HEALER'S TOUCH

 

CHAPTER 1 — I

Anya of Niobe

 

 

The eyepatch is the first thing I put on every morning and the last thing I take off every night. Even now, as I step out of my apothecary, my hand drifts to adjust it—a habitual check, though I know nothing is revealed beneath the fabric. A comfort, a shield, a prison.

 

Through the delicate weave, the world remains clear, my vision uninterrupted, even as it conceals what must never be seen.

 

What must remain forever hidden.

 

The irony is, people fawn over mismatched eyes. So long as they’re the right sort of different. 

 

A summertide blue paired with an earthy brown will draw gasps of delight and whispers of unique beauty. But mine? A warm brown beside a shade of burnished gold? There is no admiration for such a pairing, no appreciation of its rarity. Only dread.

 

At the center of that gilded eye rests a vertical pupil—an elongated slash of darkness in place of the expected circle. Together, the gold and serpentine pupil mark me as what I am. The kind of difference that doesn’t inspire curiosity or invite fascination. Instead, it brands me as something wretched. An abomination.

 

A monster.

 

And so, the patch becomes both sanctuary and shell, concealing what would mean my death if exposed.

  

With a resigned sigh, I lock the shop door behind me. Low-hanging sunlight stretches across the hamlet, gilding thatched rooftops and gray stone walls. The warmth of the day lingers, but the air has cooled, carrying the scent of roasted sugarnuts from a nearby cart.

 

The street, a wide ribbon of well-trodden earth, hums with familiar life. Merchants tidying stalls, vendors calling out final bargains, children laughing and darting between carts, and elderly neighbors moving with slow, deliberate steps. 

 

A Western trader stands out, his deep, rolling speech setting him apart more than his fair complexion, a hue not uncommon even here in the South. Next to him, a local tradeswoman arranges her wares, her words flowing with a rhythmic softness.

 

I smile to myself, recalling how Mother would quiz me during our trips to larger towns. “Where is that lady from, Anya? And what about the group of gentlemen over there?” Never once in these lessons did she mention the shape of their nose, the color of their skin, or the tilt of their eyes. For what would be the point? Every shade and feature are present in all corners of Leonathis.

 

She taught me instead to catch the telltale signs: the Western trader’s three-finger farewell, and the tradeswoman’s Southern habit of touching her heart in gratitude. These small customs reveal what region one hails from, while our shared tongue, traditions, and beliefs mark us all as belonging to the Kingdom, far more than any physical trait could.

 

Even now, her lessons guide me as I move through the crowd, nodding and greeting passersby. The gestures are second nature. For a moment, I can pretend I blend into the hum of the hamlet, just another part of the evening’s quiet routine.

 

But pretense does not change truth, no matter how readily people accept it. Though they see me daily—the respected apothecarian with her quick remedies and gentle manner—none question the falsehood I’ve carefully constructed: that beneath my patch rests nothing more than an empty socket.

 

Those born “Doomed” are said to possess two golden eyes with slit pupils, not one.

 

This belief protects me more than any lie I could craft. In their minds, the existence of a single such eye is impossible, a contradiction that makes my truth unthinkable. They remain blissfully unaware because they cannot conceive of what I truly am: something that should not exist.

 

Across the way, a man leans in to press a lingering kiss to his sweetheart’s cheek, his thumb grazing her jaw with a gesture both tender and unguarded. She smiles, tilting into the caress.

 

A quiet ache settles in my chest. That kind of closeness—a love without caution, without secrets—will never be mine. I force myself to look away and quicken my pace toward the woodland. It will be dark soon and there are creatures to attend to.

 

No point in wasting time watching others live out their uncomplicated lives.

 

“Anya!” a woman’s voice calls out. Friendly. A little too friendly. “Ahn-yah.”

 

I pause mid-step, drawing in a measured breath before I turn to greet the approaching figure with a practiced smile. “Salutations, Galene.”

