To overthrow the cruel King who brutally slaughtered her foremothers, the last surviving water witch Elara Consuli must team up with novice warrior Juda Vikaris from the Serpent Order and realise an ancient prophecy, before the blood-thirsty ruler d...
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There was a reason why the nobles of Druvaria likened Grimefell citizens to rats.
Attuned to the dirty backstreets and murky shadows of the slums, most knew how to use their wits to survive, and if not, they were more than capable of fighting their way out of trouble. Back them into a corner and it would be tooth and claw, not guile and charm or wealth, that earnt them another tide living on the black rock.
Yet, it was not their vicious streak that made them a dangerous pest in the eyes of King Ban-Keren—it was their sheer numbers.
The population of Grimefell was growing at an alarming rate. They all knew it. All felt the burden of it as it swelled at the seams of the citadel, picking at the stitches until they were fit to burst.
And it was none so evident than this morntide, when the streets were strangled by the crowds as they streamed out of their houses, to watch the great fleet of monolithic cargo ships rolling into the harbour, their ebony sails ballooning with the Setalah breeze.
Riggs had done well. Not that Elara had ever doubted him. A ruthless, savage bastard, he might have been, but he never failed to get the job done—whether in or out of the bedchamber—and Elara couldn't help but be impressed, despite the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach.
The people marched the streets, fury crammed into the narrowest of alleys, rage and fear coating the slick cobblestones and tainting the air with their shouts and protest. The news had spread fast, as it always did in the slums, the closeness of the high-rise dwellings meaning word of mouth had passed from window to window, from balconette to attic room. The slum rats ran the length of the interlinking bridges, whispering Riggs' message into every shadow, every darkened corner. The gangs themselves had put aside their usual grievances to rouse all those in their quarters of Grimefell, urging all, young and old, to take to the streets and head to the port.
The thrum of the crowd joined with the beat in Elara's chest as she raced through the backstreets, forcing her way through the tidal waves of people, desperate to reach home and find her friends. She was no more than two streets away, when Anton's familiar bird-like whistle trilled over the heads of the throng, and she looked sharply for its source, spying the tall courtesan beckoning her from a tunnel across the way.
Dodging the mob, Elara darted into the passageway, allowing Anton to pull her into a small nook where he had to bow his head to avoid hitting the overhang. Underneath, an iron trellis caked in rust and fifth was the only barrier between them and the Setalah, which gurgled sluggishly in the waterway below.
"By the dead gods, Elara, what have you done?" Anton hissed, his eyes wide and bright with fear in the gloom of the enclave. "Sanus Vise came before dawn break, the fucking Order by his side. The Order, Elara! At our door!" He gripped her upper arms. "They wouldn't say why, just that they were there to take you in for questioning."
Elara hated seeing Anton's face so full of panic. Azure glitter from the previous moontide's work still ghosted his eyelids, smudged at the corners, his long, dark lashes dusted with gold. She'd always thought Anton too beautiful to ever have to bear a single pained expression, a single worry line marring his perfectly smooth brow. He deserved nothing but to stand in front of the canvas, his strong, yet delicate fingers dancing paint and splendour across the tightly-woven linen.
