Page 9 of Into the Isle

Perhaps my opinion of her was a bit skewed compared to what she thought of herself. I had rarely, if ever, seen her this angry. Especially on my behalf. Her cute heart-shaped face was pinched with wrinkles, nose scrunched like a pig’s snout.

Seeing the anger I had caused her made me frown sadly. “Even so . . .” I dropped my chin.

We both looked down at the ground, where the bucket had spilled over. The dirt path had turned dark and muddy. We looked to the bucket I still carried, miraculously holding on even after being stoned by little hellraisers.

Anna bit her lip. “I’ll go back with you to refill—”

“No,” I announced, and shoved the remaining bucket into her small chest. “Take it for your family. I’ll go back.” I crouched to pick up the fallen bucket.

“Alone?”

I sighed. Our eyes locked for a moment. I quickly looked away, unable to stare her in the eye for too long. My shame was too great.

“I’d rather be alone, Anna. I’d always rather be alone.”

Chapter 3

Ravinica

MY NAME HAD BEEN A point of contention in my life as long as I’d been alive. It was the one thing I could never control—the most damning thing against me.

My family name. My heritage. The very thing I’d fought to reclaim last night, and would continue to fight for in the coming years. As long as I was ridiculed and treated like a lesser being, I would wage war.

Naming conventions were convoluted in this corner of the world. Girls and boys were typically named after their fathers, because that was the line through which our warrior blood supposedly flowed.

A “dan” suffix denoted a son, whereas “deen” was a daughter.

Runeshapers had different names attached to them by the academy once their inherent magic came to light. I didn’t need to worry about that because my magic was being smothered by some unseen force. I was certain of it.

I was named after my mother—already a tally against me, because it was considered a weaker lineage than being named after my father.

But how could I be named after my father when I didn’t know who he was? When I’d never met him?

As a bastard daughter, the “myrr” replaced “deen” and followed me like a dark cloud—an infestation of my being, no matter how hard I fought against it.

I had proven myself as a stalwart defender of the Old Way. The strongest at Selby Village. Entirely capable of becoming an initiate at Vikingrune Academy.

To many, it didn’t matter. I was tarnished.

To make matters worse, the true reason I was treated as inferior to my peers, stemmed from my slightly tapered ears.

I was a bog-blood. Half-bred. Born from elven stock, which was the worst slight of all, because elves were the enemies of man. Had been for generations. Didn’t matter if they were light Ljosalfar or dark Dokkalfar elves. We hated them all equally. There was precedent for that hate, too.

As I trained with Korvan that afternoon, I stabbed my spear at the moving targets and imagined them as a combination of the little whelps who’d thrown rocks at me, but with the pointy ears of my people’s enemies.

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