 

“I’m so glad I caught you before you headed home.” As usual, she’s impeccably dressed, fitting for the daughter of our hamlet’s richest merchant. The blue silk dress flatters her porcelain complexion, slender build, and ample bosom. “You’ll be in attendance tonight, yes?”

 

Once a season her family hosts a grand banquet. There’s not much to do in Khess; it’s a simple settlement, which is why the quarterly festivities are highly anticipated throughout the community.

 

Galene loves to use the feasts as an opportunity to play matchmaker among eligible locals. To her credit, she does possess an uncanny talent for the role. Several blissfully happy and semi-happy unions are a result of her meddling. Based on the attention she’s been recently bestowing on me, it would be safe to assume I’m one of her next prospects.

 

“Tonight?” I feign regret. “I’d love to be there, but unfortunately—”

 

“Moon and Sun, Anya, not this again. You’ve missed the last two! And whenever you do attend a feast, you barely make conversation with anyone, dance no more than three dances, and then leave.”

 

She speaks true. I take no pleasure in my tendency to withdraw from others, but the burden of my secret looms large, shaping a life of careful seclusion. It’s a delicate balancing act: navigating social interactions just enough to avoid being labeled a suspicious outcast, while maintaining the distance necessary to prevent any connections that might expose my hidden truth.

 

“I won’t take no for an answer,” Galene declares. “You simply must come tonight. Everyone will be talking about the birth of Venus’s baby.”

 

“She’s had her child?” Concern tightens my voice.

 

Venus has been one of my most loyal customers from the day I opened my apothecary. Throughout her pregnancy, the first-time mother has visited my shop every week—far more frequently than usual—seeking remedies for morning nausea, swollen feet, or heartburn, always with that same gentle smile.

 

“The babe was born four nights ago,” Galene says.

 

“She wasn’t due for a few weeks . . . How is she faring? Is everything as it should be?”

 

“It wasn’t at first. Thankfully, all is well now.”

 

The relief in her voice eases my worry. “What a trial that must’ve been for her. I’ll see she receives an elixir.” I nod to myself, already deciding which would be most beneficial to send with one of the errand boys. “Something to aid in her milk supply.”

 

Before I can head back toward the apothecary, Galene’s hand clamps firmly around my elbow.

 

“That won’t be necessary.” She glances quickly over her shoulder, then leans in close, her perfume washing over me in a suffocating wave.

 

“Venus had an unwanted delivery. One of those vile abominations.” Her lips curl in disgust. “A Reaper!”

 

The news lands too hard, too close. My hand nearly betrays me, twitching toward my eyepatch, but I master the impulse, forcing it still and steadying my breath.

 

“It was male. With eyes of burning fire and—”

 

“Golden,” I interrupt before I can stop myself. “Their eyes are golden, not fire.”

 

She waves dismissively. “Golden, fiery—what difference does it make? Unnatural either way, with those serpent slits.” She shudders theatrically. “It had monstrous eyes, and a forked tongue!”

 

The absurdity of her words would almost be laughable if they weren’t so laced with cruelty. I step back, needing distance from her suffocating presence.

 

“Galene.” My tone is measured despite the irritation prickling beneath my skin. “Surely you don’t believe something so ridiculous. What’s next? Fangs? Pointed ears?”

 

She crosses her arms. “I’ll have you know that my cousin’s dearest friend’s aunt is their neighbor! She saw the abomination. Said it had the burning eyes of an inferno, the tongue of a snake, and feet covered in scales. Apparently, Venus was hysterical, weeping and carrying on because she wanted to keep it. Have you ever heard such madness?”

 

“No,” I say, softly. “Never.”

 

“Pelagio had to pry it from her arms and drown it in a bucket.” Galene shakes her head slowly, as though approving a difficult but righteous decision. “Thank goodness one of them had sense.”

 

Nausea churns in the back of my throat, threatening to overwhelm me. No one is born evil, but fear makes people see us that way. That fear becomes law, and law becomes a shield for unspeakable acts.

 

My heart clenches. That poor, innocent child.

