CHAPTER ONE
SOL
The Emerald Sea was calm as the tides rolled in, its murky waters the color for which it was named. White-foamed waves lapped against the crescent shore, and black sand glistened softly in the moonlight. It was cold for this time of year, the land still grasped between the glacial talons of winter. Snow clung to the trees, their branches sullen beneath the weight of hard-packed ice. The tide pools nearby were frozen.
Sol Rosebone smiled as the water crept close to her toes. She could taste the salt on her tongue, could feel it in the air as she breathed. She stretched out her fingers, a sparkling gold cuff clasped around her wrist encrusted with pearl and moonstone. Though forbidden, she let herself reach for the tide, to answer the song it had sung since the day she was born.
Her Magic trickled through her veins and warmed her shivering body. Water rose from the sea to greet her, like an old friend saying hello. It curled against her scarred palm and twined up the length of her arm, a caressing touch that Sol had yearned for since her last venture to this beach.
The direwolf sprawled out beside her nuzzled his nose against her thigh. He huffed into the dark sand, and Sol pulled her fingers through the thick tuft of fur at his neck. “Soon,” she promised her companion. A tendril of saltwater shot skyward because she willed it. “We’ll go home soon.”
With a gentle flick of her wrist, the tide was receding down the shore. Beautiful shells were left in the ocean’s wake, and a large conch was tossed into the sand at Sol’s feet. A gift for the Princess of Sonamire, the one who did not forget when everyone else had abandoned this place, this beach, these waters.
Sol grasped the shell between her fingers. She counted the sharpened spokes honed from the ocean’s current, her thumb prodding at each point. It was ancient, a pearl-colored relic from the very bottom of the sea.
But she could not take it home lest someone discover where she’d been. Sol pressed her lips to the shell and tasted the salt that lingered there, then tossed it back into the water. The current engulfed the conch, sweeping it down into oblivion, and Sol pulled on her boots.
“Come, Draven,” she said, rising to her feet. Sol stretched her limbs and shook the sand from the wrinkled folds of her dress. The turquoise satin matched the color of her eyes, a reason this dress was her favorite. It blended perfectly with the Emerald’s midnight waters, concealing her against the coast in the dark.
Draven’s paws sank into the sand as he stood, the grain seeping into the direwolf’s black fur. He shook himself free from the ocean breeze and followed his charge up the shore, his furry head pressed beneath Sol’s palm. She led him into the towering forest that curved against the crescent beach, the sand giving way to a sheet of ice and snow.
Foliage bent and swayed, the soft, sweet purity of Sol’s Magic singing to the life inside of it. But she did not pay it any mind, ducking beneath a branch whose needles turned and reached for her, desperate for a taste of the water that lingered in her veins. Draven snapped his teeth and snarled, a feral warning for the tree to mind its place.
The limb withdrew from their path and returned to the canopy above, sagging with defeat.
Sol tapped the direwolf on the head. “Be nice.”
A mile into the forest and the greenery began to thin. Gnarled roots curled over smooth grey cobblestone. Snow and ice had been cleared away from a narrow street, pushed to either side in lofty piles of mud and slush to make way for horse-drawn carriages. Sol did not step into the road, knew better than to leave herself exposed, and followed the winding path up into the Tavyrn Mountains. The castle of Sonamire loomed at its highest peak, casting a shadow over the heart of this land and the sea.
Slate grey walls rose high above the staggering cliff face, like pillared stone fingers reaching for fistfuls of black sky. Thunderous waves crashed into the rocks below, raging beneath the ashen turret that served as the Princess’ quarters.
Carved into the face of Mount Vale when the lands of Irica were still young, the castle of Sonamire was remarkable. Ealdyr, the Irican God of Creation, had shaped it beneath his own hands long before Sol’s bloodline had ever stepped foot on this continent. Her father had once told her that Ealdyr still resided deep in the heart of this mountain, chipping away at the bedrock with withered hands because the castle was not yet complete, would never be complete.
Sol knew the guard who patrolled the castle’s back entrance, a wide door used for bringing in supplies from the port. Mathias was his name, and he’d looked the other way when Sol slipped by him three hours ago. He’d been waiting here ever since, and upon her return, Sol pressed a gold coin into his palm.
Draven’s claws clicked against the marble floor inside. Black and white stones swirled to meet gilded walls that arched overhead and were painted with Sonamire’s history. Sparkling chandeliers of silver and glass dangled from the colorful ceiling, the panes catching firelight from the flames that burned in nearby braziers. There were no Fire-Wielders tending to them tonight, dismissed sometime during her absence, and Sol frowned.
She climbed the staircase that led to her personal tower, the suffocating corridor wrapping round and spiraling up into the turret. As she hauled herself further up the stairs and closer to the warmth of her hearth, Sol pressed her fingers into the smooth grey walls for leverage.
Draven barreled ahead of her, leaping up the stairs with an elegant grace honed from years of training. His ears were pressed flat against his skull, and Sol watched him disappear around the bend.
A hushed whisper and an open door greeted her at the top of the tower.
Sol was pleased to find the hearth still burning as she’d left it, the crackling firewood nothing more than smoldering embers lit aflame. The warmth of it sank in deep and soothed the ache in her bones. She rubbed her wrist, her fingers gentle against the scarred skin beneath her bracelet. The ruined flesh was brutally warped under the gold, the permanent brand of a desperate embrace.
A reminder that Magic could be dangerous.
“Where were you?”
Such sharp, accusatory words; spoken with the need for an explanation, and softened only from the relief that Sol Rosebone was safe.
She sighed and slipped out of her boots. “Out,” she told her older brother. Sol twisted the skirts of her dress to rid the ruffled hem of snow. “What are you doing in my quarters so late, Silas?”
The Crown Prince of the Sonamire Empire crossed his arms. Silas’ red hair shifted beneath the hood of his cloak, spilling over the dark fabric and covering the insignia threaded in gold above his heart. A pair of swords were grasped in the talons of a phoenix, a heavy chain twined around both pommels: the Rosebone family crest, a sigil that Silas wore proudly.
“Where were you, Sol? I thought they had already come for you.”
Firelight danced in his eyes. The flames grew higher in the hearth.
“You thought who had already come for me?” Sol tilted her head. “It’s after midnight.”
Silas swept back his hood. “I tried to stop it,” he murmured. The Prince smothered his Magic, snuffing out the flames igniting like candles at his fingertips. “I wasn’t there when the Treaty of Kinds was written. I didn’t know the terms. If I had…” Silas dragged a hand over the sharp angles of his jaw, the smattering of freckles that dotted the bridge of his nose. “I’m so sorry, Sol. I couldn’t talk him out of it.”