvar lifted his eyes to my side of the table. The deep brown reminded me of roasted chestnuts, and sometimes the flash of unusual light in his gaze left me wondering if he might have a bit of Night Folk fae in his blood. He didn’t have the pronounced point to his ear, but according to fae lore, some could conceal their true natures with their fury, the magic of the earth and of illusion.

I hoped Halvar wasn’t fae. I liked him too much, and Night Folk were known to be ruthless.

Unless my uncle found them, forced them into submission in his quarries, or sent them to the executioner, of course.

Part of me did not believe Night Folk existed anymore, and Zyben simply told pretty tales of his power over the fae folk to seem more ruthless than he already was.

I tugged on the brim of my napless cap and dragged my hand to the back of my neck to ensure my braid remained tucked underneath. I was a little discomposed by the way Halvar’s gaze lingered too long.

No, he didn’t recognize me. Why would he? As the second daughter, of the second royal family, I was of little importance at the royal estate.

Halvar’s sun-toasted skin still had smudges from the day’s work, but every man in the game hall smelled of unwashed skin, old fish, and topped with a bit of brine from being so near the Fate’s Ocean. The exact reason I’d patted my moonlight pale cheeks in soil before sneaking into the game hall.

“Boy,” Halvar said, looking at me. “Play or be played.”

My grip tightened around my playing cards. The two missing fingertips on my left hand made them harder to hold, but I didn’t let on as I fanned out each card.

Unskilled as I was at the game, I’d watched enough monte tricks and gambles in town to know I had a decent hand. Shoulders slouched, barred away from the men at the table, I played three golden axes painted on the bent, yellowed cards.

The eel fisherman groaned and cursed the trickster god as he tossed his hand down.

Korman had already become lost in his cups again and didn’t notice.

A financier at the trade docks balked and countered my play with two gold axes and three black wolvyn.

Halvar chuckled. “Piss poor luck, boy.”

My heart thumped in my chest. Don’t play it. Don’t draw attention.

“Wait,” I said in the deepest voice I could manage. It sounded ridiculous. Never was I more grateful for the amount of ale passed around, since no one seemed to notice in their haze. Call it pride, but I couldn’t resist and slammed down the card I’d hoarded all evening. The battling crowns: one blood red, one black as a starless sky. “Crowns trump wolvyn.”

Before my hand left the pile of cards, once more, Korman found himself on his back when the table erupted in shouts of counting cards, of tricks and schemes and cheats.

Halvar’s eyes brightened as he burst out of his seat, his fist colliding with a tradesman in a boisterously patterned suit, though, the man had nothing to do with our game.

The stable hand laughed as if he’d waited all night for this moment, then leapt into a tussle between the eel fisherman, the financier, and a bulky brute from the docks.

I dropped the last of my cards and ducked beneath the tables, scurrying toward the back of the game hall.

Glass shattered. Wood on wood scraped over the floors as chairs and tables were tossed. Cracks of knuckles on jaws. Laughter—always laughter—as the warrior and raider blood of these people burst into yet another fight.

The first of the evening, but surely not the last.

As I crept past the ale counter, the aleman took in the scuffle. His shoulders slumped and I thought I heard him mutter, “Here we go,” under his breath before he grabbed a wooden rod and lunged into the tangle of fists.

How dull life would be without respite eve at the dock shanties, the once-a-week night when serfs were afforded a few hours of fun.

With chaos at my back, I used my shoulder to shove through the door, but smashed into another body.

I squeaked my surprise, then quickly remembered I was meant to be a sturdy boy indentured at the local blacksmith. Rough and unafraid. My eyes raised enough to note the polished boots and merchant’s belt meant I’d collided with a wealthier man.

“Apologies, Herr,” I muttered deep and low.

“No apologies,” he returned, pausing for a breath. “De hӓn.”

I froze. He’d addressed me as female.

My hand whipped to my neck again, but the plaits of my braid were still tucked beneath my cap. He leaned forward, his skin like the spice of the forest.

“Not to worry,” he whispered. “I’m good with secrets.”

I fumbled for the coin purse tucked deep in the trousers I’d stolen from the uniform closet back home. The man placed a hand on my arm. A shudder danced down my spine. I didn’t look up; afraid he’d piece together my face beneath the dirt and oil smudges over my nose.