 

I can almost hear the splash, envision his tiny body fighting against the water . . . How many children have met such a fate? How many more will follow?

 

“In any case,” Galene continues, oblivious to my inner turmoil, “you simply must come to the feast tonight because the midwife will be there, so we can ask her all sorts of questions. And more importantly . . .” She pauses, wiggling her blonde eyebrows. “There’ll be some traders from Iaso in attendance. A few have already inquired about you. Three of whom are Gifted!”

 

I suppress a burning urge to sigh, to scream, to reveal the truth of what simmers beneath the surface.

 

Under normal circumstances, an unmarried woman from a humble settlement such as ours would be exceptionally pleased she’d secured attention from one of the Gifted. These individuals stand at the pinnacle of our society, revered and sought after for their extraordinary abilities.

 

Titans, endowed with Immense Strength, can fell trees with a single blow or lift boulders as if they were mere pebbles. Healers, bestowed with Curative Touch, possess the ability to mend broken bones and banish ailments with a brush of their fingers. And Striders, granted Enhanced Speed, can outrun pegasi and cover vast distances in an instant.

 

But what Galene doesn’t know—what nobody knows—is that I too am Gift-Blessed.

 

“Three of them?” I say, forcing a smile. Showing anything less than enthusiasm would arouse suspicion. “Goodness, how very flattering.”

 

“It is, isn’t it?” She beams. “You must be ever so pleased. After all, it’s high time you begin considering such matters.” She pauses, head tilting. “You are two-and-twenty, are you not?”

 

“Five-and-twenty,” I correct.

 

Galene gasps. “Truly, Anya, at your age, you should be married or betrothed. At the very least, you should have a serious suitor. These are eligible men. Virile men.”

 

Her emphasis makes my skin crawl.

 

“They’re very interested in meeting you. None seemed at all bothered by your—” She gestures vaguely toward my eyepatch. “One was so bold as to remark, ‘Who cares about her having a missing eye when the rest of her is so deliciously alluring.’ Can you believe it? What a scandalous thing to say.” She chuckles and looks me over, as if evaluating the statement. 

 

Her gaze moves slowly, drinking in the rich tones of my warm-brown skin, my average height that neither towers nor shrinks, the pouty lips inherited from my mother, and my hair—a tumble of dark curls that falls playfully in long layers.

 

The two-piece ensemble I wear, crafted from wine red sea silk, may not rival the sumptuous pure silk of her blue gown, but it holds its own charm.

 

A one-shoulder top sweeps across my chest, its hem adorned with subtle golden embroidery just below my bust. High on my waist sits the companion skirt, gathered fabric flowing to the floor with a discreet slit to the knee that lends ease of movement and the slightest hint of allure. Bare skin at my midriff adds sensuality to the draped silhouette.

 

And then there’s my eyepatch: a stunning, intricate creation that complements the ensemble perfectly, one of several my mother makes by hand, each a testament to her artistry.

 

“You’re staring, Galene.”

 

She blinks. “Forgive me. It’s just, well, he was so passionate!”

 

Her words are intended to be complimentary, but they have the opposite effect, stinging me with insult and frustration. He finds me “deliciously alluring” only because he’s oblivious to what I really am.

 

The eyepatch has never deterred potential suitors. Flowers and small gifts from a secret admirer are occasionally sent to the apothecary. Men often offer to walk me home or carry my bundles through the lanes on market day. When neighboring settlements parade their balls, fairs, and traveling circuses, invitations find their way to me . . . but it’s all superficial. Meaningless. Every last one of them would turn me in and have me carted off for execution if they so much as glimpsed my burnished-gold, slit-pupil eye.

 

The thought sends a chill through me, the memory of what happened to Venus’s son still fresh and painful.

 

“You simply must come tonight and meet all three of them,” Galene says.

 

I grin and nod to mask the lie. “I’ll be there.”

 

“Wonderful!” She claps her hands in delight. “See you at the feast.” With a goodbye wave she hurries toward the bakery.

