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His hands tremble around the reins as I pass him and continue walking. I can’t help but notice the jewels encrusted on the doors of the enclosed carriage. A rarity in these times of open wagons. Only one with great wealth would possess one such as this.

It angers me. Another reminder of what I lack. But it also propels me forward, more determined than ever to have one of these of my own someday.

“Pardon me, sir!” another voice calls out.

I sigh and slowly turn back around. The coachman’s liege is hanging out of the carriage, waving me over. I reluctantly oblige, relishing the cold press of steel against my calf as I walk. In the time it would take either of them to assault me, I could have my blade drawn and slicing through each of their throats. Alas, neither appears to have a dangerous or capable bone in them.

“Are you lost?” I ask the man.

He flashes me a grin. “Not yet. I noticed you on the road and thought I might like someone to stop and offer me a ride if the roles were reversed.”

I look past him, peering into the carriage. He appears to be alone with just the coachman. “That’s kind of you. I don’t have anything to offer in return, however. So I must decline.”

The man steps fully out of the carriage, and I’m surprised that we are the same height. Upon a closer look, we have many similarities. His hair is black and wavy, his eyes a shade of brown so dark they almost look black. The nuns used to tell me that my eyes were the color of obsidian. Unnatural. We also appear to be around the same age, give or take a few years.

“No payment necessary, my friend. Good company and conversation are all that is required. What do you say? The closest town is Wickford Hollow, and I’m told by my coachman that it’s still more than a day away by carriage. On foot… it will take you at least three.”

Fucking hell. I must’ve misjudged my memories. Back then I was younger too, so I most likely sprinted the entire way to Hemlock Valley without effort. I grind my jaw. “I’m afraid I’m not much of a conversationalist. Again, thank you, but I must be on my way.”

He offers me his hand. “The name’s Bellamy. Bellamy Erebus. And I’m a stranger in a strange land. You don’t have to speak. Perhaps you’ll just listen. Please, sir. Allow me to help you on your journey. I could use a local to give me the lay of the land anyway.”

Something about fate stepping in draws my attention. A little voice whispering in my head. The similarities are synchronistic. There are no coincidences. I look back at the coachman who’s green in the face. I terrify him. I’m used to that reaction. But this one… he is the jolliest fellow I’ve ever encountered.

“I’m Bell… just Bell. And how do you know I’m local?” I shake his hand and almost cry at how soft they are. They feel like velvet. Like they’ve never been touched or used for anything other than lifting teacups and smoothing lapels. I bet this man even has someone who cuts his meat and feeds it to him.

The man winks. “You walk with the confidence of a man who knows where he’s going. And we practically have the same name. I’d say it was fated for us to meet.”

For what he lacks in cunning and strength, he makes up for in wit and charm. This man has gotten what he’s wanted his entire life just by having a way with words. “You could sell feathers to a bird, I imagine.”

He chuckles. “Come, friend. I have some soup and ale inside. Are you hungry?”

I wasn’t until he mentioned it. My stomach growls in response. While I was hoping to avoid people at least until I got to Wickford Hollow, soup sounds divine. After spending so many years in a bunkroom full of loud and unruly boys, I was looking forward to the solitude. But perhaps he’s right. That our meeting is fated. And I can use this new situation to my advantage.

“Very well. Just to Wickford Hollow though.” As I follow the man inside, I spot the coachman’s fingers trembling around the reins. I glare at him one more time before closing the carriage door behind me.

ARKANA

The bells toll, loud and ominous. They reverberate through the halls, their tone dark, almost demonic. I have woken to these same bells a hundred times. I’ve let them guide me deep into the catacombs of Graves Estate, my bare feet glistening with sweat despite the icy cold cement beneath them. My heart hammers in my chest, fingertips pulsing with excitement, throat dry, and swallowing hard as I creep into the ritual room and hide between the spires in the upper balcony.

I can always spot my father right away. In a sea of masks and hooded robes, Icarus Graves stands at the helm, leading his initiates and commanding the ravens. Their whispers turn to hums and chants. My skin prickles as I witness them take their sigils, tattoos of ancient symbols. They take turns with the raven’s blade, marking each other for power.

I shiver, wanting to be closer. Yearning to be part of it. But women can never be initiates, only sacrifices and playthings. As the only daughter of a Nocturnus elder, the only thing I will ever be is another man’s wife.

So I sneak up here and watch with envious eyes. I let the electricity and power bounce off me like the wind. Even as it calls to me.

“Arkana,” my mother whispers. “Come, now.”

I sigh as I’ve done so many times before when I’m caught spying on a ritual. One of the drawbacks of having a mother who’s a seer.

She clamps her hand around my wrist and drags me out the back door. As soon as we are back in the cavernous hall, she drags me toward the spiral staircase and hisses. “How many times must you disobey me? It is not suitable for a young lady to look upon the Nocturnus men when they are in ritual. It is indecent.”

I groan. “Why? Father is in charge. Can’t he just change the rules?”

Priscilla Graves spins on her heels, her velvet skirts swishing with her. “Because you are a lady, Arkana. Your duty is to be an obedient daughter first, then a loyal wife once you’ve wed.”

I try to plant my feet as she pulls me up the stairs. “But what if I want more, Mother? It’s not fair that Silas and Finnric get to be initiates while I’m stuck sipping tea in the garden with a bunch of gossipy women. It’s so boring; I think it might kill me.”

“You’ve always been a dramatic child, but tonight you’re testing my patience. Not even your father’s blind adoration will protect you from my wrath if you don’t correct your attitude.” She finally lets go of my wrist as we enter the parlor. She huffs as she stalks toward her favorite crystal decanter, shaking her head while pouring herself a drink first, then one for me.