Page 1 of A Dagger in the Ivy

CHapter

One

We’re too late. I know it.

The stench of sun-scorched flesh hangs heavily in the air like a cloud of suffocating dread. The late morning beams of light struggle to steal through the thick canopy of trees as we breach the border of Aragheni. I squint as we exit the forest, and the small town beyond a ravaged cornfield comes into view. My breath shudders. I can feel the sorrow of the townspeople like a chill on my skin. The urgency of our mission grips me, the pounding of my horse’s hooves on the dirt road mirroring the frantic beat of my heart.

But I already know it’s too late.

Shit.There are three this time. Three bodies in the field strung up like fucking macabre scarecrows on vertical, eight-foot, wooden stakes speared into the soil. Dark blood cakes what’s left of their skin, but the exposed bones appear licked clean. No matter how many times my eyes take in the sight, it still makes bile rise from my stomach. But I can’t let it get in the way of my mission. No one would respect a commander of the Delasurvian Royal Regiment if they puked every time they came across a corpse.

No. I have to hold it together. Like every time before this.

“Whoa, Thora.” I pull on the reins, and my horse obeys, coming to a stop and causing my braid of silken umber to beat against my back. I pat her smooth, black neck as I scan the area.

My hand, calloused from countless battles, brushes along the baldric strapped across my body. I touch the jeweled hilt of my dagger, the solid feel of it giving me the reserve I need to continue. My lieutenant and sergeants follow suit as I dismount my horse and stomp toward the carnage.

Though the malevolent energy from the beasts’ attack still vibrates around me, our swords and daggers remain sheathed. Thecarnoraxis—flesh-eating creatures with sunken eyes and sharp, yellowed fangs and claws—have long since abandoned the slaughter, their objective accomplished. I don’t have to investigate whether or not the victims are fae. All the victims so far have been the third-born descendants in a fae family. And each of them unwilling sacrifices in a war against the Shadow Tsar.

Mylo Yaroslav, my lieutenant, approaches, and his massive, muscular size throws a shadow over the field. His jaw is set as he shakes his head. “At least there were no children this time.”

My skin crawls with repulsion from the thought.

Two of the fallen fae hang from their posts on the left side of the dirt road that lead into town. My eyes scan the corpse on the right.

“Check those two,” I tell Mylo, my gesture weak with defeat.

“Yes, Commander.”

I hesitate for a moment, preparing myself for the horror before me. The faces of the dead reflect the terror they endured in their final moments. Mouths agape, eyes rolled back in their skulls, torn apart by the eight-foot tall, ashen-skinned, emaciated creatures. A shiver runs down my spine as I approach the victim on the right, the stark reality of their demise etched into every inch of their contorted expression.

The stench of death hits me harder, assaulting my senses with its putrid intensity, and dread coils in the pit of my stomach like a serpent ready to strike. I press my lips together, determined to steel myselfagainst the nauseating odor that threatens to overwhelm me. With each step closer, the sight before me becomes clearer, searing itself into my mind with chilling clarity.

Bathed in the harsh sunlight hangs a figure—limp and lifeless, yet unmistakably fae. His once-pale skin now bears the pallor of death, tinged with an eerie hue that speaks of the horrors he endured in his final moments. Strands of unruly hair, now matted with blood and dirt, cling to his forehead, framing features frozen in a silent scream. His jaw hangs slack, as if in disbelief at the fate that has befallen him, while tattered remnants of clothing flutter in the morning breeze, shredded by the merciless claws of the carnoraxis.

Half his torso is missing, the flesh around the gaping hole shredded. The bite marks are unmistakable. All that remains of his left leg is a femur.

My gaze falls upon the ropes that bind him to the pole—crude bindings that dig into his flesh, leaving angry, red welts as cruel reminders of his captivity. I swallow back the acid rising in my throat, my heart aching with the weight of sorrow and anger. But as I draw nearer, a sudden gasp shatters the eerie silence, echoing like a desperate plea for salvation.

“Fuck!” My voice nearly chokes me as the fae’s pupils focus, wide with fear and pain. Without hesitation, I turn to my squad, my voice steady despite the turmoil raging within me. “Mylo, Aila! This one’s alive! Help me get him down.”

With practiced precision, I draw forth my dagger, its blade gleaming in the light like a beacon of hope amidst the darkness. With each careful slice, the bindings fall away, freeing the fae from his macabre prison. But he is still stuck on the spike, the splintery point of it wedged into his back.

Mylo and Aila Chen, my best sergeant, help me lift him enough to set him free. As he slumps into my arms, choking for breath like a drowning man grasping at life, I feel a surge of desperation coursing through me. Maybe there’s still a chance for this man.

We lay him gently on the ground, and the fae’s labored breaths raspthrough clenched teeth, each exhale a testament to the agony he endures. From the look of his injuries, I suspect he only has use of one lung. I kneel beside him, my heart heavy with sorrow as I survey the extent of his wounds. Fae heal fast, but not fast enough to cheat death. A battle in my mind ensues. I want to save him, but he has suffered fatal blows that no amount of healing magic could mend. Blood seeps slowly from his torso, staining the earth beneath him crimson.

“Hang on.” My voice is a gentle plea as I brush a trembling hand against his clammy brow.

His lips move, forming words barely more than a whisper. “He left me to die.” He struggles to breathe, his voice rough like spikes dragged across rocks. “My own brother.”

Mylo hands me a cloth torn from somewhere. Impulse drives me to wrap a wound, but I don’t even know where to begin. Aila attempts to straighten his remaining leg.

“How many attacked?” I tighten the cloth around his torso, and it immediately darkens with blood.

“F-Five. Maybe si—” His eyes widen, and a gurgle replaces his words. He coughs, blood spewing from his mouth.

With a frantic breath, I reach for the latent magic within me, summoning forth a glimmer of healing energy in a desperate bid to save him. “Hold on.” I weave the threads of magic around him, willing life back into his fading form.

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