 

My shoulders sag, and I drop the fake smile. Pivoting briskly, my feet instinctively find the familiar path that winds away from the bustling hamlet center and into the welcoming embrace of the woods. The journey to the cabin Mother and I call home may take longer on this route, but the gnarled branches, rustling leaves, and soft stir of animals bring a calm I desperately need after a day weighed down by work and the burden of secrets.

 

While others give this place a wide berth, muttering about restless spirits and eerie whispers, I find solace in its quiet depths.

 

It’s almost amusing how readily everyone swallowed Mother’s fabricated tales of hauntings when we settled here over a decade ago. Her chilling stories, spun with just the right amount of local folklore and wide-eyed conviction, achieved precisely what she intended. Our little home, nestled at the woodland edge, has remained blissfully undisturbed by curious neighbors or prying eyes. It’s both a blessing and a curse, this isolation we’ve cultivated.

 

Stepping into the shadow of the trees, I’m greeted by the scent of damp moss and the ethereal song of phoenix birds. I hum along to the soothing melody while carefully scattering nuts and dried fruit across the grass. For a brief moment, the woodland seems to still before erupting into a flurry of activity.

 

I settle myself with my knees tucked to the side, content to watch as the first brave souls venture forth.

 

Two-tailed squirrels lead the charge, their adorable twitching noses and gleaming, curious eyes drawn to my offerings. Horned bunnies follow next, their velvety ears flopping with each bounce. One climbs into my lap, and I coo softly as it makes itself comfortable. The others nuzzle at my hands for scratches while they feast. A swarm of miniature winged chipmunks joins the gathering, zipping about with boundless energy and filling the air with excited chirps. Their playful antics draw the first real smile to my face after the encounter with Galene.

 

But the smile falters as the memory resurfaces.

 

Vile abomination. That’s what she called the child.

 

The words cling—foul, heavy, impossible to shake.

 

We are taught that the Gifted are Blessed by the Gods themselves. Titans descend from the Deity of Power. Striders hail from the Deity of Motion. And Healers belong to the Deity of Wellness. Each of us falls within three sacred tiers: Primus, the most formidable; Bissus, who wield respectable ability; and Minoris, with only a modest command of their lineage. Yet even the least among us stands above the Unblessed.

 

But the moment a Reaper is mentioned—one of the golden-eyed children of the fourth God—reverence gives way to revulsion.

 

Those born to the Deity of Death bear the Fatal Embrace: a touch that kills.

 

Though Death is honored equally with the other three Gods—worshiped and prayed to in temples—fear has twisted the Kingdom’s view of Reapers.

 

The same people who ask Death for guidance, offer tributes on Their Divine Day, and who light candles in Their name, will kill any child who bears Their mark.

 

They call it the law of the land.

 

I call it what it is: bigotry.

 

The familiar bitterness threatens to overwhelm me, but I push it aside, focusing instead on the animals, letting their soft fur and gentle sounds ground me in the present. Slowly, the tightness in my chest begins to ease. That’s when I notice something at the base of a distant tree. My heart leaps with excitement.

 

“A fox!”

 

White winged foxes are rare. It’s been several moons since I’ve last seen one. Cautiously, I make my way over, not wanting to scare it off. But as I draw closer, it dawns on me that a stealthy approach isn’t needed. Sadly, this one’s flying days have come to an end.

 

“Oh, you poor thing.”

 

It’s curled up, eyes and mouth closed, looking as if it’s simply sleeping. But the gaping hole in its skull tells the true, gruesome story. I kneel beside it, my heart heavy, and gently run a fingertip over its still form.

 

“Who did this to you, little one?”

 

The wound is obviously the result of a blunt object, probably rambunctious children with a deadly slingshot.

 

Senseless violence.

 

Thankfully, the animal hasn’t been dead long. Half a day at most. Which means I can still help.

 

I place both hands against its soft fur, sinking them into the plush coat. The fox lies motionless and stiff beneath my touch. I cast a quick glance over my shoulder to ensure I’m alone, then spread my fingers, take a slow inhale, and reach deep inside myself, pulling at my life-essence.