“Are you paying for my silence?”

I swallowed the scratch in my throat. “Doesn’t everyone in Mellanstrad?”

He chuckled, a sound I felt to my bones. “True. Even still, keep your shim for another day, de hӓn.”

With that, he strode toward the debauchery of the game hall. I stole a glance over my shoulder. My throat tightened at the sight of him. Three hells I was a fool. Legion Grey.

The face I’d hoped to see all night, and now he’d caught me. Would he recognize me? Tell my father? All gods, would he tell the king?

The dark gold of his hair, the broad shape of his shoulders, hands that looked too rough to be a merchant, all of Legion had become the most recognizable attributes in Lower Mellanstrad township.

Rumors filtered through high society about Legion—most suspected him to be the son of some noble family from one of the exotic kingdoms beyond the horizon. Others thought him to be half Timoran and half Ettan.

I favored the theory.

His hair was paler like Timorans, my people. But his skin and eyes glimmered with the unique dark shade of Ettans, the people mine had defeated during the raids.

Legion Grey had made a mark among veteran merchants for his ability to negotiate financials for the wealthy, but more so among desperate mothers aiming to convince the handsome stranger to take on one, or even two, of their daughters.

He was intriguing. Nothing more. And I had no desire to speak to the man. Doubtless, I’d be as invisible to him as I was to everyone else.

Before he let the door shut, Legion looked back at me. A curl tugged at the corner of his mouth, then he disappeared into the game hall.

When my heart stopped racing, I adjusted my cap and turned down a narrow alley.

Mellanstrad docks were always coated in a fine layer of brine and sea grass. It reeked of oysters, eel, and exotic fish caught in the precarious reefs far out to sea. The dock shanties were made of tenements and old shacks that leaned from turns of sea storms. Here the lampposts were chipped and rusted. Mud pooled over cracked cobblestones. Here folk spent their miserly incomes at game halls, alehouses, and brothels.

Here, I was free.

I ducked into an arcade when a trio of Ravenspire guards rounded onto the street. Castle Ravenspire often sent more patrols after the midnight tolls, likely looking for Ettan folk to indenture.

In the shadows, I shot a quick prayer to the war gods for Halvar to replace his way home safely. Though he said little to me, I knew the stable hand was a favorite among the other serfs at the estate, and he’d only been indentured for half a turn.

After the patrol passed, I sprinted down the back roads until I found the loose board in the wooden gate separating the lower shanties from Upper Mellanstrad.

Snake grass and wild roses snagged my tattered jacket as I climbed the slope to the villas and overseeing estates.

When my legs had been poked and prodded, scraped, and mangled by the brambles, I arrived at the iron gate of the Lysander estate. Trimmed lawns and quaint wood and wattle longhouses dotted the surrounding knolls near the white, center manor. Made of pearlstone, the estate sang of prestige, of royalty.

I ducked into the hedgerow and carefully inched toward the back cellar.

Along the curve of the brick drive, fine hansom cabs and cabriolets with velvet curtains parked at the main entrance. Lyres and lutes sang out a sweet melody from inside.

The closest unit of raven guards was at least thirty paces away. The regal blue, black, and white paint on their faces gleamed in the lanternlight. A way to look more like the warriors of the gods. Runes hung from talismans on thick beards and battle axes on their belts.

The guards looked ready for war, not protectors of a wealthy fete.

When the guards turned about-face in the opposite direction, I darted across the soft lawn.

I fumbled with the key a bit before the lock to the cellar clicked and the door groaned on old hinges. My teeth clenched as I carefully ducked inside, desperate not to draw attention to myself, and closed the heavy door at my back.

The cellar was murky, and the pungent scent of damp soil and starch burned my nostrils. Boxes lined the arched stone walls, and only the light of the pale moon burst in blue shadows through the windows.

I’d done it. Well, halfway. I still needed to slip into the main halls without being seen.

It was a fool’s dream.

Before I’d finished standing, fingernails dug into the meat of my arms and dragged me out from behind my crate.

I stumbled, nearly falling forward. Two figures blocked my way. Sharp, narrowed eyes met mine, but the most worrisome was the knife at my throat.

“Kvinna Elise,” the girl holding the knife grumbled. “We’ve been looking for you.”