Chapter One:

The wolves knew she was there.

Este did not try to hide her approach, nor bother to mask her scent from the wind. It would do no good. The giant beasts knew what she intended before she did.

Her breath was visible against the honey-pink sky of dawn, curling around her like smoke. It would be a cold, clear day. She hugged her knees to her chest, wishing, not for the first time that she had the dense coats of her silent companions. They looked thinner than usual, but that fur always remained thick against winter’s chill.

Spring would come soon—and, with it, enough food to fill the bellies of wolves and man alike. And, as the frost withered, so would any sense of importance Este had within her home. She would lose her value, as she did every year when people were no longer desperate enough to barter for her scrawny squirrels or exhausted rabbits.

She was a good trapper. She spent enough time alone in the wilds to know the patterns of her prey—and her predators. She knew the wolves around her well.

She’d named their leader, a massive black wolf, Raisa, after the onyx smoke of the God of Death. It felt appropriate. If Raisa the wolf wanted her dead, she’d be dead, as if the gods themselves had willed it. Her fate was in the hands of both god and beast. Raisa’s pack hunted these slopes for most of the winter, spreading into the lower forests by the time night fell.

They were monstrous creatures. Larger than the horses they hunted further down the mountain, with teeth designed to rip flesh from bone. Their howls echoed through the valleys of her home in a way that made her ribs ache, a true, earthly terror taking over as they crowed into the night. She’d seen the strength of those jaws, how they could snap the spine of a full-grown deer in one bite. She’d witnessed the power of those hind legs as they jumped, effortlessly, up the sides of cliffs and over deep cracks in the earth.

But none of that was why Este was frightened of them.

Este was scared of the wicked, brutal intelligence she glimpsed in their eyes whenever they dropped to meet hers. The way they’d corner their prey, drive it through Blackwood Pass, only to ambush it at the last moment. It was gruesome—and beautiful.

Este watched. The wolves let her. It was the closest thing to companionship she had.

With a deep breath, the cold air burning her lungs until it faded into a familiar, dull ache, she stretched and got to her feet. She dug her toes into the snow beneath her, the wooden spikes she’d attached to her shoes cracking the ice with ease. Her boots were lined with rabbit fur, and she’d taken care to treat the leather with tallow to provide some protection against the wetness that was ever present in the mountains. It didn’t stop the chill from seeping into her skin, finding the weak points in her worn, woolen socks. Sometimes, there was nothing to be done. Sometimes, the cold won.

It was time for her to follow the winding path back through the surrounding ridges and see if her traps had caught anything. She kept her breath in time with her steps as she trudged back towards the city, her face aching against the cold. By the time she reached her home, she had a vole and a bedraggled squirrel to show for her efforts. Hardly enough to keep herself fed, let alone feeding her sister, too. Half-sister, she mentally reminded herself. Petrina was sure to bring it up when Este didn’t.

She’d also managed to scrounge a good helping of smaller sticks for the fire and let them fall to the dirt floor with a muffled clatter as she crouched beside the stone hearth, poking it back to life. She knew her sister was awake. They had one room between them, two thick mattress pads on opposite ends of it. Still, Este ignored her, instead sitting on the floor in the small bubble of warmth from the fire and started removing the wooden spikes she’d attached to her shoes, setting them up carefully to dry.

“Winoc plans to speak to you by nightfall,” Petrina said, her voice jarring after the soft whistling of the wind that had filled Este’s morning. “He wants to ask if you plan to move in with us, after the joining, as is…Customary.” It was clear from Petrina’s tone that she hoped her sister would buck tradition, in this case at least.

They’d once had three parents between them, with their mother, and each of their fathers. They were all dead, now. Este’s father had died in a hunting accident when she’d been no more than two. Their mother and her second partner had died within days of each other, from a fever that had nearly taken Petrina, too. They’d become orphans four years ago, with Este formally responsible for her sister in all ways that she could be. It didn’t matter that Petrina hated her. They were blood. In an environment as harsh as theirs, there was no quarter for those who turned their backs on kin.