 

Within me, a familiar warmth begins to build, flooding my body in waves that ebb and flow in harmony with my breathing.

 

A tingling sensation courses through my palms. Deliberately and gently, I guide my lifebond into its body. It flows like a stream of potent vitality, weaving throughout the canine’s every fiber, seeping into cold flesh and stagnant blood.

 

“Come on, you tiny beast.”

 

The animal twitches once, a single movement that heralds the restarting of a heartbeat as its essence is reignited.

 

I forge a connection with the fox’s source of life, infusing it with more of my own and entwining them within the small creature. The void in its brain-matter begins to reform, the gaping hole shrinking as the sides steadily draw together and close. New fur sprouts to cover the bare patch of freshly regenerated skin, the white fluff mixing in with the surrounding matted and blood-stained pelt.

 

A moment later, the fox springs up and vigorously shakes its head.

 

I smile warmly. “There you go, good as new.”

 

The first time I coaxed a creature to life, I was eleven. An unlucky mouse had failed to evade Mother’s kitchen death trap. Resurrection wasn’t even an ability I was aware I possessed. Healing on the other hand, had always come naturally.

 

I’d been relieving Mother’s migraines since before I could properly form words. Had always mended my own scraped knees and elbows without thought. And on several occasions, tended to the nicks, breaks, bites, and bruises on various animals.

 

Every ailment I treated vanished without trace: no scars, no stiffness, no lingering ache. To have such a flawless Curative Touch was the mark of a Primus Healer, the highest tier.

 

But the mouse presented a different challenge. It was dead. No life-essence remained within its tiny form. That vital energy present in every living being, the core Healers latch onto and manipulate in order to Heal, was gone. It was simply a sad, empty husk in my small hands. And in a desperate attempt to save it, I did the unthinkable.

 

I gave it a piece of myself.

 

I pushed my own lifebond into the stillness. The effort left me dizzy, blood trickling from my nose, but it worked. Miraculously, impossibly, the mouse stirred.

 

Relief swept through me, chased swiftly by astonishment. Even the most renowned Primus Healers could not bring back what had already been lost. Life, once gone, did not return.

 

From that day, I practiced upon every dead creature I could find—rodents, birds, lizards, spiders—each one a test of my growing skill. The woodland was full of opportunities. On my walks to and from home, I often stumbled upon still bodies and quietly restored them to life.

 

Over time, it became easier. I mastered the art of revival, each creature awakening with renewed vigor. Yet, there remained limitations. To begin with, I had only a narrow window to act: one week from the moment of passing. Any longer, and the soul would slip beyond reach, drawn deeper into the Veil, to a place my Gift could no longer follow.

 

And most importantly, whatever I brought back only lived for a single day.

 

They would slowly grow tired, succumb to slumber, and peacefully pass away. After that, no matter how hard I tried, their death became permanent: a final, unshakable end.

 

It took Mother time to move past the initial panic she felt about my ability to restore life, her fear rooted not in the Gift itself, but in what it might do to me. Though her concern never faded, she grew to be unwaveringly supportive. Still, like everything else about me, she cautioned me never to reveal the truth. “A Healer exists only to Heal. Nothing more,” she would often remind me.

 

She isn’t wrong. But I am not only a Healer.

 

The ability to cure paired with my marked eye indicates I’m favored by two Gods. And I believe the only reason I can return life . . . is because I also possess the capacity to take it away.

 

In all my studies of the Royal Kingdom of Leonathis and the surrounding Great Lands, I’ve found no mention of another like myself. Surely, someone so extraordinary would have been recorded among the revered. The absence of such a name leads me to believe I stand alone in my hybrid uniqueness.

 

Then again, maybe I’m not the first. Perhaps there have been other half-Reapers before me, their lives quickly snuffed out by fearful parents upon the discovery of their nature. Unlike my mother and father, who swore at my birth to protect me and teach me to conceal my eye so I might hide in plain sight.

