Page 2 of A Dagger in the Ivy

But the light fades from his eyes, like a dying ember snuffed out by the merciless wind. He opens his mouth wider, as if about to suck in a breath, but there is no inhale. His body convulses and then stills, leaving only the heavy silence of death in its wake.

My heart cinches, and I bow my head in silent reverence. I’m only a half-blooded fae, and beyond the basic magic all fae possess, my true powers have not manifested. Though I don’t think even a full-blooded fae could have saved him. I release the man, setting him gently on the ground. His body should be burned, given a proper fae ceremony. But that is for his family to decide. The very family that strung him up as a sacrifice to spare their town.

“The other two?” Even standing, I must lift my chin to look up at Mylo.

He presses his lips into a straight line and drags a hand through brunet hair so short, it’s practically stubble. “Dead.”

I glance at the town in the distance. These are people I have vowed to protect, and yet we couldn’t get here on time. Though we are not to blame for Aragheni’s riders not reaching the beacons in time to alert us, the burden of guilt crushes me nonetheless.

“Let’s check the town.” My voice cuts through the grim silence. “Question the families. Make sure there weren’t any other victims.”

“Yes, Commander.” Aila nods, the expression on her slim face not quite masking her dispiritedness. Onyx brows lower over her narrowed eyes, and by the subtle way her jaw hardens, I can tell she’s grinding her teeth.

Mylo shouts the orders to the other sergeants, Isaac and Giorgi, who mount their horses and charge toward the center of town.

Once they’re out of earshot, he turns to me. “Celeste, are you all right?”

“Yes.” I know he can see it’s a lie, but I force myself to put up a front. I need to remain strong long enough to face the townspeople. “Let’s see what we can find out.”

The sound of Thora’s hooves clomping along the humble road into the heart of Aragheni helps me tune out the anger in my head. How did it come to this? How could someone sacrifice their own kin? What kind of fear would drive a man to do such a thing?

Thora comes to a stop, and I dismount, my boots sinking into the soft earth beneath me. The town sprawls out before us, a quaint collection of cottages and cobblestone streets, nestled amidst the rolling hills of Delasurvia. The town appears untouched by the attack. Despite the lingering somberness fogging the town, there is a quiet sense of resilience that permeates the atmosphere. With the night far behind them, the people have survived. Their sacrifice paid off.

But at what cost?

I can’t help but wonder if they regret their decisions or are proud tohave beaten the odds.

As I make my way through the winding streets, the echoes of my footsteps mingle with the distant hum of activity. I can’t help but feel a pang of unease. The townspeople move about their daily tasks, their expressions drawn and weary, the weight of recent events evident in the lines etched upon their faces. Some cast wary glances in my direction as I pass, their eyes clouded with suspicion and mistrust. It’s clear that not everyone is pleased to see me, their resentment simmering just beneath the surface. But I refuse to let their hostility deter me.

Despite the suffocating tension, I press on, determined to uncover the truth behind the recent attack, the logic behind their decisions. Even though I know what the retorts will be. I’ve heard it all before, but I can’t shake this feeling inside me that I might be able to get my message through. That I can make the people see how wrong, how selfish it is to surrender their family, their friends, in order to save themselves. With each step, I steel myself against the whispers of doubt and uncertainty that threaten to undermine my resolve. I may be an outsider in the townspeople’s eyes, but I am also a soldier of Delasurvia, sworn to protect its people at all costs.

As I draw closer to the heart of the town, the sight of the townspeople going about their daily routines confuses me, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world to let go of the deaths of their neighbors, their kin. Though I can’t understand it, I’ve seen it in the other villages that were attacked. After over a year of suffering carnoraxis ambushes, the people’s sensitivity has wavered. They have expected this to happen, and in their minds, they’ve already come to peace with the aftermath.

A shop stands nestled between two weathered buildings, its façade adorned with a faded, wooden sign bearing the name “Elsbeth’s Emporium” in elegant script. Tattered curtains frame the windows, their once-vibrant hues now muted by time and neglect. A small awning extends over the entrance, offering shelter from the elements to those who seek refuge within. I find its modest appearance somewhat calming.

The shopkeeper’s weathered face comes into clearer view, lined with the evidence of a life well-lived yet marked by recent turmoil. She standsat the front of the shop, pushing her broom methodically across the worn, wooden floor, the rhythmic sound of her sweeping echoing through the otherwise-quiet street. Dust and debris fly out through the shop’s open door.

Her gaze meets mine as I draw nearer, her eyes sharp and guarded, a flicker of wariness dancing within their depths. Her throat muscles shift as she swallows. I half-expect her to run inside at the sight of me. To slam the shop door and lock it. She knows from my uniform who I am. Or at least who I represent. My presence in her town is no doubt a harsh reminder of the desolate state of our land.

Aragheni was by far not one of the first towns to be attacked. The creatures have been spotted every full moon for the past thirteen months, but their targets seem random. After the first few attacks, the pieces of the puzzle began to come together, and we realized all of the victims were third-born fae. At least, those were whom the carnoraxis sought out. Anyone foolish enough to get in their way were also lost to the creatures’ ravenous hunger.

Four months after the first attack, a message was delivered to the Garrison, the Royal Regiment’s home base located directly outside my brother’s castle, from the Shadow Tsar, ruler of Dulcamar. Our suspicions were verified. He demanded the death of all third-born fae, but he did not give a reason. He claimed that he would spare anyone who cooperated. Those who did not would fall victim to the carnoraxis.

This caused discord among towns’ citizens. Third-born fae everywhere were being shunned. But I was relieved to learn that not all villages reacted the same way. There was still heart among some of the people, and those more caring would do anything to protect their citizens. Beacons usually used during the Age of War were repurposed to alert the Royal Regiment of approaching attacks. Riders who patrol their villages would race to alert the beacon masters or ride to an outpost to alert the regiment. But the carnoraxis were sneaky and sinister, taking out the riders, and often stealthy enough that the beacon masters were too late in alerting us.

Like this night.

I frown at the thought of townspeople in a panic because the regiment was nowhere near when the beacons were lit. Those moments of helplessness, the drowning in anticipation, are the most frightening. This panic drives them to commit the unfathomable sacrifices of binding the targeted fae to posts on the outskirts of their town, as if they were a gift to the creatures. As if to say,Here, take them and leave the rest of us in peace.

The tension in the air is palpable as I address the shopkeeper, my tone firm yet tinged with empathy for the hardships she undoubtedly faces. “Good day.”

The shopkeeper pauses in her sweeping, her brow furrowing. She drops into a partial curtsey. “Your Highness.”

I flinch at the title. “Please address me as ‘Commander Westergaard.’”

She straightens. “But your father was king. That makes you a princess.”

“Not anymore.” Though my father was king, he passed four years ago, and my older brother—my only sibling—succeeded him. I push the thought of Bennett being on his deathbed to the back of my mind. Though I’m technically the next in line, I do not feel the calling of a royal life. I have too much soldier in me to sit idle in some castle. So, despite my brother’s objections, I relinquished my role and trained under my uncle’s military command. “Your king is Bennett Westergaard, lest you forget. My efforts are with the Royal Regiment, and I am speaking to you as its commander.”

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