Este had given her blessing on Petrina’s joining with Winoc. Winoc was a hunter, like Este’s father had been. Hunters were valued in Marillon, far more than scavenging trappers like her. Petrina would be taken care of, respected. And, as custom dictated, Este could go with her, into her new life. Join Winoc’s family home, take care of the children as they came, and apply her skills in new ways. If she did that, she wouldn’t have to be alone.

She looked over at her sister, who was sitting up, a thick woolen blanket wrapped around her shoulders. Este had been alone for years, even with Petrina right next to her. It would be no different somewhere else.

“Do you love him, Pet?” She asked, eyeing her sister carefully. Petrina pursed her lips.

“It’s not all about love, Estienne. We can’t all live our lives by the songs.”

Este frowned, looking into Petrina’s dark, round eyes. They were almost black in this light. “Not all, perhaps,” she conceded. “But some. Some of us could live like we’re in the tales that Old Mari used to tell. You’re still young, Petrina. You don’t have to do this.”

Petrina scoffed, and her voice carried its own unique kind of ice. “I am free to starve, then, as long as I do it with the romantic poetry that you adore?”

Este bit down hard on her lower lip. “We have never starved,” she argued, trying not to lose her temper. “Nor would Marillon ever let us. The city takes care of our own, you know that.”

“Is it so wrong to want something different?” Petrina said, eyes flashing. “To want a home with other people in it? With warmth and food and noise? How much longer do you expect me to stay in this room with you?” Her eyes gleamed like the glossy black rocks they’d used to collect by the river. “How long will it take for our voices to wither from lack of use?”

“Yours certainly show no signs of withering as of yet,” Este snapped, her voice hardened by weariness and irritation. Still, she regretted it. The silence sunk heavily between them for a few moments before she sighed, softening. “You mistrust me, Pet because your father did. I know that I may not be a hero in a song, but I am trying to care for you. For us both. That is all I have ever done.”

“I don’t care about what my father thought,” Petrina said. Her voice cut through the room as if it were steel. “You think that is why half the city avoids you? Why they whisper about you when you bring your sack of rabbit bones in to trade? If you didn’t have food, I’d wager they wouldn’t speak to you at all.”

“Then what is it?” Este asked, unable to meet the dark, angry expression on her sister’s face. “Why am I so hateful to you?”

“Because you’re dangerous!” Petrina snapped, her voice louder than Este had heard it in months. “We live in hell, Estienne. Our city is shrinking every year, the Empire has taken over most of the continent, we spend our lives being frightened of saying the wrong thing to the wrong person and getting reported to the Steward, and you’re off… you’re off with your wolves and your songs and you don’t even realize what the rest of us are going through. We hardly have enough people left to farm or hunt or take care of our own, and all you do is isolate yourself further.” She paused, catching her breath, and when she spoke again, it wasn’t much more than a whisper. “How can you call yourself a part of this city when you are so blind to our fate? I used to believe you. I used to believe in you. Until I realized that you’re just as touched as they say, and if I don’t get out now, you’ll drag me down with you.”

Este closed her eyes, trying to swallow the hurt in her throat. As if ignoring it would hold the raw emotion in check and keep her chest from bursting. It was a long time before either of them spoke again. When she did, her voice was surprisingly even.

“You should take mother’s fox pelt, for your joining ceremony,” Este said, as she unpacked her meager haul and began preparing her catch. There wasn’t enough to trade. They might as well eat something fresh before facing a day at the market. “She would have wanted you to have it.”

It was a beautiful fur. Este’s father had caught a fox at the peak of winter, its fur white as the snow they walked on. It was soft as butter, and they’d attached a small clasp so it could be worn around one’s shoulders. It was one of their prized possessions. One of the few they still had.

Petrina, for all of her teenage bluster, hesitated. “Are you certain?”

Este shrugged, not looking up from her task, not letting herself acknowledge more than the familiar motions of the task at hand. “I have my father’s cloak. Wolves do not like foxes, or so I hear.”

