Page 39 of The Veil of Blood and Magic

The six grand hills that rest at the edge of Sparrow Hills’s border to the south pepper the horizon like an ominous omen, each more dreary looking than the next. And they were the source of the decay smell in the air. The sparse trees decorating the hills mutated after they were neglected of magic for so many decades, twisting into something rotten.

A little boy, no more than seven bravely rushes in front of us, effectively stopping us with his hands raised. His blond hair is choppy, lining the sides of his face before it sheers off at his shoulders. It hangs over his ears, and there is dirt smudged on his little cheek, just beneath bright baby blue eyes. He holds up a flower, too beautiful to be grown naturally, and my heart climbs up my throat.

Magic.

He must have a little, to create something so beautiful, a fully bloomed emerald green flower with eight pointed petals, streaks of gold creating veins atop it.

I drop to his level, offering him what I hope is a kind smile before digging into my satchel. “Here,” I say, offering him a handful of gold coins.

Jagger hisses at the amount, more in surprise than disagreement, and the boy’s eyes widen as he trades me the flower for the gold.

“Keep that hidden,” I say. “You don’t want anyone to steal it.”

He nods, pocketing the gold and racing down the path before ducking into a hut.

“Someone will accuse him of stealing that,” Zev says as we continue walking.

“Or maybe he’ll be able to buy food for his family and shoes for his bare feet,” I counter.

Zev merely grunts his doubt.

“Take heart, dear people,” a booming voice slices through the thick silence as we turn left down another road, aiming for the market in the hopes of finding food for both us and Rain. “Our situation is bleak, but it can always be worse.”

An elder male draped in dirty white linens, the fabric stained and smudged with oil and mud, stands atop a wooden crate, a book nestled in one arm as he points to the small crowd gathered at his feet with the other.

“Our Goddess Aletha chose The Collector, who liberated us from our foes, our captors. From those who intended us great harm, and yet we curse his name? We sit here and mope about our lot with no gratification for being allowed to live when others were not?”

I slow my pace, gently pulling Rain to a halt beside me.

“We’re starving!” someone shouts from amid the crowd, which gains a few nods of agreement from the crowd.

“You’re alive!” the man fires back. “That’s more than I can say for those who wanted us dead, or worse, wanted us to be their slaves.”

A stone sinks into the pit of my stomach. I’ve heard the preachings of The Collector’s acolytes before.

“The Fae,” he spits the words. “They were bad, yes. Kept us mortals fed but never let us excel, but you know who was worse. You know who was coming to align with them, to join forces with the Fae as they plotted to take over the entire world as we knew it.”

“The Enchantresses,” a youthful voice says, her voice laced with fear as she cowers back into her mother’s side.

“Yes, girl,” the man says. “The tresses. They came in small groups—covens, as they call them—and whispered things to the Fae. Changed their minds with their powers. Turned them against us. Planned to turn everyone against us. They used mortals for their rituals to strengthen their powers. They danced in mortal blood beneath a full moon. They would’ve killed us in our sleep without even having to draw a blade.”

I grip the reins I’m holding so tight I can hear the leather crack.

“If not for The Collector, if not for his Great Purge of the tresses, we wouldn’t exist at all. Mortals would be nothing more than a bedtime story sung to the offspring of tress magic.” The man takes a deep, solitary breath. “But there is hope, even whenthings seem bleak. Our provider, The Collector, and our Goddess Aletha, will come together to lift us from these trying times. The only reason they haven’t yet is surely because of some ill on our part.” He eyes the enamored crowd in disappointment. “We have made no effort to root out those who are defying the Collector’s commands. No effort to weed out those beings who conspire against him. Those select kelpie and sirens, goblins, phoenixes, incubi and succubi, and the centaurs and gnomes. We’ve all heard the stories of the Hidden Territories where they reside, breaking the laws and using unlicensed magic, plotting a rebellion against our ruler and yet we sit and wallow in self-pity instead of taking action. The Collector would reward us if we storm them in their hidden territories. He would elevate us.”

I tilt my head, curious if what he’s saying is true or horseshit. I’ve heard of the hidden territories, but only whispers. I always assumed it was more lies created by loyalists to cause unrest between all magical creatures.

“We have no armies!” someone shouts.

“The collector core should be doing that, not us!” another yells.

The acolyte nods slowly. “Perhaps,” he concedes. “Then maybe the reason Aletha has yet to elevate us is we’re not offering her enough of our praise, prayers, or perfection, nor are we giving the Collector many reasons to save our humble village. We must rise, we must worship, and we must bow.”

The crowd shifts, accepting this notion and joins him in saying the last sentence, a common practice among believers—both of the Collector and Aletha—across the continent.

“What’s wrong, dove?” Jagger asks, his voice a whisper at my ear.

I turn to face him, looking up at the concerned lines etching his face. He smooths his fingertip between my brow, drawingattention to the way it’s pinched together. I take a breath and soothe my expression.

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