Page 6 of Heirs of the Cursed

Under the stars, Dawnfall shone with its own light. People were dancing in the cobblestone square around the fountain,following the notes of a small street orchestra composed of a cellist and two violinists. The illusionist approached the more secluded houses to get a closer look.

By the Triad, they were magnificent . . .

Children played duels with wooden swords amidst laughter of pure joy, while the tavern keepers dodged them to hand out mugs of ale with which they all toasted, danced and sang in unison. Music made them forget their troubles and worries, and the world looked vividly illuminated with genuine smiles.

Darcia placed a hand on her chest and directed her magic toward the square. She allowed her soul to feel the citizens’ emotions in such a beautiful evening, in which there was no hate, no fear, no loneliness. Only a sense offreedom.

Escaping from reality, even the most miserable souls could find a refuge.

Darcia watched as the world moved on, magic once again stirring to life. She drank from the flask Bassel gave her and abandoned any corrosive emotions that would draw tears to her eyes.

She wished she could stop feeling alone, being afraid. She wished she could be free and hold her fate in her own hands . . . But as long as Conrad was her master and kept her chained like a bloody animal, she wouldn’t. No matter how much her heart yearned for it.

After watching the crescent moon rise and the cobblestones soak in liquor and joy, Darcia returned home without looking back.

2

Bellmare

Bellmare’s highest-paid hetaira slipped into the tavern like smoke, every gaze irresistibly drawn to her. Naithea Utari wasn’t just any whore. Men of high rank and common blood aliketraveled from the far reaches of the kingdom for a taste of her, a moment wrapped in the mystery she wore like a second skin.

Not even a dangerous storm could stop the sailors from docking their ships, pouring out with gold vramnias ready to spend an evening they would remember for a lifetime. They would stumble into the tavern near the brothel, caught in a feverish race to see who could pay more. With the highest bidder by her side, the other stumbling drunks would stagger down the promenade to the brothel.

Naithea hated it—the drunken pawing, the endless faces that blurred into one, the noise. Nights like these made her crave silence, a dark corner where she could disappear. She wanted to be able to lock herself in her house and sink into her bed to ignore the perversions taking place outside. But she couldn’t do that, for those perversions of which she was a partaker were the ones that assured her of a roof over her head.

She’d never wished to be part of that underworld; yet fate had forced her hand. The illness that had claimed her mother’s life had driven her to the streets when she was barely more than a child. After her real family had abandoned her, casting her away in a little basket to be swallowed by the merciless waves of Salismar Ocean, Iseabail Forsàidh had saved her.

And when it came time for Naithea to return that favor . . . she had failed.

Naithea bit her tongue to fight back the tears that burned her eyes. She couldn’t allow herself to cry; not in front of so many customers. Upon living on theft and minimal subsistence, the madam of Laivalon’s most famous brothel had taken her under her wing. She’d gotten her off the streets and hidden her from those who wished to harm her in order to collect Iseabail’s debts—debts that the madam had paid and that Naithea now had to settle.

At the age of thirteen, the madam trained her, shaping her beauty into something sharp, something dangerous, like a diamond waiting to be discovered. She’d turned her into her most prized possession: her most craved lady-in-waiting; her favorite hetaira, the one who could bend men to their knees with nothing more than a glance.

Hers,to do whatever she wanted with her.

Naithea stroked the goblet in her hand and stirred the sweet, dark wine that comforted her in the evenings before seeking her next customer.

The Grumpy Dwarf tavern was frequented by the wealthiest sailors and merchants of the city, who would return to the treacherous ocean before dawn with the intention of discovering new lands and riches. It was the perfect place to find a man willing to spend his money on a night of unrestrained passion.

She held her head high as she noticed how she was being watched. A mane of hair as dark as obsidian fell down her shoulders to her waist. She usually wore it tied back in a braid, as men seemed to prefer it when she had her neck exposed. Still, that night, Naithea let her hair down, decorated with the gold barrettes Madame Dimond had lent her.

Her body was covered by a sheer gauzy dress; a patchwork of fabric that had been thrown over her shoulders, that had been sifted over her waist to highlight her figure and that revealed her long, tanned legs.

But men who sailed for days—if not weeks—without seeing a woman, didn’t care what Naithea was wearing, as long as she stripped once they were alone and didn’t squeal when they did what they wanted with her.

Their gazes though weren’t only focused on her exposed body, but on her most distinctive feature: her eyes, composed of shades of blue and purple and illuminated by flashes of yellow and green.

Licking the drop of wine that fell from her index finger, Naithea caught the gaze of seven different men, who looked at her dumbfounded. She scanned the room, recognizing some of the usual patrons of the tavern and thus the brothel.

Her attention drifted to one of her companions, who made the secret signal agreed upon by the hetairas to determine the absence of the most feared man in Bellmare. The Fiend, a man who roamed the cities making all sorts of deals for his own gain. Besides the king, Naithea believed he might be the second most powerful man in the world.

“Do you want some?” Jehanne’s voice brought her out of her thoughts. Her best friend took another step closer to her and grabbed a dark bag from between her breasts.

Naithea grinned in amusement at the sight of the contents protruding from the small bag. The powder was bluish and shimmered under the candlelight. It was pixie dust, collected from tiny, celestial fairies that inhabited the forest near Bellmare. Once inhaled, the powder produced hallucinogenic effects that had made it a much sought-after drug throughout the kingdom.

She raised her gaze to her friend. “How did you get it?”

“One of the many benefits of sleeping with a ship’s captain,” Jehanne said before dipping her pale finger into the powder and bringing it up to her freckled nose. She then inhaled the magic dust sharply. “Thank you for suggesting him to me. I still don’t understand how you tell them apart.”

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