Page 1 of The Spark that Ignites
Part I
Tinder
“Even now, after all this time, myworthlessemaciated heart still calls her name. My living flame, my eternal fire—I would bleed my veins dry to be her tinder.”
The Nameless Book
Chapter One
The note clutched in Emmery’s sweaty palm was either a miracle sent by Pellius himself or a veiled invitation to a shallow grave. Given the gods had never answered her before, it was likely the latter but damn it—she was beyond desperate.
At the encroaching cadence of trailing footsteps, Emmery skirted the lantern lights and darted into the shadows though her forest-green cloak hardly blended in. It had been a one-time splurge, a luxury she ordinarily denied herself, but the colour had snagged her eye, and she had emptied her pockets for it without hesitation. Now, she never went without it. Tucking her braid away, she yanked the hood lower over her face, hoping it would be enough. After her little incident that day in the market, gods knew she needed to stay hidden.
But no number of measured breaths could calm her racing pulse as the tavern came into view, a sea of patrons spilling past the door. Emmery hissed a curse. If there was anything she despised more than humans themselves, it was crowds.
A chilled breeze carrying the ungodly scent of seaweed and salt brushed her cheeks. For a small oceanside town, the pub was packed—especially this late. The town, too close to the kingdom capital for her to bother with its name, had been the fastest route to her previous destination, so she had taken the risk. The closer to the capital, the more guards.
That was before the note had sidetracked her, of course.
Pinching the bridge of her nose, she considered her options. She could be a coward, ignore the note, and scurry back to the inn—to the illusion of safety. But for how long?
Death’s outstretched hand beckoned her with every insignificant beat of her immortal heart, relishing the idea that tonight she might finally be hauled before the king and sentenced to the execution she deserved.
As if she hadchosenthis.
As if she’d asked for this cursed existence.
No. Sherefusedto die tonight.
Emmery’s eyes skimmed the unsigned note again though she had long since memorized the three stunted lines scrawled in a hurried scribble:
Rough break in Bagsdead. Meet me at the Black Mare at midnight. I can get you across the gate.
It was maddening how a single scrap of parchment could incite both hope and knee-buckling fear—especially given the way she had found it; tacked to her door with a knife. But her heart ached for the salvation she’d endlessly dreamed of beyond the gate—that golden, shiny thing with rainbows arcing over top. If only she had been able to find it herself.
How long had she stared at those three sentences as if they were hooked into her very soul? If it were true and this person, whoever they were, could get her to safety, everything would change. Yet, if it was a trap, this night might be her last.
Trading the note for her pocket watch, she flicked it open with trembling fingers. If she was going to survive this, she needed to pull herself together. A stiff drink would help. Or maybe five. She tucked the watch beneath her dress collar, only to realize she’d been too consumed by her thoughts to check the time.
Pushing open the tavern’s rusted hinge, wooden door, Emmery was struck by the reek of stale beer and sweat, followedby the piercing wail of fiddles and off-key singing. The entrance was too damn packed, and her breath hitched.
The men inside wore dark trousers, boots, and thick flannel shirts, a cloudy cluster of greys and blues. Several still sported their fishing smocks. An auburn-haired man offered her a smile, a gesture most would perceive as kind. But all she saw were teeth and claws and the grin of a jackal. The woman on his arm tugged him away, her ankle-length dress swishing angrily. Emmery wrinkled her nose at the hideous orange pattern reminiscent of a tablecloth.
How was she supposed to spot her contact in this chaos?
The people were too close. The walls pressed in, the room shrank, and she couldn’t pull air into her lungs.
Emmery elbowed her way through the crowd, her chest a clenched fist as she searched for a seat to safely survey the tavern.
A rickety, wooden stool in a shadowy corner of the bar counter called to her. Climbing onto it, Emmery adjusted her hood and braced her dangling feet against the stool’s closest rung. The barkeeper, a grizzled man with a bushy moustache streaked in grey, twitched his lips as he polished a glass with what she hoped wasn’t the same rag he used on the sticky counter.
“Something strong,” Emmery said, placing a coin down.
Raising a brow, the barkeeper’s hazel eyes drifted to the silver and back to her face.
Right. Manners. “Please,” she added, a little briskly.
But he ignored her order, leaning in instead. “It’s rather late for a lady such as yourself to be here alone.” He studied the ruby ring hugging her third finger. “Are you meeting someone? Your husband?”
