The Curse of a Faeblood by MK Lorber
CHAPTERONE
Regret is a storm gifting never-ending rain. -Esabel
Midpointe, the mining territory
Present day…
Mother claimedthe Red Guard were only good for two things: protecting the Faeblood Lords and terrorizing the human populace.
While the same cursed magic ran through Ember’s veins, it didn’t prevent her from becoming their next target.
Sweat pooled on her brow and trailed down her cheek. It rolled along her skin as easily as her composure threatened to climb up her throat. Behind her, the rough stone wall dug into her thin tunic, reminding Ember the only way out of this pile of rubbish was the way she crawled in.
A self-inflicted snare.
She knew better than to steal bread during daylight.
The barkeep spotted had her and alerted the nearest Red Guard patrol.
She counted six pairs of legs marching past the stack of barrels concealing her hiding spot in the alley between the tavern and bakery. Afternoon sun glinted off polished armor plates, an unnecessary signal for her to stay put.
The leader of the group halted a mere twenty paces away, rested his hand on the hilt of a dagger looped in his belt, and let out a shrill whistle. Five men fell into line behind him like ducklings waddling after their mother.
Except these weren’t fuzzy, innocent creatures.
Despite spending most of last night’s patrol drinking with the locals, the men appeared alert. They sported clear eyes, clean red tunics, and trousers free of wrinkles. All but one stood tall waiting for the next command. Their leader unsheathed his blade and tossed it between his hands, demonstrating crisp reflexes.
“Find the girl.” He waved his arm in dismissal.
She grasped the fraying strap of her small satchel. A gift for her mother while pregnant with Ember, it served as a constant companion on their brief forays into society these past twenty-one years. Too bad the relic was heavy with memories but light on anything she could use as a weapon. It twisted around her torso, hindering her movements and drawing attention to her profile.
But her escape wasn’t worth the price of abandoning it. She’d rather rot in the Castle dungeons than part with a piece of her mother.
The men drifted apart.
Two squeezed behind the bakery on the right, turning sideways to fit through the narrow passage. Another pair marched straight ahead, their long strides carrying them to the main square. The leader rummaged through a pile of crates across the alley, flipping over the larger ones and peering underneath.
The last one, the pock-marked soldier with a slight slouch, kicked at the spoiled fish bones in front of the stack of barrels, calling out in a sing-song voice, “Here, kitty-kitty.”
Keep moving at the first sign of a threat. It was her mother’s adage.
The slightest perception of trouble meant a different farming village. A new home. Another chance to start over while hiding in the territory that supplied crops for the realm. The two of them had perfected their guise over the years — a lonely healer and her fatherless child trading a valuable commodity for shelter and provisions.
It was easy. Safe. But with only her mother to share her day, she'd become listless — from the endless isolation and predictable routine and lack of companionship — yearning for the life of a common villager instead of the snippets of time stolen with others her age.
The leader grunted.
He kicked a pebble, and the tip of his unmarred leather boot sent up a plume of dust. His dagger flew in a high arc, landing with a thud on the closest barrel. She resisted the urge to flinch.
“She can’t have gone far.”
When Ember had arrived in the village two days prior, she noted the fine homes and neat shop windows lining cobblestone roads arranged in a square. There was a central grassy hill, surrounded by benches and rows of cultivated wildflowers. A well at the top boasted a stacked stone surround and a constant supply of water.
But the longer she stayed, the more she recognized the freshly thatched roofs and the cheerily painted shutters were an illusion — a sleight of hand to tempt an unobservant eye from the less than idyllic living conditions.
All was not as it seemed in the mining village.
Those quaint homes and fancy shops concealed a dark underworld of back alleys, shady trade, and broken family dynamics. Children always followed a half pace behind their parents. Never speaking. Never playing. The absence of giggles was more deafening than squeals from an intense game of tag. Those strategically placed benches sat empty of gatherings and harmless gossip. And the women, clothed in finery with nary a hair out of place, wore poorly concealed bruises, the colors clashing with the deep hues of the latest fashion trends.
It was clean, polished even, different from the farming communities where her mother raised her. But not a safe place to linger.
Not a safe place to ask for help.
When she glanced up, a man’s shadow covered her. He was close, near enough to hear the rheumatic wheeze of his breathing as he exerted himself searching the debris. Close enough to smell the alcohol weeping from his pores despite his neat appearance.
Dear gods, she needed to find a way out. Not that she minded waiting amidst the rot until darkness covered her movements, but it was only a matter of time before the guard discovered her hiding spot. Unfortunately, her instincts chose a terrible location, and they screamed for Ember to put distance between her and the six predators.