 

I’ve lived my life wearing a patch, my Healing reserved for two audiences: Mother and random animals, a clandestine art practiced in shadows and whispers. To reveal my Healer side would invite scrutiny I cannot afford. Questions would arise about my training, my lineage, my abilities.

 

And perhaps the most damning question of all: why did I fail to present myself at the Royal Palace?

 

Three cycles of the seasons have passed since the decree: all Primus Healers in Leonathis over the age of eight-and-ten were to report to the Palace. Every last one. A mysterious illness had suddenly befallen the sole heir to the throne, robbing him of his Titan Strength—a devastating blow. The Prince’s Gift was more than a personal attribute. It was a symbol of the Kingdom’s might.

 

Healers of the highest tier were commanded to leave their homes and dedicate themselves to saving the royal lineage. It wasn’t a request, but an edict upheld by the full authority of the Crown.

 

For many, the summons offered an exciting opportunity to visit the Northlands: the wealthiest of the four Regencies, renowned for its grandeur and elegance.

 

At Healing houses scattered throughout the North, each Healer’s abilities were rigorously evaluated. All bore the designation of Primus, whose Curative Touch left no trace of ailment, unlike the Bissus who could cure but left scars, or the Minoris whose healing was limited to minor wounds and common ailments.

 

The affliction that had struck the Prince, however, demanded more than standard physical restoration.

 

The Crown sought those rare Primus Healers whose divine Gift extended beyond the body to discern and treat ailments of the mind and spirit. Those whose abilities remained confined to physical healing alone were respectfully released back to their communities, their service gratefully acknowledged but no longer required.

 

In contrast, the exceptional among them were elevated to the rank of Royal Healer and taken to the Palace, where they joined the elite permitted within its opulent marbled walls. There, they remain, working diligently to save the Prince.

 

The fox takes a step forward and gleefully licks at my fingers, its rough tongue tickling.

 

“You’re welcome, little one.”

 

Helping woodland creatures always brings me deep satisfaction, yet a persistent sense of inadequacy lingers beneath the surface. A nagging sense that I could—should—be doing more gnaws at the edge of my conscience.

 

If I weren’t forced to conceal my true identity, my Healing could benefit so many. It pains me to be confined to the ointments and elixirs I prepare at the apothecary. While they provide effective relief, they pale in comparison to the transformative abilities I possess.

 

“You only have a day left,” I say to the fox, rubbing under its chin. “I’m sorry I can’t grant you more time.”

 

As if in understanding, it spreads its wings and takes flight, circling me with happy squeaking noises that make me laugh. I push to my feet, smiling as it soars and glides between the trees.

 

A startled yelp bursts from me as fingers clamp onto my upper arm spinning me around. A man. No, not just any man, a Royal Guard.

 

My breath catches.

 

His uniform is an unmistakable symbol of authority. Fitted black trousers tucked neatly into knee-length boots and a black tunic cinched at the waist by a leather belt. Over his shoulders drapes a lengthy, dark hooded cloak, its edges trimmed in crimson thread. A longsword hangs at his left hip as is standard, but this particular Guardian also carries a dagger at his right. Both weapons seem poised to be drawn at a moment’s notice.

 

I’ve seen Royal Guards before, but never this close. They patrol the outer settlements regularly, yet none has ever ventured into our humble hamlet. Pulse racing, my gaze travels up his athletic frame, halting as it reaches his face, concealed beneath the cloak’s hood. With a brisk, almost impatient gesture, he discards it.

 

Piercing hazel eyes lock onto mine, dark brows knitted in a deep frown. The intensity of his gaze pins me in place.

 

Remain calm. Appear natural. Betray nothing.

 

“A Healer with the ability to restore life?” The Guardian’s voice is a low rumble, rough and tinged with astonishment. His accent bears the marks of the Northern Regency, akin to those of noble birth, adding another layer of intimidation to his already formidable presence. “Explain yourself. Why are you not at the Palace?”