Este’s father was one of the few who had managed to bring down one of those great beasts that so fascinated her. The pelt had been sewn carefully onto a thick woolen cloak, one that Este was almost never without unless it was the rare, warm days that made it impossible. She’d often wondered what the wolves thought when they saw it. What they thought of her.

“Thank you,” Petrina said the words, even if they sounded like they pained her. “Winoc will be honored.”

Este doubted Winoc would care much about their mother’s pelt, but she nodded. It didn’t matter what he thought. “I will speak to him today, at the market. I… I do not plan to intrude on your new family. If that comforts you any.”

Petrina didn’t say anything. She wondered, for a heartbeat, if there would come a point where they’d never say anything to each other again. If, at that point, Este would be properly alone.

“I’ll heat some barley porridge with the squirrel meat,” she said as if nothing else had transpired between them. “After that, we can dress and go to town. The skins won’t be worth much, but you can take them to trade for whatever you may need.”

“What about you?” Petrina asked.

“I collected some soapwort and holly this morning. I can trade with that. After all, by the end of the week, I’ll only have myself to feed.”

---

The rising sun was perfectly framed by the twin spires of Fort Blackwood—the castle that the whole city of Marillon was built around. Once it had been inhabited by the Blackwoods and their descendants, the closest thing to royalty that the mountain kingdom had ever had. Even now, it was filled with carvings and tapestries celebrating their legacy, depicting them riding the giant wolves that hunted the slopes that surrounded them.

Este didn’t know if she believed the legends. She knew those wolves. It was hard to imagine them bending for anyone. Allowing anyone onto those massive, muscular backs. Jumping into battle together as if they were one. The idea that one of Raisa’s pack would allow someone to attach a saddle to them was laughable.

It didn’t matter. The Blackwoods had been gone for generations. They existed now solely in the name of their fort and Blackwood Pass beneath them. The only way through the mountains.

Fort Blackwood would have paled in comparison to those sprawling palaces in the lowlands, where space was free for the taking. In the mountains, everyone had to fight for their place, even the Blackwoods. Their castle was built into the side of the cliff, overlooking the pass and valley below, facing the rising sun. The stone was worn from the years, scaffolding hanging off one side as a team of laborers faced the endless task of keeping it functioning.

It was now inhabited by a steward installed by the Ventric Empire after they’d taken over the entire country of Otrana twenty years ago. He was cold, detached, and easily bought. From what she’d heard, they’d gotten lucky—even as any mountain elder would tell you there was no such thing as luck in places like this. Most other Otranian cities had torn down their market crosses and built gallows in their place, hanging anyone who misstepped.

They didn’t publically execute people much in Marillon. The wind and cliffs did it for them.

Adrien Botrel, the Steward currently residing in Fort Blackwood, seemed to have little taste for governing. He lived in the cold stone castle with his dour-looking family, occasionally demanding food, wine, or services from the city around him, but otherwise kept to himself. Este had seen him only a few times, and never up close.

Even from a distance, his eyes had left her feeling cold. All true Ventrican commanders were gifted, as they called it. Their eyes were fully black, the white burned out of them as they pledged themselves. The more dangerous ones would show thin black veins on their face, radiating from their eyes. She’d often wondered if it hurt. If their eyes still stung when they grew tired, or if that feeling had been burned out of them, too.

Every sixth day was a market day, in the city center. The stalls changed often, with the journey into the mountains being too harrowing for most to do it every week. Instead, traveling vendors would stay for a few weeks at a time, until their wares ran out, and they would go back down the mountain to restock. Marillon had its own farmers and tradesmen to cater to most basic needs, even if it wasn’t half as exciting as silk or spice from the lowlands.