Perhaps she should stop following her gut and instead listen to her mind. But an empty stomach and a barren satchel screamed louder than logic.
“You drunken cur. Find her, or it will be your head displayed on a pike,” the leader said as he stepped forward and jabbed a finger in the guard’s chest. After a scathing look, he pivoted on his heel and marched south, opposite the main square, muttering under his breath.
She waited until the leader was out of sight and edged to her left, shimmying between two barrels, using an opening so narrow, there was doubt she would have fit only a month prior. Weeks of inconsistent meals and surviving on scraps had a way of whittling away the spirit, not to mention the body.
The odds swung in her favor.
All she had to do was sneak past one soldier. One measly hungover man instead of six. But her blood continued to pound in her ears even with her improved situation. She rubbed the scar on her palm, willing her hands to stop trembling.
Aim for the soft spots.
A simple question, a plausible what if, had prompted her mother to distill the lesson in self defense down to four simple words.
As a healer-in-training, Ember didn’t require additional details. Eyes. Throat. Groin. Feet, she repeated. But her mother left out the most crucial piece of advice — when to strike.
She crouched down. A broken slat rested at her feet. She picked up the curved piece of timber with both hands, careful to avoid the large splinters sticking out from the edges. Just like chopping wood. Her knuckles turned white. She waited until the guard turned his back, then popped up.
Ember summoned what little strength she had left and raised the board above her head.
Crack.
The slat split in two on the back of the man’s neck. Vibrations radiated the length of her make-shift weapon, and she glanced down, surprised to find the bottom half still in her grip. The man rubbed the back of his head and slowly turned around. Stunned, she didn’t have time to recover before she raised the jagged wood and rammed it into his throat.
Blood splattered her chest.
The man clutched the piece of wood sticking out from his neck and staggered forward. His mouth gaped open and closed, but no words came out. He lurched to the right, then stumbled to the left. An outstretched hand grazed the hem of her tunic but fell limp at his side, failing to grasp the garment.
What had she done?
Ember stood over his unmoving form as life leaked out of the gash, staining the alley. A fountain of red pooled at her feet.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered as she knelt down and clamped her hand over the wound. It was fatal. Her magic thrummed through her. She closed her eyes, and the syrupy sweet taste of a cast filled her mouth as his skin knitted together. “Forgive me."
The guard would suffer a headache upon wakening, but he would live.
Ember swayed and caught herself before falling to the unforgiving ground. Casting for mortal wounds drained her energy.
She must run — put distance between her and the patrol — but her powers anchored her to the spot. The magic wasn’t satisfied with mending the injury to his neck. It wouldn’t allow her to leave until she healed his cough, too. Her eyelids closed once more, and she waited until the last bit of fluid burned off his lungs.
Her hands shook, and the din of the main square roared to life in her ears. Iron horseshoes clopped in the distance, reminding Ember she wasn’t alone. A door banged against its frame. She flinched, and a renewed wave of fear washed over her.
And pooled in her bones.
The guards would return to the alley any second. Five to her one. They were probably on their way, frustrated by their lack of success, and now she’d given them a more pressing reason to apprehend her.
She allowed herself one shuddering breath while she scouted the alley.
We’ll head to the tip of the peninsula, her mother had said. If they discover your powers, we will follow the river through the mountains and catch a ship sailing across the Strait of Vian.
It was a last resort — seeking safety in the northern isles. When her mother first mentioned the plan, Ember didn’t worry about the details. How to find sustenance. How to find shelter. How to avoid the Red Guard, the Castle.
She’d never expected to travel alone.
The way behind her wasn’t an option. She couldn’t blend in with the crowds in the main square covered in blood. South took her closer to their leader. The other two goons took the passage on the right — the one she had mapped last night.
It was out, too.
She must circle the mining village. The route would take her to the borderlands of Midpointe and into the territory responsible for training the militia, where the fighters didn’t carry the same tarnished reputation as the Red Guard.
Still, she had hoped to avoid them all the same.
The strap of her satchel dug into her shoulder.
Ember popped up and dusted her hands on her trousers. She slipped between the tavern and the fishmonger’s shop. Her small stature lent an advantage in the claustrophobic space, allowing her shoulders to remain square in the passage.
When the path opened up, she didn’t look back over her shoulder. Didn’t check to see if anyone pursued her. Didn’t let gnawing hunger, growing fatigue, or crippling doubt slow her down. In the safety of the forest, she bent over and rested her hands on her knees, struggling to catch her breath.
Ember had once yearned for the life of a common villager. To stay in one place long enough to form friendships. To share her day with a family.
To connect with other casters, a dark voice purred.
Now, she wanted the impossible — she wanted her mother.