 

My gut clenches, heart rate escalating to a frenzied pace. I instinctively take a step back, attempting to pull from his hold. His head tilts, gaze sharpening with suspicion as his grip tightens, not painfully, but enough to prevent escape.

 

I stare up at him, my breaths shallow and quick, each one carrying a silent plea of mercy.

 

Gods above. This can’t be happening. Please.

 

All my life, I’ve been so careful, keeping my Gift hidden. And now, a single instant threatens to unravel everything. Desperately, I try once more to break free, wrestling against his firm grasp, the futility of my actions only adding to my mounting panic.

 

“Why are you not at the Royal Palace?” He repeats the question, enunciating each word with precision.

 

“They had no use for me,” I croak out. Swallowing hard, I steady my voice. “They assessed me and sent me home.”

 

His eyes flicker to the winged fox, still frolicking in the high branches. “No use for a Primus Healer who can raise the dead? Doubtful.”

 

“You’re mistaken. It was badly injured, yes, but very much alive.”

 

“You fabricate tales.”

 

“No.” I shake my head. “I speak true. I swear it. As the Gods are my witness, it was—”

 

“Enough.” His voice drops to a dangerous quiet. “Before you invoke the Sacred Four with falsehoods, know this: I too spotted it lying among the moss. I inspected it myself to see if it needed aid. It was motionless. Cold. Stiff.” He pauses, each word landing like stone. “Unmistakably dead.”

 

His thick brows draw deeper into a frown as he scrutinizes me. The weight of his stare is almost physical, pressing down, threatening to crush my shell of deception.

 

“You did present yourself for evaluation, correct?”

 

Meeting his stern gaze, I push the words past the dryness of my throat. “Yes, of course. Who in their right mind would betray the Crown and defy a decree?” I force a note of indignation into my voice, hoping it masks the tremor of fear. “As I’ve already told you, they sent me home.”

 

“Then you should be capable of providing your dismissal documentation.”

 

Dismissal documents? Gods be damned, no one had ever spoken of those.  

 

“They burned.” The words rush from my lips before I can fully consider them.

 

“Burned?”

 

“Yes. Tragically, in a house fire last season.”

 

It’s a plausible lie, isn’t it? Surely some Healer somewhere in the Kingdom had dealt with a similar fate. Items are destroyed all the time. 

 

“Lost to a summertide blaze, how unfortunate.” His voice is impartial, giving no indication of whether he believes me or not. He releases his hold, freeing my arm.

 

My muscles tense, every fiber screaming to run, ut reality crashes down. He’s a Strider. The Diamond emblem of his Gift is marked on his uniform. I’d not make it two paces before his Enhanced Speed captured me, likely making my situation even worse. Still, I can’t help but take a small step back, putting some distance between us and twisting my fingers in the fabric of my skirt.

 

“It is indeed quite unfortunate.” I shrug, striving for nonchalance. “But these things happen.”

 

“Yes, that they do. Very well then.” Once again, he reaches out, this time palm up, an affable gesture. “May I have your name, Healer?”

 

“Anya of Niobe.”

 

I wasn’t born in Niobe, have never even been to the popular town, but the fewer truths this Guardian knows about me, the better. It will make it more difficult for him to find me, if he ever comes looking.

 

He says nothing in response, expression neutral, palm still suspended and waiting. With a frown, I reluctantly place my hand in his.

 

Fingers wrap over mine in a gentle grasp. “Zarek of Calydon.”

 

“Calydon?” Despite my wariness, I can’t help but grin at the mention of the Northern town, a flicker of interest piercing through my apprehension. “My father was from Calydon! I’ve heard it’s breathtakingly beautiful. Someday, I plan to visit and—”

 

I gasp sharply, the breath ripped from my lungs as cold leather snaps around my wrist, binding it with a Speed that leaves me stunned.

 

Wide-eyed, I stare down. The strap affixed to me connects the belt at his waist, tethering me to him.

 

“Anya of Niobe.” The Guardian’s voice is cold and final. “By order of the Crown, you are now under arrest.”

 

 

 [end of chapter one]