Silk in the snow may have been as useless as throwing rocks at a mountain, but Este still liked looking at it. Liked imagining the long, swishing dresses that might be made from the fabric, in other hands and other lives. She was dressed instead in a thick woolen dress in deep gray, the hem already wet from the ankle-deep snow as they walked into town. She had leather stays laced across her chest and a small pouch attached to the belt at her waist. She was, as always, cloaked in her father’s wolf pelt, and she pulled it tighter against the wind as they walked in silence.

Her hair blew across her face, long and black. No matter how much she braided it back, it would escape her ties as soon as it could, dancing in the wind as if it were water, lacing itself into knots that she could barely untangle. Petrina’s braids were neatly encased in her scarf as she walked beside Este, her eyes on the slowly growing crowd ahead of them.

She could see cloaks in unusual fabrics and colors, the telltale sign of lowlanders out of their element. Most of the dyes they used in Marillon echoed their landscapes. Deep blues and grays, the dark black of a starless night. A few shining spots of white, like Petrina’s winter fox pelt, which she had carefully worn over her usual cloak.

Another peculiar sight was the two horses tied to a post outside the market square, drinking from a small trough. Horses hardly ever made it up the mountain, for their safety. The elevation was hard enough when you weren’t carrying a load. Most traders would use goats to pull their wagons or the mountain donkeys that they’d bred on the slopes for that very purpose.

If they hadn’t rested their steeds well enough on the journey, they’d die in a day or two from the thin alpine air. So would their riders, without proper aid.

They passed the horses, Petrina not even sparing them a curious glance, before fully entering the gates of the city center. They separated immediately, and Este was not surprised. They each had their own missions today.

First off for her, and, perhaps extravagantly so, she went to Old Mari’s stall for a cup of hot goat’s milk and a conversation with someone who didn’t act as if they were wasting their breath on her.

“The five gods must be smiling upon these old eyes today,” Old Mari said, handing Este a warm cup before she could even greet her. “Estienne Moran, gloom follows you like a moth. What’s wrong?”

Este pulled a small bundle of dried herbs from her pouch and gave them to Old Mari. The other woman smiled at her gratefully and tucked it away within her pack. She had a leather eyepatch covering her right eye, and she’d embroidered the patch with flowers.

“There’s nothing wrong,” Este said, taking a sip of her drink. It was sweetened with honey and some spice she couldn’t name. “I was hoping to persuade you to speak by the fire tonight. We’ve got a town full of visitors to entertain.”

“Don’t they know it’s not spring yet?” Old Mari lamented, shaking her head. “It’s easier to warm up this old throat when the air doesn’t hurt to breathe none.”

“I’ve never known you to need warming up,” Este teased. “Besides, the juniper sprigs will help with that. Boil them with a touch of honey.”

“You think I can waste honey on myself, girl?” Old Mari laughed, warm and rich, her one visible eye sparkling. “That’s for customers only. Me and my goats get along just fine as long as we’re careful.”

A stranger approached them and Este ducked away, not wanting to interrupt a sale for her friend. She leaned against a small stone wall nearby, watching the crowd filter around each stall, into the rare permanent shopfronts that only the most profitable of tradesmen could keep full. She could smell the warm milk, fresh barley bread from the bakers nearby, and the slightly sweet smell of burning incense from further in the fray.

It could be a good day. She could forget the argument with Petrina, she could forget the cold and the wind, she could forget all of it. She could spend the day in the market pretending to explore the stalls like the newcomers surrounding her and spend the evening by the fire in the Barrels, where most anyone would come for a story and a cup of barleywine.

Her eyes caught on two strangers discussing something on the edge of the hubbub, their faces grim. They were both taller than her, one of them pale with brown hair short enough to escape from behind his ears as the wind picked up. The other was slightly smaller and darker, his cloak a deep red. They seemed to be arguing.

As if sensing her attention, the taller one looked up and met her eyes. His were gray and sharp, the angles of his face as icy as the cliffs she’d walked on that morning. He didn’t look away, as would have been polite to do. But, then again, neither did she.

His companion looked up, too, following his gaze, then said something in a low voice. A few moments later, and they’d both disappeared into the crowd