Eyes Like The Ocean | A Culled Crown Novella

Chapter 1

Deca Market, Gazda.

Erydia.

He waited for her at the end of the lane.

One of the street boys had been sent with a note. It had said that she should meet him there, right away. So, she had—abandoning her father's market stall in the capable hands of their apprentice baker, Bianca. Certainly, the girl could handle things for a few minutes.

With the Lieta-Mori approaching, the shop had been flooded with pastry and candy orders, everyone rushing to prepare for the summer festival. These were the mornings when Viera wished for more help. She needed an extra set of hands and an extra set of eyes. The positioning of their stall, just at the edge of the square, made it a hotspot for thieves and beggars.

Most days, Viera would do what she could to hide the thieving from her father. While she might turn a blind eye and allow a few stale loaves or sweet tarts to go missing, her father made it a point to drag each starved urchin they caught to the city guard. This resulted in a lost finger at the least, a full hand at worst.

He'd said to her, "When you let them walk away without paying, you are letting them rob me, rob your mother. You'd have them put us on the street to keep themselves off it."

Her family was nowhere near being on the street, but Viera wasn't about to be the one to say it. While they operated a stall in the more rundown section of Deca Market, her family's house was in the upper end of Gazda. Her father had worked as the apprentice to the royal baker and had never struggled to make a living within his trade. Even now, years since her father left to make his own way, the palace still called on him for every ceremony, holiday or special occasion.

He was proud of the name he'd made for himself, prouder still at the prospect of their family rising further in status. Jude Kevlar believed that his youngest daughter was his ticket back into the palace, this time without an apron.

The day Viera had been sent home from school, six years old and frightened out of her wits because she'd accidentally poisoned a little boy in her class, her father had burned an offering to the goddess and called the day blessed. Her mother had wept.

Viera hadn't understood the new mark on her inner wrist—twelve black pinpricks arranged in a circle, like the face of a small clock. It was tiny, no more than the width of her thumbprint. But the size did nothing to erase the meaning of it.

The mark meant she was favored by the goddess and would, whether she wanted to or not, compete to be the next queen of Erydia. The mark and her ability to poison were to be her only weapons against nine similarly gifted young girls. The pathway to the throne would be paved in blood.

Viera could only hope that blood wouldn't be her own.

She'd hated it her entire life, despised what the mark meant and how something so small was poised to take everything away from her. The hopes and dreams she'd made for herself, all of them worthless—nothing in comparison to the greater plan for her life. This was a goddess-chosen plan, one that her father was more than eager for her to begin enacting.

But she had never loathed the mark as much as she did just then—as she walked to meet Leighton.

A day's worth of work had left her hair falling loose from the bun she'd crafted that morning. Now dark curls clung to her face and neck with sweat. Her green work dress was stained and wrinkled, covered in flour and icing. Of course, Leighton wouldn't care, he never did—still, she wished that she'd had time to change.

It had been a long time since she'd felt pretty or deserving.

She caught sight of him as she crested the first hill, noting the way his lips were pressed tight to hide the excited smile on his face. Leighton didn't notice her right away. The sun was at her back, shining in his eyes and shielding her from sight. She hesitated, pausing at one of the vendor stalls to watch him, unseen.